Title: The Knight of Malta
Author: Sue, Eugène
Language: English
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THE KNIGHT OF MALTA

By Eugene Sue

Illustrated

New York and Boston

H. M. Caldwell Company Publishers


Copyright, 1900


[Illustration: Frontispiece]


THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.



CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION.


The travellers who now sail along the picturesque coasts within the
district of the Bouches-du-Rhone--the peaceable inhabitants of shores
perfumed by the orange-trees of Hyères, or the curious tourists, whom
steamboats are continually transporting from Marseilles to Nice or to
Gênes--are perhaps ignorant of the fact that two hundred years ago,
under the flourishing administration of Cardinal Richelieu, the seashore
of Provence was, almost every day, plundered by Algerian pirates, or
other robbers from Barbary, whose audacity knew no bounds. Not only
did they capture all the merchant vessels leaving port,--although these
ships were armed for war,--but they landed under the cannon even of the
forts, and carried away with impunity the inhabitant whose dwellings
were not adequately armed and fortified.

These depredations increased to such a degree that in 1633 Cardinal
Richelieu instructed M. de Séguiran, one of the most eminent men
of that time, to visit the coast of Provence, for the purpose of
ascertaining the best means of protecting them from the invasion of
pirates.

We will quote a passage from the memoir of M. de Séguiran in order to
give to the reader an exact idea of the scenes which are to follow.

“There is,” says he, “in the town of La Ciotat, a sentry-box which
the consuls have had built on one of the points of the rock of Cape
l’Aigle, in which they keep a man, very expert in navigation, on guard
night and day, to watch for pirate vessels.

“Every evening, toward nightfall, the guard in the sentry-box of La
Ciotat kindles his fire, which is continued by all the other similar
sentry-boxes to the lighthouse of Bouc.

“This is a certain signal that there is not a corsair in the sea.

“If the said guard in the sentry-box has, on the contrary, recognised
one, he makes two fires, as do all the others from Antibes to the
lighthouse of Bouc, and this is accomplished in less than a half-hour of
time.

“The inhabitants of La Ciotat confess that commerce has been better
during the last few years. But as far as can be learned, it is ruined.

“The corsairs from Barbary in one year seized eighty vessels and put
about fifty of their best sailors in chains.”

As we have said, so great was the terror that these Barbary pirates
inspired dong the coast that every house was transformed into a
fortress.

“Continuing our way,” says M. de Séguiran, “we arrived at the
house of the lord of Boyer, gentleman of the king’s chamber, which
house we found in a state of defence, in case of a descent of the
corsairs,--having a terrace in front, facing the port, and on it
twelve pieces of cast iron, several pieces of less calibre, and two
swivel-guns, and in the said house four hundred pounds of powder, two
hundred balls, two pairs of armour, and twelve muskets and short pikes.

“At Bormez and at St. Tropez,” says M. de Séguiran, further
on, “commerce is so seriously injured that it cannot amount to ten
thousand pounds, which is a consequence not only of the poverty of the
inhabitants, but also of the invasions made by pirates, who enter their
ports almost every day, so that very often vessels are compelled to
touch port, in order that the men who man them may escape, or the
inhabitants of the place arm themselves.

“At Martignes, a community which has suffered great losses in the
persons of its inhabitants,--esteemed the best and most courageous
seamen on the Mediterranean,--many of them have been made slaves by the
corsairs of Algiers and Tunis, who practise their piracies more than
ever, in the sight of the forts and fortresses of that province.”

The reader can imagine the contempt of these Barbary pirates for the
forts on the coast, when he knows that the seashore was in such a
deplorable state of defence that M. de Séguiran says, in another
passage of his report to Cardinal Richelieu:

“The next day, January 24th, at seven o’clock in the morning, we
went to the fortified castle named Cassis, belonging to the Lord Bishop
of Marseilles, where we found that the entire garrison consisted of a
porter only, a servant of the said bishop, who showed us the place, and
where there were only two small pieces of ordnance, one of which had
been emptied.”

Later, the Archbishop of Bordeaux made the same remark in reference to
one of the strongest positions of Toulon.

“The first and most important of these forts,” says the warrior
prelate in his report, “is an old tower where there are two batteries,
in which fifty cannon and two hundred soldiers could be placed; there
are good cannon within, but all are dismounted, and no ammunition,
except what was sent by order of your Eminence [Cardinal Richelieu]
fifteen days ago. The commandant is a simple, good man, who has for
garrison only his wife and her servant, and, according to what he says,
he has not received a farthing in twenty years.”

Such was the state of things a few years before Cardinal Richelieu was
invested by Louis XIII. with the office of grand master in chief and
general superintendent of the navigation and commerce of France.

In studying attentively the aim, the progress, the methods, and results
of the government of Richelieu,--in comparing, in a word, the point
of departure of his administration with the imperious conclusion of
absolute centralisation toward which it always tended, and which he
attained so victoriously,--one is especially impressed by the character
of the navy, by the incredible confusion and multiplicity of powers
or rival rights which covered the seashore of the kingdom with their
inextricable network.

When the cardinal was entrusted with the maritime interests of France,
he could count but little upon the support of a weak, timid, restless,
and capricious king; besides, he felt that France was secretly agitated
by profound political and religious discords. Alone, opposing the
exorbitant pretensions represented by the most powerful houses of
France,--haughty and jealous guardians of the last traditions of feudal
independence,--it was essential that the will of Richelieu should be
indomitable, even obstinate, in order to crush beneath the level
of administrative unity interests so numerous, so tenacious, and so
rebellious! Such was, however, the work of this great minister.

There is no doubt that the ardent and sacred love of the general
good, the noble, instinctive perception of the needs and progress
of humanity,--those pure and serene aspirations of a DeWitt or a
Franklin,--would not have sufficed the cardinal in undertaking and
sustaining so fierce a struggle; perhaps, too, it was essential that he
should feel himself animated by an unbridled, insatiable ambition, in
order to cope with so many formidable antagonisms, to despise so many
outcries, to prevent or punish so many dangerous revolts by prison,
exile, or the scaffold, and at last achieve the end of gathering in his
dying and sovereign hand all the resources of the state.

It was by this means--we think so, at least--that the genius of
Richelieu, exalted by an unconquerable personality, succeeded in
consummating this admirable centralisation of conflicting powers,--the
constant aim and glorious end of his administration.

Unfortunately, he died at the time he was beginning to organise this
authority so valiantly conquered.

If France, at the time of the cardinal’s death, presented still upon
her surface the distinct evidences of a complete social overthrow, the
soil was at least beginning to be freed from the thousand parasitical
and devouring forces which had so long exhausted her strength.

So, one might say that almost always eminent men, although of diverse
genius, are born in time to achieve the great labours of governments.

To Richelieu, that resolute and indefatigable clearer of untilled
ground, succeeds Mazarin, who levelled the earth so profoundly
ploughed,--then Colbert, who sowed it, and made it fruitful.

The imperial will of Richelieu appeared under one of its most brilliant
aspects in the long struggle he was obliged to sustain, when he was
entrusted with the organisation of the navy.

Up to that time, the governor-generals of Provence had always challenged
the orders of the admiralty of France, styling themselves the “born
admirals” of the Levant.

As such, they pretended to the maritime authority of the province; a few
of these governors, such as the Counts of Tende and of Sommerives, and,
at the period of which we speak, the Duke of Guise, had received from
the king special letters which conferred upon them the title of admiral.
These concessions, drawn from the weakness of the monarch, far from
supporting the pretentions of the governor-generals, protested, on the
contrary, against their usurpation, since these titles proved clearly
that the command of sea and land ought to be separate.

Thus we see how divided and antagonistic were these rival powers, that
the cardinal, in performing the functions of his office as grand master
of navigation, wished imperiously to unite and centralise.

It can be seen by this rapid and cursory view, and by the extracts which
we have borrowed from the report of M. de Séguiran, that a frightful
disorder reigned in every department of power.

This disorder was the more increased by the perpetually recurring
conflicts of jurisdiction, either through the governors of the province,
or through the admiralties, or through the feudal claims of many
gentlemen whose estates commanded a forest or a river.

In a word, abandonment or disorganisation of fortified places, ruin of
commerce, robbery of the treasury, invasion of the seashore, terror of
populations retiring into the interior of the country, in the hope of
flying from the attacks of these Barbary pirates,--such was the
grievous picture presented by Provence at the period in which this story
opens,--a story of incredible facts which seem rather to belong to the
barbarity of the middle ages than to the seventeenth century.



CHAPTER II. MISTRAON

About the end of the month of June, 1633, three distinguished
travellers, arriving at Marseilles, established themselves in the best
inn of the city. Their dress and accent were foreign. It was soon
known that they were Muscovites, and although their attendants were
not numerous, they lived in magnificent style. The eldest of the three
travellers had called upon the Marshal of Vitry, Governor of Provence,
then residing in Marseilles, and the marshal had returned his visit, a
circumstance which greatly enhanced the dignity of the foreigners.

They employed their time in visiting the public build-ings, the port,
and the docks. The preceptor of the youngest of these travellers, with
the permission of the Marshal of Vitry, made careful inquiry of the
consuls concerning the productions and commerce of Provence, the
condition of the merchant service, its equipment and destination,
evidently anxious, for the benefit of his pupil, to make a comparison
between the growing navy of the North and the navy of one of the most
important provinces of France.

One day these Muscovites directed their journey toward Toulon.

The eldest of the three foreigners appeared to be fifty years old. His
countenance presented a singular union of pride and severity. He was
attired in black velvet; a long red beard covered his breast, and
his hair, of the same colour, mingled with a few silver locks, showed
beneath a Tartar cap trimmed with costly fur. His sea-green eyes, his
sallow complexion, his hooked nose, his heavy eyebrows, and his thin
lips gave him a hard and ironical expression.

He walked at some distance from his companions, and seldom spoke, and
when he did it was only to hurl at them some bitter sarcasm.

The age and appearance of the two other Muscovites presented a striking
contrast.

One, who seemed to be the preceptor of the younger, was about forty-five
years old. He was short and fat, almost to obesity, although he seemed
to have a vigorous constitution.

He wore a long robe of coarsely woven brown silk, after the manner of
the Orientals, and an Asiatic cap; a Persian dagger of rare workmanship
ornamented his girdle of orange-coloured silk. His fat, ruddy
face, covered with a thick brown beard, and his thick lips breathed
sensuality; his small, gray eyes sparkled with malice. Sometimes, in
a shrill voice, he gave vent to some jest of audacious cynicism,
frequently in Latin, and always borrowed from Petronius or Martial;
so that the other two travellers, with allusion to the taste of their
companion for the works of Petronius, had given him the name of one of
the heroes of this writer, and called him Trimalcyon.

The pupil of this singular preceptor seemed at the most to be only
twenty years of age. His person was of the ordinary size, but most
elegant; his dress, like that of the Muscovites of the age, was a happy
union of the fashions of the North and the East, arranged with perfect
taste. His long brown hair fell in natural curls from a black cap, flat
and without brim, set on one side and ornamented with a gold and purple
band; the two ends of this band, finely embroidered and fringed, fell
over the collar of a black woollen jacket, embossed with designs in
purple and gold, and fastened to the hips by a cashmere shawl; a second
jacket with loose sleeves, made of rich black Venetian fabric, and lined
with scarlet taffeta, reached a little below the knees; large, loose
Moorish trousers, hanging over red morocco buskins, completed the
picturesque attire.

An observer would have been embarrassed in assigning a certain character
to the countenance of this young man. His features were of perfect
regularity; a young, silky beard shaded his chin and lips; his large
eyes shone like black diamonds, under his straight brown eyebrows; the
dazzling enamel of his teeth scarcely equalled the deep carmine of his
lips; his complexion was of a soft brown pallor, and his slender figure
seemed to combine strength and elegance.

But this physiognomy, as charming as it was expressive and variable,
reflected in turn the different impressions which the two companions of
this young man made on his mind.

If Trimalcyon uttered some gross and licentious jest, the young man,
whom we will call Erebus, applauded it with a mocking, sneering smile,
or, perhaps, replied in words which surpassed the cynicism of his
preceptor.

If the nobleman, Pog, a silent and morose man, made a remark of unusual
bitterness, suddenly the nostrils of Erebus would dilate, his upper
lip curl disdainfully, and his whole face express the most contemptuous
sarcasm.

On the contrary, if Erebus did not come under these two fatal
influences, or an absurd boasting did not make him appear the advocate
of vice, his face would become sweet and serene,--an attractive dignity
beamed from his beautiful features; for cynicism and irony only passed
over his soul,--noble and pure instincts soon resumed their sway, as
a pure fountain regains its clearness when the disturbing element no
longer troubles its crystal waters. Such were these three distinguished
persons.

They were walking, as we have said, from Marseilles to Toulon.

Erebus, silent and thoughtful, walked a few steps in front of his
companions. The road plunged into the defiles of Ollioules, and hid
itself in the midst of these solitary rocks.

Erebus had just reached a small open space, where he could overlook a
great part of the route, which at this point was very steep and formed
a sort of elbow around the eminence upon which the young man stood.
Interrupted in his reverie by the sound of singing in the distance,
Erebus stopped to listen.

The voice came nearer and nearer.

It was a woman’s voice, with a resonance of wonderful power and
beauty.

The air and the words she sang expressed an unaffected melancholy. Soon,
at a sudden turn of the road, Erebus could see, without being seen, a
company of travellers; they quietly accommodated themselves to the step
of their saddle-horses, that climbed the steep road with difficulty.

If the coast of Provence was often desolated by pirates, the interior
of the country was as little safe, for the narrow passes of Ollioules,
solitudes almost impenetrable, had many times served as a refuge for
brigands. Erebus was not astonished to see the little caravan advance
with a sort of military circumspection.

The danger did not seem to be imminent, for the young girl continued to
sing, but the cavalier who led the march took the precaution to adjust
his musket on his left thigh, and at frequent intervals to test his
firearms, leaving behind him a little cloud of bluish smoke.

This man, a military figure in the full strength of manhood, wore an
old leather jerkin, a large gray cap, scarlet breeches, heavy boots, and
rode a small white horse; a hanger or hunting-knife was fastened to
his belt, and a tall black hound, with long hair and a leather collar
bristling with iron points, walked in front of his horse.

About thirty steps behind this forward sentinel came an old man and a
young girl.

The latter was mounted on an ambling nag, as black as jet, elegantly
caparisoned with a silk net and a blue velvet cloth; the silver mounting
of the bridle glittered in the rays of the setting sun; the reins,
scarcely held by the young girl, fell carelessly upon the neck of
the nag, whose gentle and regular step by no means interrupted the
harmonious measure of the beautiful traveller’s song.

She wore right royally the charming riding-habit so often reproduced by
painters in the reign of Louis XIII. On her head was a large black hat
with blue feathers, which fell backward on a wide collar of Flanders
lace; her close-fitting coat of pearl-gray taffeta, with large, square
basques, had a long skirt of the same material and colour, both skirt
and waist ornamented with delicate lace-work of sky-blue silk, whose
pale shade matched admirably the colour of the habit If one ever doubted
the fact that the Greek type had been preserved in all its purity
among a few of the families of Marseilles and lower Provence, since the
colonisation of the Phoenicians,--the rest of the population recalling
more the Arabian and Ligurian physiognomy,--the features of this young
girl would have presented a striking proof of the transmission of the
antique beauty in all its original perfection.

Nothing could be more agreeable, more delicate, or purer than the
exquisite lines of her lovely countenance; nothing more limpid than the
blue of her large eyes, fringed with long black lashes; nothing whiter
than the ivory of her queenly brow, around which played the light
chestnut curls that contrasted beautifully with the perfect arch of
eyebrows as black as jet, and soft as velvet; the proportions of her
well-rounded form resembled Hebe, or the Venus of Praxiteles, rather
than the Venus of Milo.

As she sang she yielded herself to the measured step of her steed, and
every movement of her charming and graceful body revealed new treasures
of beauty.

Her small, arched foot, encased in a boot of cordovan leather, laced
to the ankle, appeared from time to time beneath the ample folds of
her long skirt, while her hand, as small as that of a child, gloved in
embroidered chamois-skin, carelessly played with the switch by which she
urged the gait of her nag.

It would be difficult to picture the frankness which shone from the pure
brow of this young girl, the serenity of her large blue eyes, bright
with happiness and hope and youth, the unsophisticated sweetness of
her smile, and, above all, the look of solicitude and filial veneration
which she often directed toward the aged but robust father who
accompanied her.

The eager, hardy, and joyous air of this old gentleman contrasted not
a little with his white moustache, and the vinous colour of his cheeks
announced the fact that he was not indifferent to the seductions of the
generous wines of Provence.

A black cap with a red plume, a scarlet doublet trimmed with silver,
and mantle of the same, a shoulder-strap of richly embroidered silk,
supporting a long sword, and high boots of white sheepskin, with gilded
spurs, testified to the quality of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, chief
of one of the most ancient houses of Provence, and related or allied
to the most illustrious baronial houses of Castellane, Baux, Frans, and
Villeneuve.

The road which the little caravan followed was so narrow that it
permitted two horses to walk abreast with difficulty; a third person
rode a few steps behind the baron and his daughter. Two servants,
well-mounted and well-armed, closed the march.

This third person, a young man of about twenty-five years, tall and
well-made, with a handsome and amiable face, managed his horse with
grace and ease. He wore a green hunting-habit, trimmed with gold lace.

His face expressed an indescribable delight in the contemplation of
Mlle. Reine des Anbiez, who, without discontinuing her song, every now
and then turned to him with a charming glance, to which the Chevalier
Honorât de Berrol responded with all the ardour of an infatuated and
betrothed lover.

The baron listened to his daughter’s singing with joy and paternal
pride; his genial and venerable countenance beamed with happiness.

His contemplative felicity was, nevertheless, not a little disturbed
by the sudden jumps of his little horse, brought from the island of
Camargne,--a bay stallion with long mane and a long black tail, a wicked
eye and ferocious disposition, full of fire, and evidently possessed
with a desire to unhorse his master and regain his liberty in the
solitary swamps and wild heath where he was born.

Unfortunately for the designs of Mistraon,--named for the impetuous
northwest wind, on account of the rapidity of his gait and his bad
character,--the baron was an excellent horseman.

Although suffering from the consequences of a wound in the hip, received
in the civil war, Raimond V., seated on one of those ancient saddles
which in our day we call picket-saddles, answered these vicious caprices
of the untamable animal with sound blows of whip and spur. Mistraon,
with that patient and diabolical sagacity which horses carry to the
point of genius, after several vain attempts, stolidly waited a more
favourable occasion for dismounting his rider.

Reine des Anbiez continued to sing.

Like a child, she amused herself by waking the echoes in the gorges of
Ollioules, making by turn loud and soft modulations, which would have
put a nightingale to despair.

She had just made a most brilliant and musical arpeggio, when suddenly,
anticipating the echo, a male voice, sweet and melodious, repeated the
young girl’s song with incredible exactness.

For some moments these two charming voices, meeting by chance in a
marvellous union, were repeated by the many echoes of this profound
solitude.

Reine stopped singing, and blushed as she looked up at her father.

The baron, astonished, turned to Honorât de Berrol, and said, with
his habitual exclamation: “Manjour! chevalier, who in the devil is
imitating the voice of an angel?”

In the first moment of surprise the baron had unfortunately let the
reins fall on Mistraon’s neck.

For some time the deceitful animal kept his step with a gravity and
dignity worthy of a bishop’s mule, then in two vigorous bounds,
and before the baron had time to recover himself, he climbed up an
escarpment which shut in the road.

Unhappily, the horse had made such an effort in ascending this steep
acclivity, that he fell upon his head, the reins went over his ears, and
floated at random. All this happened in less time than is required to
write it.

The baron, an excellent master of horse, although not a little surprised
by the adventure of Mistraon, reseated himself in the saddle; his first
effort was to try to seize the reins,--he could not reach them. Then,
notwithstanding his courage, he shuddered with horror, as he saw himself
at the mercy of an unbridled horse that in his frenzy was trying to leap
the precipitous edge of a torrent bed.

This deep and wide gulf lay parallel with the road, and was separated
from it only by a space of fifty feet.

[Illustration: Seized the bloody bridle]

Seated in his saddle, and by reason of his wound unable to get out of it
before the horse could plunge into the abyss, the old man gave his last
thought to his God and his daughter,--made a vow of a weekly mass and an
annual pilgrimage to the Chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde, and prepared
to die.

From the height where he was standing, Erebus saw the danger of the
baron; he saw that he was separated from him by the deep bed of the
torrent, ten or twelve feet wide, toward which the horse was plunging.

With a movement more rapid than thought, and an almost desperate leap,
Erebus cleared the abyss, and rolled under the animal’s feet The baron
screamed with terror,--he believed his saviour would be carried over
into the golf, for, notwithstanding the pain and fright which this
violent jerk had given him, Mistraon was not able to arrest the
impetuosity of his spring, and dragged Erebus several steps.

The latter, endowed with extraordinary strength and admirable presence
of mind, had, as he fell, wound the reins around his wrists, while
the horse, overcome by the enormous weight which hung upon him, seated
himself on his haunches, having exhausted the impulse which instigated
such activity.

Scarcely ten steps separated the baron from the edge of the gulf, when
Erebus slowly raised himself, seized the bloody bridle-bit with one
hand, and with the other threw over the smoking neck of Mistraon the
reins which he offered to the old man.

All this transpired so rapidly that Reine des Anbiez and her betrothed,
climbing the escarpment, arrived near the baron without having suspected
the frightful danger he had just escaped.

Erebus, having replaced the reins in the old man’s hands, picked up
his cap, shook the dust from his clothes, and readjusted his hair, and,
save the unnatural flush upon his cheeks, nothing in his appearance
revealed the part he had taken in this event.

“My God, father, why did you climb this steep? What imprudence!”
 cried Reine, excited but not frightened, as she bounded lightly from her
nag, without seeing the unknown person standing on the other side of the
baron’s horse.

Then, seeing the pallor and emotion of the old man as he made a painful
descent from his horse, the young girl perceived the danger which had
threatened the baron, and throwing herself into his arms, she exclamed:

“Father, father, what has happened to you?” “Reine, my darling
child,” said the lord of Anbiez with a broken voice, embracing
his daughter with effusion. “Ah, how frightful death would have
been,--never to see you again!”

Reine withdrew herself suddenly from her father’s arms, put her two
hands on the old man’s shoulders, and looked at him with a bewildered
air.

“But for him,” said the baron, cordially pressing in his own hands
the hand of Erebus, who had stepped forward, gazing with admiration on
the beauty of Reine, “but for this young man, but for his courageous
sacrifice, I should have been dashed to pieces in this gulf.”

In a few words the old man told his daughter and Honorât de Berrol how
the stranger had saved him from certain death.

Many times during this recital the blue eyes of Reine met the black eyes
of Erebus; if she slowly turned her glance away to fix it on her father
with adoration, it was not because the manner of this young man was bold
or presumptuous; on the contrary, a tear moistened his eyes, and his
charming face expressed the most profound emotion. He contemplated this
pathetic scene with a sublime pride. When the old man opened his arms
to him with paternal affection, he threw himself into them with
inexpressible delight, pressed him many times to his heart, as if he
had been attracted to the old gentleman by a secret sympathy, as if this
young heart, still noble and generous, had anticipated the throbs of
another noble and generous heart.

Suddenly Trimalcyon and Pog, who, twenty steps distant, had witnessed
this scene from the height of the rock where they were resting, cried
out to their young companion some words in a foreign language.

Erebus started, the baron, his daughter, and Honorât de Berrol turned
their heads quickly.

Trimalcyon looked at the baron’s daughter with a sort of vulgar and
sneering admiration.

The strange physiognomy of these two men surprised the baron, while his
daughter and Honorât regarded them with an instinctive terror.

A skilful painter would have found wealth of material in this scene.
Imagine a profound solitude in the midst of tremendous rocks of reddish
granite, whose summit only was lighted by the last rays of the sun. On
the first plane, almost on the edge of the torrent bed, the baron
with his left arm around Reine, grasping in his right hand the hand of
Erebus, and fixing an anxious, surprised look on Pog and Trimalcyon.

These two, on the second plane, the other side of the golf, standing
up side by side, with their arms crossed, outlining a characteristic
silhouette upon the azure sky, distinctly perceptible across the ragged
edges of the rocks.

Lastly, a few steps from the baron, stood Honorât de Berrol, holding
his horse and Reine’s nag, and farther still the two servants, one of
whom was occupied in readjusting the harness of Mistraon.

At the first words of the strangers, the beautiful features of Erebus
expressed a sort of distressed impatience; he seemed to be undergoing
an inward struggle; his face, which awhile ago was radiant with
noble passions, gradually grew sombre, as if he were submitting to a
mysterious and irresistible influence.

But when Trimalcyon, in a shrill and bantering voice, again uttered a
few words, as he designated Reine by an insolent glance, when the lord
Pog had added a biting sarcasm in the same language, unintelligible
to the other actors in this scene, the features of Erebus completely
changed their expression.

With an almost disdainful gesture, he roughly repulsed the hand of the
old man, and fixed an impudent stare on Mlle, des Anbiez. This time the
girl blushed and dropped her eyes.

This sudden metamorphosis in the manners of the stranger was so striking
that the baron recoiled a step. Nevertheless, after a silence of a few
seconds, he said to Erebus, in a voice deeply moved:

“How shall I acknowledge, sir, the service you have just rendered
me?”

“Oh, sir,” added Reine, overcoming the peculiar emotion which the
last look on the part of Erebus had inspired, “how shall we ever be
able to prove our gratitude to you?”

“By giving me a kiss, and this pin as a remembrance of you,” replied
the impudent young man.

He had scarcely uttered these words, when his mouth touched Reine’s
virginal lips, and his bold hand tore away the little pin enamelled with
silver, which was fastened in the young girl’s waist.

After this double larceny, Erebus, with wonderful agility, again cleared
the gulf behind him, and rejoined his companions, with whom he soon
disappeared behind a mass of rocks.

Reine’s fright and emotion were so violent that she turned deathly pale,
her knees gave way, and she fell fainting in the arms of her father.

The next day after this scene, the three Muscovites took leave of the
marshal, Duke of Vitry, departed from Marseilles with their attendants,
and proceeded on their way to Languedoc.



CHAPTER III. THE WATCHMAN.

The gulf of La Ciotat, equally distant from Toulon and Marseilles, lies
in between the two capes of Alon and l’Aigle. The latter rises on the
west of the bay.

By order of the council of the town of La Ciotat, a sentry-box for the
use of a watchman had been erected on the summit of this promontory.
It was the duty of this man to watch for the coming of pirates from
Barbary, and to signal their approach by kindling a fire which could be
seen all along the coast.

The scene we are about to describe occurred at the foot of this
sentry-box about the middle of the month of December, 1633.

An impetuous northwest wind, the terrible _mistraon_ of Provence, was
blowing with fury. The sun, half-obscured by great masses of gray clouds,
was slowly sinking in the waves, whose immense dark green curve was
broken by a wide zone of reddish light, which diminished in proportion
as the black clouds extended over the horizon.

The summit of Cape l’Aigle, where the watchman’s box was situated,
commanded the entire circumference of the gulf; the last limestone
spurs of the whitish mountains of Sixfours, and Notre Dame de la Garde,
descending like an amphitheatre to the edge of the gulf, here joined
themselves to little cliffs formed of fine white sand, which, lifted up
by the south wind, invaded a part of the coast. A little farther, on the
declivity of a series of hills, shone the lights of several quicklime
ovens, whose black smoke increased the gloomy aspect of the sky. Almost
at the foot of the cape of l’Aigle, at the entrance of the bay, backed
up against the mountains, could be seen, as the crow flies, the island
Verte and the little town La Ciotat, belonging to the diocese of
Marseilles and the jurisdiction of Aix.

The town formed almost a trapezium, the base of which rested on the
port This port held a dozen small vessels, called polacres and caravels,
laden with wines and oil, waiting for favourable weather to return to
the coast of Italy. About thirty boats designed for sardine fishing,
called _essanguis_ by the inhabitants of Provence, were moored in a
little bay of the gulf, named the cove of La Fontaine. The belfries of
the churches and of the convent of the Ursulines were the only things
which broke the monotony of the dwellings, almost entirely covered with
tiles.

On the hillsides which commanded the town, fields of olive-trees could
be seen, several clusters of green oak and hillocks of vines, and at
the extreme horizon the pine-covered summits of the chain of Roquefort
mountains.

At the eastern limit of the bay of La Ciotat, between the points
Carbonières and Seques, the ancient Roman ruins, called Torrentum,
could be distinguished, and farther and farther toward the north several
windmills, thrown here and there upon the heights, served as seamarks to
the vessels which came to anchor in the gulf.

Outside, and west of the cape of L’Aigle, almost upon the edge of the
sea, rose a fortified mansion named Les Anbiez, of which we will speak
later.

The summit of the cape of L’Aigle formed a tableland fifty feet
in circumference. Almost everywhere was the same precipitous rock of
yellowish sandstone, variegated with brown; sea-broom, heather, and
clover crossed it here and there; the watchman’s sentry-box was
erected under the cover of two stunted oaks and a gigantic pine, which
had braved the fury of the tempests for two or three centuries.

When the wind was very violent, although the promontory was more than
three hundred feet above the level of the sea, one could hear the
muttering thunder of the surf, as the waves broke themselves against its
base.

The watchman’s box, solidly built of large blocks of stone, was
covered over with slabs taken from the same quarry, so that the massive
construction was able to resist the most violent winds.

The principal opening of this cabin looked toward the south, and from it
the horizon was completely in view.

Near the door was a wide and deep square kiln, made of iron grating
placed on layers of masonry. This kiln was kept filled with vine
branches and fagots of olive-wood, ready to produce a tall and brilliant
flame, which could be seen at a great distance. The furniture of this
cabin was very poor, with the exception of a carved ebony casket,
ornamented with the coat of arms and the cross of Malta, which treasure
contrasted singularly with the modest appearance of this little
habitation. A walnut chest contained a few marine books, quite eagerly
sought after by the learned of our day, among others “The Guide of
the Old Harbour Pilot” and “The Torch of the Sea.” From the rough
lime-plastered walls hung a cutlass, a battle-axe, and a wheel-lock
musket.

Two coarse, illuminated engravings, representing St. Elmo, the patron of
mariners, and the portrait of the grand master of the hospitable order
of St. John of Jerusalem, then existing, were nailed above the ebony
casket. To conclude the inventory of furniture, on the floor near the
fireplace, where a large log of olive wood was slowly burning, a rush
matting, covered over with an old Turkish carpet, formed a moderately
good bed, for the inhabitant of this isolated retreat was not wholly
indifferent to comfort.

The watchman on the cape of L’Aigle was attentively examining all the
points of the horizon, with the aid of a Galileo spy-glass, at that
time known by the name of long-view. The setting sun pierced the thick
curtain of clouds, and with its last rays gilded the red trunk of the
tall pine, the rough ridges of the little cabin walls, and the corners
of the brown rock upon which the watchman was leaning.

The calm, intelligent face of this man was now lighted with intense
interest.

His complexion, burned by the wind and tanned by the sun, was the colour
of brick, and here and there showed deep wrinkles. The hood of his
long-sleeved mantle, hiding his white hair, shaded his black eyes and
eyebrows; his long, gray moustache fell considerably below his lower
lip, where it mingled with a heavy beard, which covered the whole of his
chin.

A red and green woollen girdle fastened his sailor trousers around his
hips; straps supported his leather gaiters above his knees; a bag of
richly embroidered stuff, hanging from his belt by the side of a long
knife in its sheath, contained his tobacco, while his cachim-babaou, or
long Turkish pipe with an earthen bowl, lay against the outer wall of
his cabin.

For ten years Bernard Peyrou had been watchman on the cape of L’Aigle.
He had recently been elected assignee of the overseer fishers of La
Ciotat, who held their session every Sunday when there was matter for
consideration. The watchman had served as patron seaman on the galleys
of Malta for more than twenty years, never in all his navigations
having left the Commander Pierre des Anbiez, of the venerable nation of
Provence, and brother of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, who lived on the
coast in the fortified house of which we have spoken. On each of these
voyages to France the commander never failed to visit the watchman.
Their interviews lasted a long time, and it was observed that
the habitual melancholy of the commander increased after these
conversations.

Peyrou, a lifelong sufferer from serious wounds, and unfit for active
service on the sea, had been, at the recommendation of his old captain,
chosen watchman by the council of the town of La Ciotat. When on Sunday
he presided at the consultation of the overseers, an experienced sailor
supplied his place at the sentry-box. Naturally endowed with a sense of
right and justice, and living ten years in solitude, between the sky
and the sea, Peyrou had added much to his intelligence by meditation.
Already possessing the nautical and astronomical knowledge necessary to
an officer on a galley of the seventeenth century, he continued to learn
by a constant study of the great phenomena of nature always before his
eyes.

Thanks to his experience, and his habit of comparing cause and effect,
no one knew better than himself how to predict the beginning, the
duration, and the end of the storms which prevailed on the coast.

He announced the calm and the tempest, the disastrous hurricanes of
the _mistraon_, as the northwester was named in Provence, the gentle,
fruitful rains of the _miegion_, or south wind, and the violent tornado
of the _labechades_, or wind from the southwest; in fact, the form of
the clouds, the soft or brilliant azure of the sky, the various colours
of the sea, and all those vague, deep, and undefined noises which
occasionally spring up in the midst of the silence of the elements were
for him so many evident signs, from which he deduced the most infallible
conclusions.

Never a captain of a merchantman, never a cockswain of a bark, put to
sea without having consulted Master Peyrou.

Men ordinarily surround with a sort of superstitious reverence and halo
those who live apart from the rest of the world.

Peyrou was no exception to the rule.

As his predictions about the weather were almost invariably realised,
the inhabitants of La Ciotat and the environs soon persuaded themselves
that a man who knew so much of the things in the sky could not be
ignorant of the things on the earth.

Without passing exactly as a sorcerer, the hermit of the cape of
L’Aigle, consulted in so many important circumstances, became the
depositary of many secrets.

A dishonest man would have cruelly abused this power, but Peyrou took
advantage of it to encourage, sustain, and defend the good, and to
accuse, confound, and intimidate the wicked.

A practical philosopher, he felt that his opinion, his predictions, and
his threats would lose much if their authority was not supported by a
certain cabalistic display; hence, although he did so with reluctance,
he accompanied each opinion with a mysterious formula.

The excellent spy-glass was a marvellous aid to his power of divination.
Not only did he turn it to the horizon in order to discover the chebecs
and piratical vessels of Barbary, but he directed it to the little
town of La Ciotat,--on the houses, the fields, and the beach,--and thus
surprised many secrets and mysteries, and by this means increased the
reverence he inspired.

Peyrou, however, was altogether above the vulgar sorcerer by his entire
disinterestedness. Had he some honest poverty to befriend, he ordered
one of his wealthier clients to put a moderate offering in some secret
spot which he indicated; the poor client, informed by Peyrou, went to
the spot and found the mysterious alms.

Instigated by a blind zeal, the priests of the diocese of Marseilles
wished to criminate the mysterious life of Peyrou, but the surrounding
population immediately assumed such a menacing attitude, and the town
council bore such testimony to the excellence of the watchman’s
character, that he was permitted to live his solitary life in peace.

His only companion in this profound retreat was a female eagle which,
two years before, had come to lay her eggs in one of the hollows of the
inaccessible rocks which bordered the coast. The male bird had no doubt
been killed, as the watchman never saw him.

Peyrou gave food to the young eagles; by degrees the mother grew
accustomed to the sight of him, and the year after, she returned in
perfect confidence to lay in the nest which Peyrou had prepared for her
in a neighbouring rock.

Often the eagle perched on the branches of the tall pine which shaded
the watchman’s house, and sometimes walked with a heavy and awkward
step on the little platform.

Upon that day, Brilliant, for so the watchman had named the noble bird,
seduced him from his reverie. She tumbled down from the topmost branch
of the pine, and with half-open wings ran up to her friend with the
ungraceful, waddling gait of a bird, of prey. Her plumage, black and
brown on the wings, was ash-coloured and spotted with white on the body
and neck; her formidable talons, covered with thick and shining scales,
terminated in three claws and a sharp spur of smooth, black horn.

Brilliant looked up at the watchman, lifting high her flat, gray head,
where glittered two bold round eyes, whose iris dilated in a transparent
cornea, the colour of topaz.

Her beak, strong and bluish like burnished steel, disclosed, when it
opened, a slender tongue of pale red.

To attract the watchman’s attention, the eagle gently bit the end of
his shoe, made of fawn leather.

Peyrou stooped and caressed Brilliant, who ruffled her feathers and
uttered a discordant and broken cry.

But suddenly, hearing a step in the narrow foot-path which led to the
cabin, the eagle lifted herself, uttered a long barking cry, stretched
her powerful wings, hovered a moment over the colossal pine, and like
an arrow shot into space. Soon nothing could be seen but a black spot on
the deep blue sky.



CHAPTER IV. STEPHANETTE.

A young girl with light complexion, black eyes, white teeth, and a
bright and mischievous smile, appeared, and stopped a moment on the last
step of the stair of rocks which led to the house of the watchman.

She wore the graceful and picturesque costume of the girls of Provence:
a brown petticoat and red waist, with wide basques and tight sleeves.
Her little felt hat left visible the beautiful nape of her neck and long
tresses of black hair rolled under a scarlet silk net.

Orphan and foster-sister to Mlle. Reine des Anbiez, Stephanette served
her in the duties of a companion, and was treated more as a friend than
a servant.

Stephanette’s heart was good, true, and grateful, her conduct
irreproachable. Her only fault was a mischievous village coquetry, which
was the despair of the fishers and captains of small craft in the gulf
of La Ciotat, nor will we except from the number of these interesting
victims her betrothed, Captain Luquin Trinquetaille, captain of the
polacre, _Holy Terror to the Moors, by the Grace of God_,--a long
and significant appellation, inscribed at full length on the stern of
Captain Trinque-taille’s boat.

Gallantly armed with six swivel-guns, it was the business of the polacre
to escort vessels from La Ciotat which, forced by their commerce to
have free intercourse with the coasts of Italy, dreaded the attacks of
pirates.

Stephanette shared the veneration that the watchman on the cape of
l’Aigle inspired among the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. She
trembled as she approached him with downcast eyes.

“May God keep you, my child!” said Peyrou, affectionately, for he
loved her as he loved all who belonged to the family of his old captain,
the Commander des Anbiez.

“May St. Magnus and St. Elzear aid you, Master Peyrou!” replied
Stephanette, with her most beautiful curtsey.

“Thank you for your good wishes, Stephanette. How are monseigneur and
Mlle. Reine, your young and beautiful mistress? Has she recovered from
her fright of the other day?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou; mademoiselle is better, although she is
still quite pale. But was ever such a miscreant seen? To dare kiss
mademoiselle! and that, too, in the presence of monseigneur and her
betrothed! But people say these Muscovites are barbarians. They are more
savage and more of Antichrist than the Turks themselves, are they not,
Master Peyrou? They will be damned twice in a doubly hot fire.”

Without replying to Stephanette’s theological argument, the watchman
said to her: “Does not monseigneur resent this breach of good
manners?”

“He! Why, Master Peyrou, as true as Rosseline is a saint in Paradise,
the same day that monseigneur came so near falling into the chasm
of Ollioules, he supped as merrily as if he had just returned from a
patronal feast. Indeed, it is so,--and he drank two cups of Spanish wine
to the health of the young miscreant! And would you believe it, Master
Peyrou, he is never tired of boasting of the courage and agility of the
Muscovite! Yes, he said: ‘Manjour! instead of stealing the pin and
kiss like a thief, why did he not ask for them,--my daughter Reine would
have given him a kiss, and with a good heart too!’ And ever since that
day monseigneur is constantly saying, ‘Really, these Muscovites are
strange companions.’ But for all that, M. Honorât de Berrol turns
red with indignation whenever he hears this impudent fellow, who stole
a kiss from his betrothed, mentioned. And another strange thing, Master
Peyrou, is that monseigneur is not willing to get rid of that wicked
little horse, Mistraon, that has been the cause of all the mischief; he
rides it in preference to any other. Now say, Master Peyrou, don’t you
think that is tempting Providence?”

“Have these strangers departed from Marseilles?” asked the watchman,
without replying to Stephanette.

“Yes, Master Peyrou, they say they have taken the route to Languedoc,
after having made a visit to the Marshal of Vitry. They say, too, that
this wicked duke is quite worthy of being acquainted with such rascals.
Ah, if monseigneur had his way, the marshal would not be governor of
Provence very long. The baron cannot hear him mentioned without
flying into a passion,--such a passion! you have no idea of it, Master
Peyrou.” “Yes, my child, I have seen the baron, at the time of
the revolt of the Cascabeoux, act as his father did at the time of the
revolt of the Razats, under Henry III., and again at the time of the
rebellion of the Gascons against the Duke d’Epemon, under the last
reign. Yes, yes; I know that Raimond V. hates his enemies as much as he
loves his friends.”

“You are right, Master Peyrou, and monseigneur’s anger against the
governor has increased since this recorder of the admiralty of Toulon,
Master Isnard, who they say is so wicked, has been visiting the castles
of the diocese by order of his Eminence, the cardinal. Monseigneur says
these visits are an outrage upon the nobility, and that the Marshal of
Vitry is a scoundrel. Between us, I am of the same opinion, since he
protects shameless Muscovites who have the insolence to kiss young girls
when they are not expecting it.”

“My opinion is, Stephanette, that you are very severe upon young men
who kiss young girls,” said the old man with mock gravity, “which
proves that you are naturally ferocious,--but what do you want of me?”

“Master Peyrou,” said the girl, with an air of embarrassment, “I
want to know if the weather promises a good passage to Nice, and if one
could leave this port with safety.”

“You wish, then, to go to Nice, my child?”

“No, not I exactly, but a brave and honest sailor who--who--”

“Ah, I understand, I understand,” said the watchman, interrupting
Stephanette’s stammering; “you mean young Bernard, patron of the
tartan, the _Sacred Balm_.”

“No, no, Master Peyrou, I assure you I do not mean him,” said the
girl, turning as red as a cherry.

“Come, come, you need not blush like that,” and the watchman added,
in a lower tone: “Was the beautiful bouquet of green thyme, that he
tied three days ago to your window bar with rose coloured ribbon, to
your taste?”

“A bouquet of green thyme! What bouquet are you talking about, Master
Peyrou?”

The watchman held up a threatening finger to Stephanette and said:
“What! last Thursday, at daybreak, did not the patron Bernard carry a
bouquet to your window?”

“Wait,--let me see, Master Peyrou,” said the young girl, with an air
of recalling something to her memory; “was it then yesterday that, in
opening my casement, I found something like a bundle of dried herbs?”

“Stephanette, Stephanette! you cannot deceive the old watchman.
Listen; patron Bernard had hardly descended, when you came and untied
the rose coloured ribbon, and put the bouquet in a pretty terra-cotta
vase, and you have watered it every morning; yesterday was the only day
you neglected it, and it has withered--”

The young girl stared at the watchman in utter amazement. This
revelation seemed like sorcery.

The old man looked at her with a mischievous expression, and continued:

“So it is not the patron Bernard who is going to Nice?”

“No, Master Peyrou.” “Then it must be the pilot Terzarol.”

“The pilot Terzarol!” cried Stephanette, clasping her hands, “may
Our Lady help me, if I know anything about this pilot going to sea.”

“Well, well, my child, I was mistaken about Bernard, for it is true
that you have allowed his bouquet to wither, but I am not mistaken about
Terzarol, because yesterday, from the height of the castle turret, you
passed more than two hours looking at the bold pilot throwing nets.”
 “I, Master Peyrou, I?”

“Your very self, Stephanette, and at each cast of the net,
Terzarol waved his cap in triumph, and you waved your handkerchief in
congratulation; he ought to have made a good haul, so enthusiastically
did he labour,--you come then to ask me if Terzarol will have a good
voyage to Nice?”

This time Stephanette began to feel afraid, as she realised how much the
watchman knew.

“Ah, my faith, Master Peyrou, you know everything!” cried she,
innocently.

The old man smiled, shook his head, and replied in the words of the
Provencal proverb, “_Experienco passo scienco_,--experience passes
science.”

The poor child, fearing that the watchman’s marvellous discoveries
concerning her innocent coquetry might give him a bad opinion of her,
cried, with tears in her eyes, as she clasped her hands:

“Ah, Master Peyrou, I am an honest girl!”

“I know it, my child,” said the watchman, pressing her hand
affectionately. “I know that you are worthy of the protection and
affection which your noble and kind mistress shows you. It is only
girlish mischief and love of fun which tempts you to turn the heads of
these young men, and make poor Luquin Trinquetaille jealous, Luquin, who
loves you so much and so faithfully. But listen, Stephanette, you
know the proverb of the vinedressers in our valleys: _Paou vignose
ben tengudos_,--have few vines and cultivate them well. Instead of
scattering your coquetries, concentrate all your charms upon your
betrothed, who will prove a good and honest husband for you,--that would
be far better,--and then, you see, my child, these young men are quick,
inflammable, and courageous; self-love comes in, rivalry exasperates, a
combat follows, blood flows, and then--” “Ah, Master Peyrou, then
I should die of despair. All of this is folly. I was wrong, I admit, to
amuse myself with the admiring glances of Bernard and Terzarol, for I
love Luquin and he loves me; we are going to be married the same day as
Mlle, and M. Honorât de Berrol,--the baron desires it. Really, Master
Peyrou, you, who find out everything, ought to know that I think of
nobody but Luquin. It is about his voyage that I have come to consult
you. Master Talebard-Talebardon, consul of La Ciotat, is about to send
to Nice three tartans laden with merchandise. He has made a bargain with
Luquin to escort them; do you think, Master Peyrou, the passage will be
good? Can he put to sea with safety? Is there no pirate in sight? Oh, if
a corsair is in sight, or a storm threatens, he will not depart!”

“Oh, so, so, my child, do you think you have so much influence over this
bold artilleryman? You are mistaken, I think. What! keep him in port
when there is danger in going out? You might as well try to anchor a
ship with a thread from your distaff.”

“Oh, be quiet, Master Peyrou,” said Stephanette, regaining her
composure; “to keep Luquin near me, I need not tell him of winds or
tempests or of pirates. I will only tell him that I will give Bernard a
ribbon to put on his lance at the next tilting-match, or that I will
ask the pilot Terzarol for a good place at one of the windows of his
mother’s house, that I may go with Dulceline, the housekeeper at
Maison-Forte, to see the wrestling and leaping over the cross-bar in La
Ciotat; then, I swear to you, Master Peyrou, Luquin will not go out of
the gulf, not if the consul, Talebard-Talebardon, covered the deck of
his polacre with pieces of silver.”

“Ah, what a cunning gipsy you are!” said the old man, smiling. “I
would never have thought of such tricks. Alas, alas! _Buou viel fa rego
drecho_,--the old ox makes a straight furrow. But come, now, Stephanette,
make yourself easy; you need not rob your waist of a ribbon for Bernard
nor ask for a window at the Terzarol house: the wind blows from the
west, and if it does not change at sunset, and if Martin-Bouffo, the
deep grotto of roaring waters in the gulf, says nothing tomorrow at
daybreak Luquin will be able to go out of the gulf and sail for Nice
without fear; as to the passage, I will answer for that; as to the
pirates, I am going to give you a charm that is sure in its effect, if
not to confuse them entirely, at least to prevent their carrying off the
_Holy Terror to the Moors, by the Grace of God._”

“Ah, how thankful I will be, Master Peyrou!” said the young girl, as
she assisted him to rise, for he walked with considerable pain.

The old man went into his cabin, took a little bag covered with
cabalistic signs and gave it to Stephanette, instructing her to order
Luquin to conform scrupulously to the directions he would find in it.

“How good you are, Master Peyrou! How shall I reward--”

“By promising me, my child, henceforth to allow Bernard’s bouquets
to dry on the bars of your window,--then, believe me, there will be no
more of them, because a bouquet that is watered makes many others grow.
Ah! and you must promise me, too, not to encourage pilot Terzarol’s
fishing, because to please you he would destroy all the fish in the bay,
and he would finish by being called before the overseer fishers, and I
would be obliged to condemn him. By the way, how goes on the discussion
between monseigneur and the consuls, on the right of fishing in the
cove,--does Raimond V. still keep his seines there?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, and he will not take them away; he says that the
right of fishing there belongs to him up to the rocks of Castrembaou,
and that he will not yield that right to anybody.”

“Listen, Stephanette: your mistress has her father’s ear; do you
persuade her to counsel him to arrange it amicably with the consuls:
that will be the best for all parties.”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, make yourself easy about it, I will mention it to
Mlle. Reine.”

“Very well, my child,--good-bye, and above all, no more coquetry,--do
you promise me that?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, only--only--”

“Well, say it”

“Only, you see, Master Peyrou, I would not like to make Bernard and
Terzarol despair entirely,--not on my own account, Our Lady, no, but
on account of Luquin, because I must have some means of keeping him in
port, in case of great danger, you see, Master Peyrou,--and for that
purpose, jealousy is worth more than all the anchors of his ship.”

“That is right,” said the watchman, with a significant smile, “you
must think of Luquin above all things.”

The young girl dropped her eyes and smiled, then said: “Ah, I was
about to forget, Master Peyrou, to ask you if you thought that monsieur,
the commander, and the Reverend Father Elzear would arrive here for the
Christmas holidays, as the baron hopes. He is so anxious to see his two
brothers again--do you know that Christmas has been twice celebrated at
Maison-Forte without them?”

At the mention of the commander, the face of the watchman took on an
expression of profound melancholy.

“If God grants my most earnest prayers, my child, they will both come,
but, alas, Father Elzear has gone to redeem captives in Algiers, as a
worthy and courageous brother of mercy, and the faith of those Barbary
people is perfidious!”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, as Father Elzear learned by experience when he
was kept in the convict-prison among slaves for one year! At his age,
too, to suffer so much!”

“And without a murmur,--without losing his adorable saintliness--”

“Speaking of them, Master Peyrou, why is the commander’s galley,
instead of being white and gold like the gallant galleys of the king,
and of monseigneur, the Duke of Guise, always painted in black like a
coffin? Why are its sails and masts black? Really, nothing looks more
solemn, and his sailors and his soldiers, they look as hard and severe
as Spanish monks; and then the commander himself looks so sad. I never
saw a smile on his pale face but once, and that was when he arrived at
Maison-Forte and embraced monseigneur and my mistress. Yet, my God, what
a melancholy smile! Is it not strange, Master Peyrou, and all the more
so because Luquin told me, the other day, that when he was artilleryman
on board _La Guisarde_, the admiral’s galley, in the waters of the
Levant, many a time he has seen the commanders and captains of Malta at
Naples, and notwithstanding the severity of their order, they were as
merry as other officers.”

The watchman for some moments seemed as if he no longer heard the girl;
his head had fallen upon his breast, he was lost in profound meditation,
and when Stephanette bade him farewell, he responded only by an
affectionate gesture of the hand. Some time after the departure of the
young girl, he went into his cabin, opened the carved ebony box he found
there, sprung the secret lock of a double bottom, and took out of it a
little casket chased with silver; an embassed Maltese cross ornamented
its cover.

For a long time he gazed at this casket with sorrowful attention; the
sight of it seemed to awaken the most bitter memories. Then, assuring
himself that this mysterious trust was still intact, he shut the doors
of the ebony chest and, like a dreamer, returned to his seat at the door
of his cabin.



CHAPTER V. THE BETROTHED.


Stephanette left the watchman with a light heart She was just about to
quit the esplanade, when she saw, on the last steps of the stairway, the
tall figure of Captain Luquin Trinquetaille. With an imperative sign the
young girl ordered him to return by the way he had come.

The sailor showed an exemplary submission; he stopped, made a
right-about, with the quickness and precision of a German grenadier, and
gravely descended the steps he had just mounted.

Had the meeting been arranged by the lovers? We do not know, but certain
it was that Stephanette, preceded by her obedient adorer, descended
the narrow, winding flight of steps which conducted to the watchman’s
cabin, with the lightness of a gazelle.

Many times Luquin turned his head, to catch a sight of the neat
ankle and little foot, which cleared the rough rocks so nimbly, but
Stephanette, with a threatening gesture, and queen-like dignity,
arrested the curiosity of the ex-artilleryman, who was compelled to
accelerate his gait in obedience to the oft-repeated words:

“Go on, Luquin, go on!”

While the lovers are descending the escarpment of the cape of l’Aigle,
we will say a few words about Luquin Trinquetaille. He was a robust
fellow of thirty years, brown and sunburnt. He had a manly figure, a
frank, ingenuous manner, somewhat vain; he wore a costume which marked
both the soldier and the sailor,--a military coat, and Provencal
breeches, fastened around his waist by the belt which held his
broadsword.

The air was cold, and over his coat he wore a mantle, the seams of which
were braided in red and blue wool; the hood half covered his forehead,
and under it could be seen a forest of black curls.

When they had reached the foot of the mountain, Stephanette, in spite,
of her agility, felt the need of rest.

Luquin, delighted with an opportunity for conversation, carefully sought
a spot where she could be comfortably seated.

When he had found it, he gallantly took off his mantle and spread it out
on the rock, so that Stephanette could have a seat with a back; then,
crossing his hands on the head of his cane, and leaning his chin on his
hands, he contemplated Stephanette with a calm and happy adoration.

When she had recovered from the effects of her precipitous descent,
Stephanette turned to Luquin, and said, with the air of a spoiled child,
and a woman sure of her despotic domination:

“Why, Luquin, did you come to the watchman’s cabin for me, when I
told you to wait for me at the foot of the mountain?”

Luquin, preoccupied with admiration for Stephanette’s fine colour,
which the walk had imparted, did not reply.

“Did ever anybody see the like?” cried she, with an impatient stamp
of her little foot. “Do you hear what I say to you, Luquin?”

“No,” said the captain, coming out of his reflective mood; “all
that I know is that from Nice to Bayonne, from Bayonne to Calais, from
Calais to Hambourg, from Hambourg to--”

“Have you finished your European trip, Luquin?”

“Indeed, from one pole to the other there is not a prettier girl than
you, Stephanette.”

“What! Did you make such an extensive voyage to arrive at that
discovery, captain? I pity the privateers of the _Holy Terror to the
Moors, by the Grace of God_, if the voyages of this poor old polacre
have no better results!”

“Do not speak ill of my polacre, Stephanette; you will be glad to see
its blue and white pavilion when I return from Nice, and how you will
watch for my coming from the turret of Maison-Forte!”

Luquin’s conceitedness disgusted Stephanette; she replied, with an
ironical air:

“Well, well! I see that a watchman on the cape of L’Aigle is
altogether unnecessary. All the young girls who wait impatiently for the
return of Captain Trinque-taille, and all the jealous ones who watch
his departure with their eyes fixed on the sea, will be sufficient to
discover the pirates. There is nothing more to fear from corsairs.”

Luquin took on an air of modest triumph, and said:

“By St. Stephen, my patron, I am too sure of your love, and too happy
in it, Stephanette, to care if I am expected or regretted by other
girls; and although Rose, the daughter of the haberdasher in La
Ciotat,--who resembles the flower whose name she bears,--often tells
me--”

“My faith! Thank you for your confidences, Luquin,” said
Stephanette, with a jealous impatience she could not dissimulate. “If
I told you all that the patron Bernard or Master Terzarol said to me, it
would take till evening.”

Captain Luquin frowned when he heard the names of his rivals, and
exclaimed:

“Thunder of heaven! If I knew that those two rascals dared even to
look at your shoes as you pass, I would make a figurehead for my polacre
of one, and a weather-cock for my mast of the other! But no! They know
that Luquin Trinquetaille is your betrothed, and his name rhymes too
well with battle for them to want an issue with me.”

“Well, well, my fine bully!” replied Stephanette, recalling
the watchman’s advice, and fearing to excite the jealousy of the
inflammable captain; “if Bernard and Terzarol talk to me ever so long,
I shall reply that every one knows I am too much in love with the most
wicked devil in La Ciotat But wait,--see here what Master Peyrou gave me
for you. Read that, and do everything he orders. It is late; the sun
is setting, and it is getting cold. Let us go back to Maison-Forte;
mademoiselle will be anxious.”

The two lovers hastened on their way, and, as they walked, Trinquetaille
read the following instructions given by the watchman:

“Every morning at sunrise the captain will change the charge of his
cannon, and will put on the ball one of the red flies affixed to this
paper.

“After that, make a double cross on the ball with the thumb of the
left hand. From sunrise to sunset, cabin-boys must relieve each other on
the watch at the top of the mast; they will always look at the east and
the south, and every five minutes repeat ‘St Magnus.’

“Set the swords in order on the stem, three by three, point downward.

“Set the muskets on the right of the deck, three by three.

“On the day of departure, at the rising of the moon, carry on deck a
vase filled with oil; throw in it seven grains of salt, saying with each
grain ‘St Elmo and St Peter.’

“Leave the vase on deck until the moon goes down. At that moment
cover it over with a black veil, on which write in vermilion the word
‘Syrakoe.’ Every morning at sunrise, rub the arms and the locks of
the muskets with this oil.”

At this point, Captain Trinquetaille stopped and said to Stephanette:

“By St. Elmo, Master Peyrou is a sorcerer. Three months ago, if I had
had these flies of magic paper, my swivel-guns, instead of resting mute
on their pivots when I applied the match, would have replied sharply to
that Tunis chebec which surprised our convoy, and we did not see until
it was almost on us--”

“But, Luquin, do not your sentinels see at a distance?”

“No; and if, while they were watching, they had said ‘St. Magnus’
every five minutes, as Master Peyrou says in his sorcery, it is certain
the virtue of St. Magnus would have prevented the pirates’ approach
without being seen.”

“And would you have made use of this magic oil for the muskets,
Luquin?”

“Without doubt, the day that my guns would not go off, I would have
given all the oil which burns in the eternal lamp of the Chapel of Notre
Dame de la Garde, for one drop of this oil with the seven grains of
salt, and that formidable word ‘Syrakoe’ written on the cover.”

“Why so, Luquin?”

“My artillery was useless, and I wished to board the chebec with a
grand reinforcement of musket-shot, but as wicked fate would have it,
the arms were below, and the locks of the muskets were rusty; you see,
then, Stephanette, if we had arranged the arms on deck, three by three,
and had rubbed the musket locks with this magic oil of Syrakoe, we would
have been able to resist, and perhaps capture this pirate chebec instead
of flying before it, like a cloud of sparrows from a hawk!”

It is easy to see that, under these mysterious and cabalistic formulæ,
the watchman on the cape of L’Aigle gave the best practical advice,
and endeavoured to restore such nautical precautions and practices as
had, through negligence or want of care, fallen into disuse.

The red flies, placed every morning on the balls with a sign of the
cross, had no doubt a very negative virtue, but to perform this magical
operation, it was necessary to change the charge of the artillery, often
damaged by the water of the sea, which swept the deck, and thus the
powder was kept dry and the guns ready for use.

The counsel of the watchman, followed exactly, prevented serious
disaster, whether it pertained to the oil of Syrakoe, or the cries of
“St Magnus,” or the arms arranged three by three on the deck.

In looking steadily toward the east and the south, points of crossing
by the pirates, the sentinels of course could give warning of their
approach.

In invoking St. Magnus every five minutes, they would not run the risk
of sleeping at their posts.

In short, it was important to have always on deck arms in good condition
and readiness. The watchman accomplished this by ordering them to be
arranged in stacks of three, and carefully rubbed with oil, which would
preserve them from the inclemency of the weather.

In formulating his recommendations in cabalistic phrase, he assured the
execution of them.

After renewed praises of the watchman’s wisdom, Luquin and Stephanette
arrived at Maison-Forte. Notwithstanding her air of gaiety, the young
girl’s heart was deeply pained at the thought of her lover’s
departure the next morning. Tears flowed down her cheeks; she extended
her hand to Trinquetaille, and said, with a trembling voice:

“Good-bye, Luquin, every morning and evening I will pray God to keep
you from meeting these wicked pirates. Oh, why do you not abandon this
perilous calling, which gives me continual anxiety?”

“I will, when I have gained enough, so that Mlle.
Trinquetaille”--only the nobility had the title of madame--“need
not envy the richest citizen of La Ciotat.” “How can you talk so,
Luquin?” said the young girl, reproachfully, as she wiped the tears
from her eyes. “What matters finery and a little more comfort to me,
when you are risking your life every day?”

“Do not be distressed, Stephanette, the watchman’s advice shall not be
lost: with the help of St. Magnus, and the magic oil of Syrakoe, I
can defy all the pirates of the regency. But, good-bye, Stephanette,
good-bye, and think of Luquin.”

With these words, the worthy captain pressed Ste-phanette’s white
hands, and hurried away, lest he should betray the emotion which filled
his heart, as if it were a thing unworthy of him.

The young girl’s eyes followed her lover as long as possible, and at
nightfall she entered Maison-Forte, the home of Raimond V., Baron des
Anbiez.



CHAPTER VI. MAISON-FORTE

Maison-Forte, or Castle des Anbiez, stood upon the seashore. In the time
of storm, the waves beat upon the terrace or rampart which stood out
from the shore to protect the entrance into the port of La Ciotat, where
were anchored a few fishing-boats, and the pleasure tartan of Raimond
V., Baron des Anbiez.

The aspect of the castle presented nothing remarkable. Built in the
middle of the fifteenth century, its architecture, or rather its
construction, was massive. Two towers with pointed roof flanked the main
body of the dwelling exposed to the south, and commanding a view of the
sea. Its thick walls, built of sandstone and granite, were of reddish
gray colour, and were irregularly cut by a few windows, which resembled
loopholes for cannon.

The only framed windows of a gallery, which ran across the entire length
of the castle, on the first floor, were large and bowed.

Three of them opened upon a balcony ornamented with a beautiful grating
of hammered iron, in the middle of which was carved the baron’s coat of
arms. The same coat of arms showed upon the entablature of the principal
door.

A short flight of steps descended to the terrace.

The necessities of civil and religious war, at the end of the last
century, and the constant fear of pirates, had altered this terrace into
an armed and embattled rampart, parallel with the façade of the castle,
and joined to the foot of the turrets by two sides of a right angle.

A few old orange-trees with shining leaves testified to the ancient
character of this esplanade, once a smiling flower garden, but two
sentry-boxes for scouts, a few enclosures for cannon-balls, eight pieces
of ordnance, two of which were mounted, and a long, turning culverin
showed that Maison-Forte of the Baron des Anbiez was in a good state of
defence.

The position of this castle was the more important as the little bay
it commanded, as well as the Gulf of La Ciotat, offered the only place
where vessels could anchor; the rest of the coast presenting a line of
unapproachable rocks.

The façade of the Castle des Anbiez which looked north, and the
surrounding land, were very picturesque.

Irregular buildings, added to the principal edifice according to the
different requirements of successive proprietors, broke the monotony of
its lines.

The stables, dog-kennels, sheepfolds, commons, and lodgings for
labourers and farmers, formed the enclosure of an immense court, planted
with two rows of sycamores. This court was reached by a drawbridge over
a wide and deep ditch.

Every evening this bridge was removed, and a heavy door of oak, strongly
supported on the inside, put the little colony in safely for the night.

Every window of these buildings opened upon the court, with the
exception of a few dormer windows, solidly protected by iron grating,
which looked out upon the plain.

Maison-Forte counted about two hundred persons among its
dependents,--servants, farmers, labourers, and shepherds.

Among them were sixty men of from thirty to fifty years, accustomed to
the use of arms during the civil wars in which the impetuous baron had
taken part. Royalist and Catholic, Raimond V. had always mounted his
horse when it was necessary to defend the ancient rights and possessions
of Provence against governors or their deputies, for the kings of France
were not kings of Provence, but counts.

The intendants of justice or presidents of courts, whose office it
was to collect the taxes, and to announce to the assembled states the
assessment of voluntary gifts which Provence owed to the sovereign,
were almost always the first victims of these revolts against royal
authority, made with the cry of “Long live the king!”

Under such circumstances Raimond V. was among the first to rebel. In the
last rebellion of Cascaveoux,--so named from the word _cascavoeu_, the
Provençal for little bell, which the insurgents fastened to the end of
a leather strap, and rang as they cried, “Long live the king,”--none
sounded the battle-cry, and shook his bell more violently, or made his
dependents shake this signal of revolt, with more enthusiastic ardour
than Raimond V.

In that, the baron showed himself the worthy son of his father, Raimond
IV., one of the gentlemen most seriously compromised in the rebellion of
the Razats, which name originated from the fact that the Provençals had
been as spoiled of their possessions as if a razor had been employed.
This rebellion broke out under Henry III., in 1578, and was suppressed
with great difficulty by Marshal de Retz.

The baron looked with great impatience upon the growth of the power
of Cardinal Richelieu, at the expense of the royal authority, and the
disappearance of the sovereign beneath the shadow of the prime minister.

Similar movements of resistance manifested themselves in Languedoc and
in Provence, in favour of Gaston of Orleans, brother of Louis XIII.,
whom the royalist faction opposed to the cardinal.

There is no doubt that the baron would never have taken an active part
in these intrigues, but for the apprehension caused by the pirates along
the coast, but, compelled to concentrate his forces in order to defend
his house and estate, he declaimed violently against the cardinal,
especially since the latter had given the government of Provence to the
Marshal of Vitry.

These important functions had, up to that time, been filled by the
Duke of Guise, admiral of the Levant, who, to the great delight of the
Provençals, after many obstacles, had replaced the Duke d’Epernon.

“The young lion has devoured the old bear,” said Cæsar of
Nostradamus on this subject at the celebration of the nomination of the
young Lorraine prince for this important post.

When the Marshal of Vitry was promoted to the position of Governor of
Provence, the nobility gave vent to their indignation, because a member
of the house of Lorraine was not considered worthy of this dignity,
usually reserved for a prince of the blood.

When Louis Gallucio, marquis, was Duke of Vitry, it was remarked that
the Cardinal de Retz, without otherwise blaming him for having been one
of the murderers of the Marshal of Ancre, said simply of him: “He had
little sense, but he was bold to temerity, and the part he had in the
murder of the Marshal of Ancre gave him, in the eyes of the world, a
certain air of business and execution.” This speech gives us an idea
of the times and manners.

The Baron des Anbiez, notwithstanding his fondness for independence and
rebellion, was the best and most generous of men.

Adored by the peasants of his domain, and revered by the inhabitants of
the little town of La Ciotat, who always found him ready to direct their
troops and aid them with all his power to defend themselves from the
pirates, he exercised a powerful influence throughout the neighbourhood.

Finally, his vigorous opposition to several orders of the Marshal of
Vitry, which seemed to him to aim a blow at the rights of Provence, had
been highly and generally approved in the country.

When Stephanette returned to Maison-Forte, the sun was just setting. The
first care of the young girl was to go to Mlle. Reine des Anbiez. Reine
was accustomed to occupy a chamber situated on the first floor of one of
the turrets of the castle.

This room was round in shape, serving her as a cabinet for study, and
was furnished with great care and expense.

The baron, loving his daughter to idolatry, had devoted to the interior
arrangement of this room a considerable sum. The circular walls were
covered with rich Flemish tapestry of deep green, with designs of a
darker shade, enwrought with threads of gold.

Among other pieces of furniture was a walnut bookcase, curiously carved
in the style of the renaissance, and encrusted with Florentine mosaic.
A rich, thick Turkey carpet covered the floor. The spaces separating the
beams of the ceiling were of azure blue, studded with arabesques of gold
of delicate workmanship.

A silver lamp was suspended from the main girder by a chain of silver.
The form of these lamps, still used in some villages of Provence, was
very simple. They were made of a square of metal, the edges of which,
an inch in height, contained the oil, and formed a sort of beak at each
angle from which issued the wicks.

On a table with curved legs placed in the embrasure of the window lay a
lute, a theorbo, and some pieces of unfinished tapestry.

Two portraits, one of a woman, the other of a man, in the costume of the
reign of Henry III., were placed above this table, and lit up by oblique
rays through little windows in leaden frames, which were set in the long
and narrow casement.

To supply the want of a chimney a large copper coal-pan, curiously
carved, and supported by four massive claws, stood in a corner of the
room. It contained a bed of ashes and some embers, upon which were
smoking some sprigs of fragrant broom.

Reine des Anbiez wore a dress of heavy brown Tours silk, with a train,
and tight waist and sleeves; her cheeks were flushed, and her features
expressed not surprise only but fright.

She seized her waiting-woman by the hand, and conducted her to the
table, and said to her:

“Look!”

The object to which she called the attention of Stephanette was a little
vase of rock crystal.

From its long and slender neck issued an orange-coloured lily, with
an azure blue calyx, in which stood pistils of silvery whiteness. This
brilliant flower exhaled a delicious odour which resembled the mingled
perfume of vanilla, lemon, and jessamine.

“Oh, mademoiselle, what a beautiful flower! Is it a present from the
Chevalier de Berrol?”

At the mention of her betrothed’s name, Reine turned pale and red by
turns; then, without replying to Stephanette, she took up the vase with
a sort of fear, and showed her a beautifully enamelled figure which
she had discovered there, and the representation of a white dove with a
rose-coloured beak, and extended wings, holding in its purplish bronze
feet a branch of olive.

“Our Lady!” screamed Stephanette in fright. “It is the very
picture of the enamelled pin that young miscreant robbed you of in the
rocks of Ollioules, after he had saved monseigneur’s life.”

“But who brought this vase and flower here?” asked Reine.

“You do not know, mademoiselle?”

Reine turned pale and made a sign in the affirmative. “Holy Virgin,
this must be sorcery!” cried Stephanette, setting the vase back on the
table as if it had burned her hand.

Reine could scarcely control her emotion, but said to her:

“A little while ago, when I went out to see my father mount his horse,
I promenaded until nightfall in the great walk by the drawbridge, and
when I returned I found this flower on this table. My first thought,
like yours, was that Chevalier de Berrol had sent it or brought it,
although such a flower in this season would be a miracle; I asked if the
chevalier had arrived at Maison-Forte, and was told he had not; besides,
I had the key of this apartment with me.”

“Then, mademoiselle, it must be magic.”

“I do not know what to think. In examining the vase more attentively,
I see the enamelled likeness of the pin that--”

Reine could not say more.

Her face and form betrayed the violent emotion which the memory of that
strange day caused her, the day when the foreigner had dared approach
his lips to hers.

“We must consult the chaplain or the watchman, mademoiselle,”
 exclaimed Stephanette.

“No, no, be silent. Do not noise abroad this mystery which frightens
me in spite of myself. Let us examine this apartment well; perhaps we
may discover something.”

“But this flower, this vase, mademoiselle!”

As a reply, Reine threw the flower in the coal-pan.

It almost seemed that the poor flower turned itself in pain upon the
burning coals; the light hissing produced by the water which oozed out
from the stem, seemed like plaintive cries.

Soon it was in ashes.

Then Reine opened the window which looked upon the esplanade, and threw
out the crystal flagon. It broke with a noise upon the parapet, and its
fragments fell into the sea.

At this moment sounded heavy steps, and click of spurs upon the
flagstones of the staircase. The hoarse voice of Raimond V. called
joyously to his daughter to come and see--that demon of a Mistraon!

“Not a word of this to my father,” said Reine to Stephanette,
putting her finger on her lips.

And she descended to meet the good old gentleman.



CHAPTER VII. THE SUPPER.

Reine, hiding her emotion, joined her father. Raimond V. kissed his
daughter’s brow tenderly, then, taking her arm, descended the last
steps of the staircase which led from the tower. He wore an old green
military coat, braided with gold, somewhat tarnished, scarlet breeches,
great boots of sheepskin covered with mud, and long spurs of rusty iron.

He held his gray cap in his hand, and although the weather was quite
cold, the wrinkled and sunburnt brow of Raimond V. was covered with
sweat.

By the light of a torch, a valet, holding by the bridle the treacherous
and obstreperous Mistraon, whose flanks were foaming with perspiration,
could be seen in the court of the castle.

A great black hunting dog with long hair, and a little yellow and white
spaniel, were lying at the feet of the stallion from Camargne.

The dog was panting; his ears lying on his head, his mouth open and
filled with foam, his eyes half closed, and the feverish palpitation of
his sides, all announced that he had just run a rapid race. The sight of
Mistraon added to Reine’s annoyance by recalling the scene on the rocks.
But the baron, preoccupied by the success of the chase, had not the
penetration to discover the agitation of his daughter.

He detached a leather strap which held a large hare to the bow of his
saddle, and proudly presented the game to Reine, as he said:

“Would you believe it, Eclair,” and at the name the dog lifted his
fine intelligent head, “caught this hare in thirteen minutes on the
marshes of Savenol. It was old Genêt,” and at this name the little
spaniel lifted his head, “that put him on the track. Mistraon is so
fleet that I did not lose sight of Eclair from the time I began to climb
the hill of black stones. I made, I am sure, more than a league and a
half.”

“Oh, father, why will you ride this horse, after the frightful
experience you have had with him?”

“Manjour!” cried the old gentleman, with an air of mock gravity,
“never shall it be said that Raimond V. succumbed to one of the
indomitable sons of Camargne.”

“But, father--”

“But, my daughter, I yield no more on land than on sea, and I say
that, because I have just been visiting the seines that those rascals
in La Ciotat wish to prevent my laying beyond the rocks of Castrembaou.
Just now, too, I met the consul Talebard-Talebardon on his nag, and
he talked about it And he had the effrontery to threaten me with the
tribunal of overseers, of which the watchman is the assignee! Manjour,
I laughed so much, that this demon, Mistraon, took advantage of my
distraction and flew like an arrow.”

“More dangers, father; this horse will be the death of you!”

“Be easy, my child, although I have not such a vigorous fist as the
half savage young Muscovite who so adroitly arrested Mistraon on the
border of a precipice, the bridle and the spur and the whip know how to
reason with a vicious horse and his pranks. But permit me, my beautiful
lady of the castle, to offer you the foot of the animal that I have
captured.”

And the baron drew a knife from his pocket, cut off the right foot of
the hare, and gallantly presented it to his daughter, who accepted, not
without some repugnance, this trophy of the chase.

Mistraon was led back to the stable, but Eclair and Genêt, favourites
of the baron, followed him side by side, as, leaning on the arm of his
daughter, he made what he called his evening inspection, while waiting
for the hour of supper.

The women and young girls were spinning at the wheel, the men mending
their nets and cleaning implements of husbandry. Master Laramée,
the old sergeant of the company raised by the baron during the civil
troubles, and majordomo and commander of the castle garrison, exacted
that all of the baron’s tenants, who, in turn, performed the service
of sentinel on the terrace which bordered the sea, should be armed in
military style.

Others were engaged in decorating long lances, destined for jousts on
the water, or to be used in jumping the cross-bar, the usual Christmas
amusements, in the colours of the baron, red and yellow. Some, more
seriously occupied, prepared the seed for late sowing; some were
weaving, with great care, baskets out of rushes, to hold presents of
fruit, made at Christmas.

These occupations were enlivened by songs peculiar to the country,
sometimes accompanied by some marvellous legend, or terrible recital of
the cruelties of pirates.

In an upper hall filled with fruit, children and old men were busy in
examining long garlands of grapes, which hung from the rafters of the
ceiling, or packing in baskets sweet-smelling figs, dried upon layers of
straw.

Farther on was the laundry, where the washerwomen, under the supervision
of a gentlewoman, Dulceline, the housekeeper, were occupied in perfuming
the linen of the castle, by putting between its folds, whiter than snow,
the leaves of aromatic herbs.

Often the sharp voice of Dulceline rose above the songs of the
washerwomen, as she reprimanded some idlers.

By the side of the laundry was the pharmacy of the castle, where the
peasants of the neighbourhood found all their remedies. This pharmacy
belonged to the department of the baron’s chaplain, Abbé Mascarolus,
an old and excellent priest of angelic piety and rare simplicity.
The chaplain had an extensive acquaintance with medical men and their
attainments, and firmly believed in the strange pharmacy of that time.

In spite of the continual apprehension of a visit from the pirates, all
the inhabitants of Maison-Forte shared the traditional gaiety, so
to speak, which the approach of Christmas, the most joyous and most
important festival of the year, always brought to Provence.

Every evening before supper, the baron made, in company with his
daughter, what he called his inspection; that is, he went through
the whole theatre of the various occupations with which we have been
entertaining the reader, chatting familiarly with everybody, listening
to requests and complaints, often impatient and sometimes flying into
a passion and scolding, but always full of justice and kindness, and
so cordial in his good-humour that his bursts of irritation were soon
forgotten.

Raimond V. kept a large part of his domain in good condition. He sat up
a long time at night to talk with his principal shepherds, labourers,
farmers, and vinedressers, convinced of the wisdom of the two Provençal
proverbs, worthy of the watchman on the cape of l’Aigle: _Luci doou
mestre engraisso lou chivaou_,--the eye of the master fattens the horse.
_Bouen pastre, bouen ave_,--good shepherd, good flock.

The old gentleman usually completed his circuit by a visit to the
pharmacy, where he found Abbé Mascarolus, who gave him a sort of
hygienic statement of the health of the inhabitants of the domain Des
Anbiez.

To-day, he passed by the laundry, going directly to the pharmacy,
accompanied by Reine. Preparations for the Christmas holidays were going
on all through the castle, but the most important solemnity of all was
reserved for the care of the venerable Dulceline, who had entreated the
abbé to enlighten her with his counsels.

This was the cradle or crib, a sort of picture placed every Christmas
day in the most beautiful room of the habitation,--castle, cottage, or
mansion.

This picture represented the birth of the infant Jesus; there were the
stable, the ox, the ass, St Joseph, and the Virgin holding on her knees
the Saviour of the world.

Every family, poor or rich, deemed it absolutely requisite to have a
cradle as elegant as could be afforded, ornamented with garlands and
tinsel, and illuminated with a circle of candles.

As Raimond V. passed the laundry, he was surprised not to see Dulceline,
and asked where she was.

“Monseigneur,” said a young girl with black eyes and cheeks the
colour of a pomegranate, “Mile. Dulceline is in the chamber of the
philters, with the abbé and Thereson; she is at work on the cradle, and
forbids us to enter.”

“The devil!” said the baron, “the supper-bell has rung, and the
abbé must say grace for us.”

He advanced to the door; it was fastened on the inside; he knocked.

“Come, come, abbé, supper is ready, and I am as hungry as the
devil.”

“One moment, monseigneur,” said Dulceline, “we cannot open,--it is
a secret.”

“What, abbé, you have secrets with Dulceline?” said the old
gentleman, laughing.

“Ah, monseigneur, God save us! Thereson is with us,” screamed the
old lady, offended at the baron’s pleasantry. As she opened the door,
she presented a pale, wrinkled face, framed in a ruff and cap, worthy of
the pencil of Holbein.

The abbé, fifty years old, was dressed in a black robe and cap, which
fit his head closely and displayed his gentle face to advantage.

Thereson, as soon as the baron entered, hid the cradle under a cloth.
The baron approached, and was about to lift it, when Dulceline cried, in
a beseeching tone:

“Oh, monseigneur! permit us the pleasure of surprising you; rest
assured this will be the most beautiful cradle that has ever adorned the
great hall of Maison-Forte, and it ought to be, by Our Lady, since the
commander and Father Elzear are coming such a distance to assist at the
Christmas festivity.”

“Manjour! I shall be unhappy indeed if they do not come,” said the
baron: “two years have passed since my brothers have spent a night
or a day in our father’s house, and by St. Bernard, my patron, who
assists me, the Lord will grant us a reunion this time!”

“God will hear you, monseigneur, and I join my prayers to yours,”
 said the abbé. Then he added: “Monseigneur, did you have a successful
hunt?”

“Very good, abbé, see for yourself!” and the baron took the
hare’s foot that Reine held in her hand, and showed it to the abbé.

“If mademoiselle does not desire to keep this foot,” said the abbé,
“I will ask her for it, for my pharmacy, and will monseigneur tell me
if it is the right or the left foot of the animal?”

“And what are you going to do with it, abbé?”

“Monseigneur,” said the good Mascarolus, pointing to an open volume
on the table, “I have just received this book from Paris. It is the
journal of M. de Maucaunys, a very illustrious and learned man, and
I read here, page 317: ‘Recipe for the gout. Lay against the thigh,
between the trousers and the shirt, on the side affected, two paws of
a hare killed between Lady Day of September and Christmas, but with the
important restriction, that the hind left paw must be used if it is the
right arm which is ailing, and the right fore paw if it is the leg or
the left thigh which is ailing: on the instant the application is made,
the pain will cease.’”

“Stuff!” cried the baron, laughing with all his might. “This is a
wonderful discovery; now the poachers will claim to be apothecaries, and
they will catch hares only to cure the gout.”

The good abbé, quite embarrassed by the sarcasms of the baron,
continued to read to keep himself in countenance, and added: “I see,
baron, on page 177, wood-lice, given to dropsical nightingales, will
cure them entirely.”

Here the laughter of the good gentleman was more uproarious. Reine,
notwithstanding her preoccupation, could not repress a smile, and
finally laughed with her father.

The Abbé Mascarolus smiled softly, and bore these innocent railleries
with Christian resignation, and no longer tried to defend an empiricism
which, no doubt, may find analogies in medical books of the present day.

Raimond V. took leave of the pharmacy to find pleasure elsewhere, when
Laramée, majordomo and master of ceremonies, came to announce that
supper had been waiting a long time.

Laramée, the advance guard of the baron’s escort through the gorges
of Ollioules, had the physiognomy of a real pandour; his complexion
reddened by wine-drinking, his rough voice, his white and closely cut
hair, his long gray moustache, and his continual swearing, were by no
means to the taste of Dulceline.

She received the entrance of the majordomo into the sanctuary of the
abbé with a sort of muttered remonstrance, which at last changed
to sharp and loud complaint, when she saw that Laramée had the
indiscretion to approach the veil which covered the mysterious cradle
and try to lift it.

“Well, well, Laramée,” said the baron, “Manjour, do you claim
more privileges than your master, and insist upon seeing the wonders
that Dulceline is hiding from our eyes? Come, come, take this lamp and
light onr way.”

Then, turning to Mascarolus, Raimond V. said humorously: “Since,
according to your fine book, wood-lice will cure dropsy in nightingales,
you ought to try your remedy on this old scoundrel, who surely is
threatened with dropsy, for he is a veritable old bottle, swollen with
wine, ready to burst; as for the rest, like the nightingale, he will
sing at night,--and the devil knows what songs!”

“Yes, monseigneur, and with a voice loud enough to wake the whole
castle, and make the owls fly from the top of the old tower,” added
Dulceline.

“And just as true as I drank two glasses of Sauvechrétien wine this
morning, screech owls know the owls, Dulceline, my dear,” said the
majordomo with a jocose manner as he passed, lamp in hand, before the
superintendent of the laundry.

“Monseigneur,” cried she, “do you hear the insolence of Master
Laramée?”

“And you shall be avenged, my dear, for I will make him drink a pint
of water to your health. Come, come, go on, majordomo, the soup will get
cold.”

The baron, Reine, and the abbé left the pharmacy and descended the
stairs, and crossed the long and dark gallery which united the two wings
of Maison-Forte; they entered a large dining-room, brilliantly lighted
by a good fire of beech, olive roots, and fir-apples, which shed through
the whole room the odour of balsam.

The immense chimney, with a large stone mantel, and andirons of massive
iron, smoked a little, but by way of compensation, the windows latticed
with lead, and the heavy doors of oak were not hermetically sealed, and
the smoke found a way of escape through the numerous openings.

The north wind, entering these cracks, made a shrill whistle, which was
victoriously combatted by the merry crackling of the beech and olive
logs which burned in the fireplace.

The walls, simply plastered with lime, as well as the ceiling with its
great projecting girders of black oak, had no other ornament than the
skins of foxes and badgers and wolves, nailed at symmetrical distances
by the careful hand of the majordomo.

In the spaces between the skins hung fishing-lines, weapons of the
chase, whips, and spurs; and as curiosities, a Moorish bridle with its
two-edged bit and top-not of crimson silk.

On an oak dresser, with a beautifully bowed front, stood an ancient
and massive silver plate, whose richness contrasted singularly with the
almost savage rusticity of the hall.

Great bottles of white glass were filled with the generous wines of
Provence and Languedoc; smaller flagons contained Spanish wines, easily
and promptly brought from Barcelona by coasting ships.

A few rustic valets, attired in cassocks of brown serge, served the
table under the orders of the major-domo, the liveries with the colours
of the baron never leaving the wardrobe except on feast-days.

The oblong table placed near the fireside rested on a thick carpet of
Spanish broom or esparto. The rest of the hall was paved with flags of
sandstone.

At the head of the table was the armorial chair of Raimond V.; at
his right, the cover for his daughter, at his left, the cover for the
stranger,--a custom of touching hospitality.

Below this place was the cover for the chaplain.

The table was delicately and abundantly served.

Around an enormous tureen of soup, made of the excellent sea eels of La
Ciotat, and fragments of swordfish and sea dates, were fowls from the
Pyrenees, which surrounded a perfectly roasted goose; on the other side,
a saddle of lamb three months old, and the half of a kid one month old,
justified by their appetising odour the culinary proverb: _Cabri d’un
mes, agneou de tres_,--kid of one month, lamb of three; shell-fish of
all kinds, such as oysters and mussels, having above all the flavour
of the rock, as the Provençals say, filled the spaces left between
substantial viands.

Side-dishes strongly salted and spiced, such as shrimps, lobsters,
artichokes, celery, and tender fennel, formed a formidable reserve
which Raimond V. called to his aid, when his appetite showed signs of
exhaustion.

This profusion, which at first glance seemed so prodigal, was easily
explained by the abundant resources of the country, the customary
hospitality of the time, and the great number of persons a lord was
expected to entertain.

Grace being said by the worthy Abbé Mascarolus, the baron, his
daughter, and the chaplain sat down to the table, and Laramée took his
usual post behind the chair of his master.



CHAPTER VIII. THE LOVER

The baron was scarcely seated, when he said:

“What in the devil is the matter with my head? Is Honorât not going
to take supper with us?”

“He promised yesterday to do so,” said Reine.

“And do you allow your betrothed to break his word? What o’clock is
it, Laramée?”

“Monseigneur, I have just posted the two sentinels on the rampart.”

“That is to say it is eight o’clock, is it not, captain?” merrily
answered the baron to the majordomo, tending his glass.

“Yes, monseigneur, somewhat past eight.”

“Ah, that!” replied the old gentleman, replacing his glass on the
table, not without having emptied it. “I hope nothing has happened to
Honorat.”

“Father, why not send a messenger on horseback to Berrol at once?”
 said Reine, with keen interest.

“You are right, my child; at any rate, we would feel assured: there is
not much to fear, but at night the road through the morasses of Berrol
is not safe.”

“Whom shall I send for the chevalier, monseigneur?” said Laramée.

The baron was about to reply when the Chevalier de Berrol appeared,
preceded by a valet who carried a lamp.

“Where in the devil do you come from, my son?” said the Baron des
Anbiez, extending his hand to Honorat, whom he called son since he was
to marry his daughter. “Did you meet the fairies in the quagmires of
Berrol?”

“No, my father, I was at the house of Seigneur de Saint-Yves, and
then--” Suddenly he approached the young girl, and said, “Excuse me,
I pray, Reine, for being late.”

She extended her hand to him with charming grace, and said, with a
penetrating, almost serious tone:

“I am happy, very happy to see you, Honorât, for we were anxious.”

There was in these few words, and in the look which accompanied them,
such an expression of confidence, tenderness, and solicitude, that the
chevalier started with delight.

“Come, come, sit down to the table, and as you have made your peace
with Reine, tell us what detained you at the house of Seigneur de
Saint-Yves.”

The chevalier handed his sword and cap to Laramée, and taking a seat
by the side of the baron, replied: “The recorder of the admiralty of
Toulon, who is making a tour of the province, accompanied by a scribe
and two guards of the governor, has come by order of the latter to visit
the castle of Seigneur de Saint-Yves.”

“Manjour!” cried the impetuous baron, “I am sure that it concerns
some insolent command! This marshal, murderer of our favourites, never
means to give us another; and they say this recorder is the most arrant
knave that ever announced a decree.”

“Oh, father, control yourself,” said Reine.

“You are right; Vitry does not deserve a generous anger. But it is
hard, nevertheless, for the Provençal nobility to see such a man hold
functions which, heretofore, have always been given to princes of the
blood. But we live in strange times. Kings are asleep, cardinals reign,
and bishops wear the cuirass and the belt. Do you think that is very
canonical, abbé?”

The good Mascarolus never liked to give a decided opinion, and he
replied, humbly:

“Without doubt, monseigneur, the canons of Jean VIII. and the text
of St. Ambrose forbid prelates to bear arms; but on the other hand the
literal interpretation of the Council of Worms authorises them to do
so--with the Pope’s approbation--when they possess domains independent
of the Crown. Under Louis the Young, the Bishops of Paris went to
battle. Hinemar and Hervien, Archbishops of Reims, led their troops
under Charles the Bald, and under Charles the Simple; Tristan de
Salazar, Archbishop of Reims, thoroughly armed, mounted on a good
charger, a javelin in his hand--”

“Well, well, abbé,” interrupted the baron, “by the grace of the
cardinal, we shall grow accustomed to the sight of bishops equipped as
soldiers, with a helmet for mitre, a military coat as a stole, a lance
instead of a cross, and shedding blood in the place of sprinkling holy
water,--it is altogether proper. Some wine, Laramée! And you, Honorât,
finish your story.”

“The fact is,” said the chevalier, “the recorder Isnard, who they
say has no pity for poor people, came, in the company of lawyers, to
inform himself of the number of arms and quantity of ammunition that
Seigneur de Saint-Yves kept in his castle,--in short, to draw up an
account of it, according to the orders of the Marshal of Vitry.”

The baron had just emptied his glass gloriously. He still held it
between his thumb and the index finger of his right hand. When he
heard these words he remained motionless, looking at Honorât with a
bewildered expression, and wiping mechanically, with the back of his
left hand, his white moustache, which was soaked in wine.

The chevalier, without remarking the baron’s astonishment, continued:
“As the Seigneur de Saint-Yves hesitated to comply with the demand of
the recorder, who insisted almost with threats, saying that he acted by
order of the governor of the province, in the name of the cardinal, I
wished to interpose between them, and--”

“What! Saint-Yves did not nail these crows by the feet and hands to
the door of his manor, to serve as a scarecrow to the others!” cried
the baron, purple with indignation, and setting his glass on the table
so violently that it broke in pieces.

“Father!” said Reine, alarmed, as she saw the veins which furrowed
the baron’s bald forehead, swollen to bursting, “Father, what does
it matter to you? No doubt the Seigneur de Saint-Yves has acceded to the
governor’s demands.”

“He! obey such orders!” shouted Raimond V., “he! if he could be
guilty of such cowardice, and dared appear again at the next assembly of
the nobility of Aix, I would seize him by the collar, and chase him out
of the hall with blows of my sword-belt. What! a recorder must enter
our houses to take account of our arms, our powder, and our balls, as
a bailiff takes account of a merchant’s goods! Manjour! if it were the
express and signed order of the King of France, our count, I would reply
to such an order with good shots from musket and cannon.”

“But, sir,--” said Honorât.

“Visit our castles!” cried the baron, more and more exasperated.
“Ah, it is not enough to have placed at the head of the old nobility
of Provence a Vitry!--a hired assassin,--but this cardinal--may hell
confound him; pray for him, abbé, for he has devilish need of it--must
impose upon us the most humiliating obligations! Visit our houses,
forsooth! Ah, Vitry, you wish to know how we can fire our muskets and
cannon, and, by God’s death, come and lay siege to our castles and you
shall know!” Then turning with eagerness to Honorât, he asked: “But
what has Saint-Yves done?”

“Sir, at the time I left him, he was proposing to enter into an
agreement to draw up, himself, the inventory demanded, and send it
directly to the marshal.”

“Laramée,” said the baron, rising abruptly from the table, “have
Mistraon saddled, mount five or six of my men and arm them well, and get
ready yourself to follow me.”

“In the name of Heaven, father, what are you going to do?” cried
Reine, taking one of the baron’s hands in her own.

“Prevent that good man, Saint-Yves, committing a cowardice which would
dishonour the nobility of Provence. He is old and feeble, and he has
not many persons around him; he will suffer himself to be intimidated.
Laramée, my arms, and to horse, to horse!”

“This black night, over such bad roads--surely you will not dream of
it,” said Honorât, taking the other hand of the baron.

“Did you hear me, Laramée!” shouted Raimond V.

“But, sir,--” said Honorât.

“Eh, Manjour, my young master, I do what you ought to have done! At
your age, I would have thrown the recorder and his guards out of the
window. God’s death! the blood of your fathers does not run in the
veins of you young men! Laramée, my arms, and to horse!”

Honorât made no response to the baron’s reproaches. He looked at
Reine and shook his head to make her understand her father’s injustice
to his conduct.

The young girl understood the situation, and while Laramée was occupied
in taking down his master’s arms from one of the panoplies which
ornamented the dining-hall, she said:

“Laramée, have my nag saddled too; I will accompany monseigneur.”

“To the devil with such folly!” said the baron, shrugging his
shoulders.

“Folly or not, I intend to accompany you, father.”

“No, no, a hundred times no. You shall not go with me; such roads, and
at such an hour!”

“I will follow you, father. You know I am wilful and obstinate.”

“Certainly, as a goat, when you set your mind to it; but this time I
hope you will yield to me.”

“I am going down-stairs to prepare for my departure,” said Reine.
“Come, Honorât.”

“To the devil with such nonsense! She is capable of doing it as well
as saying it Ah, there it is, I have been too good; I have been too
indulgent to her; she abuses it!” cried the old gentleman, stamping
his foot with anger. Then taking a milder tone, he said: “Let us see,
Reine, my daughter, my dear daughter, be reasonable; just one dash of
a gallop, and I am with Saint-Yves in time to drive away these wretches
with blows of my whip, and I return.”

Reine made a step toward the door.

“But you may join me, Honorât; you are as unmoved as a worm.”

“Ah, father, do you forget that just now you stigmatised as cowardice
his firm and prudent conduct in this affair?”

“He, Honorât, my son, a coward? I would cut anybody in the face
who would dare say it If I said that, I was wrong,--it was anger that
carried me away. Honorât, my son--”

Raimond V. opened his arms to Honorât, who embraced him, and said:

“Believe, me, sir, do not undertake this journey. My God! you will see
these people only too soon.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“To-morrow morning, without doubt, they will be here,--not one house
of the nobility will be exempt from this measure.”

“They will be here to-morrow!” cried the baron, with an expression
of joy difficult to portray. “Ah, the recorder will be here to-morrow,
he who has condemned poor devils to the galleys for the crime of
smuggling. Ah, he will be here to-morrow! As God lives, it fills my
heart with joy. Laramée, do not have the horses saddled, no, no,
only to-morrow at daybreak prepare twenty good poles from hazel-trees,
because I hope we will break a good many; then arrange a seesaw above
the moat, and--but I will tell you to-night when I go to bed. Some wine,
Laramée, some wine; give me my father’s cup and Spanish wine, I must
drink with solemnity to such a piece of news; some wine of Xeres, I
tell you,--wine of Lamalgue to the devil! since the minions of the petty
tyrant of Provence will be here to-morrow, and we will be able to lash
them soundly with the straps that ought to be laid on Vitry.”

Having said this, the baron sat down again in his armchair; each one
took his place, to the great delight of the poor abbé, who, during this
scene, had not dared to utter a word.

The supper, interrupted by this incident, was finished with a certain
constraint.

Raimond V., preoccupied with the reception that he was preparing for the
agents, stopped every few moments to whisper something in Laramée’s
ear; it was easy to guess the subject of these secret conferences, by
the air of profound satisfaction with which the old soldier received the
instructions of his master.

Like all soldiers, Laramée cherished an instinctive hatred of men
of the law, and he did not dissimulate his joy at the thought of the
reception awaiting the recorder and his scribe the next day.

Reine and Honorât exchanged glances of distress; they knew the
obstinate and irascible temper of the baron, his taste for rebellion,
and aversion to Marshal of Vitry.

The young girl and her lover feared, not without reason, that the baron
might become involved in some serious difficulty. Recent and terrible
examples had proven that Richelieu desired to put an end to the
independence of the lords, and absorb their feudal privileges in the
power of the king.

Unfortunately, they could not dream of preventing Raimond V., when once
he determined upon any course of action, and his dependents were only
too willing to second his dangerous projects.

The good Abbé Mascarolus ventured to say a few words on
obedience,--that the lords owed it to themselves to set the example;
but a severe glance from the eye of the baron cut short the chaplain’s
moralising, and he dared not defend the marshal as he had defended the
warlike bishops.

Reine was not a little frightened at the baron’s extravagant bursts of
merriment and laughter, as he talked aside with Laramée.

When supper was over, according to the ancient and invariable usage of
hospitality, the baron took a lamp, and himself conducted Honorât de
Berrol to the chamber he was to occupy.

As upon previous occasions, the young man wished to spare the baron this
ceremonial, arguing that his position as a betrothed lover rendered
it unnecessary, but the old gentleman replied that not until after the
festivities of Christmas, when the marriage rite was to be celebrated,
could he be treated with less formality; until then, he must receive all
the attention due a gentleman who slept under his roof.

Reine entered her chamber, followed by Stephanette. Her apartment was
near that of her father, and listening she discovered to her great
regret that Laramée remained with him longer than was his habit, and
that the baron continued to make plans for the discomfiture of the
recorder and officers. At a late hour of the night, she heard the
majordomo order some of the baron’s servants to carry invitations.

Distressed by these indications, she dismissed Stephanette, and returned
to her chamber.

A new object of astonishment, almost of terror, awaited her there.



CHAPTER IX. THE PICTURE

After having shut the door which communicated with her father’s rooms.
Reine walked mechanically to the table standing in the embrasure of the
window. What was her astonishment to see on this table a little picture
encased in a frame of filigree, set with precious stones.

Her heart beat violently; she recalled the crystal vase, and a secret
presentiment told her that this picture had some mysterious connection
with the adventure among the rocks of Ollioules.

She approached it, trembling.

The perfection of this picture, painted on vellum, in imitation of
ancient manuscripts, was incredible.

It represented the scene in the gorges of Ollioules at the very moment
when the baron, embracing his daughter, had extended his hand to the
young stranger; at a distance on the rock, Pog and Trimalcyon, the
two foreign personages of whom we have spoken, appeared to command the
scene.

Although Reine had seen these two men but a moment, the likeness in
the picture was so striking that she recognised them. She shuddered
involuntarily at the sinister expression of Fog’s face, easily known
by his long red beard and the bitter smile which contracted his lips.

The features of the baron, as well as those of Reine, were rendered with
surprising fidelity and perfect art, although the faces were scarcely
larger than the nail of the little finger. They were drawn with a
delicacy which was marvellous.

Notwithstanding the inimitable skill displayed in this ravishing
picture, an odd, extravagant thing destroyed its harmony and effect.

The pose, person, and costume of Erebus--the strange young man--were
perfectly portrayed; but his head disappeared beneath a small cloud, in
the centre of which was represented the enamelled dove already portrayed
on the crystal vase.

This omission was strange, and perhaps cleverly calculated, inasmuch
as Reine, in spite of her fear and astonishment, could not help calling
memory to her aid in order to complete the portrait of the stranger.

She saw it in her own mind, instead of on the vellum which she held in
her hand.

There was, besides, on the part of the stranger, a sort of delicacy in
thus effacing his own features under a symbol which represented to his
mind the most precious memory of that day; or he may have adopted this
means to quiet the scruples of the young girl, should she decide to keep
the picture.

In order to comprehend the struggle between the desire to keep the
picture and the resolve to destroy it, which rose in the young girl’s
mind, we must say a few words about Reine’s love for Honorât de Berrol,
and her own sentiments after the adventure in the gorges of Ollioules.

Honorât de Berrol was an orphan and distant relative of Raimond V. He
had considerable fortune, his estates lying near those of the baron, and
community of interest as well as other ties bound the chevalier and the
old gentleman.

For two or three years Honorât came almost every day to Maison-Forte.
The chevalier was the impersonation of rectitude, sincerity, and honour.
His education, without being extraordinary, was superior to that of most
young men of his age.

He was actively occupied in the management of his estates; his order
and his economy were remarkable, although, when an opportunity presented
itself, he knew how to be generous.

His mind was not unusual, but he had plenty of good sense and reason,
and his character, naturally charming, could be firm and decided when
circumstances demanded it.

His predominating characteristic was a love of justice. Little given
to enthusiasm or exaggeration, and supremely happy in his position, he
looked forward to his marriage with the baron’s daughter with a pure
and serene joy.

There was no romantic aspect to this love. Before allowing himself to
fall in love with Reine, Honorât had frankly expressed his intentions
to the baron, and asked him to learn his daughter’s feelings.

The good gentleman, who never temporised or resorted to half-measures,
replied to Honorât that the alliance would be agreeable to him, and at
once told Reine of the chevalier’s proposal.

Reine was then sixteen years old; she was pleased with the appearance
and bearing of the Chevalier de Berrol, for the manners of most of the
country gentlemen who visited Maison-Forte suffered much by comparison
with those of her amiable relative.

Reine accepted the baron’s plans, and the baron wrote at length to his
brothers, the commander and Father Elzear, without whose advice he did
nothing, concerning the happy betrothal.

Their response was favourable to Honorât, and the marriage was fixed
for the Christmas celebration which would follow the young girl’s
eighteenth birthday.

Thus passed two years in the midst of sweet hopes and a pure, calm love.

Honorât, serious and gentle, began at once his part as mentor, and by
degrees acquired a great ascendancy over the mind of Reine.

Raimond V. loved his daughter so foolishly and idolatrously, that the
happy influence of Honorât saved her from her father’s weakness.

The girl had lost her mother when she was in the cradle, and had
been reared under the eyes of the baron by Stephanette’s mother, an
excellent woman, and, although happily endowed with good instincts, had
been permitted to indulge her caprice at will.

Her lively imagination exaggerated sympathy and antipathy, and she
often received the wise and reasonable suggestions of Honorât with
mischievous irony and even resentment.

Legend and romance were the mental food she craved, and often in thought
she pictured herself as the heroine of some strange adventure.
Honorât would dissipate these fantastic visions by a breath, and not
infrequently reproached Reine, with as much good-humour as gaiety, for
these vagabond imaginations.

But these little differences were soon forgotten. Reine would confess
her wrong-doing with adorable frankness, and the beautiful affection of
the two lovers seemed only to increase.

Unconsciously, Reine began to feel the influence of Honorât more
and more in her daily life, and instead of indulging herself in vague
reveries and foolish imaginations, occupied her mind with graver
thoughts. She recognised the nothingness of her former dreams, and
every step of this wise and happy way served to establish her love for
Chevalier de Berrol.

Her mind and character had undergone such a complete transformation
under the influence of Honorât, that her father, sometimes, when he had
gone beyond the limits of temperance, would say in jest that Reine was
becoming insupportably serious.

The sentiment of Reine for Honorât was by no means a passionate love,
nourished by difficulties and uncertainties, but a calm, sincere, and
reasonable affection, in which the young girl recognised, with a sort of
tender veneration, the superior reason of her betrothed.

Such were the sentiments of Mlle, des Anbiez when the fatal meeting in
the rocks of Ollioules took place.

The first time that she saw Erebus, placed her under the influence of a
profound sentiment of gratitude; he had just saved the baron’s life.

Reine, perhaps, might never have observed the surprising beauty of the
stranger, but for the startling circumstances by which he was presented
to her.

The fact that he had just delivered her father from a frightful danger
was the most powerful fascination that Erebus could offer.

No doubt the charm was broken when, after the few words uttered by his
companions, his countenance and manner changed, and he had the audacity
to press his lips to hers. The features of the stranger, that a moment
before possessed a beauty so pure, and an amiability so lovely, seemed
suddenly to disappear under the mask of an insolent libertine.

Since that day, Erebus appeared to her always under these two different
physiognomies.

Sometimes she tried to banish from her memory all thought of an
audacious stranger, who had insolently robbed her of what she would have
given to her father’s saviour with reluctance. Again, she would dream,
with a deep sentiment of gratitude, that her father owed his life to
this same stranger who at first seemed so courageous and so timid.

Unhappily for Reine’s repose of mind, Erebus united and justified, so
to speak, these two distinct natures, and in her thought she gave him
sometimes her admiration, and sometimes her contempt.

So she wavered between these two sentiments.

Thus the natural exaggeration of her character, rather suppressed than
destroyed, was excited by this singular adventure.

The unknown one seemed to her the genius of good and the genius of evil.

Involuntarily, her excitable mind tried to penetrate the secret of this
double power.

Reine herself was made aware of her morbid mental condition only by the
tender reproaches of Honorât, who accused her of distraction. For the
first time, then, Reine realised with horror the empire that the unknown
person had gained over her mind; she resolved to escape from it, but
the resistance with which she endeavoured to drive Erebus from her mind,
only made her think of him the more.

In her vexation she shed bitter tears, and sought refuge and diversion
in the calm and wise conversation of Honorât.

Nothing could make her forget the past. Notwithstanding his goodness and
kindness, her betrothed seemed to weary her, and even wound her.

She dared not open her heart to him. The baron, too, was the best of
fathers, yet absolutely incapable of comprehending the unaccountable
anguish of his daughter.

Concentrated by silence, and overexcited by solitude, a sentiment
mingled with curiosity, admiration, and almost hatred, began to take
deep root in the heart of Reine.

Many times she shuddered to see that the gravity of Honorât oppressed
her. In her thought she reproached him for having nothing in his career
that was adventurous or romantic.

She compared his peaceful and uniform life with the mystery which
surrounded the stranger.

Then, ashamed of such thoughts, she sought to fix her hopes upon
her approaching union with Honorât,--a union so sacred that, in the
fulfilment of its duties, every foolish dream and imagination would be
effaced.

Such was the state of Reine’s heart when, by an inexplicable mystery,
she found in the same day two objects, the sight of which redoubled her
anguish and excited every power of her imagination.

This stranger, or one of his agents, was then near her, though
invisible.

She could not suspect the servants within the walls of Maison-Forte of
being in collusion with the stranger. All of them were old servants,
grown gray in the service of Raimond V.

Reared, so to speak, by them, she was too well acquainted with their
life and morality to believe them capable of underhand manoeuvres. The
fact that the picture was placed on her praying-stool in her chamber,
disquieted her above all.

She was on the point of going to her father and telling him all, but an
instinctive love of the marvellous restrained her; she feared to break
the charm. Her romantic character found a sort of pleasure, mingled with
fear, in this mystery.

Inaccessible to superstition, of a firm and decided mind, and
recognising the fact that, after all, there was nothing really dangerous
in allowing this strange adventure to take its course, Reine reassured
herself, after searching her chamber and the connecting one very
carefully.

She took up the picture again, looked at it for some time, then, after
dreaming awhile, she threw it into the fire.

She followed the destruction of this little masterpiece with a
melancholy gaze.

By a strange chance the vellum, detached from the frame, caught first on
both sides.

Thus the figure of Erebus burned the last and was outlined a moment
on the burning embers,--then a light flame leaped upon it, and all
disappeared.

Reine remained a long time gazing in the fireplace, as though she still
saw there the picture which had been consumed.

The clock of Maison-Forte struck two in the morning; the young girl
returned to her senses, went to bed, and, for a long time, tried to fall
asleep.



CHAPTER X. THE RECORDER

The day after the occurrence of the events we have just related, a group
of several persons, some on foot, and others on horseback, skirted the
edge of the sea, and seemed to direct their course toward the Gulf of La
Ciotat.

The most important personage of this little caravan was a man of
considerable corpulence, with a solemn and formal countenance, wearing a
travelling-cloak over his habit of black velvet.

He had a chain of silver around his neck, and rode a little horse with
an ambling gait.

These personages were no other than Master Isnard, recorder of the
admiralty of Toulon, and his clerk or scribe, who, mounted on an old
white mule, carried behind enormous bags filled with bundles of papers,
and two large registers in their boxes of black shagreen.

The clerk was a little middle-aged man, with a pointed nose, a pointed
chin, high cheek-bones, and sharp eyes. This nose, this chin, and these
cheek-bones, and these eyes were very red, thanks to the very keen wind
from the north.

A valet, mounted on another mule, laden with wallets, and two
halberdiers, dressed in green and orange-coloured cassocks trimmed with
white lace, accompanied the recorder and his clerk.

It was evident that the two officers of justice did not enjoy an
unmarred serenity.

Master Isnard, especially, betrayed his bad humour, from time to time,
by imprecations upon the cold, the weather, the roads, and particularly
upon his mission.

The clerk responded to these complaints with a humble and pitiful air.

“On my oath!” cried the recorder, “here I am only two days on
my circuit, and it is far from promising anything agreeable. Hm! the
nobility takes this census of arms ordered by the Marshal of Vitry very
ill; they receive us in their castles like Turks--”

“And we are happy to be received at all, Master Isnard,” said the
clerk; “the lord of Signerol shut his door in our faces, and we were
obliged to draw up our report by the light of the moon. The lord of
Saint-Yves received us reluctantly.”

“And all these resistances, open or mute, to the orders of his
Eminence, the cardinal, will be duly recorded, clerk, and bad intentions
will be punished!”

“Fortunately, the reception given by the Baron des Anbiez will
indemnify us for these tribulations, Master Isnard. They say the old
lord is the best of men. His jovial nature is as well known throughout
the country as the austerity of his brother, the commander of the black
galley, or the charity of Father Elzear of the Order of Mercy, his other
brother--”

“Hm! Raimond V. does well to be hospitable,” growled the recorder;
“he is one of those old strife-stirrers, always ready to draw his
sword against any established power; but patience, clerk, good courage,
the reign of men of peace and justice has come, thank God! All these
arrogant disputants, with long rapiers and spurs, will keep as quiet in
their strong castles as wolves in their dens, or, on my oath, we will
rase their houses to the ground and sow salt on them. However,” added
Master Isnard, as if he wanted to give himself artificial courage, “we
are always sure of the support of the cardinal; just let them touch a
hair of our heads,--why, you see, clerk, that it would be the same as
pulling a hair out of the beard of his Eminence!”

“Which would be dreadfully injurious to the said Eminence, Master
Isnard, as they say he has a regular cat’s beard,--thin and sharp.”

“You are an ass!” said the recorder, shrugging his shoulders, and
giving his horse a thrust of the spur.

The clerk lowered his head, said no more, and blew through his fingers
by way of keeping in countenance.

The little caravan followed the road for some time along the beach, the
sea on the right, and interminable rocks on the left, when they were
joined by a traveller modestly seated on a donkey.

The tawny complexion of this man, with his overcoat of leather, his red
cap, from which escaped a forest of black hair, curled and standing
on end, and a little portable forge, fastened to one side of the
pack-saddle on the back of his donkey, proved him to be one of those
strolling Bohemians who go from farm to village, offering their services
to housekeepers as repairers of household utensils.

Notwithstanding the cold, the legs and feet of this man were naked. His
delicate and nervous limbs, and his expressive face, scarcely shaded by
a black and distinctly marked beard, presented the type peculiar to the
men of his race.

His donkey was quiet and tractable, and had neither bit nor bridle,--he
guided it by means of a stick which he held to the animal’s left eye,
if he wished to go to the right, and to the right eye if he wished him
to go to the left. As he approached the recorder and his attendants, the
Bohemian took the donkey by one of his long, pendent ears, and stopped
him suddenly.

“Can you tell me, sir,” said the Bohemian to the recorder,
respectfully, “if I am still far from La Ciotat?”

The recorder, thinking, doubtless, the man unworthy of a reply from him,
made a disdainful gesture, and said to his scribe:

“Answer him, clerk,” and rode on.

“The mouth is the mistress, the ear is the slave,” said the
Bohemian, bowing himself humbly before the clerk.

The clerk inflated his thin cheeks, assumed a haughty air, seated
himself on his mule with triumphant dignity, and said to the valet who
followed him, as he pointed to the Bohemian:

“Lackey, reply to him,” and passed on.

Little John, more compassionate, told the wanderer that he could follow
the caravan, as it was on its way to a place quite near the town of La
Ciotat.

The two halberdiers were a short distance in the rear, and, joining the
principal group, all continued to move forward on the beach. The sun
soon made its influence felt; although it was in the month of December,
its rays became so warm that Master Isnard felt the need of relieving
himself of his cloak. He tossed it to his clerk, saying:

“Are you sure, clerk, that you recognise the route to Maison-Forte,
the castle of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez? For we are to stop first at
his dwelling. It is from that point that I will begin the census of arms
in this diocese. Eh, eh, clerk, the morning air and salt odour of the
beach gives me an appetite! They say the baron has the good cheer of an
abbé, and the hospitality of the good King René. So much the better,
on my oath! so much the better, clerk. Instead of putting up for fifteen
days at some paltry hostelry of La Ciotat, eh, eh! I will make my
winter quarters at Maison-Forte of Raimond V., and you will follow me,
clerk,” said the recorder, giving himself airs. “Instead of your
bacon with garlic and beans, and your codfish seasoned with oil for high
days, you will only have to choose between fowl, venison, and the best
fish of the gulf. Eh, eh! for a starved wretch like you, it is a rare
windfall, so, clerk, you can get a big mouthful--”

The poor scribe made no reply to these coarse pleasantries, by which he
felt humiliated, and only said to the recorder: “I recognise the road
easily, Master Isnard, because there is a post bearing the escutcheon of
Raimond V., and a milestone which marks the land belonging to the house
of Baux.”

“The lands of Baux!” cried the recorder, with indignation.
“Another one of the abuses that his Eminence will destroy, on my
oath! It is enough to make one insane to try to find his way out of-this
labyrinth of feudal privileges!” Then, passing from grave to gay, the
recorder added, with a loud laugh, “Eh, eh! it would be as difficult
a task as for you to distinguish the wine of Xeres from the wine of
Malaga, accustomed as you are to drink the second pressing of the grape
like a fish, and then taste a glass of Sauve-chrétien, to put a good
taste in your mouth.”

“And happy when this grape-water does not fail us, Master Isnard,”
 said the poor clerk, with a sigh.

“Eh, eh! then the river never fails, and asses can drink at their
ease,” replied the recorder, insolently.

His unhappy victim could only hang his head in silence, while the
recorder, proud of his triumph, put his hand above his eyes, hoping
to discover the roof of Maison-Forte des Anbiez, as his appetite was
growing clamorous.

The Bohemian, who rode behind the two talkers, had heard their
conversation.

Although his features were common, they showed much penetration and
intelligence. His little, piercing, changing black eyes constantly moved
from the recorder to the clerk with an expression by turns ironical
and compassionate. When Master Isnard had finished conversation by his
coarse witticism on asses, he contracted his eyebrows into a severe
frown, and seemed about to speak, but whether he feared the recorder, or
was afraid of saying too much, he remained silent.

“Tell me, clerk,” cried the recorder, stopping short before a post,
painted with a coat of arms, which marked a division of the road, “is
not this the route to Des Anbiez?”

“Yes, Master Isnard, but we must leave the shore. This is the road to
Maison-Forte; it is about two hundred steps from here; this rock hides
it from you,” answered the clerk, as he pointed to a sort of little
promontory which thrust itself into the sea, and thus interfered with a
view of the castle.

“Then, clerk, go on before,” said the recorder, checking his own
horse, and giving a blow of his switch to the scribe’s mule.

The clerk rode on in advance, and the little band ventured into a
precipitous road which wound its way across the rocks on the coast.

After a quarter of an hour’s travel, the road became level, and wooded
hills, vines, olive-trees, and sown fields succeeded the rocks. Master
Isnard at last saw, to his great joy, the imposing pile of Maison-Forte.
It stood out at the end of an immense avenue, planted with six rows of
beeches and sycamores, which conducted to the vast court of which we
have spoken.

“Eh, eh!” said the recorder, expanding his nostrils, “it is about
midday; it ought to be the dinner-hour of Raimond V., for these country
lords follow the old Provençal custom: they take four meals; every four
hours,--breakfast at eight o’clock, dine in the middle of the day,
lunch at four o’clock, and sup at eight.” “Indeed, then they must eat
nearly all day long,” said the clerk, with a sigh of envy, “for they
often sit three or four hours at table.”

“Eh, eh! you are licking your lean lips already, clerk; but do you not
see a thick smoke on the side of the kitchens?”

“Master Isnard, I do not know where the kitchens are,” said the
clerk. “I have never been inside Maison-Forte, but I do see a thick
smoke above the tower which looks toward the west.”

“And you do not detect the odour of fish-soup, or roast? On my oath,
in the house of Raimond V. it ought to be Christmas every day. Come,
can’t you scent something, man?”

The clerk held his nose in the air like a dog on the scent, and replied,
with a shake of the head: “Master, I scent nothing.”

When the recorder had arrived a few steps from the court of
Maison-Forte, he was astonished to see no one outside of this large
habitation, at an hour when domestic duties always require so much
commotion.

As we have said, the court formed a sort of parallelogram.

At the farther end of this parallelogram rose the main dwelling.

On each side could be seen its wings at right angles, and the buildings
occupied by persons in the employ of the castle.

On the first plane rose a high wall, pierced with loopholes for cannon,
in the middle of which opened a massive door. In front of this wall
stretched a wide and deep ditch, filled with water, which was crossed by
means of a movable bridge, built directly in front of the door.

The recorder and his retinue arrived at the entrance of the bridge,
where they found Master Laramée.

The majordomo, solemnly clothed in black, bore in his hand a white rod,
a distinctive mark of office.

The recorder descended from his horse with an important air, and,
turning to Laramée, said: “In the name of the king, and his Eminence,
the cardinal, I, Master Isnard, recorder, have come to take census
and catalogue of the arms and ammunition of war, retained here in
this castle of Maison-Forte, belonging to Sir Raimond V., Baron des
Anbiez.”

Then turning to his train, which the Bohemian had joined, he said:
“All of you follow me.”

Laramée made a profound bow, and with a sly expression of face said to
the recorder, as he indicated the road: “If you will follow me,
Master Recorder, I will show you our magazine of arms and artillery.”
 Encouraged by this reception, Master Isnard and his retinue crossed the
bridge, leaving their horses outside, tied to the parapet, according to
the instruction of the majordomo.

As they entered the court planted with trees, the recorder said to
Laramée: “Is your master at home? We are very hungry and very
thirsty, friend.”

The majordomo looked up at the recorder, lifted his cap, and replied:
“You condescend, sir; you call me friend; you honour me too much,
Master Recorder.”

“Oh, go on! I am as kind as a prince. If the baron is not at table,
conduct me first to him; if he is at table, conduct me to him all the
sooner.”

“Monseigneur has just been served, Master Recorder. I am going to open
the door of honour for you, as is proper.”

As he said these words, Laramée disappeared through a narrow passage.

The recorder, his clerk, his valet, the Bohemian, and the two
halberdiers remained in the court, staring at the great portal of the
castle, expecting every moment to see its massive doors open for their
reception. They did not see that two men had removed the bridge, beyond
the ditch, on the side of the fields, thus cutting off all retreat from
the men of the law.



CHAPTER XI. TAKING THE CENSUS

On the side of the court, as on the side of the sea, three windows of
the gallery, which extended the full length of the edifice, opened upon
a balcony which was over the principal door of the castle.

The recorder began to realise that it required much ceremony to
introduce him to the baron, when suddenly the windows were opened, and
ten or twelve gentlemen, in handsome hunting-suits, booted and spurred,
holding a glass in one hand and a napkin in the other, rushed out on the
balcony, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices.

At their head was Raimond V.

It was easy to see by the flushed cheeks of these joyous companions
that they had just arisen from the table, and had emptied more than one
bottle of Spanish wine.

The convivial friends of Raimond V. belonged to the nobility of the
neighbourhood, and were all known for their hatred of Marshal of Vitry,
and open or secret opposition to Cardinal Richelieu.

Honorât de Berrol and Reine, utterly powerless to dissuade the baron
from his dangerous projects, had retired into one of the apartments in
the tower.

The recorder began to think he was mistaken in counting on a favourable
reception from the baron; he even feared that he might be made the
victim of some infernal trick, as he saw the clamorous gaiety of the
guests of Maison-Forte, especially when he recognised among the number
the old lord of Signerol, who had rudely refused him entrance into his
castle.

However, he tried to put a good face on the matter, and followed by his
clerk, who was trembling in every limb, he advanced to the balcony with
his two halberdiers at his heels.

Addressing himself to Raimond V., who was leaning over the balcony
railing and looking contemptuously on the company below, he said:

“In the name of the king and his Eminence, the cardinal--”

“The cardinal to the devil! Let his infernal Eminence return to the
place he came from!” shouted several gentlemen, interrupting the
recorder’s speech.

“Beelzebub, at this moment, is making a red brass hat for his
Eminence,” said the lord of Signerol.

“The girdles of his Eminence ought to be good rope for hanging!”
 said another.

“Let the recorder have his say, gentlemen,” said the baron, turning
to his guests, “let him speak, my friends,--it is not by a single
note that you recognise the bird of the night. Come on, Manjour! speak,
recorder, speak, read out your scrawl!”

The clerk, completely demoralised, and doubtless meditating a retreat,
turned his head away from the door, and discovered with dismay that the
bridge had been withdrawn.

“Master Isnard,” whispered he, with broken voice, “we are caught
in a mouse-trap; they have carried away the bridge.”

Notwithstanding the self-possession he affected, the recorder looked
over his shoulder, and said, in a low voice: “Clerk, order the
halberdiers to approach without attracting attention.”

The clerk obeyed; the little band concentrated in the middle of the
court, with the exception of the Bohemian.

Standing at the foot of the balcony, he seemed to contemplate with
curiosity the gentlemen gathered there.

Master Isnard, anxious to accomplish his task, and seeing that he had
been mistaken in presuming upon the hospitality of Raimond V., read, not
without hesitation, the judicial summary.

“In the name of his Majesty, our sire, King of France and of Navarre,
and Count of Provence, and of his Eminence, the cardinal, I, Thomas
Isnard, recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, sent by the king’s
attorney to the seat of the said admiralty, make here in this
Maison-Forte the census and catalogue of the arms and ammunitions of war
therein enclosed, in order to draw up a statement, on which statement
his Excellence, the Marshal of Vitry, Governor of Provence, will decide
to the end that we may be advised as to what quantity of arms and
ammunition ought to be left in the said Maison-Forte; accordingly, I,
Thomas Isnard, recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, here present myself
in person to the said Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, praying him of
necessity to obey the orders signified. Made at Maison-Forte des Anbiez,
dependent of the diocese of Marseilles, and the jurisdiction of Aix,
December 17,1632.” The old baron and his friends listened to the
recorder with perfect calmness, exchanging frequent glances of contempt.
When Master Isnard had concluded, Raimond V. leaned over the railing of
the balcony and replied:

“Worthy recorder, worthy deputy of the worthy Marshal of Vitry, and of
the worthy Cardinal Richelieu,--God save the king, our count, from his
Eminence,--we, Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, and master of this poor
mansion, we authorise you to complete your mission. You see that door
there on the left, on which is nailed the sign-board, ‘Arms and
Artillery,’--open it, and perform the duties of your office.”

As he said these words the old gentleman and his guests sat with their
elbows on the balcony railing, as if they had prepared themselves for
the enjoyment of an interesting and unusual spectacle.

Master Isnard had followed with his eyes the gesture of the baron, which
indicated to him the mysterious magazine.

It was a door of medium size, on which could easily be read the newly
painted words, “Arms and Artillery.” This door was situated in the
middle of the left wing, which was largely made up of rooms for the
servants.

Without being able to account for his repugnance, the recorder looked at
the door of the magazine with suspicion, and said to Raimond V., with an
air almost arrogant:

“Send some one of your people to open that door!” The old
gentleman’s face became purple with anger; he was on the point of
flying into a passion, but restrained himself and replied:

“One of my people, Master Recorder? Alas, I do not have them any
longer. The good old man who received you is my only servant; the taxes
imposed by your worthy cardinal, and the tribute he exacts from us,
have reduced the Provençal nobility to beggary, as you see! You are
accompanied by two companions with halberds, and a fellow with a serge
mantle,”--here the clerk made a respectful bow,--“your own people
are more than enough to put your orders in execution.”

Then, seeing the Bohemian at the foot of the balcony, Raimond called to
him: “Eh, you man there with the red cap, who in the devil are you?
What are you doing there? Do you belong to this band?”

The wanderer approached the balcony, and said: “Monseigneur, I am a
poor travelling artisan, who lives by his work. I come from Bany. I was
on my way to La Ciotat, and I entered to see if I could get work at the
castle.”

“Manjour!” exclaimed the baron, “you are my guest; do not stay in
the court.”

At this remarkable invitation, the men of the law looked frightened, and
at the same instant the Bohemian, with a wonderful agility, climbed up
one of the granite pillars which supported the balcony, as quick as a
wildcat, and seated himself at the feet of the baron, outside of the
balustrade, on a little slab projecting from the balcony floor.

The ascension of the Bohemian was so rapid, and done so cleverly, that
it excited the admiration of the guests.

The baron, laughingly seizing one of his long black locks of hair,
said to him: “You climb too well to travel in the main road; it is my
opinion, fellow, that windows are your doors, and roofs serve you as
a place to promenade. Come in the house, boy; Laramée will give you
something to drink.”

With a light bound the Bohemian jumped over the railing of the balcony,
and entered the gallery, which served as dining-room on important
occasions, where he found the remains of the abundant dinner of which
the baron’s guests had just partaken.

The recorder remained in the court with his escort, not knowing upon
what course to resolve.

He looked at the unlucky door with a vague disquietude, while the old
gentleman and his friends betrayed some impatience as they waited for
the end of this scene.

Finally, Master Isnard, wishing to get out of an embarrassing position,
turned to the baron and said, with a solemn air:

“I call to witness the people who accompany me if anything unbecoming
happens to me, and you will answer, sir, for any dangerous and secret
ambuscade which could hurt the dignity of the law or of justice, or our
honourable person.”

“Eh, Manjour! what are you crowing about? Nobody here wishes to
interfere with your office; my arms and my artillery are there: enter,
examine, and count; the key is in the door!”

“Yes, yes, go in, the key is in the door,” repeated the chorus
of guests, with a sneer which seemed a sinister omen to the recorder.
Exasperated beyond measure, but keeping himself at a respectful distance
from the door, the recorder said to his scribe:

“Clerk, go and open this door; let us make an end of--”

“But, Master Isnard--”

“Obey, clerk, obey,” said the recorder, still drawing back.

The poor scribe showed the register which he held in one hand, and the
pen that he held in the other.

“My hands are not free. I must be ready to draw up an official report.
If some sorcery bursts out of that door, ought I not, on the very
instant, enter it upon my verbal process?”

These reasons appeared to make some impression on the recorder.

“Little John, open that door,” said he to the lackey.

“Oh, master, I dare not,” replied Little John, getting behind the
recorder.

“Do you hear me, you wretch?”

“Yes, sir, but I dare not; there is some sorcery there.”

“But, on my oath, if you--”

“If the salvation of my soul depended on it, sir, I would not open
it,” said Little John, in a resolute tone.

“Come, come!” said the recorder, overcome with vexation, as he
addressed the halberdiers, “it will be said, my brave fellows, that
you alone acted as men in this stupid affair! Open that door, and put an
end to this ridiculous scene.”

The two guards retreated a step, and one of them said:

“Listen, Master Isnard, we are here to give you assistance as far as
we are able, if any one rebels against your orders, but no one forbids
you to enter. The key is in the door; enter alone, if you wish to do
so.”

“What, an old pandour like you afraid!”

The halberdier shook his head, and said:

“Listen, Master Isnard, halberds and swords are worth nothing here;
what we need is a priest with his stole, and a holy water sprinkler in
his hand.”

“Michael is right, Master Isnard,” said the other guard; “it is my
opinion that we will have to do what was done to exorcise the dolphins
that infested the coast last year.”

“If that dog of a Bohemian had not run away like a coward,” said
the recorder, stamping his foot with rage, “he might have opened the
door.”

Then, happening to turn his head, the recorder discovered several men
and women standing at the windows of Maison-Forte; they were partially
hidden by the basement, but were looking curiously into the court.

More from self-esteem than courage, Master Isnard, seeing that he was
observed by so many persons, walked deliberately to the door, and put
his hand on the key.

At that moment his heart failed him.

He heard in the magazine a rumbling noise and extraordinary excitement,
which he had not detected before.

The sounds were harsh, with nothing human in them.

A magic charm seemed to fasten the recorder’s hand to the key in the
door.

“Come, recorder, my boy, go on! there you are! go on!” cried one of
the guests, clapping his hands.

“I wager he is as warm as if it were the month of August, although the
wind is blowing from the north,” said another.

“Give him time to invoke his patron and make a vow,” said a third.

“His patron is St. Coward,” said the lord of Signerol; “no doubt
he is making a vow never to brave another danger if he delivers him from
this one.”

Pushed to extremity by these jeers, and reflecting that, after all,
Raimond V. was not so cruel as to force him into real danger, the
recorder opened the door, and suddenly jumped back.

At that moment he was roughly overthrown by the onset of two Camargnan
bulls, that rushed from the stable, head downward, and uttering a
peculiar and stifled bellowing, for they were muzzled.

The two animals were not of very large size, but were full of vigour.

One was tawny, streaked with dark brown; the other was black as jet.

The first use they made of their liberty was to bound over the court,
paw the earth with their fore feet, and try to divest themselves of
their muzzles.

The appearance of the two bulls was greeted with hurrahs and bravos by
the guests of the baron.

“Eh, well, recorder, your inventory?” cried Raimond V., holding his
sides, and giving full vent to his hilarity. “Come, clerk, enter upon
your official report my bulls, Nicolin and Saturnin. Ah! you demand
the arms that I possess,--there they are. It is with the horns of these
fellows from Camargne that I defend myself. Eh, Man-jour! I see by
your fear that you recognise them as arms, serious and offensive. Come,
recorder, label Nicolin, and draw up Saturnin.”

“God’s death!” cried the lord of Signerol, “these bulls look as
if they would like to make an inventory of the clerk’s and recorder’s
breeches!”

“By Our Lady, in spite of his corpulence, the recorder made a leap
then that would do honour to a toreador!” “And the clerk,--how he
winds around the trees! He is equal to a frightened weasel!”

“Christmas! Christmas! Nicolin has a piece of his cloak!”

It is needless to say that these different exclamations described the
phases of the improvised race with which Raimond V. entertained his
friends.

The bulls were in hot pursuit of the recorder and his clerk, whom they
wished first to attack. The halberdiers and Little John had prudently
availed themselves of the protection of the wall.

Thanks to the trees planted in the court, the recorder and his clerk
were able for some time to escape the attacks of the bulls by running
from tree to tree.

But after awhile their strength was exhausted. Fear paralysed their
energies, and they were about to be trampled under foot by these
ferocious animals. Be it said to the praise of Raimond V. that,
notwithstanding the brutality of his savage pleasantry, he would have
been distressed beyond measure if a tragedy had ended this adventure.

Happily one of the halberdiers screamed:

“Master Isnard,--climb a tree,--quick, quick, before the bull gets
back.”

The corpulent recorder followed the halberdier’s counsel, and throwing
himself upon the trunk of a sycamore, he held on with knees, feet, and
hands, making unheard-of efforts in his clumsy ascent.

The baron and his guests, seeing that the man was no longer in real
danger, again began their jests and laughter. The clerk, more nimble
than the recorder, was now safely seated in the top of a sycamore.

“Master Bruin has come at last! Take care, beware!” cried Raimond,
laughing till the tears came in his eyes at the efforts of the recorder,
who was trying to straddle one of the largest branches of the tree he
had climbed with so much difficulty.

“If the recorder looks like an old bear climbing his pole,” said
another, “the clerk looks like an old, shivering monkey,--see his jaws
chatter.”

“Come, come, clerk, get to your task; where is your pen and your ink,
and your register? You are safe, now,--scribble your scrawl,” cried
the old lord of Signerol.

“Attention, attention, the tournament has begun!” cried one of the
guests. “It is Nicolin against a halberdier.”

“Largess, largess for Nicolin!”

Seeing the two men of the law safe from their horns, the bulls had
turned upon the halberdiers.

But one of the halberdiers, throwing himself against the wall, pricked
the animal so sharply in the nose and the shoulder, that the bull dared
not make another attack, and bounded off into the middle of the court.

Seeing the courage of the halberdier, the baron cried:

“Have no fear, my brave fellow, you shall have ten francs to drink his
health, and I will furnish the wine gratis.”

Then addressing the invisible Larmaée, the old gentleman ordered:
“Tell the shepherd to send his dogs, and drive these bulls back into
the stable. The dance of the recorder and the clerk has lasted long
enough.”

The baron had hardly finished speaking, when three shepherd dogs of
large size came out of a half-open door and ran straight after the
bulls. After a few flourishes, the animals ended the farce by galloping
into the stable, the magazine of arms and artillery of Maison-Forte, as
the treacherous sign-board had announced.

The recorder and his clerk, seeing themselves delivered from danger,
still did not dare descend from their impregnable position. In vain
Laramée, bearing two glasses of wine on a silver plate, came offering
the stirrup-cup from the baron, and telling them, what was true, that
the bridge had been replaced, and their horses and mules were waiting
for them outside.

“I go from here only that my clerk may draw up an official statement
of the grievous outrage by which the baron, your master, has rendered
himself amenable,” cried the recorder, almost breathless, wiping the
sweat from his brow, which literally ran with water, in spite of the
cold weather. “Perhaps you are reserving some other bad treatment for
us, but the governor, and if necessary the cardinal himself, will avenge
me, and on my oath, there shall not remain one stone on another of this
accursed house--may Satan confound it--”

Raimond V., holding in his hand a long hunting-whip, descended into
the court, gave the ten francs to the halberdier who had so bravely
combatted the bull, and went up to the tree from which the recorder was
fulminating his threats.

“What is that you say, you scoundrel?” said the baron, cracking his
whip.

“I say,” shouted the recorder, “I say that the marshal will not
leave this offence unpunished, and that on my arrival in Marseilles, I
will tell him all, I--”

“Eh, Manjour!” cried the baron, with another crack of the whip, “I
hope you will tell him all. I have received you in this way that you may
tell him, indeed, that he may learn in what light I hold his orders,”
 cried the old gentleman, unable to restrain his anger; “the Provençal
nobility has known how, in the last century, to drive from its province
the insolent Duke d’Epernon and his Gascons, as unworthy of governing
it, and shall we not drive away a Vitry, a wretched assassin, who acts
like an Italian bandit, who leaves our coasts without defence, who
obliges us to protect ourselves, and then comes to take away from us the
means of resisting the pirates! Get out of here, you rogue, and go to
draw up your scrawls elsewhere than in my house!”

“I will not get down!” cried the recorder.

“Do you want me to smoke you out of the tree like a badger in the
trunk of a willow?”

Believing Raimond V. capable of anything, Master Isnard slowly descended
the tree. His clerk, who had remained silent, imitated his example, and
reached the ground at the same time with his master.

“Stop!” said the baron, putting a few pieces of silver in the
scribe’s hand. “You can drink to the health of the king, our count.
All this is not your fault, clerk.” “I forbid you to accept one
coin!” cried the recorder. “You shall be obeyed, Master Isnard,”
 said the scribe. “These are two silver crowns, and not one coin,”
 and he pocketed the present.

“And I will add in my report, sir, that you tried to corrupt my
agents,” said the recorder.

“Out of here, out, out, you stinking beast!” cried the baron,
cracking his whip.

“You give people strange hospitality, Baron des Anbiez,” said the
recorder.

This reproach seemed to touch Raimond deeply; he said: “Manjour! all
the country knows that the lord and the peasant have found free refuge
and loyal hospitality in this house. But I am and will be without pity
for the petty tyrants of a tyrant cardinal. Out of here, I say, or I
will whip you like a bad dog!”

“It will sound well,” cried the recorder, purple with rage, and
walking backward toward the bridge, “It will sound well that you have
attempted the life of an officer of the king’s justice, and that you
have driven him away from your house with blows of the whip, instead
of allowing him to execute peaceably the orders of his Eminence, the
cardinal, and of the marshal.”

“Yes, yes, you can tell all that to your marshal, and you can add
that, if he comes here, although my beard is gray, I engage to prove to
him, sword in hand and dagger in fist, that he is nothing but a hired
assassin, and that his master, the cardinal,--God preserve the king from
him,--is only a sort of Christian pacha, a thousand times more a
despot than the Turk. You can tell him, too, to beware of pushing us to
extremes, because we can remember a noble prince, brother of a good
and noble king, blinded for the moment by this false priest, cousin of
Beelzebub. You can tell him, too, that the nobility of Provence, worn
out by so many outrages, would rather have for their sovereign Count
Gaston of Orleans, than the King of France, since at this time the King
of France is Richelieu.”

“Take care, baron,” whispered the lord of Signerol, “you are going
too far.”

“Eh, Manjour!” cried the impetuous baron, “my head can answer for
my words; but I have an arm, thank God, able to defend my head. Out of
here, you knave! Open your long ears well, and shut them well to keep
what you hear. As for our cannon and ammunition, you will see nothing of
them. We will renounce our arms when the dogs beg the wolves to cut off
their paws and pull out their teeth. Out of here, I say; and repeat my
words, and worse, too, if it seems good to you!”

The recorder, having reached the gate, rapidly crossed the bridge,
followed by his clerk and his guards, and as he mounted his horse,
hurled a thundering anathema at the house of the baron.

Raimond V., delighted with the success of his trick, entered with his
guests, and sat down to the table, as the hour of luncheon had just
arrived.

The end of the long day passed away in joy, in the midst of gay
conversation arising from this adventure.

From one of the windows of the castle, Honorât de Berrol had witnessed
this scene. Knowing the obstinacy of his future father-in-law, he had
not attempted remonstrance, but he could not repress his fear when he
thought of the imprudent words Raimond V. had uttered on the subject of
Gaston of Orleans.



CHAPTER XII. THE BOHEMIAN

Many days had elapsed since Master Isnard had been driven so
unceremoniously from Maison-Forte des Anbiez.

The conduct of the baron toward the deputy of the marshal, the Duke of
Vitry, had been generally approved by the nobility of the neighbourhood.

A very small number of gentlemen had submitted to the orders of the
governor.

Master Isnard, established in a hostelry of La Ciotat, had despatched a
messenger to Marseilles for the purpose of informing the marshal of the
lively resistance he had encountered upon the subject of the census of
arms.

The citizens generally ranged themselves on the side of the nobility and
the clergy, who defended Provençal rights and privileges.

The three estates--the holy clergy, the illustrious nobility, and the
Provençal republic and communities, as Cæsar de Nostradamus names them
in his history of Provence--sustained themselves against a common enemy,
which is to say, against any governor who attacked their privileges,
or, in the opinion of the Proven-çals, was unworthy of governing their
country.

Nevertheless, transient divisions occurred between the nobility and the
citizens when particular interests became involved.

Master Isnard had arrived in La Ciotat at a time when some feeling of
resentment against Raimond V. was being manifested.

One of the consuls of the town, Master Talebard-Talebardon, sustained in
the name of the citizens a lawsuit against the baron, upon the subject
of certain fishing-nets, which he claimed the lord of Anbiez had laid
without legal right in a bay outside his privilege, and thereby was
injuring the interests of the town.

Although the inhabitants of La Ciotat had, on many occasions, found aid
and support from the baron, although at the last descent of the pirates
he had, at the head of his own household servants, fought valiantly, and
almost saved the city, the gratitude of the citizens did not extend to
an absolute submission to the will of Raimond V.

The consul Talebard-Talebardon, a personal enemy of the baron, always
exaggerating the faults of this nobleman, had so envenomed the question,
that great disaffection was already being manifested among the citizens.

Arriving at this time, Master Isnard excited these dissensions, fanned
the fire, and spoke at length of his cruel reception at Maison-Forte.
Although he was not of the country, he succeeded in making the outrage
done him appear as a question between the nobility and the citizens.

The recorder induced the consuls to withdraw within the limits of their
dignity, and, instead of continuing the amicable negotiations already
initiated, to insist upon the baron’s appearance before the tribunal of
overseers.

This malevolent disposition once gaining ground, the malcontents did not
stop there. They forgot the real services that Raimond V. had rendered
to the city, his generous hospitality, the good that he was doing in the
neighbourhood, to remember that he was abusive, hotheaded, and always
ready to lift his rod.

They exaggerated the havoc made by his dogs in the chase; they spoke of
the brutal manner in which he had treated the citizens at the time
of their complaint concerning the fishing-nets; in short, after the
appearance of the recorder in La Ciotat, they began to speak of the
Baron des Anbiez as a veritable feudal tyrant.

While the storm was gathering on that side, the most perfect
tranquillity reigned in Maison-Forte.

Raimond V. drank and hunted in the finest style, going through his
domains almost every day, with an unequalled activity; he visited his
neighbours at their country-seats, in order to preserve, as he said, the
sacred fire, or, rather, the general opposition to the Marshal of
Vitry, demanding from each one his signature, appended to a supplication
addressed to the king.

In this manifesto, or public declaration, the Provençal nobility
formally demanded the recall of the marshal, reminding Louis XIII. that
his father, of glorious memory, the great Henri, had, under similar
circumstances, recalled the Duke d’Epernon, in order to redress the
just complaints of the country.

Finally, the nobility expressed, in this act, their respectful regrets
not to be able to submit to the orders of the cardinal, in renouncing
their right to arm their houses, inasmuch as their own safety required
that they should always be in a state of defence.

Redoubling his activity, the baron regained, as he said, the legs and
arms of twenty years, in this crusade against Marshal of Vitry.

Such was the moral aspect of Maison-Forte some days after the event of
which we have spoken.

We have not forgotten the Bohemian, who, arriving in the train of the
recorder, had, upon the baron’s invitation, scaled the balcony in so
agile and surprising a manner.

To make use of a particular and modern expression, the vagabond Bohemian
had become quite the fashion in the rustic and warlike habitation of
Raimond V.

In the first place, he had mended numerous household utensils with
remarkable skill.

Then Eclair, the favourite greyhound of the baron, put her paw out
of joint, whereupon the Bohemian went up on the mountain and gathered
certain herbs by the light of the moon, and carefully wrapped the sick
member in them, and the next day Eclair was able to stretch her legs on
the rosy heather of the baronial plains and valleys.

That was not all. Mistraon, the favourite horse of Raimond V., was
wounded in the frush of his foot by a sharp stone; by means of a thin
layer of iron deftly inserted in the slope of the shoe, the Bohemian
made a sort of Turkish horseshoe, which ever after preserved the invalid
foot of Mistraon from all injury.

The baron doted on the Bohemian. Dame Dulceline herself, notwithstanding
her holy horror of this unbeliever, who, never having been baptised,
could not bear the name of Christian, relented somewhat when the
unbeliever gave her marvellous recipes for colouring pieces of glass,
stuffing birds, and making excellent cordials.

The good Abbé Mascarolus was not less under the charm, thanks to some
pharmaceutic specifics of which the Bohemian had given him the secret.
The only regret of the worthy chaplain was to find the vagabond so
obstinate and shy upon the subject of his conversion.

Such was the serious side of the Bohemian’s qualifications. To that
he united the most versatile and agreeable accomplishments. He had in
a little cage two beautiful pigeons, which showed an almost superhuman
intelligence; his ass astonished the household of Maison-Forte by the
grace with which he walked on his hind legs; besides, the Bohemian
played with iron balls and daggers as well as the best juggler from
India; he was as good a marksman as the most accomplished carabineer;
and, finally, to conclude the enumeration of this vagabond’s wonderful
attractions, he sang charmingly, as he accompanied himself on a sort of
Moorish guitar with three strings.

It was doubtless to this talent that he owed the nickname of the
“Singer,” by which he was known among his comrades.

Stephanette was the first to inform her mistress of the new troubadour;
in fact, although he was rather ugly than handsome, the flexible and
expressive features of the Bohemian seemed almost charming when he sang
his soft and melancholy songs.

One must understand the calm, monotonous life of the inmates of
Maison-Forte, to comprehend the success of the Bohemian.

Reine, beset by the entreaties of Stephanette, finally consented to hear
him.

Honorât de Berrol, together with his betrothed, had made a visit to
Marseilles, without the knowledge of Raimond V., to learn the results of
the complaints entered by the recorder.

In case the baron had aught to fear from these complaints, Honorât
was immediately to inform Reine, and employ the influence of one of
her relatives, who was a friend of Marshal of Vitry, to subdue the
resentment raised by the imprudent conduct of the baron.

Reine hoped to find some distraction to her sad thoughts, by listening
to the songs of the Bohemian.

The image of the unknown hero haunted her more and more. The
fantastical, mysterious circumstances, which had so strangely excited
her memory, interested and frightened her at the same time; in the
meanwhile, desiring, or, rather, thinking to put an end to this romantic
adventure, she had, to the great joy of Honorât, fixed her marriage on
the day following the festivity of Christmas, and yet, the nearer the
day approached, the more she repented of her promise.

In the very depths of her heart she would ask herself with a vague fear
if she no longer loved her betrothed as in the past. But this question
remained unanswered; the young girl did not dare, so to speak, to listen
to the response made by her conscience.

Reine was seated in sad meditation in the little turret which served her
as a drawing-room, when Stephanette entered and said to her mistress:

“Mademoiselle, here is the Singer; he is in the passage, shall I ask
him to enter?”

“For what purpose?” said Reine, with indifference. “For what
purpose, mademoiselle? Why, to distract you from these witchcrafts
which torment you. What a pity this unbeliever is an unbeliever! Really,
mademoiselle, since he has left off his leather jerkin, and monseigneur
has made him a present of a scarlet doublet, he looks like a gendarme,
and more, too, he has a golden tongue, I answer for it. And I was
obliged, if you please, to give him the flame-coloured ribbon I always
wore around my head to fasten his collar, you see. Without that he would
not dare, so he said, to present himself before mademoiselle.”

“I see, my dear, that you have sacrificed yourself,” said Reine,
smiling in spite of herself. “I doubt if Luquin will congratulate
you very much on this disinterested devotion. But where is this brave
captain, and when will he return?”

“This evening or to-morrow morning, mademoiselle; the fishermen met
him near Trefus. He was obliged to lessen the speed of his tartan to
accommodate the large ships that he was escorting from Nice.”

“And do you think that he would like to have you give ribbons to this
strolling singer?”

“By Our Lady! whether he likes it or not does not matter to me. If it
is necessary to obtain some amusement for my dear mistress I would not
hesitate for a cheap piece of ribbon.”

“Ah, Stephanette, Stephanette! you are a real coquette. I have seen
the sharp black eyes of this vagabond looking into yours more than
once.”

“That shows, mademoiselle, that he approves of Lu-quin’s taste,
and my captain ought to feel flattered by it,” answered Stephanette,
smiling.

“You are wrong; you will make your betrothed angry,” replied Reine,
with a more serious expression.

“Ah, my dear mistress, cannot one love her betrothed faithfully and
tenderly, and amuse herself with the flatteries of a vagabond foreigner,
as you call him?”

Reine took this response, to which Stephanette had attached no
significance, as an allusion to her own thoughts.

She looked at her attendant sternly, and said, with an imperious air,
“Stephanette!”

The pretty, innocent face of the young girl suddenly assumed an
expression of such sadness as she raised her large eyes, in which a
tear glittered, full of a grieved surprise to her mistress, that Reine
extended her hand to her and said:

“Come, come, you are a foolish but a good and honest girl.”

Stephanette, smiling through her tears, kissed the hand of her mistress
with affectionate gratitude, and said, as she wiped her eyes with the
end of her slender fingers: “Shall I tell the Singer to come in,
mademoiselle?”

“Yes, go and tell him, since you wish it; let the sacrifice of your
flame-coloured ribbon do some good at least.”

Stephanette smiled with an mischievous air, went out, and returned
followed by the Bohemian.



CHAPTER XIII. THE GUZLÀ OF THE EMIR.

Notwithstanding the humility of his position, the Bohemian did not
appear to be much intimidated in the presence of Reine.

He saluted her with a sort of easy respect as he took a sharp and rapid
survey of the objects which surrounded her.

As Stephanette had remarked, the Singer’s exterior had greatly
improved; his slender and well-formed figure looked wonderfully well in
the scarlet doublet, the present from the baron; his collar was fastened
with the flame-coloured ribbon, a present from Stephanette; he wore wide
trousers of coarse white stuff; his dark blue gaiters, embroidered
with red wool, reached above his knees. His black hair enframed a thin,
sunburnt but intelligent face.

He held in his hand a kind of guitar with a neck of ebony expensively
inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl; at its upper end the neck formed a
sort of palette, in the middle of which was a small, round plate chased
with gold, resembling the lid of a medallion.

We emphasise the costliness of this instrument because it seemed very
strange that a strolling Bohemian should be its possessor.

Stephanette herself was struck with it, and cried:

“Why, Singer, I never saw that beautiful guitar before!”

These words attracted the attention of Reine, and, as surprised as her
maid, she said to the Bohemian:

“Really, this is a very expensive instrument for a travelling
artisan.”

“I am poor, mademoiselle, sometimes I have wanted bread, but ah! I
would rather die of hunger than sell this guzla. My arms are weak, but
they would become as strong as brass to defend this guzla. They would
only take it from me after my death. It is my most precious treasure;
I hardly dare to play it. But the rose of Anbiez wishes to hear me; all
that I now desire is that my song may be worthy of the instrument and of
her who listens to me.”

The Bohemian spoke French quite purely, although he had something
guttural in his Arabian accent.

Reine exchanged a glance of surprise with her attendant, as she heard
this florid Oriental speech, which contrasted singularly with the
condition of the wanderer.

“But this guzla, as you call this instrument, how did you come to
possess it?”

The Bohemian shook his head sadly, and replied:

“That is a sad story, mademoiselle; there are more tears than smiles
in it.”

“Tell us,--tell us!” exclaimed Reine, deeply interested in the
romantic turn the incident had taken. “Relate to us how this guzla
came into your hands. You seem to be above your present condition.”

The Bohemian uttered a profound sigh, fixed a piercing look on Reine,
and struck a few chords which vibrated a long time under the arched roof
of the turret.

“But tell me the story of this guzla,” said Reine, with the
impatience of a young girl.

The wanderer, without replying, made a supplicating gesture. He began to
sing, accompanying himself with taste, or, rather, playing softly some
air of tender melancholy, while, with a sweet and grave tone, he recited
the following stanzas.

[Illustration: He began to sing ]

Although it lacked rhythm and rhyme, the language had a certain strange
charm; he rendered in a sort of recitative the words:

“Far is the country where I was born; the sands of the desert surround
it like an arid sea.

“I lived there with my mother: she was poor, she was old, she was
blind.

“I loved my mother, as the unhappy love those who love them.

“My mother was sad, sad, very sad, after she had lost her sight.

“I went into the valley to look for flowers.

“She tried to console herself for not seeing their smiling faces by
inhaling their perfume.

“The voice of a son is always sweet to the ear of a mother.

“I spoke to her; sometimes she smiled.

“But never to see! never to see! that filled her with sorrow.

“She sank by degrees into a mute despair.

“Before sinking into this despair, leaning on my arm, she went out;
she loved to go at set of sun and sit under the orange-trees in the
garden of the young and brave emir of our tribe.

“The gentle warmth of the sun revived my mother.

“She loved to listen to the murmur of the cascades, which seemed to
sing as they fell into the basin of marble.

“One day, when she lamented more bitterly than ever the loss of her
sight, she refused to go out.

“I prayed her; I wept; she was inflexible.

“Seated in the most solitary corner of our dwelling, her venerable head
wrapped in her black mantle, she remained motionless.

“She no longer desired to eat; she wished to die.

“For one long, for one long night, she refused everything.

“In vain I said: ‘My mother, my mother, like you also I shall die.’

“She remained silent and gloomy.

“I took her hand, her hand already frozen. I tried to warm it with my
breath: she wished to withdraw her hand.”

In saying these words, the voice of the Bohemian had such an expression
of sadness, and the sounds that he drew from his guzla were so
melancholy, that Reine and Stephanette silently exchanged glances
suffused with tears. The Bohemian continued without perceiving the
emotion he had excited:

“It was night.

“And yet a beautiful night Through the open window of our house one
saw the starlit sky; the moon covered the plain with silver; one heard
no noise.

“Yes, oh, yes! one heard the fevered breathing of my poor mother.

“Suddenly in the distance, far, very far, a light noise sounded.

“It was like the soft and gentle echo of a voice singing in the sky.

“Soon a gentle breeze, burdened with the perfume of the citron-tree,
wafted sounds more distinct.

“I was still holding the icy hand of my mother. I felt her tremble.

“This celestial voice approached--approached.

“The chords of a melodious instrument accompanied it, and gave it an
inexpressible charm.

“My mother started again; she raised her head; she listened. For the
first time in many hours she gave signs of life.

“As the enchanting sounds approached my mother seemed bom again.

“I felt her hand grow warm again; I felt her hand press mine.

“I heard her voice at last; her voice till then so mute.

“‘My child, these songs sink in my soul; they calm me! Tears, oh,
tears! Yes, tears at last! I had so much need to weep.’

“And I felt two burning tears fall on my brow.

“‘Oh, my mother, my mother!’ ‘Silence, my child, be silent!’
said she, putting one of her hands upon my mouth, and pointing to the
window with the other. ‘Listen to the voice! listen! there it is!
there it is!’”

Reine, deeply moved, pressed the hand of Stephanette as she shook her
head with a touching expression of pity.

The Bohemian continued:

“The moon of my country shines as the sun of this country.

“In its light slowly passed the young emir, mounted on Azib, his
beautiful white horse.

“Azib, gentle as a lamb, courageous as a lion, white as a swan.

“The emir let his reins fall on the neck of Azib. Happy, he sang of a
happy love, and accompanied himself on his guzla.

“His songs were not joyous: they were tender; they were melancholy.

“He passed, singing.

“‘Silence, child, silence!’ whispered my mother, pressing my hand
convulsively. ‘That voice divine does me so much good!’

“Hélas! by degrees the voice died away; the emir had passed; the
voice was gone; then one heard nothing more,--nothing more; not a sound.

“‘Ah, I fall back in the dreadful horror of my night,’ said my
mother. ‘This celestial music seemed to dissipate the darkness. Alas!
alas!’ and she wrung her hands in despair.

“Alas! all night she wept.

“The morrow her despair increased; her reason grew feeble. In her
delirium she called me a wicked son. She accused me of silencing this
voice. If she heard this voice no more, she must die.

“She was, indeed, going to die. For many hours she refused all
nourishment. What could I do? What could I do?

“The emir of our tribe was the most powerful of emirs.

“If he raised his djerid ten thousand cavaliers mounted horse.

“His palace was worthy of the sultan, his treasures immense. Alas! how
could I dare conceive the thought of saying to him, ‘Come, and by your
songs snatch an old and despairing woman from death?’

“And yet that I dared. My mother had perhaps but a few more hours to
live. I went to the palace.”

“And the emir?” cried Reine, deeply moved and interested, while
Stephanette, not less excited than her mistress, clasped her hands in
admiration.

The Bohemian gave the two young girls a glance of indescribable
sadness, and said, interrupting this kind of improvising, and laying his
instrument on his knees: “‘My mother was a woman,’ said the emir
to me, and he came.”

“He came!” exclaimed Reine, with enthusiasm. “Ah, the noble
heart!”

“Oh, yes, the most noble of noble hearts,” repeated the Bohemian,
with transport; “he deigned, he so grand, he so powerful, to come, for
five days, every evening into our poor dwelling. How shall I tell you
of his touching, almost filial kindness? Alas, if my mother had not been
stricken with a mortal disease, the songs of the emir would have saved
her, for the effect they produced on her was wonderful. But she died
at last without suffering, in a profound ecstasy. This guzla, it once
belonged to the emir; he gave it to me. Thanks to it the last moments of
my mother were peaceful,--poor mother!”

A tear glittered a moment in the black eye of the Bohemian; then, as
if he wished to drive away these painful memories, he took up his guzla
quickly and recited these other stanzas in a proud and excited voice, as
he made his sonorous instrument resound:

“The name of the emir is sacred in his tribe; let him but speak and we
will die.

“Not one is more brave; not one is more beautiful; not one is more
noble.

“He is hardly twenty years old, and his name is already the terror of
other tribes.

“His arm is delicate like that of a woman, but it is strong like that
of a warrior.

“His face is smiling, is beautiful like that of the spirit who appears
in the dreams of young girls; but it is sometimes terrible like that of
the god of battles.

“His voice charms and seduces like a magic philter, but sometimes it
bursts forth like a clarion.”

In his enthusiasm, the Bohemian approached Reine and said to her, as he
opened the medallion set into the neck of the guzla: “See! see if he
is not the most beautiful of mortals!”

The young girl looked at the portrait, and uttered a cry of surprise,
almost of terror. The portrait was that of the stranger in the rocks of
Ollioules, who had saved the life of her father!

At that moment the door of Reine’s drawing-room was opened, and she saw
before her Honorât de Berrol, followed by Captain Luquin Trinquetaille,
who had just arrived from Nice on the tartan, _The Holy Terror of the
Moors, by the Grace of God_.



CHAPTER XIV. JEALOUSY

When Honorât de Berrol entered Reine’s apartment, Stephanette wished
to retire so as to leave the two lovers alone.

She took one step toward the door, but Reine said to her, quickly, in a
voice full of emotion, “Remain.”

Then, scarcely able to control her feelings, she bowed her head and hid
her face in her hands.

Honorât, astonished beyond expression, did not know what to think.

The Bohemian had closed the medallion containing the portrait of Erebus,
and had placed it on the table.

The captain of the _Holy Terror to the Moors_ vainly tried to catch
Stephanette’s eye, but she seemed as anxious to avoid his glance.

Luquin Trinquetaille was the more sensible of her conduct inasmuch as he
recognised on the Bohemian’s collar the flame-coloured ribbon, which
was the exact counterpart of what Stephanette wore on her waist.

This observation on his part, together with several perfidious
insinuations made by Master Laramée, who had just been taking a glass
with Luquin, suddenly aroused the lover’s jealousy.

He looked at the Singer angrily, then, meeting Ste-phanette’s eyes
by chance, he executed a most complicated pantomime with his left hand,
which was meant to ask the young girl why the Singer had a ribbon like
the one hanging from her ruff.

As this pantomimic performance made it necessary for the worthy captain
to put his hand to his collar quite often, Stephanette whispered to him,
with the most innocent tone in the world, “Are you suffering from a
sore throat, M. Luquin?”

These words of the mischievous girl, while they excited the captain’s
anger, seemed also to arouse Honorât from the astonishment produced by
the strange reception of his betrothed.

He approached her, and said: “I am just from Marseilles, Reine, and
I must speak to you on some very serious things concerning your father.
Trinquetaille comes from La Ciotat and tells me that the affair of the
fishery is threatening; the citizens seem to be irritated. In order to
talk of all this we must be alone.”

At these words Reine raised her face bathed with tears, and with a sign
ordered Stephanette to go out The girl obeyed, casting a sad look at her
mistress.

Trinquetaille followed his betrothed with a very ungracious air, and the
Bohemian accompanied them.

“Reine, in the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?” cried
Honorât, as soon as he was alone with Mlle, des Anbiez.

“Nothing,--nothing is the matter with me, my friend.”

“But you are weeping, your face is all tear-stained. What has
happened, pray?”

“Nothing, I tell you,--mere childishness. The Bohemian sang a romance
of his country for us; it was pathetic, and I allowed myself to be
affected by it. But do not let us talk of this nonsense; let us talk
of father. Is there any danger? Has his angry treatment of the recorder
irritated the marshal? And what does Luquin say about the fishery?
Honorât! Honorât! do answer me!”

“Listen to me, Reine; although those matters have assumed a grave, if
not a dangerous aspect, let me first speak of what is above everything
else,--my love for you.”

“Oh, Honorât! Honorât! what of my father?”

“Be calm, there is no immediate danger threatening the baron. The
marshal has despatched two of his men to make inquiries about the
facts.”

“But what does Luquin say about the fishery?”

“He comes to tell you that the consuls have returned the question with
your father on the right of fishery to the overseers; so you see, Reine,
that this news, although serious, has nothing threatening or alarming in
it, and--”

“How do you think the marshal will consider my father’s conduct?”
 said Reine, hurriedly, again interrupting Honorât.

Her lover looked at her with as much surprise as sorrow.

“My God, Reine, what does that signify? Are we not to be united in
a few days? at Christmas? Is it tiresome to you to hear me speak of my
love for you?”

Reine uttered a sigh, and looked down without replying.

“Listen, Reine,” cried Honorât, with bitterness; “for a month
now, there is something in you which is inexplicable; you are no longer
the same, you are distracted, preoccupied, taciturn; when I speak to you
of our approaching marriage, of our plans, of our future, you answer
me with constraint. Again I say, this is not natural. What have you to
reproach me for?”

“Nothing--oh, nothing, nothing, Honorât, you are the best, the
noblest of men!”

“But, indeed, only eight days ago, you yourself formally announced
to your father your desire that our marriage should take place at
Christmas, even if circumstances should prevent the attendance of your
uncles, the commander and Father Elzear!”

“That is true.”

“Well, then, have you changed your mind? Do you wish to postpone it?
You do not answer me. My God! what does that mean? Reine, Reine! Ah, I
am unhappy indeed!”

“My friend, do not despond so; have pity on me. Wait, I am foolish.
I am unworthy of your affection. I annoy you,--you are so good, so
noble!”

“But tell me what is the matter with you? What do you wish?”

“I do not know. I suffer--I--Wait, I tell you. I am foolish and
weak and very miserable, believe me.” She hid her face in her
hands. Honorât, at the height of astonishment, looked at her with an
expression of distress.

“Ah,” cried he, “if I were less acquainted with the purity of your
heart, if evidence even did not prevent the least suspicion, I would
believe that a rival had supplanted me in your affection. But no, no,
if that were true, I know your sincerity,--you would confess it to me
without a blush, because you are incapable of making an unworthy
choice. But then, what is it? A month ago, you loved me so much, so you
said,--what have I done in one month to deserve such punishment from
you? Ah, it is enough to make one insane!”

And Honorât de Berrol, a prey to violent grief, plunged almost into
despair, walked up and down the room in silence.

Reine, overwhelmed, did not dare utter a word. She was almost on the
point of confessing all to Honorât, but shame restrained her, and
besides, she could not distinctly understand her own impressions.

The recital by the Bohemian, the wonderful accident which had just
placed the portrait of the unknown before her eyes, increased the
curiosity and romantic interest that she felt concerning the stranger,
in spite of herself.

But was this sentiment love? Again, who was this man? The Bohemian
called him the emir of his tribe, but at Marseilles, he and his two
companions had passed for Muscovites; how could the truth be unveiled
among so many mysteries? And then, would she ever see him again? Was it
not idolatry? Was the pathetic incident related by the Bohemian true?

Lost in this chaos of confused thoughts, Reine could not find one word
to reply to Honorât.

What good could be accomplished by confessing this inexplicable secret?
If she had felt her affection for her betrothed diminish or change, with
her usual fidelity she would not have hesitated to have told him, but
she felt for him the same calm, gentle tenderness, the same confidence,
the same timid veneration.

If sometimes when he was leaving Maison-Forte, Honorât, encouraged by
Raimond V., would press his lips upon the young girl’s brow, she would
smile without giving the slightest evidence of annoyance.

Nothing in her manner betrayed a change in her attachment to Honorât,
and yet she saw the day of her marriage approach with distrust and even
distress.

Doubtless this want of confidence in Honorât was censurable, but
she divined with true feminine instinct the danger and uselessness of
telling her betrothed the strange restlessness of her heart.

Honorât appeared to be deeply grieved. Reine reproached herself for not
being able to utter a word to cheer him. Once she was about to obey
the inspiration of her compassion for him and tell him all in perfect
confidence, but his irritated manner arrested the words on her lips.

In his vain effort to discover the cause of the coldness and capricious
conduct of Reine, and suddenly struck by some vague memories, as he
recalled that, for a month past, the Seigneur de Signerol had been
visiting Maison-Forte more frequently than was his habit, Honorât
foolishly suspected this man to be the object of Reine’s preference.

This idea was all the more absurd, as the young girl, in talking with
her betrothed the day of the recorder’s adventure, had blamed the
Seigneur de Signerol in almost contemptuous terms, accusing him
of exciting the impetuous temper of her father. As for Seigneur de
Signerol, he had never had a conversation with Mile, des Anbiez.

Honorât, however, in his state of irritation and distress, welcomed any
suspicion which seemed to explain the strange attitude of Reine.

Once admitting this suspicion into his heart, he then became indignant
at the contemptuous manner in which she had spoken of this man, seeing
in her language nothing but the most perfidious dissimulation.

Then, Reine was doubly culpable in his eyes. Why did she not frankly
reject his hand, instead of keeping him in doubtful hope? Accepting this
false theory, Honorât de Berrol found only too many reasons to induce
him to ponder the caprices which he had observed in the conduct of Reine
for some time. He even went so far as to imagine that the Bohemian was
an emissary of M. de Signerol.

The recent agitation of his betrothed at the time he entered her
drawing-room confirmed him in this absurd opinion. Not being able to
hide this impression, he said to her, suddenly:

“Confess, mademoiselle, that it is at least rather strange that you
should receive a vagabond Bohemian in your apartment; it seems to
me that if he had only come to sing, you would not have been so
embarrassed, so excited when I entered here.”

Honorât, in his anger, made this remark at random, and as soon as the
words were uttered, felt ashamed of them. But what was his astonishment,
his vexation, his distress, to see Reine blush and cast down her eyes
without saying a word.

She was thinking of the portrait of the unknown hero, and the adventure
connected with him; she was ignorant of Honorât’s allusion.

The embarrassment of the young girl confirmed the chevalier in his
suspicions, and he exclaimed, with bitterness:

“Ah, Reine, never could I have believed you capable of forgetting
yourself so far as to compromise your dearest interests by trusting them
to such a contemptible creature!”

“What do you mean, Honorât? I do not understand you. This is the
first time I have ever heard you utter such words.”

“It is the first time that I have had the assurance that I was your
plaything!” cried he, unable to restrain his anger.

“Really, you do not mean what you say!”

“I mean, yes, I mean that now I can explain your hesitation, your
constraint, your embarrassment; but what I cannot explain, is that you
could have the cruelty to play this disgraceful rôle toward a man who
has devoted his entire life to you.”

“Why, Honorât, you are losing your senses! I do not deserve your
reproaches.”

“One of two things: either a month ago you thought of our marriage, or
you think no longer of it. If you think no longer of it, you have played
with the love of an honest man; if you still intend to fulfil it,
in spite of the love which you have now in your heart, why, it is
detestable!”

Although Honorat’s suspicions were absurd, Reine, struck by these words,
which offered some solution to the situation, kept silent.

Honorât interpreted this silence as a confession of her duplicity.

“You answer nothing,--you cannot answer! I was not mistaken then! This
Bohemian is the secret emissary of M. de Signerol.”

“Of M. de Signerol!” exclaimed Reine. “But you cannot think it
I have never addressed a word to that man except in the presence of my
father. Besides, you know very well the opinion that I have expressed
of him.” “The better to dissimulate this beautiful preference, no
doubt.”

“M. de Signerol! M. de Signerol! indeed, you are silly!”

“Let us discontinue this comedy, mademoiselle. My eyes have not left
you for a moment I observed your embarrassment, your blushes even, when
I spoke of the Bohemian to you. Let us discontinue this comedy, I tell
you!”

Either pride, distress, or vexation that she could not explain the cause
of her embarrassment, or the pain that she felt at the bitter words of
Honorât, incited Reine to hold up her head with dignity and say to
her betrothed: “You are right, Honorât, let us discontinue such a
discussion; it is little worthy of you or of me. Since you judge me
so unjustly, since upon the most foolish suspicions you base the most
dishonouring accusation, I give your promise back to you, and take back
mine.” “Ah! that was your intention, no doubt, mademoiselle. All
this has been necessary to force me to give you back your freedom. Ah,
well, let it be so! Let all the plans of happiness upon which I have
staked my whole life be forgotten; let the dearest wishes of your father
and your family be trampled under foot! You have enough influence over
the baron to make him yield to your designs. I assure you I will not in
any way oppose them.”

At this moment, they heard the spurred heels of Raimond V., who
precipitately entered, holding a paper in his hand.



CHAPTER XV. THE SUMMONS

Raimond V. was far too angry to notice the expression of sadness and
grief that was depicted on the countenances of the two betrothed.
Addressing Honorât, he said, in a loud voice:

“Manjour! do you know, forsooth, what Trinquetaille has just informed
me? Would you believe, my son, that the citizens of La Ciotat, those
vile swine that have fattened on my bounty and that I have saved from
the teeth of Barbary dogs, wish to summon me, to-morrow morning, before
the overseers of the port, on the matter of our fishery contest! And the
abbé pretends that--” Then, returning to the door, the baron called
out:

“But come on, abbé, where in the devil have you hid yourself?”

The good chaplain showed his tall form among the folds of the portière,
for he had been discreetly waiting in the antechamber.

“The abbé,” continued Raimond V., “pretends that this fine
tribunal is sovereign, if you please,--a tribunal composed of old man
Cadaou, a fish vender, and some other triton garlic eaters, who hardly
own, among them all, one boat or net. Manjour! my children, think of my
being placed under a ban by those old scoundrels!” “Monseigneur,”
 said Abbé Mascarolus, “the decision of the overseers of the port on
all matters pertaining to the fisheries is supreme, and without appeal.
It has been confirmed by the patent letters of Henry II. in 1537, by
Charles IX. in 1564, and by the king, our count, in 1622. It is one of
the oldest customs of the Provençal community. There is no instance
of a nobleman, priest, or citizen who has set it aside, and,
monseigneur--”

“Enough, abbé, enough!” rudely interrupted the baron. “If they
have the impudence to summon me, I shall not have the weakness to obey
their summons, even when it is made in virtue of all the kings the abbé
has just declared to us. As to the patents of the kings, I will oppose
titles and privileges conceded by other kings to my house for services
rendered to them, as an offset, and my seines and nets will stay where
they are, and, by the devil, I will take care that they do stay!”

“Monsieur, permit me,” said Honorât.

“Monsieur? Eh! Why in the devil do you call me monsieur? Am I not your
father?” cried the baron, looking at Honorât.

Honorât cast a distressed look at Reine, as if to make her understand
that it was due to her that he could no longer call the baron by the
tender name of father.

Honorât replied, in a voice trembling with emotion, “Ah, well, since
you wish it, my father--”

“Ah, come now, what is the matter, pray?” asked the astonished baron
of his daughter. “Eh! Of course I wish you to call me father, since
you are, or will be, my son in a few days.”

Reine blushed, looked down, and remained silent. “Ah, well, come,
speak now, I pray you,” said the old gentleman to Honorât. “What
have you to tell me?”

“From what I have learned,” answered Honorât, “the consuls,
excited by the recorder Isnard, have manifested some hostility to you,
father; do you not fear that the citizens and fishers may join these
wicked people, when they see that you refuse to appear, and--”

“I, afraid of those scoundrels! Why, I laugh at them as I would at a
broken spur,” cried the old gentleman, impetuously. “I have, from
father to son, the right to lay my seines and nets in the cove of
Castrembaou. I will maintain my right, even if all the fishers on the
coast, from here to Sixfours, oppose it.”

“The fact is, monseigneur,” said the abbé, “that however much
they may contest it, you have the right. Your titles and privileges of
fishery date back to the year 1221, the 14th day of February, under the
reign of Philippe, King of France, and your claims have been registered
by Bertrand de Cornillon.”

“Eh! what do I want with the authority of Bertrand de Cornillon!”
 cried the baron. “Power makes the right, and I have the force to
sustain the right. Man-jour! did ever one see such trickery? What
rascals! I, who have always helped them, and defended them! Ah, just let
them come and talk to me!”

“Ah, my dear father, they would find you still, as they have always
found you, generous and kind and--” “I believe it, certainly; how
could I revenge myself on such boobies, if it was not by showing them
that a gentleman is of better stock than they?”

“Ah! I recognise all that very well, monseigneur,” said the abbé.
“If the overseers could only examine your titles--”

“What, examine my titles! I have driven away with my whip a recorder
sent by a duke and a peer, a marshal of France, and I must go and submit
to the arbitration of those old tar-jackets, who will descend from their
wretched boats to mount their tribunal? I must go and take off my hat
before those old scoundrels, who the very morning of their audience have
cried in the port, ‘Buy--buy--soup--fish--buy--buy,’--a people that my
family has loaded with benefits. In his last voyage to Algiers to redeem
captives, did not my brave and good brother, Elzear, bring back
from Barbary five inhabitants of La Ciotat? Did not my brother, the
commander, three years ago, chase away with his black galley five or
six chebecs from the coast, because they were interfering with these
fishermen, and make them fly before him like a cloud of sparrows before
a falcon? And these are the people who accuse me! Let them go to the
devil! Let them send me their recorder, and they will see how I shall
receive him. I have just had a new lash put on my whip! But enough of
these miseries. Give me your arm, my daughter. The weather is fine; we
will promenade. Come with us, Honorât.”

“You will excuse me, father; I am needed at home, and I shall not be
able to accompany you.”

“So much the worse. Go, then, quick, so as to come back quicker still.
I fear nothing from these idiot sheep penned up in La Ciotat, but if
they make any attempts upon my fishing-nets, I shall need you to keep me
from making Laramée hang several of them over my nets as scarecrows!”

Then the baron, yielding to his changing and impetuous moods, altered
his tone, and said, gaily, to the abbé, “Now, abbé, if I had some
of these insolent rascals hanged, it would be serious, because I do not
think you have in all your pharmacy a remedy for hanging.”

“I beg your pardon, monseigneur, but I have been told that if you make
the patient, before his execution, drink a great quantity of iron water,
which, so to speak, envelopes and saturates the vital principle, and if,
on the other hand, the patient will apply to his naked skin some large
magnetic stones, or a loadstone, the power of the said stone is such
that, in spite of the hanging, he will retain the vital principle in his
body, for reason of the irresistible power of attraction possessed by
this metal. I would not dare affirm it, but I have been recently told of
this remedy.”

“By Our Lady, that is a wonderful remedy, eh! Who informed you of it,
abbé?”

“A poor man, who gives very little thought to the welfare of his soul,
but who knows many beautiful recipes,--it is the Bohemian who healed
your greyhound, monseigneur.”

“The Singer, Manjour! I imagine he occupies himself with the hanged
and with hanging; he thinks of his future, you see. Each one preaches
his own saint, does he not, abbé?--which does not prevent this vagabond
being a skilful man. Never a better farrier lifted the foot of a
hunting-horse than this same Bohemian,” added Raimond V.

When she heard the vagabond mentioned, Reine blushed again, and Honorât
could scarcely repress a gesture of indignation.

Raimond V. continued:

“Dame Dulceline is enchanted with him; she tells me that, thanks to
him, she will have a magnificent cradle for Christmas. But you have
heard him sing, my daughter, what do you think of it? Because I am a bad
judge, I am not acquainted with any songs but those the abbé sings,
and our old Provençal refrains. Is it true that this wanderer has a
wonderful voice?”

Wishing to put an end to a conversation which, for many reasons, was
painful to her, Reine replied to her father:

“No doubt, he sings very well. I have scarcely heard him. But if you
wish to do so, father, we will take our promenade; it is two o’clock
already, and the days are short.”

The baron descended, followed by his daughter. In passing through the
court, he saw through the half-open door of the coach-house the ancient
and heavy carriage he always used when he attended service in the
parochial church of La Ciotat, at the solemn festivals of the year,
although he had his own chapel at Maison-Forte.

Knowing the kind of antipathy which prevailed against him in the little
city, the bold and obstinate old baron took the ingenious idea of
braving public opinion by going to church next day with a certain pomp.

Reine’s astonishment was unspeakable when she heard her father order
Laramée to have this, carriage ready next day at midday, the hour of
high mass.

To every question of his daughter, the baron replied only by a
persistent silence.

Now let us return to less important actors.

As she left the apartment of her mistress with Luquin, Stephanette had
disdained to reply to the jealous suspicions of the captain, and had
shut herself up in her dignity and her chamber. The windows of this
chamber looked out into the court. The young girl saw through
the windows the preparation of the old carriage, and, too, Luquin
Trinquetaille, as he walked back and forth in a very agitated state of
mind.

Was it curiosity to know what extraordinary event induced the baron to
go out in this carriage, or was it a desire to obtain an interview with
the captain? Whatever it was, Stephanette descended into the court She
first addressed Master Laramée.

“Is monseigneur going out in this carriage?”

“All I know is, that monseigneur ordered me to have this old Noah’s
ark ready. And, speaking of Noah’s ark,” added Laramée, with a
sneering, satirical air, “if you have an olive-branch in your pretty
little rose-coloured beak, you ought to bear it as a sign of peace to
that Abrave captain you see there measuring the court with his long
legs like he was possessed. They say that he is at open war with the
Bohemian, and the olive-branch is a symbol of peace that would flatter
the worthy Captain Luquin.”

“I did not ask you anything about that, Master Laramée,” said
Stephanette, with a dry tone. “Where is monseigneur going in that
carriage? Is it to-day or to-morrow that he wishes to use it?”

“To-morrow will be to-day, and after to-morrow will be to-morrow,
mademoiselle,” bluntly replied the majordomo, offended by the
imperious manner of Stephanette, and he added, between his teeth:
“There is a dove transformed into a speckled magpie.”

During this conversation, Luquin Trinquetaille had approached
Stephanette. The captain tried to assume a cold, dignified, and
disdainful air.

“My dear little one,” said he, in a very careless tone, “do you
not think flame colour a very pretty colour?” Stephanette turned her
head, and, looking behind her, said to Luquin:

“Your dear little one? If you are talking to Jeannette, the laundress,
that I see down there, you had better speak louder.”

“I am not speaking to Jeannette, do you understand?” cried Luquin,
losing patience. “Jeannette, laundress as she is, would not have the
boldness, the effrontery, to give a ribbon to a vagabond Bohemian.”

“Ah, that is it, is it?” said the mischievous girl. “Really, this
ribbon has the same effect on you, that a scarlet streamer has on a bull
from Camargne.”

“If I were a bull from Camargue, with double horns, this vagabond
would feel the point of them. But no matter, this miscreant shall pay
for his insolence; may I die, if I do not cut off his ears and nail them
to the mast of my tartan!”

“It is his tongue, rather, that you ought to be jealous of, my
poor Luquin, for never a troubadour of the good King René sang more
sweetly.”

“I will tear out his tongue, then,--a hundred thousand devils!”

“Come, do not do anything absurd, Luquin. The Bohemian is as
courageous and expert as a gendarme.” “Many thanks for your pity,
mademoiselle, but I do not fight with dogs, I beat them.”

“Yes, but sometimes the dog has good teeth which bite very hard, I
warn you.”

“Curse me, if you are not the most diabolical creature I ever knew!”
 cried Trinquetaille. “I believe, by St. Elmo, my patron, that if I
were to fight to-morrow in camp with this copper face, you would say:
‘Our Lady for the Bohemian!’”

“Without doubt, I would say it.”

“You would say it?”

“Why, yes. Ought I not to take the part of the weak against the
strong,--the small against the great? Ought I not at least to encourage
the poor man who would dare challenge the formidable, unconquerable arm
of the captain of _The Holy Terror to the Moors?_”

“Holy Cross! you are jesting, Stephanette, and I have no desire for it
now.”

“That is very evident.”

“Where is this good-for-nothing fellow, this vagabond?”

“Do you wish me to go at once and find out? No inquiry would be more
agreeable to me.”

“This is too much, you are making sport of me. Ah, well, good-bye! All
is over, you understand, all is over between us.”

Stephanette shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Why do you talk
nonsense like that?”

“What, nonsense?”

“Without a doubt, mere imagination and pretence.”

“Pretence! Ah, you think so? Pretence! Ah, well, you will see. Do
not think you can take me with your cajoleries. I know them,--crocodile
tears.”

“Do not say that, Luquin. I am going to force you to get on your knees
before me and ask my pardon for your stupid jealousy.”

“I, on my knees! I, ask your pardon! Ah, that would be pretty! Ah, ah,
I on my knees before you!” “On both knees, if you please.”

“Ah, ah, the idea is a pleasant one, on my word!”

“Come, come, this very instant,--here, on this spot.”

“Mademoiselle, you are crazy.”

“M. Luquin, in your own interest, do it now, I pray you.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

“Take care.”

“Ta, la, la, la, la,” said the captain, singing between his teeth,
and keeping time by rising on his toes and falling back on his heels.

“Once, twice, will you get on your knees and ask my pardon for your
stupid jealousy?”

“I would rather, you can understand, strangle myself with my own
hands.”

“Luquin, you know that when I wish a thing, I wish it. If you refuse
what I ask, I will be the one to say good-bye to you. And I will not
come back, either, remember that.”

“Go, go; perhaps you will meet the Bohemian on the way.”

Stephanette did not answer a word, but turned around abruptly and walked
away.

Luquin was very brave for a few moments, then his courage failed him,
and at last, seeing that the young girl walked with a firm, resolute
step, he followed her and called, in a supplicating voice:

“Stephanette!”

The young girl walked faster.

“Stephanette, Stephanette, do be reasonable, you know very well that I
love you.”

Stephanette continued to walk.

“A thousand devils! Is it possible for me to ask your pardon for my
jealousy, when I have seen that--” Stephanette quickened her step.

“Stephanette, ah, well, come now, in truth you bewitch me. You make me
do all that you wish.” Stephanette slackened her step a little.

“To come to the point, no, a thousand times no, I am weaker than a
child.”

Stephanette began to run.

The captain of _The Holy Terror to the Moors_ was obliged to exercise
his long, heron-like legs to catch up with her, as he said, with a
stifled voice, “Ah, well, come now, diabolical creature that you
are,--one must do as you wish,--here I am on my knees,--only stop a
moment. Ah, well, yes, I was wrong. Are you satisfied? Is it possible
to be so base?” murmured Luquin, in parenthesis; then he said, aloud:
“Ah, well, yes, I was wrong to be jealous of--of--But at least stop,
will you not? I cannot run after you on my knees. I was wrong, I tell
you.”

Stephanette slackened her gait a little, then stopped still, and said to
Luquin, without turning her head:

“On your knees.”

“Well, I am; I am on my knees. Fortunately for my dignity as a man,
that corner of the wall hides me from the eyes of that old gossip of a
majordomo,” said Luquin to himself.

“Repeat after me.”

“Yes, but do turn your head, Stephanette, so I can see you; that will
give me courage.”

“Repeat, repeat first; come, say, ‘I was wrong to be jealous of that
poor Bohemian.’”

“Humph! I was wrong to be jealous of--that--humph--of that scoundrel
of a Bohemian.”

“That is not it,--‘of that poor Bohemian.’”

“Of that poor Bohemian,” repeated Luquin, with a profound sigh.

“‘It was a very innocent thing for Stephanette to give him a
ribbon.’”

“It was--humph--it was a very innocent thing for
Stephanette--humph!”

These words seemed to strangle the captain, who coughed
violently,--“Humph, humph!”

“You have a very bad cold, my poor Luquin. Repeat now: ‘It was a
very innocent thing for Stephanette to give him a ribbon.’”

“To give him a ribbon.”

“Very well; ‘because I have her heart. And all this is only a young
girl’s folly, and I know well that she loves nobody but her Luquin,’”
 said Stephanette, rapidly.

Then, without giving her betrothed time to rise and repeat these sweet
words, Stephanette turned around quickly while he was still on his
knees, and gave him a kiss on the forehead, and then disappeared through
a passage in the court before the worthy captain, as delighted as
surprised, had been able to take a step.



CHAPTER XVI. THE OVERSEERS OF THE PORT

At the instigation of Master Isnard, still implacable, for reason of
the inhospitable reception given to him by Raimond V., the consul,
Talebard-Talebardon, on Saturday evening despatched a clerk to
Maison-Forte des Anbiez, for the purpose of informing the baron that he
was to appear the next day, Sunday, before the overseers of the port.

Raimond V. made the trembling clerk sit down to the table and take
supper with him, but every time the man of the law opened his mouth to
ask the baron to appear before the tribunal, the old gentleman would cry
out, “Laramée, pour out some wine for my guest!”

Then he had the clerk taken back to La Ciotat somewhat intoxicated.

Interpreting the conduct of the baron according to their own view,
Master Isnard and the consul saw in his refusal to answer their summons
the most outrageous contempt.

The next day, which was Sunday, after the mass, at which,
notwithstanding his resolution the evening before, the baron did not
appear, the consuls and the recorder went through the houses of the
principal citizens, exciting public sentiment against Raimond V.,
who had so openly braved and insulted the privileges of Provençal
communities.

Much artifice, much deceit, and a great deal of persistence on the part
of Master Isnard were necessary to make the inhabitants of La Ciotat
share his hostility against the lord of Maison-Forte, because the
instinct of the multitude is always in sympathy with the rebellion of a
lord against a lord more powerful than himself; but on account of recent
disputes about fishing privileges, the recorder succeeded in arousing
the indignation of the multitude.

As we have said, it was Sunday morning; after mass the overseers of the
port held their sessions in the large town hall, situated near the new
harbour. It was a massive, heavy building, constructed of brick, and had
many small windows.

On each side rose the dwellings of the wealthiest citizens.

The site of the town hall was separated from the port by a narrow little
street.

A noisy crowd of citizens, fishermen, sailors, artisans, and country
people were pressing into the yard, and many had already seated
themselves at the door of the town hall, so as to be present at the
session of the overseers.

The citizens, instructed by the recorder, circulated in groups among the
multitude, and spread the news that Raimond V. despised the rights of
the people by refusing to appear before the overseers.

Master Talebard-Talebardon, one of the consuls, a large man, corpulent
and florid, with a shrewd, sly look, wearing his felt hood and official
robe, occupied with the recorder the centre of one of these animated
groups of which we have spoken, and which was composed of men of all
sorts and conditions.

“Yes, my friends,” said the consul, “Raimond V. treats Christians
as he treats the dogs he hunts with. The other day he threatened this
respectable Master Isnard whom you see here with his whip after having
exposed him to the fury of two of the fiercest bulls from Camargne;
it was a miracle that this worthy officer of the admiralty of Toulon
escaped the awful peril that threatened his life,” said the consul,
with an important air.

“A real miracle, for which I return thanks to Our Lady of la Garde,”
 added the recorder, devoutly. “I never saw such furious bulls.”

“By St Elmo, my patron!” said a sailor, “I would gladly have given
my new scarf to have been a witness of that race. I have never seen
bull-fights except in Barcelona.”

“Without taking into account that recorder-toreadors are very rare,”
 said another sailor.

Master Isnard, deeply wounded at inspiring so little interest, replied,
with a doleful air, “I assure you, my friends, that it is a terrible,
a formidable thing to be exposed to an attack from these ferocious
animals.”

“Since you have been pursued by bulls,” asked an honest tailor,
“do tell us, M. Recorder, if it is true that angry bulls have the tail
curled up, and that they shut their eyes when they strike?”

Master Talebard-Talebardon shrugged his shoulders, and replied, sternly,
to the inquirer:

“You think then, cut-cloth, that a person amuses himself by looking at
a bull’s tail and eyes, when he is charging on him?”

“That is true, that is true,” replied several assistants. “Certain
it is,” continued the consul, wishing to move the crowd to pity the
recorder, and irritate it against the baron, “certain it is that this
officer of justice and of the king narrowly escaped being a victim to
the diabolical wickedness of Raimond V.”

“Raimond V. destroyed two litters of wolves’ whelps that ravaged our
farm, to say nothing of the present he made us of the heads of the wolf
and the whelps, which are nailed to our door,” said a peasant, shaking
his head.

“Raimond V. is not a bad master. If the harvest fails, he comes to
your aid; he replaced two draught-oxen that I lost through witchcraft.”

“That is true, when one holds out a hand to the lord of Anbiez, he
never draws it back empty,” said an artisan.

“And at the time of the last descent of the pirates in this place, he
and his people bravely fought the miscreants; but for him, I, my wife,
and my daughter, would have been carried off by these demons,” said a
citizen.

“And the two sons of the good man Jacbuin were redeemed and brought
back from Barbary by good Father Elzear, the brother of Raimond V. But
for him they would still have been in chains galling enough to damn
their souls,” replied another.

“And the other brother, the commander, who looks as sombre as his
black galley,” said a patron of a merchant vessel, “did he not keep
those pagans in awe for more than two months while his galley lay soaked
in the gulf? Come, a good and noble family is that of Anbiez. After
all, this man of law is not one of us,” and pointed to the recorder.
“What does it matter to us if he is or is not run through by a
bull’s horn?”

“That is true, that is true; he is not one of us,” repeated several
voices.

“Raimond V. is a good old gentleman who never refuses a pound of
powder and a pound of lead to a sailor, to defend his boat,” said a
sailor.

“There is always a good place at the fireside of Maison-Forte, a good
glass of Sauve-chrétien wine and a piece of silver for those who go
there,” said a beggar.

“And his daughter! An angel! A perfect Notre Dame for the poor
people,” said another.

“Well, who in the devil denies all that?” cried the consul.
“Raimond V. kills wolves because he is fond of the chase. He does not
mind a piece of silver or a pound of powder or a glass of wine, because
he is rich, very rich; but he does all this to hide his perfidious
designs.”

“What designs?” asked several auditors.

“The design of ruining our commerce, ravaging our city, in short,
doing worse than the pirates, or the Duke d’Eperaon with his
Gascons,” said the consul, with a mysterious air.

All this, which he did not believe, the consul had uttered as an
experiment, and the alarming disclosure of some hidden design, exciting
the curiosity of the crowd, was at last listened to with attention.

“Explain that to us, consul,” said all, with one voice.

“Master Isnard, who is a man of the law, is going to explain this
tissue of dark and pernicious schemes,” said Talebard-Talebardon.

The recorder came forward with an anxious air, raised his eyes to
heaven, and said:

“Your worthy consul, my friends, has told you nothing but what is,
unfortunately, too true. We have proofs of it.”

“Proofs!” repeated several hearers, looking at each other.

“Give me your attention. The king, our master, and monseigneur the
cardinal have only one thought,--the happiness of the French people.”

“But we are not French, we are quite another thing,” said a
Provençal, proud of his nationality. “The king is not our master, he
is our count.”

“You talk finely, my comrade, but listen to me, if you please,”
 replied the recorder. “The king, our count, not wishing to have his
Provençal communities exposed to the despotic power of the nobles and
lords, has ordered us to disarm them. His Eminence remembers too well
the violences of the Duke d’Epernon, of the lords of Baux, of Noirol,
of Traviez, and many others. He desires now to take away from the
nobility the power of injuring the people and the peasantry. Thus,
for instance, his Eminence wished,--and these sovereign orders will
be executed sooner or later,--he wished, I repeat, to remove from
Maison-Forte, the castle of Raimond V., the cannon and small pieces of
ordnance which guard the entrance of your port, and which can prevent
the going out of the smallest fishing-boat.”

“But which can also prevent the entrance of pirates,” said a sailor.

“No doubt, my friends, the fire bums or purifies; the arrow kills the
friend or the enemy, according to the hand which holds the crossbow. I
should not have had any suspicion of Raimond V., if he had not himself
unveiled to me his perfidious designs. Let us put aside his cruelty to
me. I am happy to be the martyr of our sacred cause.”

“You are not a martyr, as you are still living,” said the
incorrigible sailor.

“I am living at this moment,” replied the recorder, “but the Lord
knows at what price, with what perils, I have bought my life, or
what dangers I may still be required to meet. But let us not talk of
myself.”

“No, no, do not talk of yourself,--that does not concern us,--but tell
us how you obtained proof of the wicked designs Raimond V. has against
our city,” said an inquirer.

“Nothing more evident, my friends. He has fortified his castle again,
and why? To resist the pirates, say some. But never would the pirates
dare attack such a fortress, where they would gain nothing but blows. He
has made a strong fort in his house, from which the cannon can founder
your vessels and destroy your city. Do you know why? In order to
tyrannise over you for his profit, and tread Provençal customs under
foot with impunity. Wait; let me give you an instance. He has,
contrary to all law, established his fishing-nets outside of his legal
boundary.”

“That is true,” said Talebard-Talebardon; “you know he has no
right to do it. What injury that does to our fisheries, often our only
resource!”

“That is evident,” answered a few hearers; “the seines of Raimond
V. have injured us, especially now when the supply of fish is smaller.
But if it is his right?”

“But it is not his right!” shouted the recorder.

“We will know to-day, as the suit is to be decided by the overseers of
the port,” said an auditor.

The recorder exchanged a glance of intelligence with the consul, and
said:

“Doubtless the tribunal of overseers is all-powerful to decide the
question, but it is exactly on this point that my doubts have arisen. I
fear very much that Raimond V. is not willing to refer to this popular
tribunal. He is capable of refusing to obey that summons, made, after
all, by poor people, on a high and powerful baron--”

“It is impossible! it is impossible! for it is our special right. The
people have their rights, the nobility have theirs. Freedom for all!”
 cried many voices.

“I hold Raimond V. to be a good and generous noble,” said another,
“but I shall regard him as a traitor if he refuses to recognise our
privileges.”

“No, no, that is impossible,” repeated several voices.

“He will come--”

“He is going to appear before the overseers--”

“God grant it!” said the recorder, exchanging another glance with
the consul. “God grant it, my friends; because, if he despises our
customs enough to act otherwise, we must think that he put his house in
a state of such formidable defence only to brave the laws.”

“We repeat that what you are saying, recorder, is impossible. Raimond
V. cannot deny the authority of the overseers, nor can he deny the
authority of the king,” said an auditor.

“But, first, he denies the authority of the king,” cried Master
Isnard, triumphantly; “and, since I must tell you, I believe, even
after what your worthy consul has told me, that he will deny, not only
the royal power, but the rights of the community also; in a word, that
he will positively refuse to appear before the overseers, and that he
wishes to keep his seines and nets where they are, to the detriment of
the general fishery.”

A hollow murmur of astonishment and indignation welcomed this news.

“Speak, speak, consul; is it true?”

“Raimond V. is too brave a nobleman for that.”

“If it is true, yet--”

“They are our rights, after all, and--”

Such were the various remarks which rapidly crossed each other through
the restless crowd.

The consul and recorder saw themselves surrounded and pressed by a
multitude which was becoming angrily impatient.

Talebard-Talebardon, in collusion with the recorder, had prepared this
scene with diabolical cunning.

The consul replied, hoping to increase the dissatisfaction of the
populace:

“Without being absolutely certain of the refusal of Raimond V., I have
every reason to fear it; but the recorder’s clerk, who carried the
summons to Maison-Forte yesterday, and who has been obliged to go to
Curjol on business, will arrive in a moment, and confirm the news. Our
Lady grant that it may not be what I apprehend. Alas! what would become
of our communities, if our only right, the only privilege accorded to us
poor people, should be snatched away from us?”

“Snatched away!” repeated the recorder; “it is impossible. The
nobility and the clergy have their rights. How dare they rob the people
of the last, the only resource they have against the oppression of the
powerful!”

Nothing is more easily moved than the mind of the populace, and
especially of the populace on Mediterranean shores. This crowd, but a
moment before controlled by their gratitude to the baron, now forgot
almost entirely the important services rendered to them by the family
of Anbiez, at the bare suspicion that Raimond V. wished to attack one of
the privileges of the community.

These rumours, circulated among different groups, singularly irritated
the minds of the fishermen. The recorder and the consul, thinking the
moment had arrived in which they could strike a final blow, ordered one
of their attendants to go in quest of the recorder’s clerk, who ought,
they said, to have returned from his journey, although, in fact, he had
not left La Ciotat.

At this moment, the five overseers of the port and their syndic, having
met after mass under the porch of the church, passed through the crowd
to enter the town hall, where they were to hold their solemn audience.

The new circumstances gave additional interest to their appearance; they
were saluted on all sides with numerous bravos, accompanied with the
cries:

“Long live the overseers of the port!”

“Long live the Provençal communities!”

“Down with those who attack them!”

The crowd, now greatly excited, pressed hard upon the steps of the
overseers, so as to be present at the session.

Then the clerk arrived. Although he said much in protest of the
interpretation given to his words by the recorder and the consul, those
men continued to exclaim with hypocritical lamentations.

“Ah, well, ah, well, consul,” cried one of the crowd, “is Raimond
V. coming? Will he appear before the tribunal?”

“Alas! my friends,” replied the consul, “do not question me. The
worthy recorder has predicted only too well. The tyrannical, imperious,
irascible character of the baron has been again made manifest.”

“How? How?”

“The clerk was charged yesterday to notify Raimond V. to appear before
the tribunal of overseers; he has returned and--”

“There he is! Ah,--well, come to the point!”

“Ah!”

“Ah, well!”

“Ah, well, he has been overwhelmed with the cruel treatment of Raimond
V.”

“But,” whispered the clerk, “on the contrary, the baron made me
drink so much wine that I--”

Master Isnard seized the clerk so violently by his smock-frock, and
threw such a furious glance on him, that the poor man did not dare utter
a word.

“After having overwhelmed him with cruel treatment,” continued the
consul, “Raimond formally declared to him that he would make straw
of our privileges, that he intended to keep his seines, and that he was
strong enough to overcome us, if we dared act contrary to his will, and
that--”

An explosion of fury interrupted the consul.

The tumult was at its height; the most violent threats burst out against
Raimond V.

“To the fishing-nets! the fishing-nets!” cried some.

“To Maison-Forte!” cried others.

“Do not leave one stone upon another!”

“To arms! to arms!”

“Let us make a petard to blow up the gate of the moat on the land
side!”

“Death, death to Raimond V.!”

Seeing the fury of the populace, the recorder and the consul began to
fear that they had gone too far, and that they would find it impossible
to control the passions they had so imprudently unchained.

“My friends,--my children!” cried Talebard-Tale-bardon, addressing
the most excited of the speakers, “be moderate. Run to the
fishing-nets,--that you may do, but make no attack upon Maison-Forte, or
upon the life of the baron!”

“No pity!--no pity! You yourself have told us, consul, that Raimond
was going to fire on the city and the port and do worse than the Duke
d’Epernon and his Gascons.”

“Yes, yes. Let us destroy the old wolfs den and nail him to his
door!”

“To Maison-Forte!”

“To Maison-Forte!”

Such were the furious cries which met the tardy words of moderation,
which the consul now tried to make the excited people heed.

The more peaceable inhabitants pressed around the town hall, so as to
enter the room of the tribunal where the overseers were already
seated. Others, divided into two bands, were preparing, in spite of
the entreaties of the consul, to destroy the fishing-nets and attack
Maison-Forte des Anbiez, when an extraordinary incident struck the crowd
with amazement, and rendered it silent and motionless.



CHAPTER XVII. THE JUDGMENT

The general astonishment was very natural.

Slowly descending the street, in the direction of the public square, was
seen the heavy ceremonial carriage of Raimond V.

Four of his men, armed and on horseback, preceded by Laramée, opened
the march; then came the carriage, with a crimson velvet canopy,
somewhat worn; the retinue, as well as the body of the carriage, which
was without windows, yet bore conspicuously the baron’s coat of arms,
showed the red and yellow colours of the livery of Raimond V.

Four strong draught-horses, yoked with rope traces, laboriously dragged
this rude and massive vehicle, in the depth of which sat the baron
majestically enthroned.

Opposite him sat Honorât de Berrol.

Inside the coach, near the doors, two small stools were placed. On one
sat Abbé Mascarolus, with a bag of papers on his knees. The steward of
the baron occupied the other.

The imperfect construction of this ponderous vehicle permitted no place
for a coachman. A carter, dressed for the occasion in a greatcoat, with
the baron’s livery, walked at the head of each pair of horses, and
conducted the equipage as he would have managed a farm-wagon.

Finally, behind the carriage came four other armed men on horseback.

Although rude, this equipage and retinue inspired profound admiration
among the inhabitants of the little town; the sight of a coach, however
inelegant, was always to them a novel and interesting thing.

As we have said, the crowd stood silently looking on. They knew that
Raimond V. never used this carriage except on important occasions, and a
lively curiosity suspended for a time their most violent passions.

They whispered among each other concerning the direction the carriage
would take: was it to the church, or was it to the town hall?

This last supposition became probable as Raimond V., having turned the
corner of the street, took the road which led to the edifice where the
overseers of the port were assembled.

Soon doubt changed to certainty, when they heard the stentorian voice of
Laramée cry:

“Room! make way for monseigneur, who is going to the tribunal of the
overseers!”

Theae words, passing from mouth to mouth, finally reached the ears of
the consul and the recorder, whose disappointment and vexation were
extreme.

“Why, what have you said, recorder?” cried the men who surrounded
him, “here is Raimond V.; he is coming to present himself before the
tribunal of overseers.”

“Then he has not resolved to make straw of our privileges?”

“He intends to appear, yes, he intends to appear without doubt,”
 said Master Isnard, “but he is coming with a retinue of armed men; who
can tell what he is going to say to those poor overseers of the port?”

“Doubtless he wishes to intimidate them,” said the consul.

“He wishes to make his refusal to recognise their jurisdiction all
the more contemptuous by coming to tell them so himself,” said the
recorder.

“An armed retinue?” said a hearer. “And what do these men with
carbines intend to do against us?”

“The consul is right. He is coming to insult the overseers,” said
one of the most defiant citizens.

“Come now, Raimond V., as bold as he is, would never dare do
that,” replied a third.

“No, no; he recognises our privileges,--he is a good and worthy
lord,” cried several voices. “We were wrong to distrust him.”

In a word, by one of those sudden changes so common in popular
excitements, the mind of the people at once turned over to the favour of
Raimond V. and to hostility toward the recorder.

Master Isnard put both his responsibility and his person under cover,
and, in so doing, did not hesitate to expose his unfortunate clerk to
the anger of the people.

Instead of manifesting hostility to the baron, several of the citizens
now assumed a threatening attitude toward the recorder for having
deceived them.

“It is this stranger,” said they, “who has excited us against
Raimond V.”

“This good and worthy noble who has always stood for us!”

“Yes, yes, that is so; he told us that Raimond wished to destroy our
privileges, and, on the contrary, he respects them.”

“Without doubt, monseigneur did well in delivering him to the bulls of
Camargne,” cried a sailor, shaking his fist at the recorder.

“Permit me, my friends,” said the recorder, painfully realising the
absence of the consul, who had prudently escaped to the town hall, where
he would appear as a plaintiff against the baron, “permit me to say
that, although nothing could make me put faith in the baron’s good
intentions, I do not hesitate to say that good may come out of all
this. Perhaps my clerk has been mistaken; perhaps he has exaggerated the
extent of the remarks made by the Baron des Anbiez. Come now, clerk,”
 said he, turning to the scribe with a severe and haughty air, “do not
lie. Have you not deceived me? Recall your experience. Perhaps you were
frightened into wrong. I know you are a coward. What did the baron say
to you? Zounds! clerk, woe to you if you have deceived me, and if by
your folly I, myself, have deceived these estimable citizens!”

Opening his large eyes to their utmost, and utterly confounded by
the audacity of the recorder, the poor clerk could only repeat, in a
trembling voice: “Monseigneur told me nothing; he made me sit down at
his table, and every time I tried to tell him of the summons from the
overseers Master Laramée came with a big glass of Spanish wine, that I
was, to speak reverently, obliged to swallow at one draught.”

“Zounds!” cried the recorder, in a thundering voice. “What! this
is the bad treatment you complained of! Forgive him, gentlemen, he was
certainly drunk, and I am sorry to see that he has deceived us about
the designs of Raimond V. Let us hasten to the town hall, where we can
assure ourselves of the reality of certain facts, for the baron’s
carriage has stopped there, I see.”



Thus speaking, and without appearing to hear the threatening murmurs
of the crowd, the recorder hurried away, accompanied by the unfortunate
clerk, who in the retreat received several thrusts, evidently addressed
to Master Isnard.

The large audience-chamber of the town hall in La Ciotat formed a long
parallelogram lighted by tall, narrow windows, with panes set in frames
of lead.

On the walls opposite the windows--bare walls, white with a coating of
lime--were displayed several flags captured from Barbary pirates.

Projecting rafters of unpolished wood crossed each other beneath the
ceiling. At the extremity of this immense hall and opposite the large
door of entrance could be seen, upon a stage, the tribunal of the
overseers of the port. Before them was a long table roughly cut at right
angles.

The judges were four in number, presided over by the watchman from the
cape of l’Aigle, who had temporarily resigned his ordinary functions
into the hands of Luquin Trinquetaille.

According to custom, these fishermen wore black breeches, a black
doublet, and a black mantle, with a white band; on their heads they wore
hats with a wide brim. The youngest of these judges was not less than
fifty years old. Their attitude was simple and serious; their sunburnt
faces and long white or gray hair shone with a Rembrandt light under
the sudden ray of sunshine shooting from the narrow windows, and were
distinctly outlined on the shadowy light which reigned in the body of
the hall.

These five old seamen, elected by their corporation on St. Stephen’s
Day, justified the choice of their companions. Brave, honest, and pious,
they assuredly represented the best of the maritime population of the
town and the gulf.

The tribunal and the place reserved for those who were to appear before
them were separated from the crowd by a rude barrier of wood.

We quote from the work, “Voyage and Inspection of M. de Séguiran,”
 already cited in the preface: “The jurisdiction of the overseers was
very simple. Whoso wishes to enter a complaint before these overseers
can be heard, but not before he has deposited two sous and eight
farthings in the common purse, after which he can demand the party
against whom he enters a complaint. The said party is obliged to make
the same deposit, and both are heard; and at the end of the argument the
eldest of these overseers pronounces judgment according to the counsel
of his colleagues.”

The secretary of the community called in a loud voice the plaintiffs and
defendants.

Never had a session excited so much interest in the public mind.

Before the arrival of Raimond V. the greater part of those who filled
the hall were still ignorant of the baron’s intentions, whether or not
he would appear before the tribunal. The smaller number, however, hoped
that he would respect the privileges of the community.

But when they learned from the curious ones outside that the
gentleman’s carriage of state was already in the square, they eagerly
watched every movement of the constantly increasing multitude.

The crier was obliged to elevate his voice to its utmost to command
silence, and Peyrou, the watchman, as assignee of the overseers, at last
administered a severe rebuke to the clamorous crowd, and order finally
prevailed.

The tribunal then regulated some business of little importance, but with
as much care and deliberate circumspection, and as much attention to
detail, as if one of the first lords of Provence was not expected every
moment to appear before them.

The multitude was compact when Raimond V. presented himself at the door,
and he had great difficulty in entering the large hall with Honorât de
Berrol.

“Make way, make way for monseigneur!” cried several eager voices.

“Have the overseers called me, my children?” said Raimond V.,
affectionately.

“No, monseigneur.”

“Then I will wait here with you. It will be time to make way for me
when I am called before the tribunal.”

These simple words, uttered with as much kindness as dignity, had a
tremendous effect upon the crowd. The veneration inspired by the old
gentleman, who but a moment before had been so menaced, was so great
that the people formed a sort of circle of solemnity around him.

An officer took great pains to inform the secretary that the baron had
entered the hall, and that it would be proper to call his case before
others on the docket. The secretary, profiting from a short interval,
submitted this suggestion to Peyrou, the assignee or syndic.

The latter simply replied: “Secretary, what is the next name on your
list?”

“Jacques Brun, pilot, versus Pierre Baif, sailmaker.”

“Then call Jacques Brun and Pierre Baif.”

Peyrou owed much to the baron’s family. He was warmly attached to the
house of Anbiez. In thus acting, he did not wish to make a display of
his rights and exaggerate their importance. He was only obeying the
spirit of justice and independence found in popular institutions.

It was without hesitation, and without the least intention to offend
Raimond V., that the watchman said, in a loud and firm voice:

“Secretary, call another plaintiff.”

The dispute between Jacques Brun, the pilot, and the sailmaker, Pierre
Baif, was of little importance. It was promptly, but carefully, decided
by the overseers in the midst of the general preoccupation, and the
cause of the baron immediately followed.

Notwithstanding the presence of the Baron des Anbiez, it was not known
that he intended to appear before the tribunal. Naturally, the crowd
remembered the insinuations of Master Isnard. The latter insisted that
the baron was capable of manifesting his contempt for the tribunal in a
very startling manner.

At last the secretary called, in an excited voice: “Master
Talebard-Talebardon, consul of the city of La Ciotat, versus Raimond V.,
Baron des Anbiez.”

A long murmur of satisfied impatience circulated around the hall.

“Now, my children,” said the old gentlemen to those who surrounded
him, “make way, I pray you, not for the baron, but for the suitor who
is going before his judges.”

The enthusiasm inspired by these words of Raimond V. proved that, in
spite of their instinctive thirst for equality, the people always had an
immense liking for persons of rank who submitted to the common law.

The crowd, dividing on each side, made a wide avenue, in the middle of
which Raimond V. walked with a grave and majestic step.

The old gentleman wore the sumptuous costume of the time: a doublet with
points, a short mantle of brown velvet, richly braided with gold, wide
trousers of the same material, which formed a sort of skirt descending
below the knee. His scarlet silk stockings disappeared in the funnel of
his short boots made of cordovan leather, and equipped with long gold
spurs. A costly shoulder-belt sustained his sword, and the white plumes
of his black cap fell over his collar of Flanders lace.

The countenance of the old gentleman, habitually joyous, showed at that
moment a lofty expression of nobility and authority.

A few steps from the tribunal the baron took off his hat, which he had
kept on until then, although the crowd was uncovered. One could not help
admiring the dignity of the face and bearing of this noble old man with
long hair and gray moustache.

Soon Master Talebardon arrived.

Notwithstanding his usual assurance, and although he had the recorder
Isnard at his heels, he could not conquer his emotion, and carefully
avoided the baron’s glances.

Peyrou rose, as well as the other overseers; he kept his hat on.

“Bernard Talebard-Talebardon, come forward,” said he.

The consul entered the enclosure.

“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, come forward.”

The baron entered the enclosure.

“Bernard Talebard-Talebardon, you demand, in the name of the community
of La Ciotat, to be heard by the overseers of the port, against Raimond
V., Baron des Anbiez.”

“Yes, syndic,” replied the consul.

“Deposit two sous and eight farthings in the common purse, and
speak.”

The consul put the money in a wooden box, and, advancing near the
tribunal, stated his grievance in these terms:

“Syndic and overseers, from time immemorial the fishery of the cove of
Camerou has been divided between the community of the city and the lord
of Anbiez; the said lord can lay his nets and seines from the coast to
the rocks called the Seven Stones of Castrembaou, which form a sort of
belt, about five hundred steps from the coast. The community hold the
right from the Seven Stones of Castrembaou to the two points of the
bay; before you, syndic and overseers, I affirm on oath that this is
the truth, and I adjure Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, here present and
called by me, to say if such is not the truth.”

Turning to the gentleman, Peyrou said to him:

“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, is what the plaintiff says true? Has
the right of fishery always been thus divided between the lords of
Anbiez and the community of the city of La Ciotat?”

“The fishery has always been thus divided. I recognise it,” said the
baron.

The perfect agreeableness with which the baron made his reply left no
doubt as to his submission to the ability of the tribunal.

A murmur of satisfaction circulated through the hall. “Continue,”
 said Peyrou to the consul.

“Syndic and overseers,” pursued Talebard-Talebardon, “in spite
of our rights and our custom, instead of confining himself to the space
between the rocks of the Seven Stones of Castrembaou and the coast,
Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, has laid his nets beyond the rocks of
the Seven Stones toward the high sea, and consequently has injured
the rights of the community which I represent. He fishes in the part
reserved for the said community. These facts, which I affirm on oath,
are known, besides, to everybody, as well as yourselves, syndic and
overseers.”

“The syndic and the overseers are not in this suit,” replied the
watchman to the consul, severely. Then turning to the gentleman, he said
to him:

“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, do you admit that you have thrown your
nets on this side of the Seven Rocks, and toward the high sea, in the
part of the cove reserved for the community of La Ciotat?”

“I have had my nets thrown this side of the Seven Rocks,” said the
baron.

“Plaintiff, what do you demand from Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez?”
 said the syndic.

“I require,” answered Talebard-Talebardon, “the tribunal to forbid
the lord of Anbiez henceforth to fish or to lay seines beyond the rocks
of Castrembaou; I require that the said lord be commanded to pay to the
said community, under the claim of damages and restitution, the sum of
two thousand pounds; I require that the said lord be notified that, if
he again lay nets and seines in that part of the cove which does not
belong to him, the said community shall have the right to remove and
destroy by force the said nets and seines, making the lord of Anbiez
alone responsible for the disorders which may follow the exercise of
this right.”

As they heard the consul formulate so clearly his charge against Raimond
V., the spectators turned to look at the baron.

He remained calm and unmoved, to the great astonishment of the public.

The violent and impetuous character of the baron was so well known
that his calmness and self-possession inspired as much admiration as
astonishment.

Peyrou, addressing the old lord, said, in a solemn tone:

“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, what have you to reply to the
plaintiff? Do you accept his requisitions from you as just and fair?”

“Syndic and overseers,” replied the baron, bowing respectfully,
“yes, that is true. I have had my nets laid outside of the Seven Rocks
of Oastrembaou, but, in order to explain my act, I will state that which
all of you know.”

“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, we are not in this suit,” said
Peyrou, gravely.

In spite of his self-control and his affection for the watchman, the old
gentleman bit his lip, but soon regained his calmness and said:

“I will say to you, syndic and overseers, what every one knows: for
several years the sea has fallen to such a degree that the part of the
cove in which I had the right to fish has become dry. The sea broom has
pushed its way there to the utmost, and my greyhound Eclair started a
hare there the other day; honestly, syndic and overseers, to make any
use of the part of the cove which belongs to me, I should need, now,
horses and guns, instead of boats and nets.”

The baron’s reply, delivered with his usual good humour, amused the
crowd; even the overseers could not repress a smile.

The baron continued:

“The retreat of the sea has been so great that there is hardly six
feet of water in the spot around the Seven Rocks, where my fishing-place
ends and that of the community begins. I have believed I had the right
to lay my nets and my seines five hundred steps beyond the Seven
Rocks, since there was no more water on this side, supposing that the
community, following my example, and the movement of the water, would
also advance five hundred steps toward the high sea.”

The moderation manifest in the baron’s tone, his reasons, which
were really plausible, made a very great impression on the spectators,
although the greater part of them had a common cause with the consul,
who represented the interest of the town.

Addressing the consul, the syndic said:

“Talebard-Talebardon, what have you to reply?”

“Syndic and overseers, I reply that the cove of Castrembaou has no
more than six hundred steps to begin from the Seven Rocks, and that if
the lord of Anbiez is adjudged five hundred, there will hardly remain
one hundred steps for the community to throw its nets; now, every one
knows that fishing for tunnies is profitable only in the bay. No doubt
the waters, retiring, have left all the fishing domain of the lord
of Anbiez dry, but that is not the fault of the community, and the
community ought not to suffer from it.”

For a long time this grave question was in litigation. As we have said,
the rights and opinions were so divided, that the consuls could have
arranged everything amicably for the baron, but for the perfidious
counsel of Master Isnard, the recorder.

The honest seamen, who composed the tribunal, almost invariably showed
excellent sense; their judgments, based on the practice of an avocation
which they had followed from infancy, were simple and righteous.
Nevertheless, on this occasion, they were not a little embarrassed.

“What have you to answer, Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez?” said
Peyrou.

“I have only to answer, overseers and syndic, that neither is it my
fault that the waters have retired; by my title I possess the right of
fishing over half the bay; owing to the retreat of the waters, I can go
dry-shod over my piscatorial domain, as my chaplain says; now I ought
not, I think, to be the victim of a circumstance which is the result of
a superior force.”

“Raimond V.,” said one of the overseers, an old tar with white hair,
“do you hold, by your title, the right to fish from the coast to
the Seven Rocks, or the right to fish over an extent of five hundred
steps?”

“My title claims the right to fish from the coast to the Seven
Rocks,” replied the baron.

The old seaman whispered a few words to his neighbour.

Peyrou rose, and said, “We have heard enough, we will proceed to give
judgment.”

“Syndic and overseers,” replied the baron, “whatever may be your
decision, I submit to it beforehand.” Peyrou then said, in a loud
voice: “Talebard-Talebardon, Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, your cause
is heard. We, overseers and syndic, will now consider it.” The five
fishermen rose, and retired into the embrasure of a window. They seemed
to be arguing very animatedly, while the crowd awaited their decision
in profound and respectful silence; the lord of Anbiez talked in a low
voice with Honorât de Berrol, who was much impressed by the scene.

After about a half-hour’s discussion, the syndic and overseers resumed
their places, and stood with their hats on, while Peyrou read from a
large book of registration the following formal statement, which always
preceded the decree of this tribunal:

“This day, 20th day of December, in the year 1632, being assembled in
the town hall of La Ciotat, we, syndic and overseers of the port, having
made Talebard-Tale-bardon, consul of the city, and Raimond V., Baron
des Anbiez, appear before us, and having heard the aforesaid in their
accusation and defence, aver what follows:

“The demand of Talebard-Talebardon seems to us a just one. According
to the title of Raimond V., his right of fishery does not extend
indifferently over a space of five hundred steps, but over the space
lying between the coast and the Seven Rocks of Castrembaou. The waters
have retired from the part which belonged to him; that is the will
of the Almighty, and Raimond must submit to it. If, as in the Gulf of
Martignes, the sea had advanced on the coast, the fishery of Raimond
V. would have been so much increased, and the community could not have
exceeded their limits beyond the Seven Rocks; the opposite has taken
place, which, no doubt, is unfortunate for the lord of Anbiez, but
the community cannot surrender its rights of fishery. God controls the
waters as pleases him, and we must accept what he sends. Our conscience
and our reason then decide that henceforth Raimond V. can lay no more
nets or seines outside of the Seven Rocks; but we also decide, in order
to prove the gratitude of this city to the said Raimond V., who has
always been her good and courageous protector, that he has the right to
ten pounds of fish for every hundred pounds of fish which are caught in
the bay. We know the good faith of our brother fishermen, and are sure
that they will honestly fulfil this condition. The provost and other
officers of the city are hereby notified to execute our judgment
pronounced against Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez. In case the said lord
of Anbiez opposes our judgment, he will be required to pay one hundred
pounds forfeit, of which one-third goes to the king, one-third to the
hospital of St. Esprit, and the other third to the said community. The
hearing of the said misdemeanours and disputes of fishery being by
the letters patent of Henry II. prohibited to Parliament and all other
magistrates, their Majesty decreeing that suits brought before them on
the question of the fishery shall be referred to the said overseers to
be heard and judged by them, in consequence of which the decisions of
the said overseers have always been declared without appeal. Made in
town hall of La Ciotat, etc.”

The reason and good sense of this decision were wonderfully appreciated
by the crowd; they applauded the judgment repeatedly, crying:

“Long live the overseers! Long live Raimond V.!”

The session being ended, the crowd dispersed. Raimond V. remained a few
minutes in the hall, and said to the watchman of the cape of l’Aigle, as
he grasped him by the hand:

“Righteously judged, my old Peyrou.”

“Monseigneur, poor people like us are neither lawyers nor scribes, but
the Lord inspires the honest with a sense of justice.”

“Honest man,” said the baron, looking at him with keen interest,
“will you dine with me at Maison-Forte?” “My sentry-box is waiting
for me, monseigneur, and Luquin Trinquetaille is getting weary of it.”

“Come, come, then, I will see you at Maison-Forte with my brothers;
they will arrive soon.”

“Have you any news from the commander?” asked Peyrou.

“I have some from Malta; it was good, and informs me again of his
return here for Christmas, but his letter is sadder than ever.”

The watchman looked down and sighed.

“Ah, Peyrou,” said the baron, “how grievous is this melancholy,
whose cause I do not know!”

“Very distressing,” replied the watchman, absorbed in his own
thoughts.

“You, at least, know the cause of it,” said the baron, with a sort
of bitterness, as if he had suffered from his brother’s reticence.

“Monseigneur!” said Peyrou.

“Cheer up! I do not ask you to unveil this sad secret to me, since it
is not your own. Come, good-bye, my honest fellow. After all, I am very
glad that our dispute was judged by you.”

“Monseigneur,” said Peyrou, who seemed to wish to escape from the
recollections awakened by the baron’s questions about the commander,
“it was rumoured that you would not come before the tribunal.”

“Yes, at first I resolved not to go there. Talebard-Talebardon could
have come to an amicable settlement; in the first moment of anger I
thought of sending all of you to the devil.

“Monseigneur, it was not the consul only who decided to bring the case
before us.”

“I thought so, and for that reason I reconsidered it; instead of
acting like a fool, I have acted with the wisdom of a graybeard. It
was that scoundrel from the admiralty of Toulon that I whipped, was it
not?”

“They say so, monseigneur.”

“You were right, Honorât,” said the baron, turning around to M. de
Berrol. “Come, we shall see you soon, Peyrou.”

Upon going out of the large hall, the baron saw his carriage, which was
drawn up in the town hall square, surrounded by the crowd.

They saluted him with acclamation and he was deeply moved by this
reception.

Just as he was about to enter the carriage he saw Master Isnard, the
recorder, standing within the embrasure of a door.

The man of law seemed quite melancholy over the result of the session.
His perfidious designs had miscarried.

“Ho! Master Recorder,” cried the baron, half-way up his carriage
steps, “do you return soon to Marseilles?” “I return there
immediately,” answered he, peevishly. “Ah, well, just say to the
Marshal of Vitry that, if I threatened you with my whip it was because
you brought from him insulting orders to the Provençal nobility; you
see that I am quite willing to appear before the popular tribunal whose
decisions I respect. As to the difference of my conduct under the two
circumstances, you, recorder, can explain it to the marshal. I shall
always resist by force the iniquitous orders of tyrants, sent by a
tyrant cardinal, but I shall always respect the rights and privileges of
the ancient Provençal communities. The nobility is to the people what
the blade is to the hilt. The communities are to us what we are to
them; do you understand, you rascal? Tell that to your Vitry.”
 “Monseigneur, these words--” said the recorder, quickly.

But Raimond V., interrupting him, continued:

“Tell him, in short, that if I keep my house fortified, it is that
I may be useful to the city, as I have been. When the shepherd has no
dogs, the flock is soon devoured; and, Manjour, the wolves are not far
off.”

As he uttered these words, Raimond V. entered his carriage and slowly
departed, followed by the prolonged shouts and acclamations of the
multitude.

The old gentleman, notwithstanding his candour and bluntness of speech,
had, with great deftness and a shrewd policy, ranged the populace on his
side in the event of a possible collision with the power of the marshal.



CHAPTER XVIII. the telescope.

After the session, during which, in his function of syndic of the
overseers of the port, he had declared the condemnation of Raimond V.,
the watchman of Cape l’Aigle returned to his sentry-box, temporarily
entrusted to the care of the brave Luquin Trinquetaille.

Peyrou was sad; the last words of the Baron des Anbiez on the subject of
the commander had awakened the most painful memories.

But as he ascended the steep fortifications of the promontory, his
heart expanded. Too much accustomed to solitude to find enjoyment in the
society of men, the watchman was happy only when he was on the summit of
his rock, where he listened in sweet meditation to the distant roaring
of the sea and the terrible bursts of the tempest.

Nothing is more absolute, nothing is more imperious, than the habit of
isolation, especially among those who find inexhaustible resources in
their own power of observation or in the varied extravagance of their
own imagination.

It was with a profound feeling of satisfaction that the watchman set
foot upon the esplanade of Cape l’Aigle.

He approached his sentry-box, and there found the worthy Luquin fast
asleep.

Peyrou’s first act was to scan the horizon with an anxious look, then
to examine it with the aid of his telescope. Happily, he saw nothing
suspicious, and his countenance took on rather a cheerful than a severe
expression, when, roughly shaking the captain of _The Holy Terror to the
Moors_, he called to him, in a loud voice:

“Wake up, wake up! the pirates!”

Luquin made a bound and stood on his feet, rubbing his eyes.

“Ah, well, my boy,” said the watchman, “so your great activity
has fallen asleep. To hear you talk, one would think a doree or a mullet
could not have made a leap in the sea without you knowing it. Ah,
young man, young man, the old Provençal proverb, _Proun paillou, prou
gran_,--Much straw, little grain.”

Luquin looked at the watchman with a bewildered expression, and was
hardly able to collect his faculties; finally, reeling like a drunken
man, he said, stretching his arms: “It is true, Master Peyrou, I slept
like a cabin-boy on the watch, but I did keep my eyes open with all my
strength.”

“That is the reason, my boy, sleep got into them so easily. But I am
here now, and you can go down into the city. There will be more than
one bottle of wine emptied without your help at the tavern of the Golden
Anchor.”,

Luquin had not entirely come to himself, and he stood staring at the
watchman with a stupid air.

Peyrou, no doubt, trying to wake the captain entirely from his condition
of torpor, added: “Come, come now, Stephanette, your betrothed,
will be engaged to dance with Terzarol, the pilot, or with the patron
Bernard, and you will not have her hand once the whole day long.”

These words produced a magic effect on the captain; he straightened
himself on his long legs, shook himself, tried to keep his equilibrium,
and, finally stamping on the ground several times, said to the watchman:

“Listen, Master Peyrou, if I were not sure of having swallowed only
one glass of sauve-chrétien with that devil of a Bohemian, to make
peace with him, because Stephanette wanted me to do it,--a base weakness
for which I cannot forgive myself,--I should certainly think I was
drunk,” said the captain.

“That is strange, you drank only one glass of sauve-chrétien with the
Bohemian, and you are overcome by it?”

“Only one glass, and that only half full, because what you drink with
a miscreant like him tastes very bitter.” “Is this Bohemian always
at Maison-Forte, pray?” asked Peyrou, with a thoughtful and serious
air.

“Always, Master Peyrou, for everybody there dotes on him, from
monseigneur to Abbé Mascarolus. He is in high favour with the women,
from Mlle. Reine to old Dulceline, without speaking of Stephanette, who
gave him a flame-coloured ribbon--flame-coloured ribbons, indeed!”
 exclaimed Luquin, with indignation. “It is a ribbon woven by the
rope-maker that this wretch needs! But what can you do? All the women
have their heads turned. And why? Because this vagabond strums, good and
bad together, in some sort of fashion, an old guitar, so hoarse that it
sounds like the pulleys of my tartan, when they hoist the big sail.”

“Did not the Bohemian arrive at Maison-Forte the day Raimond V. had
the recorder chased by a bull?” “Yes, Master Peyrou, it was on that
fatal day that this stray dog set foot in Maison-Forte.”

“That is strange!” said the watchman, talking to himself. “Then I
was mistaken.”

“Ah, Master Peyrou, I am often seized with a desire to conduct this
vagabond out to the cove beach, and exchange pistol-shots with him until
either he or I come to our death.”

“Come, come, Luquin, you are foolish, jealousy makes you wild, and you
are wrong. Stephanette is a good and honest girl, I can tell you. As to
this vagabond--”

Then interrupting himself, as if he wished to keep what he was about
to say secret from Luquin, he added: “Come, come, my boy, do not lose
your time with a poor old man, while your young and pretty betrothed is
waiting for you. Do not neglect her; be with her often, and marry her as
soon as possible. There is another Provençal proverb: _A boueno taire
bouen labourraire_,--A good labourer for good soil.”

“Wait, Master Peyrou, you put balm in my blood,” said the captain.
“You are almost as good as a sorcerer. Everybody respects you and
loves you; you take Stephanette’s part, so she must deserve it.”

“By Our Lady, she deserves it without a doubt. Did she not come before
your departure for Nice, and ask me if you could undertake the voyage
with safety?”

“That is true, Master Peyrou, and thanks to you and your cabalistic
papers that I put on my bullets, and to your oil of Syrakoe, not less
magical, with which I rubbed my muskets and cannon, I gave a hot chase
to a corsair that came near, indiscreetly near, the Terror to the Moors
and the vessels she was escorting. Ah, you are a great man, Master
Peyrou.”

“And those who heed my counsels are wise and sensible,” replied the
watchman, smiling. “Now the wise never allow their betrothed to grow
weary of waiting.”

After having thanked the watchman again, Luquin Trinquetaille decided to
profit by the advice given with regard to Stephanette, and went in all
haste to Maison-Forte.

Finding himself alone, Peyrou breathed a sigh of content, as if he felt
again that he was master of his little kingdom.

Although he received those who came to consult him with kindly courtesy,
he saw them depart with a secret pleasure.

He entered his little cell and sighed deeply after having contemplated
for some time the costly piece of ebony furniture which always seemed to
awaken painful memories in his mind; then, as night came on, he wrapped
himself in his thick hood and coat.

Thus well protected from the north wind which was blowing, Peyrou lit
his pipe, and surveyed with sadness the immense horizon which was spread
out before him.

As we have said, the house of Maison-Forte could be distinctly seen from
the western side of the summit of Cape l’Aigle.

It was about three o’clock, and the watchman thought he saw a ship in
the distance. He took up his telescope, and for a long time followed the
uncertain point with his eyes, until it became more and more distinct.

He soon recognised a heavy merchant vessel whose aspect presented
nothing of menace.

Following the manoeuvres and progress of this vessel with the aid of
his telescope, he unconsciously turned it upon the imposing mass of
Maison-Forte, the home of Raimond V., and on one part of the beach which
was absolutely bare, at the point where it touched the rocks upon which
the castle stood. He soon distinguished Reine des Anbiez mounted on
her nag and followed by Master Laramée. The young girl was going,
doubtless, in advance of the baron into the road.

Several huge rocks intervened, cutting off the view from the beach, and
Peyrou lost sight of Mlle. Anbiez.

Just at this moment the watchman was startled by a loud noise; he felt
the air above him in commotion, and suddenly his eagle fell at his feet.
She had come, no doubt, to demand her accustomed food, as her hoarse and
impatient cries testified.

The watchman sat caressing the bird abstractedly, when a new incident
awakened his interest.

His sight was so penetrating that, in watching the spot on the coast
where Mlle, des Anbiez would be likely to appear, he distinguished a man
who seemed to be cautiously hiding himself in the hollow of the rock.

Turning his telescope at once on this man, he recognised the Bohemian.

To his great astonishment, he saw him draw from a bag a white pigeon,
and attach to its neck a small sack, into which he slipped a letter.

Evidently the Bohemian thought himself protected from all observation,
as, owing to the form and elevation of the rock where he was squatting,
it was impossible for him to be seen either from the coast or from
Maison-Forte.

Only from the prodigious height of Cape l’Aigle, which commanded
the entire shore of the bay, could Master Peyrou have discovered the
Bohemian.

After having looked anxiously from one side to the other, as if he
feared he might be seen in spite of his precautions, the vagabond again
secured the little sack around the neck of the pigeon, and then let it
fly.

Evidently the intelligent bird knew the direction it was to take.

Once set at liberty, it did not hesitate, but rose almost
perpendicularly above the Bohemian, then flew rapidly toward the
east. As quick as thought, Peyrou took his eagle and tried to make her
perceive the pigeon, which already appeared no larger than a white speck
in space.

For a few seconds the eagle did not seem to see the bird; then, suddenly
uttering a hoarse cry, she violently spread her broad wings, and started
in pursuit of the Bohemian’s emissary.

Either the unfortunate pigeon was warned by the instinct of danger which
threatened it, or it heard the discordant cries of its enemy, for it
redoubled its swiftness, and flew with the rapidity of an arrow.

Once it endeavoured to rise above the eagle, hoping perhaps to escape
its pursuer by disappearing in the low, dark clouds which veiled the
horizon; but the eagle, with one swoop of her powerful wings, mounted
to such a height, that the pigeon, unable to cope with its adversary,
rapidly fell within a few feet of the surface of the sea, grazing the
top of the highest waves.

Brilliant still followed her victim in this new manoeuvre.

The watchman was divided between the desire to see the end of the
struggle between the eagle and the pigeon, and the curiosity to watch
the countenance of the Bohemian.

Thanks to his telescope, he saw the Bohemian in a state of extraordinary
excitement as he followed with intense anxiety the diverse chances of
destruction or safety left to his messenger.

Finally, the pigeon attempted one last effort; realising, no doubt, that
its destination was too far to be reached, it tried to return and come
back to the coast, and thus escape its terrible enemy.

Unfortunately, its strength failed; its flight became heavy, and,
approaching too near the waves, it was swept by foam and water.

The eagle availed herself of the moment when the pigeon was painfully
resuming its embarrassed flight to fall upon it with the rapidity of a
thunderbolt. She seized the pigeon in her strong claws, rose swiftly in
the direction of the promontory, and came with her prey to take refuge
in her eyrie, on a rock not far from the watchman’s sentry-box.

Peyrou rose quickly to take the pigeon from her; he could not succeed.
The natural ferocity of Brilliant was in the ascendency; she bristled
her feathers, uttered sharp and fierce cries, and showed herself
disposed to defend her prey with her life.

Peyrou feared to offend her, lest she might fly away and hide in some
inaccessible rock; he allowed her to devour the pigeon in peace, having
observed that the little sack tied around the neck of the bird consisted
of two silver plates fastened by a small chain of the same material.

He did not, after that discovery, fear the destruction of the letter
which he knew was enclosed therein.

While the eagle was devouring the Bohemian’s messenger in peace,
Peyrou returned to the door of his cell, took up his telescope, and
vainly examined the rocks on the coast, in order to discover the
Bohemian; he had disappeared.

While he was occupied with this new investigation, the watchman saw on
the shore the carriage of Raimond V. The baron had mounted Laramée’s
horse, and was riding by the side of Reine, and doubtless accompanied
her to Maison-Forte.

Thinking the eagle had finished her feast, the watchman directed his
steps to her eyrie.

Brilliant was no longer there, but among the bones and feathers of the
pigeon he saw the little sack, opened it, and found there a letter of a
few lines written in Arabic.

Unfortunately, Peyrou was not acquainted with that language. Only, in
his frequent campaigns against the Barbary pirates, he had noticed
in the letters of marque of the corsairs the word Reis, which means
captain, and which always followed the name of the commander of the
vessels.

In the letter which he had just captured, he found the word Reis three
times.

He thought the Bohemian was possibly the secret emissary of some Barbary
pirate, whose ship, ambuscaded in one of the deserted bays along the
coast, was waiting for some signal to land her soldiers. The Bohemian
probably had left this ship in order to come to Maison-Forte, bringing
his pigeons with him, and it is well known with what intelligence these
birds return to the places they are accustomed to inhabit.

As he raised his head to obtain another view of the horizon, the
watchman saw in the distance, on the azure line which separated the sky
from the sea, certain triangular sails of unusual height, which seemed
to him suspicious. He turned his telescope on them; a second examination
confirmed him in the idea that the chebec in sight belonged to some
pirate.

For some time he followed the manoeuvres of the vessel.

Instead of advancing to the coast, the chebec seemed to run along
broadside, and to beat about, in spite of the increasing violence of the
wind, as if it were waiting for a guide or signal.

The watchman was trying to connect in his thought the sending of the
pigeon with the appearance of this vessel of bad omen, when a light
noise made him raise his head.

The Bohemian stood before him.



CHAPTER XIX. THE LITTLE SATCHEL

The little satchel and the open letter were lying on the watchman’s
knees. With a movement more rapid than thought, which escaped the
observation of the Bohemian, he hid the whole in his girdle. At the same
time he assured himself that his long Catalonian knife would come out
of its scabbard easily, for the sinister countenance of the vagabond did
not inspire confidence.

For some moments these two men looked at each other in silence, and
measured each other with their eyes.

Although old, the watchman was still fresh and vigorous.

The Bohemian, more slender, was much younger, and seemed hardy and
resolute.

Peyrou was much annoyed by this visit. He wished to watch the manoeuvres
of the suspicious chebec; the presence of the Bohemian constrained him.

“What do you want?” said the watchman, rudely.

“Nothing; I came to see the sun go down in the sea.”

“It is a beautiful sight, but it can be seen elsewhere.”

As he said these words, the watchman entered his cell, took two pistols,
placed one in his girdle, loaded the other, took it in his hand, and
came out.

By that time the chebec could be distinguished by the naked eye.

The Bohemian, seeing Peyrou armed, could not repress a movement of
surprise, almost of vexation, but he said to him, in a bantering tone,
as he pointed to the pistol:

“You carry there a strange telescope, watchman!”

“The other is good to watch your enemy when he is far off; this one
serves my purpose when he is near.”

“Of what enemy are you speaking, watchman?”

“Of you.”

“Of me?”

“Of you.”

After exchanging these words, the men were silent for some time.

“You are mistaken. I am the guest of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez,”
 said the Bohemian, with emphasis.

“Is the venomous scorpion, too, the guest of the house he inhabits?”
 replied Peyrou, looking steadily in his eyes.

The eyes of the vagabond kindled, and, by a muscular contraction of
his cheeks, Peyrou saw that he was gnashing his teeth; nevertheless, he
replied to Peyrou, with affected calmness:

“I do not deserve your reproaches, watchman. Raimond V. took pily on a
poor wanderer, and offered me the hospitality of his roof--”

“And to prove your gratitude to him, you wish to bring sorrow and ruin
upon that roof.”

“I?”

“Yes, you,--you are in communication with that chebec down there,
beating about the horizon.”

The Bohemian looked at the vessel with the most indifferent air in the
world, and replied:

“On my life, I have never set foot on a ship; as to the communication
which you suppose I have with that boat, that you call a chebec, I
believe,--I doubt if my voice or my signal could reach it.”

The watchman threw a penetrating glance on the Bohemian, and said to
him:

“You have never set foot on the deck of a ship?”

“Never, except on those boats on the Rhone, for I was born in
Languedoc, on the highway; my father and mother belonged to a band of
Bohemians which came from Spain, and the only recollection that I have
of my childhood is the refrain so often sung in our wandering clan:

“‘Cuando me pario Mi madre la gitana.’

“That is all I know of my birth,--all the family papers I have,
watchman.”

“The Bohemians of Spain speak Arabic also,” said Peyrou, observing
the vagabond attentively.

“They say so. I know no other language than the one I speak,--very
badly, as you see.”

“The sun is setting behind those great clouds down there; for one
who is fond of that sight you seem to be quite indifferent to it,”
 answered the watchman, with an ironical air. “No doubt the chebec
interests you more.”

“To-morrow evening I can see the sun set; to-day I would rather spend
my time in guessing your riddles, watchman.”

During this conversation, the syndic of the overseers had not lost sight
of the vessel, which continued to beat about, evidently waiting for a
signal.

Although the appearance of this vessel was suspicious, Peyrou hesitated
to give the alarm on the coast by kindling the fire. To set the whole
seashore in excitement unnecessarily was a dangerous precedent, because
some other time, in case of real danger, the signal might be taken for a
false alarm.

While the watchman was absorbed in these reflections, the Bohemian
looked around him uneasily; he was trying to discover some traces of
the eagle, as from the rock where he had been squatting, he had seen
Brilliant alight in this direction.

For a moment he thought of getting rid of Peyrou, but he soon renounced
this idea. The watchman, strong and well-armed, was on his guard.

Peyrou, notwithstanding the anger that the presence of the vagabond
inspired in him, feared to see him descend again to the castle of
Maison-Forte, as Raimond V. did not suspect this wretch. Besides, seeing
his wicked designs discovered, the villain might attempt some diabolical
scheme before he left the country.

However, it was impossible to abandon his sentry-box under such serious
circumstances, in order to warn the baron. Night was approaching, and
the Bohemian was still there.

Happily, the moon was almost full; in spite of the densely piled clouds,
her light was bright enough to reveal all the manoeuvres of the chebec.

The Bohemian, his arms crossed on his breast, surveyed Peyrou, with
imperturbable coolness.

“You see the sun has set,” said this old seaman, “the night will
be cold; you had better return to Maison-Forte.”

“I intend to spend the night here,” replied the vagabond.

The watchman, made furious by the remark, rose, and walking up to the
Bohemian with a threatening air, said:

“And by Our Lady, I swear that you shall descend to the beach this
instant!”

“And suppose I do not wish to go.”

“I will kill you.”

The Bohemian shrugged his shoulders.

“You will not kill me, watchman, and I will remain.”

Peyrou raised his pistol, and exclaimed: “Take care!”

“Would you kill a defenceless man, who has never done you any harm? I
defy you,” said the vagabond, without moving from the spot.

The watchman dropped his arm; he revolted at the thought of murder. He
replaced his pistol in his belt, and walked back and forth in violent
agitation. He found himself in a singular position,--he could not
rid himself of this persistent villain by fear or force; he must then
resolve to pass the night on guard.

He resigned himself to this last alternative, hoping that next day some
one might appear, and he would be able to rid himself of the Bohemian.

“Very well, let it be,” said he, with a forced smile. “Although I
have not invited you to be my companion, we will pass the night by the
side of each other.”

“And you will not repent it, watchman. I am not a sailor, but I have
a telescope. If the chebec annoys you, I will assist you in watching
it.”

After some moments of silence, the watchman seated himself on a piece of
the rock.

The wind, increasing in violence, blew with irresistible force. Great
clouds from time to time veiled the pale disc of the moon, and the door
of the sentry-box, left open, was flapping with a loud noise.

“If you wish to be of some use,” said Peyrou, “take that end of
the rope there on the ground, and fasten the door of my cell, because
the wind will continue to rise.” The Bohemian looked at the watchman
with an astonished air, and hesitated to obey for a moment.

“You wish to shut me up in there. You are cunning, watchman.”

Peyrou bit his lips, and replied:

“Fasten that door on the outside, I tell you, or I will take you for a
bad fellow.”

The Bohemian, seeing nothing disagreeable in satisfying the watchman,
picked up the rope, passed it through a ring screwed to the door, and
tied it to a cramp-iron fixed in the wall.

The watchman, seated, was attentively watching the movements of his
companion. When the knot was tied, Peyrou approached it, and said, after
examining it a moment:

“As sure as God is in heaven, you are a sailor!”

“I, watchman?”

“And you have served on board those corsairs from Barbary.”

“Never! Never!”

“I tell you that one who has not sailed with the pirates of Algiers
or Tunis cannot have the habit of making that triple knot that you have
just made. Only pirates fasten tie anchor to the ring in that manner!”

The Bohemian now, in his turn, bit his lips until they bled, but,
regaining his self-possession, he said:

“Come now, you have a sharp eye; you are both right and wrong, my lord
watchman, this knot was taught me by one of our people, who joined us in
Languedoc, after having been made a slave on a corsair from Algiers.”

Losing all patience, and furious at the villain’s impudence, the
watchman cried:

“I tell you that you are lying. You came here to prepare some
villainous scheme. Look at this!”

And the watchman held up the little satchel The Bohemian, struck with
amazement, uttered a curse in Arabic in spite of himself.

If the watchman had felt the least doubt concerning the character of the
Bohemian, this last exclamation, which had so often met his ears in his
combats with the pirates, would have sufficed to prove the truth of his
suspicions.

The eyes of the Bohemian flashed with rage.

“I see all,” said he, “the eagle came here to devour the pigeon!
From the beach I saw her alight in these rocks. That satchel or your
life!” cried the villain, drawing a dagger from his doublet, and
rushing upon the watchman. The pistol on Peyrou’s breast recalled the
fact to him that his enemy was more formidably armed than himself.

Stamping his foot with rage, the vagabond cried:

“Eblis (_Eblis is the Arabic for devil_) is with him!”

“I was sure of it, you are a pirate. That chebec is waiting for your
instructions, or your signal to approach the coast or retire from
it. Your rage is great to see all your wicked designs discovered, you
villain!” said the watchman.

“Eblis touched me with his invisible wingt so that I was about to
forget the only means of repairing everything,” suddenly cried the
Bohemian.

With one joyous bound he disappeared from the astonished eyes of the
watchman, and hastily descended the precipitous road which led to the
shore.



CHAPTER XX. THE SACRIFICE

The night passed without another incident.

At the rising of the sun the chebec was no longer in sight.

Peyrou waited with impatience the arrival of the young seaman who was
accustomed to relieve his watch.

He was anxious to warn Raimond V. of the wicked designs he attributed to
the Bohemian.

About two o’clock, Peyrou was astonished to see Mile, des Anbiez,
accompanied by Stephanette.

Reine approached him with evident embarrassment.

Without sharing the superstitious ideas of the inhabitants of the gulf,
in reference to the watchman on Cape l’Aigle, she felt irresistibly
impelled to consult him upon a subject which she could not think of
without sadness. The young girl had received new evidences of the
remembrance cherished by Erebus, through the same unknown and mysterious
way.

All her efforts, and all of Stephanette’s, had proved unavailing in
discovering the source of these strange communications.

Through an unpardonable obstinacy, and a foolish love of the marvellous,
Reine had concealed everything from her father and Honorât.

Honorât had left Maison-Forte, in a fit of jealousy as painful as it
was unreasonable.

On the evening of the day the overseers of the port held their session,
Reine, as she knelt before her praying-desk, had found a rosary of
sandalwood of the most marvellous workmanship.

The clasp by which it was to be attached to her belt again bore the
enamelled imprint of the little dove of which we have spoken,--the
symbol of the remembrance and the love of the unknown.

Since the singing of the Bohemian, Reine’s imagination, excited beyond
degree, had indulged in a thousand dreams concerning the adventurous
life of the young emir, as the vagabond had named him.

Either by design or chance, the singer had left his guzla in Reine’s
apartment, after the departure of Honorât de Berrol.

The young girl, curious to see the face of the unknown again, took
the guitar and opened the medallion, and, to her great surprise, the
portrait, insecurely fastened, came off in her hands.

Dame Dulceline entered. Reine blushed, closed the medallion and hid the
portrait in her bosom, intending to restore it to its place. Evening
came, and Stephanette, without informing her mistress, returned the
guitar to the Bohemian. The lid of the medallion was fastened, and
neither the singer nor the servant discovered the absence of the
picture.

The next day Reine sent for the Bohemian in order to return the portrait
to him. He had disappeared, the flight of the pigeon demanding his
attention.

Reine had the courage to break the crystal vase, and to burn the
miniature on vellum, but she had not the courage to destroy the portrait
or the rosary that she found in her oratory.

In spite of her struggles, in spite of her prayers, in spite of her
resolve to forget the events of the day in the rocks of Ollioules, the
memory of the unknown took possession of her heart more and more.

The songs of the Bohemian on the young emir, whom he called Erebus, had
profoundly moved her feelings.

Those contrasts of courage and kindness, of power and pity, recalled
to her mind the singular combination of audacity and timidity which had
impressed her in the scene which transpired in the gorges of Ollioules.

She counted on the restitution of the portrait as the first step to
another conversation with the Singer about the emir.

Unfortunately, the Bohemian had disappeared.

To the great astonishment of the inmates of Maison-Forte, he did not
return in the evening. Raimond V., who liked him, ordered his men
who guarded the bridge to be prepared to lower it when the Bohemian
appeared, notwithstanding the regulations of the castle.

Morning came, and still the vagabond was absent. They supposed that,
after drinking, he had fallen asleep in some tavern of La Ciotat. They
were still more astonished not to find the two pigeons in the cage where
he kept them ordinarily closely confined.

Greatly disturbed by these strange happenings, which had been
transpiring for some time, Reine, half through curiosity and half
through conviction, finally yielded to the entreaties of Stephanette,
who had the most wonderful ideas of the watchman’s abilities and
knowledge, and decided to consult the old seaman on the mysteries of
which Maison-Forte was the theatre.

So many extraordinary things had been told of Master Peyrou’s
predictions, that Reine, although little given to superstition, felt the
influence of the general opinion.

She was going to interrogate Peyrou, when, to her amazement, he accosted
her with a question about the Bohemian.

“Mademoiselle, did the vagabond enter Maison-Forte last night?” said
Peyrou, quickly.

“No; my father is much concerned about him. They think that he must
have spent the night drinking in some tavern in La Ciotat.”

“That would be astonishing,” added Stephanette, “for the poor
fellow seems to be of exemplary sobriety.”

“This poor fellow,” exclaimed the watchman, “is a spy of the
pirates.”

“He!” exclaimed Reine.

“Yes, he, himself, mademoiselle; a chebec was cruising a part of the
night in view from the gulf, waiting, no doubt, for a signal from this
vagabond to disembark.”

In a few words the watchman acquainted Reine with the adventure of the
pigeon, informing her on what indisputable grounds he suspected the
Bohemian of having communication with the pirates; showed her the
satchel and letter, and gave them to her, that the baron might have the
writing translated by one of the brother monks in La Ciotat, who, having
been a slave in Tunis for a long time, was familiar with Arabic.

When she learned the odious suspicions which attached to the Bohemian,
without accounting to herself for her fear, Reine dared not confide the
object of her visit to the watchman.

Stephanette looked at her mistress, utterly confounded, and cried:

“Our Lady! who would have believed that this unbeliever, who sang so
well, could be such an abominable scoundrel? And to think I pitied him
enough to give him a flame-coloured ribbon! Ah, my dear mistress, and
the portrait of--”

Reine by an imperious sign forbade Stephanette to continue.

“Good-bye, good watchman,” said Mlle, des Anbiez, “I am going back
to Maison-Forte at once, to warn my father to be on his guard.”

“Do not forget, Stephanette, to send Luquin Trinquetaille here. I
must make arrangements with him to have one more young watchman,” said
Peyrou. “I have not slept the whole night. This dangerous knave is
perhaps wandering about these rocks, and may come and assassinate me at
the setting of the moon. The pirates are somewhere in the gulf, hidden
in some one of the coves where they often ambuscade, to wait for their
prey; for, alas! our coasts are not protected.”

“Be easy, Master Peyrou, Luquin is coming with his two cousins; just
tell him that you are watching for the Bohemian, and he will not delay
to come as fast as his long legs can bring him. And to think I gave a
ribbon to a pirate!” added Stephanette, clasping her hands. “Perhaps
he is one of those brigands who ravaged all this coast last year.”

“Go, go, my girl, and hurry. I must confer with the captain about a
little cruise he can undertake even to-day with his polacre. We must
warn the consuls to arm some fishing-boats immediately, with sure and
determined men. We must give the alarm all along the shore, arm
the entrance into the gulf, which is defended only by the cannon of
Maison-Forte, and be prepared for any surprise, for these brigands rush
on the coast like a hurricane. So Luquin must come on the instant Do you
hear, Stephanette? The safety of the city depends on it.”

“Be easy, Master Peyrou, although it breaks my heart to know that my
poor Luquin is going to run such danger. I love him too much to advise
him to be a coward.”

During this rapid conversation between the watchman and her servant,
Reine, lost in deep reverie, had descended a few steps of the path which
conducted to the platform upon which stood the sentry-box.

This path, which was very steep, wound around the outside of the
promontory, and formed at this spot a sort of comice, whose projection
reached considerably over the base of this immense wall of rocks, more
than three hundred feet above the level of the sea.

A young girl less habituated to walks and to mountain climbing would
have feared to venture on this narrow passage. From the side of the sea,
its only parapet was a few asperities of rock, more or less pronounced.
Reine, accustomed to brave these perils from her infancy, thought
nothing of danger. The emotion that agitated her since her interview
with the watchman absorbed her entirely.

Her gait, sometimes slow, sometimes hurried, seemed to share the nature
of her tumultuous emotions.

Stephanette soon joined her. Surprised at the pallor of her mistress,
she was about to ask the cause of it, when Reine said to her, in an
altered voice, with a gesture which did not admit of a reply, “Walk in
front of me, Stephanette, do not concern yourself whether I follow you
or not.”

Stephanette preceded her mistress at once, directing her steps in all
haste toward Maison-Forte.

The agitation of Reine des Anbiez was extreme. The relations which
seemed to exist between the Bohemian and the unknown were too evident
for her not to have the most painful suspicions of this young man whom
the vagabond called the emir.

Many circumstances, which had not impressed her at the time, now made
Reine believe that the Bohemian was an emissary of the unknown. No doubt
it was the vagabond who had placed in her chamber the various objects
which had caused her so much surprise. Adopting this hypothesis, there
was, however, one objection which presented itself to her mind,--she had
found the crystal vase and the miniature on vellum before the arrival of
the vagabond.

Suddenly a ray of light entered her mind; she remembered that one
day, in order to display his agility to Stephanette, the Bohemian had
descended to the terrace by the balcony, upon which opened the window of
her oratory, and that he had remounted by the same way. Another time he
had slid down from the terrace on the rocks, which lined the shore,
and had remounted from the rocks to the terrace, by the aid of the
asperities of the wall and the plants which had taken root there.

Although he arrived for the first time at the castle with the recorder,
might not this vagabond, before that day, have been hidden in the
environage of La Ciotat? Could he not have entered Maison-Forte twice
during the night, then, to avoid suspicion, returned in the recorder’s
train, as if he had met it by chance?

These thoughts, reinforced by recent observations, soon assumed
incontrovertible certainty in the mind of Reine. The stranger and his
two companions were, without doubt, pirates, who, with false names and
false credentials, had given out that they were Muscovites, and had thus
imposed upon the credulity of the Marshal of Vitry.

The first idea of Reine, then,--an idea absolute and imperious,--was to
forget for ever the man upon whom rested such terrible suspicion.

Religion, duty, and the will of her father were so many insurmountable
and sacred obstacles which the young girl could not think of braving.

Up to that time, her youthful and lively imagination had found
inexhaustible nourishment in the strange adventure of the rocks of
Ollioules.

All the chaste dreams of her young girlhood were, so to speak,
concentrated and realised in the person of Erebus, that unknown one,
brave and timid at the same time, audacious and charming, who had saved
the life of her father.

She could not help being touched by the delicate and mysterious
persistence with which Erebus had always tried to recall himself to
her memory. Doubtless she had never heard the voice of this stranger;
doubtless she was ignorant of his mind and character, whether or not
they responded to the graces of his person. But in these long reveries
in which a young girl thinks of him who has fascinated her, does she not
invest him with the most excellent qualities? does she not make him say
all that she desires to hear?

Thus had Reine thought of Erebus. First she wished to banish him from
her thought, but, unfortunately, to yield to a sentiment against
which we have struggled is only to render it all the more powerful and
irresistible.

Reine then loved Erebus, perhaps unconsciously, when the watchman’s
fatal revelation showed the object of her love in such unattractive
colours.

The grandeur of the sacrifice that she was required to make enlightened
her as to the power of the affection with which she had, so to speak,
played until the fatal moment arrived.

For the first time this sudden revelation taught her the depth of her
love.

Impenetrable mysteries of the human heart! During the first phases of
this mysterious love she had regarded her marriage with Honorât as
possible.

From the moment in which she knew who the unknown one was, from that
moment she felt that, notwithstanding the voice of duty ordered her to
forget him, the memory of Erebus would henceforth dominate her whole
existence, and she could never marry the chevalier.

She recognised the truth with terror, that, notwithstanding her efforts
to master her feelings, her heart belonged to her no longer, and she was
incapable of deceiving Honorât.

She wished to make a last sacrifice, to give up the rosary and portrait
which she possessed, imposing this resolution upon herself as a sort of
expiation of her reserve and reticence toward her father.

The young girl suffered much before she was able to fulfil this
resolution.

In this mental struggle, Reine was walking on the edge of the comice
formed by the rocks above the beach on which the waves of the sea were
breaking.

She wore over her dress a sort of brown mantle with a hood turned up on
the shoulders. This hood allowed her bare head to be seen, as well as
her long brown curls that floated in the wind. Her countenance had an
expression of sweet and resigned melancholy; sometimes, however, her
blue eyes shone with a new brightness, and she lifted up her noble,
beautiful head with an expression of wounded pride.

She loved passionately, but without hope, and she was going to throw to
the winds the feeble tokens of this impossible love.

At her feet, far, far below her, broke the raging waves of the sea.

She drew the rosary from her bosom, looked at it a moment with
bitterness, pressed it to her heart, then, extending her white and
delicate hand above the abyss, she held it motionless a moment, and the
rosary fell into the waves below.

She tried to follow it with her eyes, but the edge of the cornice was
too sharp to allow her a view.

She sighed profoundly, took the portrait of the unknown, and
contemplated it a long time in sad admiration. Nothing could be purer or
more enchanting than the features of Erebus; his large brown eyes, soft
and proud at the same time, reminded her of the look, full of purity and
dignity, which he cast upon Raimond V. after having saved his life. The
smile of this portrait, full of serenity, had nothing of that satirical
smile and bold expression which had so startled her on the eventful day.

For a few moments she struggled with her resolution, then reason
asserted her empire; blushing, she pressed her lips to the medallion,
then on the brow of the portrait, and then--threw it suddenly into
space.

This painful sacrifice accomplished, Reine felt less oppressed; she
believed that she would have committed a wrong in preserving these
memorials of a foolish love.

Then she felt free to abandon herself to the thoughts locked in the
depths of her heart.

She walked a long time on the beach, absorbed in these thoughts.

On returning to Maison-Forte she learned that Raimond V. had not yet
returned from the chase.

Night was fast falling, and Reine, followed by Stephanette, entered her
apartment What was her amazement, her terror--

She found on the table the portrait and rosary that two hours before she
had thrown into the depths of the sea.



CHAPTER XXI. OUR LADY OF SEVEN SORROWS

We will abandon for awhile Maison-Forte of the Baron des Anbiez, and the
little city of La Ciotat, in order to conduct the reader on board the
galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

The tempest had forced this vessel to take refuge in the little port of
Tolari, situated on the east of Cape Corsica, a northerly point of the
island of the same name.

The bell of the galley had just sounded six o’clock in the morning.

The weather was gloomy and the sky veiled with black and threatening
clouds; frequent and violent squalls of wind were raising a strong swell
within the port.

On whichever side one might turn, nothing could be seen but the barren,
solemn mountains of Cape Corsica, at the feet of which the steep road
wound its way.

The sea was heavy in the interior of the basin, but it seemed almost
calm when compared to the surging waves which beat upon a girdle of
rocks at the narrow entrance of the port.

These rocks, almost entirely submerged, were covered with a dazzling
foam, which, whipped by the wind, vented itself in a soft white mist.

The sharp cries of sea-gulls and sea-mews scarcely rose above the
thundering noise of the sea in its fury, as it rushed into the channel
which it was necessary to cross in order to enter the road of Tolari.

A few wretched-looking fishermen’s huts, built on the beach where their
dried boats were moored, completed the wild and solitary scene. Tossed
by this heavy swell, _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_, sometimes rising on
the waves, would strain her cables almost to breaking, and sometimes
seemed to sink into a bed between two billows.

Nothing could be severer or more funereal than the aspect of this galley
painted like a cenotaph.

A hundred and sixty-six feet long, eighteen feet wide, narrow, slender,
and scarcely rising above the level of the sea, she resembled an immense
black serpent, sleeping in the midst of the waves. In front of the
parallelogram which constituted the body of the galley, was scarfed a
sharp and projecting beak-head, six feet in length.

At the rear of the same parallelogram was a rounded stern, the roof of
which inclined toward the prow.

Under this shelter, called the stem carriage, lodged the commander, the
patron, the prior, and the king of the chevaliers of Malta.

The masts of the galley, hauled down at its entrance into harbour, had
been placed in the waist, a narrow passage which ran through the entire
length of the galley.

On each side of this passage were ranged the benches of the
galley-slaves. Below the stem carriage, attached to a black staff,
floated the standard of religion, red, quartered with white, and below
the standard a bronze beacon designated the grade of the commander.

It would be difficult, in our day, to comprehend how these slaves,
composing the crew of a galley, could live, chained night and day to
their benches,--at sea, lying on deck without shelter; at anchor, lying
under a tent of coarse, woollen stuff, which scarcely protected them
from the rain and the frost.

Let one picture to himself about one hundred and thirty Moorish, Turk,
or Christian galley-slaves, dressed in red jackets and brown woollen
hooded mantles, on this black galley, in cold, gloomy weather.

These miserable creatures shivered under the icy blast of the tempest
and under the rain, which deluged them notwithstanding the awning.

To warm themselves a little they would press close to each other on the
narrow benches, to which they were chained, five and five.

All of them preserved a morose silence, and often threw an uneasy and
furtive glance on the convict-keepers and the overseers.

These contemptible officers, clothed in black, and armed with a cowhide,
would go through the waist of the galley, on each side of which were the
benches of the crew.

There were thirteen benches on the right, and twelve on the left.

The galley-slaves, constituting the palamente, or the armament of
rowers, belonging to _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_, had been, as was the
custom, recruited from Christians, Turks, and Moors.

Each one of these types of slaves had his peculiar physiognomy.

The Turks, sluggish, dejected, and indolent, seemed to be a prey to a
morbid and contemplative apathy.

The Moors, always excited, uneasy, and of ungovernable temper, appeared
to be continually on the alert to break their chains and massacre their
keepers.

The Christians, whether condemned or enrolled of their own will, were,
in their way, more indifferent, and some of them were occupied in
weaving straw, by which they hoped to reap a profit.

Finally, the negroes, captured from Barbary pirate vessels where they
rowed as slaves, remained in a sort of torpor, a stupid immobility, with
their elbows on their knees and their heads in their hands.

The greater part of these blacks died of grief, while the Mussulman and
Christians grew accustomed to their fate.

Among these last, some were horribly mutilated, as they belonged to the
class recaptured in their efforts to escape.

In order to punish them for attempting to escape, according to the law,
their noses and ears had been cut off, and even more than this, their
beards, heads, and eyebrows were completely shaven; nothing could be
more hideous than the faces so disfigured.

In the fore part of the galley, and confined in a sort of covered
guard-house, called rambade, could be seen a battery,--the five pieces
of artillery belonging to the vessel.

This place was occupied by the soldiers and gunners.

These never formed a part of the crew, but composed, if such a thing
may be said, the cargo of the vessel impelled by the oars of the
galley-slaves.

About twenty sailors, free also, were charged with the management of the
sails, with the anchorage, and other nautical manoeuvres.

The soldiers and gunners, considered as lay brothers and servants, wore
coats of buff-skin, hoods, and black breeches.

Sheltered by the roof of the rambade, some, seated on their cannon,
busied themselves in cleaning their arms; others, wrapped in their
hoods, lay on the deck asleep, while others still--a rare thing even
among the soldiers of religion--were occupied in pious reading, or in
telling their rosaries.

With the exception of the galley-slaves, the men on board this
galley, carefully chosen by the commander, had a grave and thoughtful
countenance.

Almost all the soldiers and sailors were of mature age; some were
approaching old age. By the numerous scars with which the greater number
were marked, it was evident that they had served a long time.

More than two hundred men were assembled on this galley, and yet the
silence of the cloister reigned through it.

If the crew remained silent through terror of the whip of the keepers
and overseers, the soldiers and sailors obeyed the pious customs
maintained by the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

For more than thirty years that he had commanded this galley of
religion, he had tried always to preserve the same equipment, replacing
only the men that he had lost.

The severity of discipline established on board Our Lady of Seven
Sorrows was well known at Malta. The commander was perhaps the only one
of the officers of the religion who exacted a strict observance of the
rules of the order. His galley, on board of which he received only men
who had been proven, became a sort of nomadic convent,--a voluntary
rendezvous for all sailors who wished to assure their salvation by
binding themselves scrupulously to the rigorous requirements of this
hospitable and military confraternity.

It was the same with the officers and young caravan-iflits.

Those who preferred to lead a joyous and daring life--which was the
immense majority--found the greater part of the captains of the religion
disposed to welcome them, and to forget everything in their union
against the infidels, as their mission of monk-soldiers was at the same
time that of saint and warrior.

On the contrary, the very small number of young chevaliers who loved,
for its own sake, this pious and austere life in the midst of great
perils, sought with eagerness the opportunity to embark on the galley of
the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

There nothing offended, nothing prevented their religious customs. There
they could give themselves up to their holy exercises without fear of
being ridiculed, or of becoming perhaps weak enough to blush for their
own zeal.

The master gunner, or captain of the mast of the galley, an old sunburnt
soldier, wearing a black felt jacket with a white cross, was seated in
the guard-house of the prow, or rambade, of which we have spoken.

He was talking with the captain of the sailors of _Our Lady of Seven
Sorrows_, whose name was Simon. The first speaker was Captain Hugues,
who, with his companion, had always sailed with the Commander des
Anbiez.

Captain Hugues was polishing with care a collar of steel net. Captain
Simon from time to time was looking through the opening of the rambade,
examining the sky and the sea, so as to prognosticate the end or the
increase of the storm.

“Brother,” said Hugues to Simon, “the north wind blows strong; it
will be several days before we arrive at La Ciotat. Christmas will be
past, and our brother commander will be grieved.”

Captain Simon, before replying to his comrade, consulted the horizon
again, and said, with a serious air:

“Although it is not proper for man to seek to divine the will of
the Lord, I think we may hope to see the end of this tempest soon:
the clouds seem not so low or so heavy. Perhaps to-morrow our ancient
companion, the old watchman on Cape l’Aigle, will signal our arrival
in the Gulf of La Ciotat.”

“And that will be a day of joy in Maison-Forte, and to Raimond V.,”
 said Captain Hugues.

“And also on board _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_,” said Captain Simon,
“although joy appears here as rarely as the sun during a westerly
wind.”

“Look at this furbished collar,” said the gunner, regarding his work
with an air of satisfaction. “It is strange, Brother Simon, how blood
will stick to steel. I have rubbed in vain: you can always distinguish
these blackish marks on the mesh!”

“Which proves that steel loves blood as the earth loves dew,” said
the sailor, smiling sadly at his pleasantry.

“But do you know,” said Hugues, “that it will soon be ten years
since the commander received this wound in his combat with Mourad-Reis,
the corsair of Algiers?” “I remember it as well, brother, as that
with one blow of the battle-axe I struck down the miscreant who had
almost broken his kangiar on the breast of the commander, who was
fortunately defended by that coat of mail. But for that, Pierre des
Anbiez would be dead.”

“So he still keeps this collar, and I am going to carry it to him
now.”

“Stop,” said the sailor, seizing the gunner by the arm, “you have
chosen an unfortunate time,--the brother commander is in one of his bad
days.”

“How?”

“The head cook told me this morning that Father Elzear wished to enter
the commander’s chamber, but there was crape on the door.”

“I understand, I understand; that sign suffices to prevent the
entrance of any person in the commander’s chamber before he gives the
order to do so.”

“Yet to-day is neither Saturday nor the seventeenth day of the
month,” said Captain Hugues with a thoughtful air.

“That is true, for it is only upon the return of these days that his
fits of despondency seem to overwhelm him the most,” said Captain
Simon.

Just at this moment a deep, hollow murmur was heard outside among the
crew.

There was nothing ominous of evil in this noise; on the contrary, it was
only an expression of satisfaction.

“What is that?” asked the gunner.

“Doubtless Reverend Father Elzear has just appeared on deck. At the
very sight of him the slaves think their lot less miserable.”



CHAPTER XXII. THE BROTHER OF MERCY

Elzear des Anbiez, brother of the sacred order, royal and military,
of Our Lady of Mercy, for the redemption of captives, had in fact just
appeared on the deck of the galley.

The slaves welcomed his presence with a murmur of hope and satisfaction,
for he always had some word of pity for these unhappy men.

The recognised discipline of the galley was so severe, so inflexible,
and of such relentless justice, that Father Elzear, notwithstanding the
tender attachment which bound him to his brother, the commander, would
not have dared ask the pardon of an offender. But he never spared
encouragement and consolation to those who were to undergo punishment.

Father Elzear advanced with a slow step into the middle of the narrow
passage which separated the two rows of benches on the galley.

He wore the habit of his order: a long white cassock, with a mantle of
the same material caught up on the shoulders. A rope girded his loins,
and notwithstanding the cold, his bare feet had no other protection than
leather sandals. In the middle of his breast showed the coat of arms
belonging to his order, an escutcheon diapered with gold and gules,
surmounted with a silver cross.

Father Elzear resembled Raimond V. His features were noble and majestic,
but the fatigues and austerities of his holy, self-abnegating profession
had stamped upon them an expression of constant suffering.

The top of his head was shaven, and a crown of white hair encircled his
venerable brow.

His pale, emaciated face, his hollow cheeks, made his soft, serene black
eyes appear larger still, and a sweet, sad smile gave an expression of
adorable benevolence to his countenance.

He stooped a little in walking, as if he had contracted this habit by
bending over the chained captives. His weak wrists were marked with deep
and ineffaceable scars. Captured in one of the numerous voyages he made
from France to Barbary for the ransom of slaves, he had been put in
chains, and so cruelly treated that he bore all his life the marks of
the barbarity practised by pirates.

Having been ransomed by his own family, he voluntarily went into
slavery again in order to take the place in an Algerian prison of a poor
inhabitant of La Ciotat, who could not pay his ransom, and whom a dying
mother called to France.

In forty years he had ransomed more than three thousand slaves,
either with the money of his own patrimony, or with the fruit of his
collections from other Christians.

With the exception of a few months passed, every two or three years,
in the house of his brother Raimond V., Father Elzear, noble, rich,
learned, with an independent fortune, which he had devoted to the ransom
of slaves, had been travelling continually, either on land for the
purpose of collecting alms, or on sea, on his way to deliver captives.

Sacredly vowed to this hard and pious mission, he had always refused
the positions and rank that his birth, his virtues, his courage, and his
angelic piety would have conferred upon him in his order.

His self-abnegation, his simplicity, which possessed an antique
grandeur, struck all minds with respect and admiration.

Endowed naturally with a noble and lofty spirit, he had directed all the
powers of his soul toward one single aim, that of giving consolation,
by imparting to his language that irresistible charm which won and
comforted the afflicted.

And what a triumph it was for him, when his tender, sympathising words
gave a little hope and courage to the poor slaves chained to their oars,
when he saw their eyes, hard and dry from despair, turn to him moist
with the sweet tears of gratitude.

We are overwhelmed with admiration when we reflect upon those lives
so unostentatiously devoted to one of the most exalted and most sacred
missions of humanity. We are lost in wonder when we think of the sublime
fortitude of these men, voluntarily placed under the very cutlasses of
cruel pirates. We are speechless with amazement when we think of the
men who risked their lives every day in order to exhort the slaves, whom
barbarians oppressed with labours and tormented with blows, to patience
and resignation. What unbounded self-sacrifice and long suffering were
demanded of those Brothers of Mercy who went and ransomed, in the midst
of the greatest perils, people whom in all probability they were never
to see again.

The priest and the missionary enjoy, for a time at least, the good
which they have accomplished, the gratitude of those whom they have
instructed, relieved, or saved; but the men who devoted themselves to
the redemption of slaves held by pirates, were hardly acquainted with
the captives whom they delivered, inasmuch as they left them for ever,
after having given them the most precious of all boons, liberty!

Nevertheless, it was a joyous day for the Brothers of Mercy when those
whom they had ransomed embarked for Marseilles, and there in the church
offered solemn thanks to Heaven for their deliverance.

Little children clothed in white, holding green palms in their hands,
accompanied them, and their tender hands removed the chains from the
captives, a touching symbol of the mission of the Brothers of Mercy.

When Father Elzear appeared on the deck of the galley, all the chained
slaves turned to him with a simultaneous movement.

At every step he took, the captives, Moor, Turk, or Christian, leaning
beyond their benches, tried to seize his hands and carry them to their
lips.

Although Father Elzear was accustomed to receive these evidences of
respect and affection, he was never able to prevent tears coming to his
eyes.

Never, perhaps, had his pity been more excited than to-day.

The weather was cold and gloomy, the horizon charged with tempest, the
environage wild and solitary, and these poor creatures, the greater
number of them accustomed to the hot sun of the Orient, were there
half naked, shivering with cold, and chained perhaps for life to their
benches.

Although the compassion of Father Elzear was equally divided among all,
he could not help bestowing most pity upon those whose lots seemed to
him the most desperate.

Since his departure from Malta, where he had joined his brother with
ten captives that he had carried back to La Ciotat, he had observed
a Moorish slave about forty years old, whose countenance betrayed an
incurable sorrow.

No man of the crew fulfilled his painful task with more courage or more
resignation. But as soon as the hour of rest arrived, the Moor crossed
his vigorous arms, bowed his head on his breast, and thus passed the
hours in which his comrades tried to forget their captivity, in gloomy
silence.

The captain of the mast on the galley, knowing the interest that this
gentle and peaceable captive inspired in Father Elzear, approached the
priest, and told him the Moor was about to suffer the usual punishment
for insubordination.

That morning, this Moor, plunged in his profound and habitual reverie,
had not responded to the commands of the overseer.

The officer reprimanded him sharply, and still the Moor sat in gloomy
silence.

Incensed by this indifference, which he construed into an insult or a
refusal to submit to service, the overseer struck him over the shoulders
with the cowhide.

The Moor jumped up, uttered a savage roar, and threw himself on the
overseer to the full length of his chain, throwing him down in the
violence of his rage, and, but for several sailors and soldiers, would
have strangled him.

The captive who raised his hand against one of the officers of the
galley was subjected to terrible punishment.

He was to be stretched half naked on one of the largest cannon in the
rambade, called the chase-gun, and two men, armed with sharp thongs,
were to lash him until he lost consciousness.

This sentence had been pronounced that morning on the Moor by the
commander. Knowing the inflexible character of his brother, Elzear did
not think of asking mercy for the offender; he only desired to soften
the cruelty of the sentence by informing the captive himself.

The Moor had but recently embarked, and was utterly ignorant of the fate
which awaited him. Father Elzear feared that, by informing him suddenly
or sternly of the punishment he was about to undergo, the poor captive
might give way to another outburst of fury, and thus incur additional
suffering. Approaching him, he found him in that condition of torpor
and melancholy into which he always sank when not in the exercise of his
painful tasks. He wore, like the other galley-slaves, a mantle of gray
stuff with a hood, and linen drawers; an iron band encircled one of his
naked legs, and the chain by which he was fastened reached the length of
an iron bar from the side of the bench. His hood, drawn over the fez or
red wool cap which he wore, threw a transparent shade over his sunburnt
face; he held his arms crossed over his breast; his fixed and open eyes
seemed to look without seeing; his features were delicate and regular,
and his whole exterior announced nothing except a man habituated to
fatigue and hard labour.

Father Elzear, as did the greater number of the Brothers of Mercy, spoke
Arabic fluently. He approached the captive gently, and, touching him
lightly on the arm, woke him from his reverie.

As he recognised Father Elzear, who had always had for him a consoling
word, the Moor smiled sadly, took the hand of the priest, and pressed it
to his lips.

“My brother is always absorbed in his sorrows?” said Father Elzear,
seating himself on the extremity of the bench, and taking the two hands
of the slave in his own trembling, venerable hands.

“My wife and my child are far away,” replied the Moor, sadly;
“they do not know that I am a captive; they are waiting for me.”

“My dear son must not lose all hope, all courage. God protects those
who suffer with resignation. He loves those who love their own; my
brother will see his wife and child again.”

The Moor shook his head, then, with a sadly expressive manner, he lifted
his right hand and pointed to the sky.

Father Elzear comprehended the mute gesture, and said:

“No, it is not up there that my brother will see again those whom he
longs for. It will be here,--on the earth.”

“I shall die too soon, father, so far from my wife and child; I shall
not live to see them again.”

“We ought never to despair of the divine mercy, my brother. Many poor
slaves have said, like you, ‘I shall never see my loved ones again,’
yet at this moment they are with their own, peaceful and happy. Often
the galleys of religion exchange their captives; why, my brother, should
you not be included some day in these exchanges?”

“Some day! Perhaps! That is my only hope,” said the Moor,
despondently.

“Poor, unhappy man! then why will you say ‘never’?”

“My father is right. Never,--never--oh, that would be too horrible!
Yes,--perhaps,--some day!”

And a pathetic smile played upon the lips of the Moor.

Father Elzear hesitated to make the fatal confidence. Yet the hour was
approaching and he resolved to speak.

“My brother has won the confidence of all by his gentleness and
courage; why, then, this morning did he--”

Father Elzear could not continue.

The Moor looked at him, astonished.

“Why, this morning, instead of obeying the overseer’s orders, did my
brother strike him?”

“I struck him, father, because he struck me without cause.”

“Alas! no doubt you were, as a little while ago, absorbed in your sad
reflections; they prevented your hearing the overseer’s orders.”

“Did he give me orders?” asked the Moor, with a startled air.

“Twice, my brother; he even reprimanded you for not performing them.
Taking your silence for an insult, he then struck you.”

“It must be as you say, father. I repent having struck the overseer.
I did not hear him. In dreaming of the past, I forgot the present. I saw
again my little home in Gigeri; my little Acoub came to meet me. I was
listening to his voice, and, raising my eyes, I saw his mother opening
the blinds of our balcony.”

Then, with these words, returning to his former position, the Moor bowed
his head in heaviness and despondency, and two tears flowed down his
bronzed cheeks, as he said, with a heartrending expression: “And then,
nothing more,--nothing more.”

At the aspect of this man, already so unhappy, the good brother
shuddered at the thought of what he must tell him; he was on the point
of giving up the painful mission, but he took courage, and said;

“I am very sorry that my brother was so absorbed this morning, because
I know he did not mean to strike the overseer. But, alas, discipline
demands that he must be punished for it.”

“Pardon me, father, that I was not able to repress my first movement.
Since my captivity, it was the first happy dream I have had. The blows
of the whip tore me away from this cherished dream. I was furious, not
with pain, but with sorrow. Besides, what matters it? I am a slave here;
I will endure the punishment.”

“But this punishment is cruel, my poor, unfortunate brother,--it is
so cruel that I will not leave you during its execution; it is so cruel
that I will be near you, and I will pray for you, and my loving hands at
least shall clasp your hands contracted in agony.”

The Moor looked at Father Elzear intently, then said, with an accent of
resignation, almost of indifference:

“Shall I have, then, to suffer so much?”

The priest, without replying to him, pressed his hands more strongly in
his own, and fixed his tearful eyes on his face.

“Yet I did my duty as a slave, the best that I could possibly do.
But what matters it!” said the Moor, sighing; “God will bless you,
father, for not forsaking me. And when am I to suffer?”

“To-day--presently--”

“What must I do, good old father? Bear it, and bless God that he has
sent you to me in this fatal moment.”

“Poor creature!” cried Father Elzear, profoundly moved by this
resignation, “you do not know, alas, what you will have to suffer!”

And, with a trembling voice, the priest explained to him in a few words
the nature of the suffering he was to endure.

The Moor shuddered a little, and said: “At least, my wife and child
will know nothing of it.”

At this moment the captain of the mast and four soldiers, wearing
cassocks of black felt with white crosses, approached the bench to which
the Moor was chained.

“Hugues,” said Father Elzear to the captain, “suspend the
execution, I pray you, until I have spoken with my brother.”

The discipline established on the galley was so severe, so absolute,
that the gunner looked at the priest with an undecided air, but, thanks
to the respect that Father Elzear inspired, he did not dare refuse his
request.

The father hastened to the chamber of the commander, in order to
intercede with him for the unhappy Moor.

After having crossed the narrow passage which conducted to his
brother’s apartment, he saw the key of the door enveloped in crape.

This sign, always respected, announced that the commander forbade
absolutely and to all the entrance to his chamber.

Nevertheless, the Moor inspired such interest that Father Elzear,
although well-nigh convinced of the futility of his effort, desired to
make one last trial.

He entered the commander’s chamber.



CHAPTER XXIII. THE COMMANDER

The spectacle which met the eyes of Father Elzear was both frightful and
solemn.

The chamber, which was very small, and lighted only by two narrow
windows, was hung with black.

A coffin of white wood, filled with ashes, and fastened to the floor by
screws, served as a bed for Commander Pierre des Anbiez.

Above this funereal bed was suspended the portrait of a young man
wearing a cuirass, and leaning on a helmet. An aquiline nose, a delicate
and gracefully chiselled mouth, and large, sea-green eyes gave to this
face an expression which was, at the same time, proud and benevolent.

Below the frame, on a tablet, was written distinctly the date December
25,1613; a black curtain hanging near the picture could be drawn over it
at pleasure.

Weapons of war, attached to a rack, constituted the sole ornaments of
this gruesome habitation.

Pierre des Anbiez had not observed the entrance of his brother. On his
knees before his praying-desk, the commander was half covered with a
coarse haircloth, which he wore night and day; his shoulders were bare.
By the drops of coagulated blood, and by the furrows which veined his
flesh, it could be seen that he had just inflicted upon himself a bloody
discipline. His bowed head rested on his two hands, and now and then
convulsive shudders shook his lacerated shoulders, as if his breast
heaved under the agony of suppressed sobs. The praying-desk, where he
was kneeling, was placed below the two small windows, which admitted an
occasional and doubtful light into this chamber.

In the midst of this dim light the pale face and long white vestments of
Father Elzear contrasted strangely with the wainscoting hung with black;
he looked like a spectre. He stood there as if petrified; he had never
believed his brother capable of such mortifications, and, lifting his
hands to Heaven, he uttered a profound sigh.

The commander started. He turned around quickly, and, seeing in the
shadow the immovable figure of Father Elzear, cried, in terror:

“Are you a spirit? Do you come to ask account of the blood I have
shed?” His countenance was frightful. Never remorse, never despair,
never terror impressed its seal more terribly upon the brow of guilt!

His eyes, red with weeping, were fixed and haggard; his gray, closely
shaven hair seemed to bristle upon his brow; his bluish lips trembled
with fear, and his scraggy, muscular arms were extended before him as if
they entreated a supernatural vision.

“My brother! my brother!” exclaimed Elzear, throwing himself upon
the commander. “My brother, it is I; may God be with you!”

Pierre des Anbiez stared at the good brother as if he did not recognise
him; then, sinking down before his praying-desk, he let his head fall on
his breast, and cried, in a hollow voice:

“The Lord is never with a murderer, and yet,” added he, raising
his head half-way and looking at the portrait in terror, “and yet, to
expiate my crime, I have placed the face of my victim always under my
eyes! There, on my bed of ashes, where I seek a repose which flies from
me, at every hour of the day, at every hour of the night, I behold
the unrelenting face of him who says to me unceasingly, ‘Murderer!
Murderer! You have shed my blood! Be accursed!’”

“My brother, oh, my brother, come back to your senses,” whispered
the father. He feared the voice of the commander might be heard outside.

Without replying to his brother, the commander withdrew himself from his
arms, rose to the full height of his tall stature, and approached the
portrait.

“For twenty years there has not passed a day in which I have not wept
my crime! For twenty years have I not tried to expiate this murder by
the most cruel austerities? What more do you wish, infernal memory?
What more do you ask? You, also,--you, my victim, have you not shed
blood,--the blood of my accomplice? But alas! alas! this blood, you
could shed it, you,--vengeance gave you the right, while I am the
infamous assassin! Oh, yes, vengeance is just! Strike, strike, then,
without pity! Soon the hand of God will strike me eternally!”

Overcome by emotion, the commander, almost deprived of consciousness,
again fell on his knees, half recumbent upon the coffin which served him
as bed.

Father Elzear had never discovered his brother’s secret. He knew him
to be a prey to profound melancholy, but was ignorant of the cause, and
now was frightened and distressed at the dreadful confidence betrayed in
a moment of involuntary excitement.

That Pierre des Anbiez, a man of iron character, of invincible courage,
should fall into such remorseful melancholy and weakness and despair,
argued a cause that was terrible indeed!

The intrepidity of the commander was proverbial; in the midst of the
most frightful perils, his cool daring had been the wonder of all who
beheld it. His gloomy impassibility had never forsaken him before, even
amid the awful combats a seaman is compelled to wage with the elements.
His courage approached ferocity. Once engaged in battle, once in the
thick of the fight, he never gave quarter to the pirates. But this fever
of massacre ceased when the battle-cries of the combatants and the sight
of the blood excited him no longer. Then he became calm and humane,
although pitiless toward the least fault of discipline. He had sustained
the most brilliant engagements with Barbary pirates. His black galley
was tie terror as well as the constant aim of attack among the pirates,
but, thanks to the superiority of equipment, _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_
had never been captured, and her defeats had cost the enemy dear.

Father Elzear, seated on the edge of the coffin, sustained the head
of his brother on his knees. The commander, as pale as a ghost, lay
unconscious, his brow wet with a cold sweat At last he regained his
consciousness, and looked around him with a sad and astonished air;
then, throwing a glance upon his arms and naked shoulders, scarcely
covered by the haircloth, he asked the priest, abruptly:

“How came you here, Elzear?”

“Although there was crape on your door, Pierre, I thought I could
enter. The matter which brought me to you is a very important one.”

An expression of keen dissatisfaction was depicted on the commander’s
countenance, as he cried:

“And I have been talking, no doubt?”

“The Lord has been moved to pity by your words, but I have not
understood them, my brother. Besides, your mind was distracted; you were
under the domination of some fatal illusion.”

Pierre smiled bitterly. “Yes, it was an illusion,--a dream,” said
he. “You know, I am sometimes overcome by dreadful imaginations, and
become delirious,--that is why I wish to be alone in these periods of
madness. Believe me, Elzear, then the presence of any human being is
intolerable to me, for I fear even you.”

As he said these words, the commander entered a closet adjoining his
chamber, and soon came out dressed in a long robe of black woollen
cloth, on which was quartered the white cross of his order.

The figure of Pierre des Anbiez was tall, erect, and robust. His thin,
nervous limbs showed, in spite of age, an uncommon vigour. His features
were severe and warlike; thick, black eyebrows shaded his deep-set,
hollow, burning eyes, which seemed always to glow with the sombre fire
of a fever; a deep scar divided his brow, and furrowed his cheek until
it was lost in his gray, short, and bushy beard.

Returning to his chamber, he walked back and forth, his hands crossed
behind his back, without saying a word to his brother.

Finally he paused and extended to the priest his hand, which had been
painfully torn by a gunshot, and said:

“The sign which I had attached to my door ought to have assured my
solitude. From the first officer to the last soldier on my galley, no
one dares enter here after seeing that sign. I thought myself alone, as
much alone as in the depth of a cloister, or the most hidden cell of the
great penitentiary of our order. So, my brother, although you have seen,
although you have heard, permit me to ask you never to say a word on
this subject. Let what has passed here be forgotten,--as sacred as a
confession made by a dying man under the seal of the confessional.”

“It shall be as you desire, Pierre,” replied Father Elzear, sadly.
“I think of it only with pain that I cannot help you in the sorrows
which have burdened you so long.”

“Reassure yourself. It is not given to the power of man to console
me,” replied the commander. Then, as if he feared to wound the
affection of his brother, he added:

“Yet your fraternal friendship and that of Raimond Digiare very dear
to me; but, alas, although the dews of May and the sweet rains of June
may fall in the sea, they can never sweeten the bitterness of its deep
waters. But what did you come to ask me?”

“Pardon for a poor Moor condemned this morning to the chase-gun.”

“That sentence has been executed, and it could not be, my brother,
that I should ever grant you this pardon.” “Thank God, the sentence
has not been executed; there is still some hope left me, Pierre.”

“The hour-glass stands at two. I gave order to the captain of the mast
to tie the Moor to the chase-gun at one o’clock; the slave ought to be
now in the hands of the surgeon and chaplain,--may God save the soul of
this pagan, if his body has not been able to endure the punishment.”

“At my earnest request, the captain of the mast suspended the
execution, my brother.”

“You cannot say what is not true, Elzear, but this moment you have
made a fatal gift to the captain of the mast.”

“Pierre, remember that I alone am responsible. Pardon, I pray--”

“Holy Cross!” cried the commander, impetuously, “for the first
time since I have commanded this galley, shall I pardon, in the same
day, two of the gravest faults that can be committed: the revolt of a
slave against a subordinate officer, and the want of discipline in the
subordinate officer toward his chief? No, no, that is impossible!” The
commander took a whistle from his belt and blew a shrill note through
the little silver tube.

A page clothed in black appeared at the door.

“The captain of the mast!” said the commander, abruptly. The page
went out.

“Ah, my brother, will you be altogether without pity?” cried Elzear,
in a tone of sad reproach.

“Without pity?” and the commander smiled bitterly, “yes, without
pity for the faults of others, as for my own faults.”

The priest, remembering the terrible chastisement that his brother had
just inflicted upon himself, realised that such a man must be inexorable
in the observance of discipline, and bowed his head, renouncing all
hope.

The captain of the mast entered.

“You will remain eight nights in irons on the rambade,” said the
commander.

The sailor bowed respectfully, without uttering a word.

“Let the chaplain and surgeon be informed that the Moor is to be
chastised on the chase-gun.”

The captain of the mast bowed more profoundly still and disappeared.

“I, at least, will not abandon this poor wretch!” cried Father
Elzear, rising hurriedly in order to accompany him.

The good brother went out, and Pierre des Anbiez resumed his slow
promenade in his chamber.

From time to time his eyes were attracted, in spite of himself, by the
fatal portrait of the man for whose murder he suffered such remorse.

Then his steps became irregular and his face became sad and gloomy
again.

For the first time perhaps in many years, he felt a thrill of pain at
the thought of the cruel suffering the Moor was about to undergo.

This punishment was just and deserved, but he remembered that the
unhappy captive had been, up to that time, gentle, submissive, and
industrious. Yet such was the inflexibility of his character that he
reproached himself for this involuntary pity, as a culpable weakness.

Finally the solemn flourishes of the trumpets of the galley announced
that the execution was finished. He heard the slow and regular step of
the soldiers and sailors, who were breaking ranks after having assisted
at the punishment.

Soon Father Elzear entered, pale, dismayed, his eyes bathed in tears,
and his cassock stained with blood.

“Ah, my brother! my brother! if you assisted at these executions,
never in your life could you have the heart to order them.”

“And the Moor?” asked the commander, without replying otherwise to
his brother.

“I held his poor hands in mine; he endured the first blows with heroic
resignation, closing his eyes to arrest the tears, and saying nothing
but, ‘My good father, do not abandon me’. But when the pain became
intolerable, when the blood began to gush out under the thongs, the
unhappy man seemed to concentrate all his powers upon one thought, which
might give him courage to endure this martyrdom. His face took on an
expression of painful ecstasy; then he seemed to conquer pain, even to
defy it, and cried, with an accent which came from the very depths of
his paternal heart, ‘My son! my son! Acoub, my beloved child!’”

As he told of the punishment and last words of the Moor, Father Elzear
could no longer restrain his tears; he wept as he continued:

“Ah, Pierre, if you had heard him--if you only knew with what
passionate feeling he uttered those words, ‘My son! my beloved child,’
you would have had pity on this poor father, whom they have carried off
in a state of unconsciousness.”

What was the astonishment of Father Elzear, when he saw the commander,
overwhelmed with emotion, hide his head in his hands and cry, sobbing
convulsively:

“A son! a son! I, too, have a son!”



CHAPTER XXIV. THE POLACRE

The day after the execution of the sentence on the Moor, the north wind
was blowing with increasing violence.

The waves hurled themselves with fury against the girdle of rocks
through which opened the narrow passage which led into the road of
Tolari.

About eleven o’clock in the morning, Captain Simon, mounted on the
platform of the rambade, was talking with Captain Hugues about the
punishment which occurred the day before, and of the courage of the
Moor.

Suddenly they saw a polacre, her sails almost torn away, flying before
the tempest with the rapidity of an arrow, and about to enter the
dangerous pass of which we have spoken.

Sometimes the frail vessel, rising on the crest of the towering waves,
would show the edge of her keel running with foam like the breast of a
race-horse.

Again, sinking in the hollow of the waves, she would plunge with such
violence that her stem would be almost perpendicular.

Soon they could distinguish on the deluged deck two men enveloped in
brown mantles with hoods, who were employing every possible effort to
hold the whip-staff of the rudder.

Five other sailors, squatting at the prow, or holding on to the rigging,
awaited the moment to aid in the manoeuvre.

So, by turns carried to the top of the waves and plunged in their
depths, the polacre was hastening with frightful speed to tie narrow
entrance of the channel, where the waves were dashing with fury.

“By St Elmo!” cried Captain Simon, “there’s a ship gone to
destruction!”

“She is lost,” replied Hugues, coldly; “in a few minutes her
rigging and hull will be nothing but a wreck, and her sailors will be
corpses. May the Lord save the souls of our brothers!”

“Why did he dare venture in this passage at such a time?” said the
gunner.

“If a man is to be shipwrecked it is better to perish with a feeble
hope. When a man hopes, he prays, and dies a Christian; when he
despairs, he blasphemes, and dies a pagan.

“Look, look, Simon, there is the little boat going into the breakers;
it is all up with her!”

At that moment the commander, who had been informed of the approach of
the vessel and of her desperate condition, appeared on deck with all the
chevaliers, officers, and others who manned the galley.

After carefully examining the polacre and the breakers, Pierre des
Anbiez called out, in a loud and solemn voice:

“Let the two long-boats be ready and equipped to gather the corpses on
the beach: no human power can save this unfortunate ship. Only God can
help her.” While the overseers superintended the execution of this
order, the commander, turning to the chaplain, said:

“My brother, let us say the prayers for the dying, for these
unfortunate men. Brothers, on your knees. Let the crew uncover.”

It was a grand and imposing spectacle.

All the chevaliers, clothed in black, were kneeling bareheaded on the
deck; the bell for prayer dolefully tolled a funeral knell amid the wild
shrieks of the tempest.

The slaves were also on their knees and uncovered.

In the rear, in the middle of a group of chevaliers dressed in black,
Father Elzear in his white cassock could be distinguished.

Prayers for the dying were said with as much solemnity as if they were
being recited in a church on land, or in a cloister.

It was not a mere form; these monk-soldiers were sad and contemplative.
As sailors they saw a vessel without hope; as Christians they prayed
for the souls of their brothers. In fact the polacre seemed in danger of
going down every moment. The furious waves, rushing into the channel on
their way to the sea, broke the current and whirled and tossed in every
direction. Her sails, by which she might have made steady headway, were
blown under the enormous rocks; her rudder was useless, and she was
at the mercy of the wind and waters which rushed back and forth in
unabating rage.

The prayers and chants continued without cessation.

Above all the other voices could be heard the manly, sonorous voice of
the commander. The slaves on their knees looked in sullen apathy on this
desperate struggle of man against the elements.

Suddenly, by an unhoped-for chance, either because the polacre was
of such perfect construction, or because she responded finally to the
action of her rudder, or because the little triangular sail that she
hoisted caught some current of the upper air, the gallant little vessel
steadied herself, resumed her headway, and cleared the dangerous passage
with the rapidity and lightness of a sea-gull.

A few minutes after she was out of danger, calmly sailing the waters of
the road.

This manoeuvre was so unforeseen, so wonderful, and so well executed,
that for a moment astonishment suspended the prayers of the chevaliers.

The commander, amazed, said to the officers, after a few moments of
breathless silence:

“My brothers, let us thank the Lord for having heard our prayers, and
let us sing a song of thanksgiving.”

While the galley resounded with this pious and solemn invocation, the
polacre, _The Holy Terror to the Moors_, for it was she, was beating
about in the road with very little sail, in order to approach the black
galley.

She was but a little distance from her when a cannon-shot, sent from the
rambade of _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_, signalled her to hoist her flag
and lie to.

A second cannon-shot ordered her to send her captain on board the black
galley. Whatever interest this vessel inspired in the commander when
she was in danger, her perils past, she must conform to the established
rules for visiting ships.

Soon the polacre lay to, and her little boat, equipped with two rowers
and steered by a third sailor, approached the stem of the galley.

The man who was at the helm left the whip-staff, slowly climbed the
stairs of the first seat of rowers, and stood before the commander and
his chevaliers, who had gathered together in the rear of the galley. The
sailor in question was no other than our old acquaintance, the worthy
Luquin Trinquetaille. His hooded mantle, his boots, and his breeches of
coarse wool were running with water.

As he set foot on the deck of the galley he respectfully allowed his
hood to fall back on his shoulders, and it could be easily seen that his
good, honest face was still excited by the terrible experience through
which he had just passed.

The commander, in his visits to Maison-Forte, had often seen Luquin, and
was agreeably surprised to recognise a man who could give him some news
of his brother, Raimond V.

“The Lord has rescued your ship from a great peril,” said the
commander to him. “We have already prayed for your soul, and the souls
of your companions.’’

“May all of you be blessed, M. Commander; we had need of it, for our
situation was awful; never since I have been at sea did I ever take part
in such a frolic.”

The commander replied to the captain, sternly, “The trials that the
Lord sends us are not frolics. How is my brother Raimond?”

“Monseigneur is well,” replied Trinquetaille, a little ashamed of
having been reproved by the commander. “I left him in good health, day
before yesterday, when I left Maison-Forte.”

“And how is Mlle, des Anbiez?” asked Father Elzear, who had come
near.

“Mlle, des Anbiez is very well, father,” replied Luquin.

“Where did you sail from, and where are you going?” asked the
commander.

“M. Commander, yesterday I came out of La Ciotat, with three
fishing-boats, all armed, in order to cruise two or three leagues from
the coasts to discover the pirates.”

“The pirates?”

“Yes, M. Commander. A pirate chebec appeared three days ago; Master
Peyrou discovered it. All the coast is alarmed; they expect a descent
from the pirates, and they are right, because a tartan from Nice, that
I met before this squall, told me that on the east of Corsica had been
seen three vessels, and one of them is the _Red Galleon_ of Pog-Reis,
the renegade.”

“Pog-Reis!” exclaimed the commander.

“Pog-Reis!” repeated the chevaliers, who surrounded the commander.

“Pog-Reis!” again said Pierre des Anbiez, with an expression of
savage satisfaction, as if at last he was about to meet an implacable
enemy he had long sought, but who, by some fatality, had always escaped
him.

“What were you going to do at Tolari?” asked the commander of
Trinquetaille.

“To speak truly, M. Commander, I was not going for pleasure. Surprised
by the squall yesterday, I was beating about as I could, but the weather
became so violent, and thinking my polacre doomed, I made a vow to Our
Lady of Protection, and risked entering the pass, that I was acquainted
with, for I have anchored there many a time, coming from the coasts of
Sardinia.”

“The Lord grant that this north wind may stop blowing!” said the
commander; then, addressing his expert pilot, he said, “What do you
think of the weather, pilot?”

“M. Commander, if the wind increases until sunset, there is a chance
that it will cease at the rising of the moon.”

“If that is so, and you can put out to-night without danger,” said
the commander to Trinquetaille, “go to La Ciotat and inform my brother
of my arrival.”

“And that will be a great joy to Maison-Forte, M. commander, although
your arrival there may be useless, for a vessel from Marseilles, that I
met, told me that soldiers had been sent to La Ciotat with the captain
of the company of the guards attending the Marshal of Vitry. They said
that these troops were to be sent to Maison-Forte, in consequence of the
affair of the recorder Isnard.”

“And what is that?” asked the commander of Luquin.

The captain then told how Raimond V., instead of submitting to the
orders of the Governor of Provence, had had his emissary chased by
bulls.

As he listened to the narration of this imprudent pleasantry on the
part of Raimond V., the commander and Father Elzear looked at each
other sadly, as if they deplored the foolish and rash conduct of their
brother.

“Go below to the refectory, and the head waiter will give you
something to warm and strengthen you,” said the commander to Luquin.

The captain obeyed this order with gratitude, and returned to the prow,
followed by a few curious sailors, anxious to learn all the news of
Provence.

The commander entered his chamber with his brother, and said to him:

“As soon as the weather will permit, we will depart for Maison-Forte.
I fear much that Raimond may be the victim of his rashness concerning
the creatures of the cardinal. The Lord grant that I may meet Pog-Reis,
and that I may be able to prevent the evil which he is no doubt
preparing for this shore, which is so defenceless, and for the
unfortunate city of La Ciotat.”



CHAPTER XXV. THE RED GALLEON AND THE SYBARITE

About the same time that _The Holy Terror to the Moors_ was making
her marvellous entrance into the road of Tolari, and the sad and black
galley of Malta was standing toward her, three vessels of very different
character were anchored in Port Mage, quite a good road situated on the
northeast of the island of Port-Cros, one of the smallest of the Hyères
islands.

Port-Cros, about six or seven leagues from La Ciotat, was at this
time of year thickly populated, inasmuch as the season for tunnies and
sardines brought many fishermen there who made it a temporary home.

Two galleys and a chebec were at anchor in the bay of which we speak.
The tempest had not diminished in violence, but the waters of Port Mage,
protected by the high lands on the northwest side, were very tranquil,
and reflected in their calm azure the brilliant colours which shone from
the _Red Galleon_ of Pog-Reis and the green galley of Trimalcyon. The
chebec, commanded by Erebus, had nothing remarkable in its exterior.

The fears of the watchman and the suspicions of Reine were only too well
founded. The three unknown men of the gorges of Ollioules were no other
than pirate captains, not natives of Barbary, but renegades.

During one of their cruises, they got possession of a Holland vessel,
and found on board a Muscovite lord, his son, and preceptor. After
having sold them as slaves in Algiers, they took their papers and had
the audacity to disembark at Cette, and, coming to Marseilles by land,
to present themselves to the Marshal of Vitry under borrowed names. The
marshal, deceived by the very boldness of this artifice, received them
hospitably.

After a sojourn quite profitably employed in making inquiries concerning
the departures and arrivals of vessels of commerce, the three corsairs
returned to Cette, and at that point were not distant from the coast of
Provence.

They contemplated an important attack on this seashore, and had been
keeping themselves sometimes in one of the numerous bays of the island
of Corsica, and sometimes in one of the little deserted harbours on the
coasts of France or of Savoy; for, at this period, the shores were so
badly guarded that pirates risked such positions without fear, and too
often without danger.

There was as much difference in the aspect of the two pirate galleys of
which we speak, and that of the commander, as there could be between a
solemnly attired nun and a silly Bohemian girl glittering in satin
and spangles. One was as silent and somber as the others were gay and
blustering.

We prefer to conduct the reader on board the _Sybarite_, a galley
of twenty-six oars commanded by Trimalcyon, and anchored a few cable
lengths from the _Red Galleon_ of Pog-Reis.

The construction of the pirate galleys resembled very much that of the
galleys of Malta; but the ornamentation and splendour of the furniture
and accommodation inside differed greatly from them.

The crew was composed of slaves, whether Christians, negroes, or even
Turks, as the renegades took little pains as to the manner of recruiting
the service of their vessels.

Although they were chained to their benches, as were the crews on the
galleys of Malta, the slaves of the _Sybarite_ seemed to partake of the
joyous atmosphere which surrounded them.

Instead of having a ferocious, morose, or dejected air, their
countenances expressed a vulgar indifference or a cynical insolence.
They appeared robust and capable of enduring the severest fatigue, but
the fear inspired by their undisciplined character could be seen in the
heroic appointments of repression which surrounded them.

Two pieces of ordnance and several blunderbusses on pivot, constantly
turned on the crew, were disposed in such a manner that they could sweep
the galley from one end to the other.

The spahis, or select soldiers charged with superintending the crew,
always wore long pistols in their belts, and carried a battle-axe in
their hands.

The uniform of these spahis consisted of red mantles, gaiters of
embroidered morocco, and a coat of mail underneath a jacket which was
trimmed with yellow lace.

Their scarlet fez was surmounted by a turban of coarse white muslin,
loosely rolled in the antique style which, it was said, ran back to the
time of the soldiers of Hai-Keddin-Barberousse.

The costume of the crew was not uniform, as plunder and pillage were the
principal means by which worn-out garments were replaced. Some of them
wore breeches and doublets upon which could be seen the marks of the
gold or silver lace which had once adorned them, and which had been
removed for the profit of the _reis_ or the captain. Others were clothed
in the coats of soldiers, and some even wore the black felt garments
taken from the soldiers of religion.

Notwithstanding the heterogeneous appearance of the crew, the galley
of Trimalcyon-Reis was kept with scrupulous cleanliness. Its sea-green
colour, relieved with fillets of purple, was, at the stern, richly set
off in gold, and, in fact, a red flag, on which was embroidered in white
the two-edged scimitar, called Zulfekar, was the only sign by which the
_Sybarite_ could be recognised as a pirate vessel.

Not far distant lay at anchor the _Red Galleon_ of Pog-Reis, which had
a severer and more warlike appearance, and near the entrance of the bay
the _Tsekedery_, or light vessel commanded by Erebus, carried the same
standard.

The coasts of France were then, as we have said, in such a deplorable
state of defence that these three vessels had been able, without the
slightest obstacle, to put into port, in order to escape the storm which
raged the day before.

If the exterior of the _Sybarite_ was splendid, her interior offered all
the refinements of the most elaborate luxury, in which there was a happy
combination of the customs of the West and the East.

A dwarf negro, fantastically attired, had just struck three resounding
blows on a Chinese gong placed at the stem near the helm. At this signal
a band of musical instruments performed some martial airs. It was
the dinner-hour of Trimalcyon, and the chamber of the stem had been
converted temporarily into a dining-room.

The partitions were hidden under rich tapestries of poppy-coloured
Venetian brocatelle with handsome designs in green and gold.

Pog and Trimalcyon were seated at table.

Trimalcyon had the same characteristic corpulence, the same bright
complexion, shrewd eye, joyous countenance, and red, sensual lips. His
long, soft cloak of blue velvet disclosed, in opening, a buff-skin of
extreme elasticity, covered over with a steel net so finely wrought
that it was as flexible as the thinnest material. This habit of wearing
continually a defensive armour proved in what confident security the
captain of the _Sybarite_ was accustomed to live.

Pog-Reis, sitting opposite his companion, had also the same haughty,
sarcastic manner. He wore an Arabian yellek of black velvet embroidered
with black silk, on which hung at full length his heavy red beard;
his green and red cap of the Albanian fashion covered half his white
forehead, which was deeply furrowed with wrinkles.

Two female slaves of great beauty, one a mulattress, the other a
Circassian, dressed in light, thin gowns of Smyrna material, performed,
with the aid of the dwarf negro, the table service of Trimalcyon.

On revolving shelves were displayed magnificent pieces of plate,
unmatched and incomplete it is true, but of the most beautiful
workmanship, some of silver, some of gilt, and others of gold set with
precious stones. In the midst of this plate, the fruit of robbery and
murder, were placed, in sacrilegious derision, sacred vessels, carried
away either from the churches on the seashore or from Christian ships.

A very penetrating and very sweet perfume burned in a censer hanging
from one of the rafters of the ceiling. Seated on a luxurious divan, the
captain of the _Sybarite_ said to his guest:

“Excuse this poor hospitality, my comrade. I would prefer to replace
these poor girls with Egyptian slaves, who, equipped with ewers of
Corinthian metal, would sprinkle, as they sang, rose-scented snow-water
on our hands.”

“You do not lack vases and ewers, Trimalcyon,” said Pog, throwing a
significant glance at the sideboard.

“Ah, well, yes, there are vases of gold and silver, but what is that
compared to the Corinthian metal of which antiquity speaks: a metal made
of a mixture of gold, silver, and bronze, and so marvellously wrought
that a large ewer and basin only weighed one pound? By Sardanapalus!
comrade, some day I must make a descent on Messina. They say that the
viceroy possesses several antique statuettes of that precious metal. But
take some of this partridge pudding spiced with wild aniseed; I had
it served on its silver gridiron burning hot. Or do you prefer these
imitations of pea-fowl eggs? You will find there, instead of the yellow,
a very fat tit-lark, well yellowed, and, instead of the white, a thick
sauce of cooked cream.”

“Your fine vocabulary of gormandising ought to win for you the esteem
of your cook. You appear to me to be made, both of you, for the purpose
of understanding each other,” said Pog, eating with disdainful
indifference the delicate dishes served by his host.

“My cook,” replied Trimalcyon, “understands me well enough, in
fact, although sometimes he has his discouragements; he regrets France,
from which country I carried him off unawares. I have tried to
console him, for a long time, with everything,--silver, money,
attention,--nothing succeeds however, so I have finished where I ought
to have begun, with a severe bastinado, and am quite well satisfied with
it, and he is too, I suppose, since he cooks wonderfully, as you see.
Give us something to drink, Orangine!” called Trimalcyon to the
mulattress, who poured out a glorious glass of Bordeaux wine. “What is
that wine, Crow-provender?” asked he of the negro dwarf, holding his
glass up to his eyes to judge its colour.

“My lord, it was taken, in the month of June, from a Bordeaux
brigantine on its way to Genoa.”

“H’m, h’m,” said Trimalcyon, tasting it, “it is good, very
good, but there is the inconvenience of supplying ourselves as we do,
friend Pog: we never have the same quality, so if we get accustomed to
one kind of wine, we meet with cruel disappointments. Ah! our trade is
not a bed of roses. But you do not drink! Fill Seigneur Fog’s glass,
Swan-skin,” said Trimalcyon, to the white Circassian, pointing to his
guest’s cup.

Pog, as a refusal, placed his finger over his glass.

“At least, let us drink to the success of our descent upon La Ciotat,
comrade.”

Pog replied to this new invitation by a movement of contemptuous
impatience.

“As you please, comrade,” said Trimalcyon, without the slightest
indication of being offended by the refusal and haughty manner of his
guest, “it is just as well not to trust myself to your invocations;
the devil knows your voice, and he always thinks you are calling
him. But you are wrong to disdain that ham, it is from Westphalia, I
think,--is it not, you scoundrel?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the dwarf, “it came from that Dutch fly-boat,
arrested as it sailed out of the strait of Sardinia. It was destined for
the Viceroy of Naples.” At that moment the flourishes of the musicians
ceased; a noise, at first quite indistinct, but increasing by degrees,
soon became loud and threatening. The clanking of chains and complaints
of the galley-slaves could be heard, and, finally, rising above the
tumult, the voices of the spahis and the cracking of the coxswain’s
whip.

Trimalcyon seemed so accustomed to these cries, that he continued to
drink a glass of wine that he was carrying to his lips, and carelessly
remarked, as he set his glass on the table:

“There are some dogs that want to bite; fortunately their chains
are good and strong. Crow-provender, go and see why the musicians have
stopped playing. I will have them given twenty blows of the cowhide if
they stop again, instead of blowing their trumpets. I am too good. I
love the arts too much. Instead of selling these do-nothings in Algiers,
I have kept them to make music, and that is the way they behave! Ah! if
they were not too feeble for the crew, they should find out what it is
to handle the oar.”

“They are certainly too weak for that, my lord,” said the negro
dwarf; “the comedians that you captured with them on that galley from
Barcelona are still at the house of Jousouf, who bought them. He
cannot get two pieces of gold for a single one of the singing, blowing
cattle.”

Pog-Reis seemed thoughtful and oblivious of what was passing around him,
although the murmurs of dissatisfaction increased to such violence that
Trimalcyon said to the dwarf:

“Before you go out, place here by me, on the divan, my pistols and
a stock of arms. Well, now go and see what is the matter. If it is
anything serious, let Mello come and tell me. At the same time, inform
those blowers of trumpets that I will make them swallow trumpets and
buccinæ if they stop playing a moment.”

“My lord, they say they have not wind enough to play two hours
together.”

“Ah, they lack wind, do they! Ah, well, tell them that if they give me
that reason again I will have their stomachs opened, and by means of a
blacksmith’s bellows put them in such a condition that they will not
lack wind.”

At this coarse and brutal pleasantry, Orangine and Swan-skin looked at
each other in astonishment.

“You can tell them besides,” added Trimalcyon, “that as they are
not worth one piece of gold in the slave market, and as it costs me more
to keep them than they are worth, I shall think nothing of gratifying my
caprice on them.”

The negro went out.

“What I like in you,” said Pog, slowly, as he awakened from his
reverie, “is that you are a stranger to every sentiment, I will not
say of virtue, but of humanity.”

“And what in the devil do you say that to me for, friend Pog? You see
that, as inhuman as I am, I do not forget who you are, and who I am. You
say ‘tu’ to me, and I answer ‘vous’ to you.”

Just then two shots were fired and resounded through the galley.

“The devil! there is Mello who is also saying ‘tue,’” added
Trimalcyon, smiling at his odious play upon words and looking toward
the door with imperturbable calmness. The two women slaves fell on their
knees with signs of agonising terror.

Suddenly the trumpets burst forth with an energy which doubtless
violated all the laws of harmony, but which proved at least that the
threats conveyed by the negro dwarf had taken effect, and that the
unhappy musicians believed Trimalcyon capable of torturing them.

After two more shots, there was a cry,--a terrible roar uttered by all
the slaves at once.

The tumult was then succeeded by a profound silence. “It seems it was
nothing after all,” said the captain of the _Sybarite_, addressing
Pog, who had again fallen into a reverie. “But tell me, comrade,”
 continued he, “in what do you discover that I have nothing human in
me? I love the arts, and letters and luxury. I plunder with discretion,
taking only what suits me. I enjoy to the utmost all of the five senses
with which I am provided. I fight with care, preferring to attack
one who is weaker rather than one who is stronger than myself, and my
commerce consists in taking from those who have with the least possible
chance of loss. Yes, once again I ask you, comrade, where in the devil
do you see inhumanity in that?”

“Come, you excite my shame as well as my pity. You have not even the
energy of evil. There is always in you the pedantry of the college.”

“Fie, fie upon you, my comrade; do not talk of the college, of that
sad time of meagre cheer and privations without number. I would be at
this moment as dry as a galley mast, if I had continued spitting Latin,
while now,” said the insolent knave, striking his stomach, “I
have the rotundity of a prebendary; and all that, thanks to whom? To
Yacoub-Reis, who, twenty years ago, made me a slave as I was going by
sea to Civita-Vecchia, to try my clerical fortune in the city of the
clergy. Yacoub-Reis gave me mind, activity, and courage. I was young, he
taught me his trade. I renounced my religion, I took the turban, and so
from one thing to another, from pillage to murder, I came at last to be
commander of the _Sybarite_. Commerce goes well! I expose myself in
extreme cases, and when it is necessary I fight like another, but I take
care of my skin, it is true, because I intend before long to retire from
business, and repose from the fatigues of war in my retreat in Tripoli,
with several Madames Trimalcyon. Again I ask, is not all that very
human?”

These words appeared to make little impression on the silent companion
of the captain of the _Sybarite_, who contented himself with saying,
with a shrug of the shoulders:

“The wild boar to his lair!”

“Sardanapalus! speaking of wild boars, how I would like to have those
that figured in the epic feasts of Trimalcyon, my patron!” cried the
unmannerly boor, without appearing to take offence at the contempt of
his guest. “Those were worthy wild boars, that they served whole with
caps on their heads, and insides stuffed with puddings and sausages
imitating the entrails, or perhaps enclosing winged thrushes that would
fly up to the ceiling. Those are luxuries I shall realise some day or
other. Sardanapalus! I have worked twenty years just to give myself some
day a feast worthy of Roman antiquity!”

The negro dwarf opened the door.

The pirate then thought only of the tumult which had so suddenly ceased.

“Ah, well, rascal, what about that noise? Why did not Mello come? Was
it, then, nothing?”

“No, my lord, a Christian quarrelled with an Albanian slave.”

“And then?”

“The Albanian stabbed the Christian.”

“And then?”

“The Christians cried ‘Death to the Albanian,’ but the Christian who
was wounded knocked the Albanian down and almost killed him.”

“And then?”

“Then the Albanians and the Moors, in their turn, roared against the
Christians.”

“And then?”

“To prevent the crew killing each other, and to satisfy everybody,
patron Mello blew the wounded Christian’s and the wounded Albanian’s
brains out.”

“And then?”

“My lord, seeing that, everybody became quiet.”

“And the musicians?”

“My lord, I spoke to them about the blacksmith’s bellows, and before
I had finished my sentence, they blew so hard on their trumpets and
shells, I became almost deaf. I was about to forget, my lord, that Mello
signalled the long-boat of Seigneur Erebus, who is coming now to the
galley.”

Pog started.

Trimalcyon cried, “Quick, Swan-skin, Orangine, a cover for the most
beautiful youth who ever captured poor merchant ships.”



CHAPTER XXVI. POG AND EREBUS

Before continuing this narrative, some explanation is necessary
concerning Erebus and Seigneur Pog, the silent and sarcastic man.

In the year 1612, twenty years before the period of which we write, a
Frenchman, still young, arrived at Tripoli, with one servant.

The captain of the vessel which brought him to Tripoli had frequent
opportunity to observe that his passenger was very expert in matters
pertaining to navigation; he concluded finally that the traveller was an
officer on the vessels and galleys of the king, and he was not mistaken.

Seigneur Pog--we continue to give him this assumed name--was an
excellent sailor, as we shall soon see.

Upon his arrival at Tripoli, Pog, after having, according to the custom
of Barbary, bought the protection of Bey Hassan, hired a house in the
suburbs of the city, not far from the sea. He lived there during one
year with his valet in profound solitude.

Some French merchants, established at Tripoli, exhausted their powers of
conjecture on the singular taste of their compatriot, who came, as they
thought, through mere caprice, to inhabit a wild and deserted coast.

Some attributed this eccentricity to a violent, desperate grief; others
saw, if not an unpardonable folly, a monomania, at least, in his strange
determination.

These last suppositions did not lack foundation.

At certain periods of the year, Pog, it was said, was subject to such
attacks of despair and rage that belated herdsmen, passing his solitary
house at night, would hear furious and frantic cries.

Three or four years passed in this manner.

To distract his mind from gloomy thoughts, and to recuperate his health,
Pog made long voyages at sea in a small vessel, but a very smooth and
swift-sailing ship which he himself managed with rare skill. His crew
consisted of two young slave Moors.

One day, one of the most famous and cruel corsairs of Tripoli, named
Kemal-Reis, came near perishing with his galley, which ran aground on
the Coast a short distance from the house of Pog.

Pog was just returning from one of his voyages. Recognising the galley
of Kemal-Reis, he set sail toward her, and rendered her the most
efficient aid.

One of Pog’s slaves reported later that he had heard him say, “Man
would be too happy if all the wolves and tigers were destroyed.” So
the saving of Kemal-Reis, dreaded for reason of his cruelties, was due
to the bitter misanthropy of Pog. Instead of yielding to an impulse of
natural generosity, he desired to preserve to humanity one of its most
terrible scourges.

A short time after this event Kemal-Reis visited the isolated house
of the Frenchman, and, by degrees, a sort of intimacy was established
between the pirate and the misanthrope.

One day the newsmongers of Tripoli learned with astonishment that
Pog had embarked on board the galley of Kemal-Reis. They supposed the
Frenchman to be very rich, and that he had freighted the Tripolitan
vessel in order to take a voyage of pleasure on the coast of Barbary and
Egypt and Syria.

To the great astonishment of the public, Kemal-Reis returned a month
after his departure, with his galley filled with French slaves, captured
from the coasts of Languedoc and Provence, and the rumour was current in
Tripoli that the favourable results of this audacious enter-prise were
owing to the information and advice given by Pog, who knew better than
any one else the weak points on the seashore of France. This rumour soon
acquired such probability that our consul at Tripoli deemed it his duty
to inform against Pog, and to instruct the ministers of Louis XIII. of
what had happened.

And here we make the statement, once for all, that in 1610, as well as
in 1630 and in 1700, the abduction of inhabitants from our coasts by
the regencies of Barbary was almost never considered a cause for a
declaration of war against these powers. Our consuls assisted at the
disembarking of the captives and generally acted as mediators for their
ransom.

If any measures were taken against Pog, it was because he had, as a
Frenchman, assisted with his own hand in an attack upon his country.

The information given by the consul was in vain, to the great scandal
of our compatriots and of Europeans established at Tripoli. Pog made
a solemn abjuration, renounced the cross, assumed the turban, and
henceforth remained unmolested.

Kemal-Reis had everywhere proclaimed that the new renegade was one
of the best captains whom he had ever known, and that the regency of
Barbary could not have made a more useful acquisition. From that moment
Pog-Reis equipped a galley and directed his operations solely against
French vessels, and especially against the galleys of Malta, commanded
by the chevaliers of our nation. Several times he ravaged the coasts
of Languedoc and Provence with impunity. It must be said, however, that
this fury for plunder and destruction only seized Pog, so to speak,
periodically, and by paroxysms, and his rage seemed to reach its height
about the end of the month of December.

During that month he showed himself without pity, and it is related,
with a shudder of horror, that several times he had the throats of a
great number of captives cut,--a frightful and bloody holocaust which he
offered, doubtless, on some painful and dreaded anniversary. The month
of December passed, his mind, obscured by a bloodthirsty madness, became
more calm, when, returning to Tripoli, and shutting himself up in his
solitude, he remained sometimes two or three months without putting to
sea. Then, his desperate soul again possessed by some bitter resentment,
he equipped his galley anew, and recommenced his atrocious career.

Among the French captives whom he had taken in his first expedition with
Kemal-Reis, and whom he had generously abandoned to this corsair, upon
the sole condition that liberty should never be restored to them, was
one whom he retained,--a child of four or five years carried away from
the coast of Languedoc, with an old woman who died during the passage.
This child of unparagoned beauty was Erebus.

Pog named him thus, as if he wished by the fatal name to predestinate
the unfortunate child to the career to which his evil designs devoted
him.

In the intensity of his hatred of the human race, Pog had the infernal
desire to destroy the soul of this unfortunate child, by giving him
the most pernicious education. He devoted himself to this task with
abominable perseverance. As Erebus advanced in years, Pog, without
reason for his absurd eccentricities, alternately expended upon the
boy a furious aversion and cruelty, and impulsive demonstrations of
solicitude,--these last being the only sentiments af kindness he had
felt for many years. By degrees, these spasmodic expressions of sympathy
discontinued, and Pog soon included Erebus in the common execration
with which he pursued mankind, and adhered to his fatal resolution with
deadly persistence. Far from leaving the boy’s mind uneducated, he took
particular pains in developing it. Among the numerous slaves which his
avocation of rapine brought in his way, Pog-Reis easily found professors
and teachers of all sorts, and what he failed to find he purchased from
other corsairs or obtained by other means.

For instance, having learned that a celebrated Spanish painter, named
Juan Pelieko, lived in Barcelona, he employed every stratagem to draw
him out of the city, and at last succeeded in capturing him and taking
him to Tripoli. When this artist had perfected Erebus in his art, Pog
had him put in chains, in which servitude he remained until he died.

In his impious and cruel course of experiment, Pog, desiring to force
his victim through every degree in the scale of iniquity, from vice to
crime, took pleasure in making the child acquainted with all kinds of
sin, and in giving him opportunities for culture and accomplishments.
He argued that with ordinary intelligence a man was only an ordinary
villain, but that various resources enabled him to achieve the most
wonderful results in audacious wickedness. Through this abominable
system, the arts, instead of elevating the soul of Erebus, were designed
to develop a passion for sensual pleasures, and to materialise an
otherwise exalted nature.

When the wonders of painting and music do not lift the soul into the
infinite realm of the ideal, when one seeks only a melody more or less
agreeable to the ear, or a form more or less attractive to the eye, then
the arts deprave rather than ennoble mankind.

Surely, Pog must have had a terrible vengeance to wreak upon humanity,
his misanthropy must have partaken of the nature of madness, that he
could have been guilty of the sacrilegious cruelty of thus degrading a
pure young soul!

No scruple or regret made him hesitate. As a tender father would seek to
guard his child’s mind from dangerous thoughts, and to encourage in his
young heart all noble and generous instincts, Pog, on the other hand,
left no means untried to corrupt this unhappy child, and to excite his
bad passions.

It is with certain moral organisations as with physical natures,--they
can be injured and enfeebled, but not completely ruined, so healthy
and vigorous is their vital germ. Thus it was with Erebus. By a special
providence, the pernicious teachings of Pog had not yet, so to speak,
essentially altered the heart of the poor boy.

The singular instinct of contradiction peculiar to youth saved him
from many dangers. The very facility with which he could, scarcely
adolescent, have yielded to every excess, the odious temptations
they dared set before him, sufficed to preserve him from precocious
dissipations.

In a word, the natural exaltation of his sentiments urged him
to cultivate the sweet, pure, and noble emotions from which they
endeavoured to remove him, but unfortunately the fatal influence of Pog
had not been absolutely vain. The ardent character of Erebus retained a
sad evidence of the perversity of his education.

If in some moments he had passionate yearnings toward good, if he
struggled against the detestable counsels of his tutor, the habit of a
warlike and adventurous life which he had led from the age of twelve or
thirteen years, the impetuosity of his character, and the transport of
his passions, often dragged him into grievous excess. From his earliest
youth, Pog had taken him along in the various incursions into the
shore, and the courage and natural daring of Erebus had been valiantly
exhibited in several combats.

Instructed by experience and by practice, he had learned with great
facility the avocation of sailor and mariner, and the constant aim of
Pog had been to inculcate in him a profound and relentless hatred of the
chevaliers of Malta, who were represented to him as the murderers of
his family, and the secret of this murder Pog had faithfully promised to
reveal to him some day.

Yet nothing was more false. Pog had no knowledge of the parents of the
child, left an orphan at such an early age, but he wished to perpetuate
in his victim his own hatred of the chevaliers of religion.

Erebus renewed his vows, and an ardent desire for vengeance developed
in his young soul against the soldiers of Christ, whom he believed to
be the murderers of his family. In other respects, Erebus gave less
satisfaction to Pog. Cruelty in cold blood was revolting to him, and
sometimes he was deeply moved at the sight of human suffering. Pog had
often observed that irony and sarcasm were a powerful and infallible
arm in combating the natural nobility of the youth’s character, and by
comparing him to a clergyman, or a tonsured Christian, or accusing him
of weakness and cowardice, he often provoked the unhappy boy to culpable
acts.

The scene in the rocks of Ollioules, where Erebus saw Reine for the
first time, is a striking proof of that constant struggle between his
natural inclinations and the bad passions that Pog excited in his heart.

The first impulse of Erebus was to hasten to the rescue of Raimond V.
and to respond with almost filial veneration to the old man’s outburst
of gratitude,--in fact, to believe himself rewarded for his generous
conduct by the satisfaction of his conscience and the grateful looks
of the young girl; but a bitter sarcasm from Pog, a coarse jest from
Trimalcyon, changed these noble emotions into sensual desire and a
profound disdain for the courageous action by which he had just honoured
himself.

Yet, in spite of the cynical bantering of the two pirates, the
enchanting beauty of Reine made a profound impression upon Erebus.

He had never loved, his heart had never taken part in the coarse
pleasures which he had sought among the slaves that the hazard of war
had thrown into his hands.

Pog and Trimalcyon were not long in perceiving a certain change in the
character of Erebus.

Some indiscreet words enlightened Pog as to the powerful influence
of this first love upon the young man, and he began to fear the
consequences of this passion, in elevating the heart of Erebus,--a love
which would make the young man blush for the abominable life he was
leading, and awaken in him the most generous sentiments. Pog, therefore
resolved to kill this love by possession, and proposed to Erebus to
abduct Reine by force.

He encountered a lively resistance in the young pirate. Erebus thought
the proposed abduction atrocious; he wished to be loved or to make
himself loved.

Pog then suggested another plan. He flattered the self-love of Erebus
beyond measure, by proving to him that he must have made a profound
impression on the heart of the young girl, but that it was necessary,
by mysterious means, to preserve and increase the remembrance that she
would necessarily hide from the knowledge of her father. Then, when he
was sure of being loved, he was to appear, offer to carry her away, and
withdraw if she did not accept his proposal.

This plan, which Pog intended to modify at its conclusion, satisfied
Erebus. We have seen how it was partly executed at Maison-Forte.

A Moor who had accompanied the young pirate at sea from his childhood,
and who was warmly attached to him, was to introduce himself secretly
into the castle of Anbiez.

This man was the Bohemian whom we have seen at Maison-Forte. He had
accompanied Erebus at the time of the audacious journey of the three
pirates in Provence. When they reached the port of Cette again, where
they had left their chebec, they embarked and rejoined their galleys,
which were anchored in the islands of Majorca, then open to all the
pirates of the Mediterranean.

There, Erebus, Pog, Trimalcyon, and Hadji--such was the name of the
Bohemian--contrived their plans.

The day of the adventure in the gorges of Ollioules Hadji had described
the old gentleman whom Erebus had just saved, and the young girl, to his
hosts in Marseilles, who gave him the name of Raimond V. and his young
daughter, for the Baron des Anbiez was well known in Provence.

During his sojourn at Majorca, Erebus, who in his leisure occupied
himself in the art of painting, made as a souvenir the miniature of
which we have spoken, and a skilful goldsmith enamelled the little dove
on some objects intended for Reine. Finally, Erebus added a portrait of
himself, which was placed in the medallion ornamenting the guzla of the
Bohemian.

These preparations completed, the Moor departed, taking with him, as
a means of correspondence with the two pirates, two pigeons raised on
board the chebec of Erebus, and habituated to seek and to recognise
this vessel, which they regained with a jerk of the wing as soon as they
perceived it, at a distance beyond the power of the eye of man.

At the end of fifteen days, the two galleys and the chebec began to
cruise and beat about in view of the coasts of Provence.

As we have said, the month of December was Pog’s gloomy month, the
period in which his cruel instincts were exasperated to a ferocious
monomania.

He had dared present himself under an assumed name to the Marshal
of Vitry, only to examine at leisure the state of the coast and
the fortifications of Marseilles, as he had the audacious design of
surprising and ravaging the city, and burning the port. He counted on
his understanding with some Moors established in Marseilles, to make
himself master of the boom of the harbour.

However absurd or impossible it may appear, this attack, or rather this
surprise, might have been successful. Pog did not despair of it If the
arrangements that he had manipulated failed at his signal, he was sure
at least of being able to lay waste a coast which was without defence,
and the little city of La Ciotat, for reason of its proximity to
Maison-Forte, must in this case share the fate of Marseilles.

In the tumult of the battle, Reine des Anbiez could easily be carried
off.

We have seen that the manoeuvres of the Bohemian succeeded.

A long time hidden among the rocks which bordered upon Maison-Forte,
he had several times seen Reine in the balcony of the window of her
oratory, and had observed that this window often remained open. Thanks
to his agility, the Bohemian had introduced himself there twice in the
evening,--the first time with the crystal vase containing a Persian
amaryllis, a bulbous plant which blooms in a few days; the second time
with the miniature.

Certain of having established these mysterious antecedents sufficiently
well to excite the curiosity of Reine, and thus force her to think of
Erebus, Hadji, thinking he could present himself at Maison-Forte without
awakening suspicion, was returning to the house of Raimond V., and on
the way met the recorder Isnard and his retinue.

Fifteen days after his arrival at Maison-Forte, the chebec, at the
setting of the sun, began to cruise at large. Hadji then sent one of the
pigeons as the bearer of a letter, informing Erebus that he was loved,
and Pog where he could attempt a landing, in case he should be compelled
to renounce his intention of surprising Marseilles.

The watchman’s eagle intercepted this correspondence by devouring
the messenger. Unhappily, Hadji had another emissary. The next day, at
sunset, the chebec appeared again, and a letter carried by the second
pigeon announced to Erebus that he was loved, and to Pog that the most
favourable moment for a descent upon La Ciotat was Christmas Day, a time
when all the Provençals were occupied with their family feasts and
merrymaking.

The tempest began to blow the very evening of the day on which Erebus
received this intelligence. He rejoined the two galleys which were
cruising off the coast of Hyères; the weather becoming more and
more violent, the three vessels put into Port Mage, on the island of
Port-Cros. As we have said, they had been anchored there since the day
before, impatiently waiting for the wind to change, as the celebration
of Christmas would occur the day after the morrow. Before attempting
anything at La Ciotat, Pog wished to assure himself that his enterprise
on Marseilles was not possible.

Now that we are acquainted with the fatal ties which bound Erebus to
Pog, we will follow the young adventurer on the galley of Trimalcyon.

He slowly ascended on board the _Sybarite_ and entered the apartment
where dinner was being served.



CHAPTER XXVII. CONVERSATION

He wore the simple sailor costume which greatly enhanced his grace and
beauty.

“Here comes our bashful lover, our modest wooer,” said Trimalcyon,
seeing him.

As a reply, the young sailor, appreciative of this pleasantry, threw
off his mantle, embroidered in jet-black silk, gave a kiss to Swan-skin,
caressed Orangine’s chin, and, taking up a silver goblet from the
table, extended it to Trimalcyon as he exclaimed:

“To the health of Reine des Anbiez, the future favourite of my
harem!”

Pog threw a piercing glance on Erebus, and said, in a measured, hollow
voice:

“These words come from his lips, his heart will give the lie to his
language.”

“You are mistaken, Captain Pog; only land your demons on the beach of
La Ciotat, and you will see if the brightness of the flames which will
broil the French in their hole will prevent my following Hadji to the
castle of that old Provençal.”

“And once in that castle, what will you do, my boy?” said
Trimalcyon, with a mocking air. “Will you ask if the beautiful girl
has not a skein of silk to wind, or if she will permit you to hold her
mirror while she combs her hair?”

“Be quiet, Full-Bottle, I will employ my time well. I will sing for
her the song of the emir, a song worthy of Beni-Amer, which that fox,
Hadji, made her listen to so well.”

“And if the old Provençal finds your voice disagreeable, he will give
you a leather strap, as if you were a badly taught child, my boy,”
 said Trimalcyon.

“I will reply to the old gentleman by seizing his daughter in my arms,
and singing to him those verses of Hadji:

     “‘Till sixteen years old, the daughter belongs to her father.

     “At sixteen years old, the daughter belongs to the lover.’”

“And if the good man insists, you will give him, for your last word,
your kangiar to end the conversation?” “That comes of course,
Empty-Cup. Who carries off the daughter, kills the father,” added
Erebus, with an ironical smile.

Trimalcyon wagged his head, and said to Pog, who seemed more and more
absorbed in his gloomy thoughts: “The young peacock is laughing at
us, he is jesting, he will do some shepherd-swain nonsense with that
girl.” “Has the French spy returned from the islands?” asked Pog
of Erebus.

“Not yet, Captain Pog,” replied the young sailor; “he departed
with his stick and his wallet, disguised as a beggar. He will be here,
without doubt, in an hour. I waited for him in vain. Seeing that he did
not arrive, I came in my long-boat; the barge which landed him on
the shore will bring him back here. But shall we attack La Ciotat or
Marseilles, Captain Pog?”

“Marseilles, unless the report of the spy makes me change my
opinion,” said Pog.

“And on our return, shall we not stop a moment at La Ciotat?” asked
Erebus. “Hadji is expecting us.”

“And your beautiful maiden also, my boy. Ah! ah! you are more
impatient to see her beautiful eyes than the gaping mouths of the
cannon of the castle,” said Trimalcyon, “and you are right, I do not
reproach you for it.”

“By the cross of Malta, which I abhor!” cried Erebus, with
impatience, “I would rather never see that lovely girl in the cabin
of my chebec than not to sound my war-cry at the attack of Marseilles.
Captain Pog knows that in all our combats with the French or with
the galleys of religion, my arm, although young, has dealt some heavy
blows.”

“Be quiet! whether we attack Marseilles or not, you will be able to
approach La Ciotat with your chebec and carry off your maiden. I will
not allow you to lose this new chance of damning your soul, my dear
child,” said Pog, with a sinister laugh.

“My soul? You have always told me, Captain Pog, that I had no soul,”
 replied the unhappy Erebus, with a bantering indifference.

“You do not see, my boy, that Captain Pog is jesting,” said
Trimalcyon, “as far as the soul is concerned; but as for your beauty,
by Sardanapalus! we will carry her off; the pains of Hadji and your
mysterious gallantries shall not be lost, although, in my opinion, you
were wrong to make yourself as romantic as an ancient Moor of Grenada,
just to please this Omphale. A few more abductions, my dear child,
and you will realise that it is far better to break a wild filly with
violence than to tame her by dint of sweetness and petting. But your
young palate requires milk and honey yet awhile. Later you will come to
the spices.”

“You flatter me, Trimalcyon, by comparing me to a Moor of Grenada,”
 said Erebus, with bitterness. “They were noble and chivalrous, and not
real robbers like us.” “Robbers? Do you hear him, Captain Pog? He
is yet not more than half out of his shell, and he comes talking of
robbers! And who in the devil told you we were robbers? That is the way
they impose upon youth, the way they deceive it and corrupt it. Why,
speak to him, I pray you, Captain Pog! Robbers! Give me something to
drink, Swan-skin, to help me swallow that word! Zounds! Robbers!”

Erebus seemed very little impressed by the grotesque anger of
Trimalcyon.

Captain Pog raised his head slowly and said to the young man, with
bitter irony:

“Well, well, my dear child, you are right to blush for our profession.
Upon my return to Tripoli, I will buy you a shop near the port,--it is
the best mercantile quarter. There you can sell in peace and quietness
white morocco-leather, Smyrna carpets and tapestry, Persian silks and
ostrich feathers. That is an easy and honest calling, my dear child.
You will be able to amass some money and afterward go to Malta, and
establish yourself in the Jewish quarter. There you can lend your money
at fifty per cent, to the chevaliers who are in debt. Thus you can
avenge yourself on those who cut your father’s and mother’s throats,
by pocketing their money. It is more lucrative and less dangerous than
taking your revenge in blood.”

“Captain!” cried Erebus, his cheeks flaming with indignation.

“Captain Pog is right,” said Trimalcyon, “the vampire that sucks
the blood of his sleeping prey with impunity is better than the bold
falcon that attacks him in the sun.”

“Trimalcyon, take care!” cried the young man, in anger.

“And who knows,” continued Pog, “if chance may not cause the
chevalier who massacred your poor mother and noble father to fall under
your usurious hand?”

“And see the avenging hand of Providence!” cried Trimalcyon. “The
orphan becomes the creditor of the assassin! Blood and murder! Death
and agony! This son, the avenger, at last gluts his rage by making the
murderer of his family put on the yellow robe of insolvent debtors!”

At this last sarcasm, the anger of Erebus exceeded all bounds, and he
seized Trimalcyon by the throat and drew on him a knife that he had
taken from the table. But for the iron grasp of Pog, which held the
youth’s hand like a vice, the fat pirate would have been dangerously
wounded, if not killed.

“By Eblis and his black wings! Captain, take care! If you are provoked
at the blow I was about to give that hog, then I will address myself to
you!” cried Erebus, trying to free himself from Pog’s hands.

Swan-skin and Orangine escaped, shrieking with terror.

“See what it is to spoil children,” said Pog, with a disdainful
smile, as he released the hand of Erebus.

“And to allow them to play with knives,” replied Trimalcyon, picking
up the knife that Erebus had let fall in the struggle.

A look from Pog warned him that he must not push the young man too far.

“Do you wish to kill the one who has brought you up, dear child?”
 said Pog, sarcastically. “Come, you have your dagger in your belt,
strike.”

Erebus looked at him with a surly air, and said, with an angry sneer:

“It is in the name of gratitude, then, that you ask me to spare your
life? Then why have you preached to me the forgetfulness of benefits and
the remembrance of injuries?”

Notwithstanding his impudence, Trimalcyon looked at Pog in amazement,
not knowing how his companion would reply to that question.

Pog gave Erebus a look of withering contempt, as he said to him:

“I wished to test you, when I spoke of gratitude. Yes, the truly brave
man forgets all benefits, and only remembers injuries. I offered you the
most outrageous insult, I told you that you did not have the courage
to avenge the death of your parents. You ought to have struck me at
once,--but you are a coward.”

[Illustration: Pog, calm and unmoved, opened his breast]

Erebus quickly drew his dagger and raised it over the pirate before
Trimalcyon could take a step.

Pog, calm and unmoved, opened his breast without a sign of emotion.

Twice Erebus raised his arm, twice he let it fall again. He could not
make up his mind to strike a defenceless man. He bowed his head with a
sorrowful air.

Pog sat down again and said to Erebus, in a severe and imperious voice:

“Child, do not quote maxims whose meaning perhaps you may comprehend,
but which your weak heart will not let you put in practice. Listen to
me, once for all. I received you without pity. I feel as much hatred
and contempt for you as I do for all other men. I have trained you to
pillage and murder, as I would have amused myself in training a young
wolf for slaughter, that some day I might be able to hurl you against my
enemies. I have killed all the chevaliers of Malta who have fallen into
my hands, because I have a terrible vengeance to wreak on that order. I
have taught you that your family was massacred by them, in the hope of
exciting your rage, and turning it against those whom I execrate. You
have already served my purpose; you have killed two caravanists with
your own hand, in one combat. I know you had no pleasure in it, you
thought you were avenging your father and mother. I deal with you as a
man deals with his war-horse; as long as he serves him, he spurs him and
urges him to the fray; when he becomes feeble, he sells him. Do not feel
bound in any respect to me; kill me if you can. If you dare not strike
before my face, act as a traitor,--you will succeed, perhaps.”

As Erebus heard these frightful words, he seemed to be in a dream.

If he had never been deceived as to the tenderness of Pog, he believed
that the man had at least an interest in him, the interest that a poor,
abandoned child always inspires in one who has the care of him. The
brutal confession of Pog left him no longer in doubt. These detestable
maxims he had just uttered were too much in accord with the rest of his
life to allow the young man to question their reality.

The feelings of his own heart were inexplicable. He seemed to have
fallen into some deep and bloody abyss. The thoughts which rushed upon
him drove him to frenzy. His tender and generous instincts thrilled
painfully, as if an iron hand had torn them from his heart.

After the first moment of dejection, the detestable influence of Pog
regained the ascendency. Erebus wished to vie with this man in cynicism
and barbarity. He lifted up his pale face, and said, as a sarcastic
smile played upon his lips:

“You have enlightened me, Captain Pog; until now, the hatred of the
soldiers of Christ had never entered into my heart; until now, I only
wished their death because they had killed my father and mother; if I
showed them no mercy, I fought them, sword to sword, galley to galley.
But now, captain, armed or disarmed, young or old, fairly or basely, I
will kill as many as I can kill,--do you know why, captain? Say, do you
know why, captain?”

“He is out of his head!” whispered Trimalcyon.

“No, he says what he feels,” replied Pog. “Ah, well, then, my
child, tell me why?” added he.

“Because in making me an orphan, they put me in your power, and you
have made me what I am.”

There was in the expression of the features of Erebus something which
revealed a hatred so implacable, that Trimalcyon whispered to Pog:

“There is blood in his look!”

Erebus, although exasperated beyond measure by the contemptuous hatred
of Pog, did not dare avenge himself, because he was dominated by an
involuntary sentiment of gratitude toward the man who had reared him,
and with an air of desperation he went out of the chamber.

“He is going to kill himself!” cried Trimalcyon.

Pog shrugged his shoulders.

Some moments after, while the two companions sat in gloomy silence, they
heard the sound of oars striking the water.

“He is going back to his chebec,” said Trimalcyon.

Without replying, Pog went out of the chamber and walked to the prow.

It was late. The wind had grown somewhat calm; the galley-slaves were
sleeping on their benches.

Nothing was heard but the regular step of the spahis who walked their
rounds on the vessel.

Pog, leaning over the guards, looked at the sea in silence.

Trimalcyon, in spite of his depravity, had been moved by this scene.
Never had the cruel monomania of Pog shown itself in such a horrible
light. He felt a certain embarrassment in engaging in conversation
with his silent friend. At last, approaching him with several
“Hem--Hems,” and numerous hesitations, he said: “The weather is
very fine this evening, Captain Pog.”

“Your remark is full of sense, Trimalcyon.”

“Come to the point now, and shame to the devil! I do not know what
to say to you, Pog, but you are a terrible man; you will make that poor
starling insane. How in the devil can you find pleasure in tormenting
the young fellow so? Some fine day he will leave you.”

“If you were not a man incapable of understanding me, Trimalcyon,
I would tell you that what I feel for this unfortunate youth is
strange,” said Pog. “Yes, it is strange,” continued he, talking to
himself. “Sometimes I feel furious anger rising in me against Erebus,
a resentment as implacable as if he were my most deadly enemy. Again I
have the indifference of a piece of ice. Other times I feel for him a
compassion, I would say affection if that sentiment could enter my
soul. Then, the sound of his voice--yes, especially the sound of his
voice--and his look awaken in me memories of a time which is no more.”

As he uttered these last words, Pog spoke indistinctly. Trimalcyon was
touched by the accent of his usually morose companion. The voice of Pog,
ordinarily hard and sarcastic, softened almost to a lamentation.

Trimalcyon, amazed, approached Pog to speak to him; he recoiled in
fright as he saw him suddenly raise his two fists toward Heaven in a
threatening manner, and heard him utter such a painful, despairing cry
that there seemed nothing human in it.

“Captain Pog, what is the matter with you? What is the matter with
you?” cried Trimalcyon.

“What is the matter with me!” cried Pog, in a delirium, “what is
the matter with me! Then you do not know that this man who stands here
before you, who roars with pain, who pushes cruelty to madness, who
dreams only of blood and massacre; that this man was once blessed with
all, because he was good, kind, and generous. You do not know, oh, you
do not know the evil that must have been done to this man to excite in
him the rage which now possesses him!”

Trimalcyon was more and more amazed at this language, which contrasted
so singularly with the habitual character of Pog.

He tried to enlighten himself by carefully examining the countenance of
his old comrade.

After a long silence he heard the dry, strident laugh of the pirate
ring through the galley. “Eh, eh! comrade,” said Pog, in the tone of
irony natural to him, “it is quite right to say that at night mad dogs
bark at the moon! Have you understood one word of all the nonsense I
have just uttered to you? I would have been a good actor, on my faith I
would; do you not think so, comrade?”

“I have not understood much, to tell the truth, Captain Pog, except
that you have not been always what you are now. We are alike in that. I
was a servant in a college before being a pirate.”

Pog, without making a reply, made a gesture of his hand commanding
silence. Then, listening with attention on the side next to the sea, he
said: “It seems to me I hear a boat.”

“Without doubt,” said Trimalcyon.

One of the watchmen on the rambade uttered three distinct cries, the
first separated from the two last by quite a long interval; the last
two, however, were close together.

The patron of the boat replied to this cry in the opposite manner; that
is to say, he uttered at first two short, quick cries, followed by a
prolonged cry.

“Those are persons from the chebec, and the spy, no doubt,” said
Trimalcyon.

In fact the long-boat was already at the first seat of the rowers. The
spy climbed to the deck of the galley.

“What news from Hyères?” said Pog to him.

“Bad for Marseilles, captain; the galleys of the Marquis de Brézé,
coming from Naples, anchored there yesterday.”

“Who told you that?” asked Pog.

“Two bargemasters. I entered a hostelry to beg an alms, and these
bargemasters were talking about it. Some mule-drivers, coming from the
west, heard the same thing at St. Tropez.”

“And what rumour on the coast?”

“They are alarmed at La Ciotat.”

Pog waved his hand, and the spy retired.

“What is to be done, Captain Pog?” cried Trimalcyon. “There are
only blows to be gained at Marseilles; the squadron of the Marquis de
Brézé protects the port. To attack an enemy unseasonably is to do him
good instead of harm; we can do nothing at Marseilles.”

“Nothing,” said Captain Pog.

“Then La Ciotat invites us; the swine, those citizens, are alarmed,
it is true, but, Sardanapalus! what does that matter? The little birds
tremble when they see the hawk ready to pounce upon them; but do their
terrors make his claws any the less sharp, or his beak less cutting?
What do you say to it, Captain Pog?”

“To La Ciotat, to-morrow at sunset, if the wind ceases. We will
surprise these people in the midst of a feast; we will change their
cries of joy into cries of death!” said Pog, in a hollow voice.

“Sardanapalus! these citizens, they say, have hens on golden eggs
hidden in their houses. They say that the convent of the Minimes
brothers is filled with costly wines, without counting the money of the
farm-rent that the farmers bring to these rich do-nothings at Christmas.
We will find their cash-box well furnished.”

“To La Ciotat,” said Pog; “The wind may change in our favour. I am
going to return on board the _Red Galleon_; at the first signal, follow
my manoeuvre.”

“So be it, Captain Pog,” replied Trimalcyon.

While the pirates, ambushed in that solitary bay, are preparing to
surprise and attack the inhabitants of La Ciotat, we will return to Cape
l’Aigle, where we left the watchman occupied in drawing up the defence
of the coast.



CHAPTER XXVIII. HADJI

Christmas had at last arrived.

Although the fear of the Barbary pirates had kept the city and the coast
in alarm for several days, the people began to feel safe from attack.

The north wind had lasted so long and had blown with such violence
that they did not suppose the pirate vessels dared put to sea in such
weather, and it seemed still less probable that they would anchor in a
harbour on their seashore, which was exactly what Pog and Trimalcyon had
done.

The security felt by the inhabitants was fatal to them.

Forty hours at least were required for the galley of the commander to
sail from Cape Corsica to La Ciotat. The tempest had ceased only the
evening before, and Pierre des Anbiez had been compelled to wait until
Christmas morning to put to sea.

On the contrary, the galleys of the pirates were able to reach La Ciotat
in three hours; the island of Port-Cros, where they had taken refuge,
was only about six leagues distant.

But, as we have said, fear was no longer felt along the coast; besides,
they reckoned upon the well-known vigilance of the watchman, Master
Peyrou.

He would give the alarm in case of danger; two signals, corresponding
with the sentry-box on Cape l’Aigle, had been established, one at a
point opposite the bay, the other on the terrace of Maison-Forte.

At the slightest alarm all the men of La Ciotat, capable of bearing
arms, were to assemble in the town hall, there to take orders from the
consul, and hasten to the point which might be attacked.

A chain had been extended across the entrance of the port, and several
large fishing-boats, armed with swivel-guns, were anchored a short
distance from this chain. Finally, two coxswains of a long-boat,
occupied a whole morning in exploring the environage, had upon their
return increased the general feeling of security by announcing that not
a sail was to be seen for a distance of three or four leagues.

It was about two hours after midday. A sharp wind from the east had
taken the place of the north wind of the preceding days. The sky was
clear, the sun bright for a winter day, and the sea beautiful, although
there was a gentle swell.

A child carrying a basket on his head began to climb, singing all the
while, the steep rocks which led to the house of the watchman.

Suddenly, hearing the moaning of a dog, the child stopped, looked around
him with curiosity, saw nothing, and went on his way.

The cry was repeated, and this time it seemed nearer and more pitiful.

Raimond V. had been hunting all day on that side, and thinking that one
of the baron’s dogs had fallen into some quagmire, the child set his
basket down on the ground, climbed up a large piece of a huge rock which
projected some distance over the road, and listened with attention.

The cries of the dog grew fainter, yet sounded more plaintive than
before.

The child hesitated no longer. As much to do something which would
please his master as to merit a small recompense, he began diligently to
search for the poor animal, and soon disappeared among the tall rocks.

The dog seemed sometimes nearer, and sometimes more distant; at last the
cries suddenly ceased.

The child had left the path. While he was listening, calling, crying,
and whistling, Hadji, the Bohemian, appeared behind a rock.

Thanks to his skill as a juggler, he had imitated the cries of the dog,
so as to distract the child from his duty and take him away from his
basket. For three days he had been wandering in the midst of this
solitude. Not daring to appear again at Maison-Forte, he was expecting
every day the arrival of the pirates, who had been instructed by his
second message.

Knowing that every morning provisions were carried to Peyrou, Hadji,
who had been watching some hours for the purveyor, employed, as we have
said, this stratagem to make him abandon his basket.

The Bohemian opened the bottle-case carefully provided by the majordomo
Laramée, took out a large bottle covered with straw, and poured in it
a small quantity of a white powder,--a powerful soporific, whose effects
had already been felt by the worthy Luquin Trinquetaille.

The Bohemian had lived for two days on the small amount of food he had
carried away from Maison-Forte; but, fearing to excite suspicion, he
had the courage not to touch the appetising viands intended for the
watchman. He restored the bottle to its place and disappeared.

The child, after having searched for the stray dog in vain, returned,
took up his basket, and finally arrived at the summit of the promontory.

Master Peyrou passed for such a formidable, mysterious being, that his
young purveyor did not dare say a word about the cries of the dog; he
deposited the basket on the edge of the last stone of the steps,
and saying, in a trembling voice, “The good God keep you, Master
Peyrou,” descended as fast as his legs could carry him, holding his
cap in both hands.

The watchman smiled at the child’s fear, rose from his seat, went for
the basket, and set it down near him. The provisions inside smacked of
the Christmas festivity.

First, there was a very fine roast turkey, a necessary dish at the
solemn feast of Christmas; then a cold fish pie, some honey cakes and
oil, and a basket of grapes and dried fruit done up in the style of
a Christmas present; finally, two loaves of white bread with a golden
brown crust, and a large bottle, containing at least two pints of the
finest Burgundy wine from the cellar of Raimond V., completed his repast.

The good watchman, lonely philosopher as he was, did not appear
insensible to these good things. He entered his house, took his little
table, set it before his door, and there placed his preparations for his
Christmas feast. Yet he was saddened by melancholy thoughts.

By the unusual clouds of smoke rising above the town of La Ciotat, it
could be seen that the inhabitants, rich or poor, were making joyous
preparations to unite family and friends at their tables. The watchman
sighed as he thought of the exile which he had imposed upon himself.
Already old, without relatives and family ties, he was liable to die on
this rock, in the midst of this imposing solitude.

Another cause brought sadness to the heart of Peyrou. He had vainly
hoped to signal the arrival of the commander’s galley. He knew with what
joy Raimond V. would have embraced his two brothers, especially at this
season, and he also knew that the gloomy sadness of Pierre des Anbiez
found some relief, some consolation in the midst of sweet family
happiness and festivity.

And in fact, there was still another reason, not less important, which
made the watchman desire most earnestly the return of the commander.

He had been for more than twenty years the guardian of a terrible
secret, and of the papers which were connected with it. His retired life
and his fidelity, which had endured every test, were sufficient warrants
for the security of this secret. But the watchman desired to ask the
commander to deliver him from this grave responsibility, and to entrust
it henceforth to Raimond V.

In fact, Peyrou realised that he might at any time die a violent death;
his scene with the Bohemian proved to what dangers he was exposed in
this remote and isolated spot.

All these reasons made him look anxiously for the coming of the black
galley, and for the last time, before sitting down to the table, he
examined the horizon attentively.

The sun was just beginning to set, and although the watchman descried
nothing in the distance, he did not lose all hope of seeing the galley
before nightfall, and to be able to signal the galley more readily, he
resolved to dine outside.

The sight of a good dinner drove some of the wrinkles from his brow. He
began by holding the flagon of Burgundy wine to his lips. After having
swallowed several draughts, he wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, as he quoted the Provençal proverb, “_A Tousan tou vin es
san_,--On All Saints’ Day all wine is good for the health.”

“Raimond V. has not forgotten how to judge,” added he, smiling. Then
he carved the turkey.

“Well, well, for an old man, old wine. I feel my heart already
rejoice, and my hopes of seeing the commander’s galley are a good deal
brighter.”

At this moment, Peyrou heard a rustling in the air; one of the branches
of the old pine cracked, and Brilliant alighted with a heavy wing on the
stone roof of the sentry-box; then from the roof she descended to the
ground.

“Ah, ah! Brilliant,” said the watchman, “you come to get your
part of the Christmas present, do you? Take this!” and he handed her a
piece of the turkey, which the eagle refused.

“Ah! cruel wretch, you would not disdain that morsel if it was bloody.
Do you want some of this pie? No? Ah! you will not find every day such a
treat as the pigeon of that accursed Bohemian. Never shall I forget the
service you rendered me, my courageous bird, although your taste for
blood went for much in your fine action. But, no matter, Brilliant, no
matter; it smells of ingratitude to be looking for the motive of a deed
by which we have profited. I ought to have thought of you and given you
a fine quarter of mutton for your Christmas feast. But to-morrow I
will not forget For you, as for a great many men, the treat makes the
festivity, and it is not the holy day or saint they glorify.”

Master Peyrou finished his dinner, sometimes chatting with Brilliant,
and sometimes embracing the baron’s bottle.

Twilight was slowly descending upon the town.

The watchman, wrapping himself in his cloak, lit his pipe, and sat down
to contemplate the approach of the beautiful winter night, in a sort of
meditative beatitude.

Although the night was falling, he again examined the horizon with his
telescope, and discovered nothing. Turning his head mechanically on
the side of Maison-Forte, with the thought that all hope of seeing the
commander arrive was not yet lost, he saw, to his great astonishment, a
company of soldiers, commanded by two men on horseback, rapidly marching
up the beach toward the house of Raimond V.

He seized his telescope, and, in spite of the gathering darkness,
recognised the recorder Isnard, mounted on his white mule. The recorder
was accompanied by a cavalier, whose hausse-col, or metal collar, jacket
of buff-skin, and white scarf marked him as a captain of infantry.

“What does that mean?” cried the watchman, recalling with alarm the
animosity of Master Isnard. “Are they going to arrest the Baron des
Anbiez by virtue of an order from the Marshal of Vitry? Ah! I have too
much reason to fear it, and what I fear more is the resistance of the
baron. My God! how is all this going to end? What a sad Christmas if
things are as I fear!”

Greatly disturbed, the watchman stood with his eyes fixed on the shore,
although night was now too far advanced to permit him to distinguish any
object.

Soon the moon rose bright and clear, flooding the rocks, the bay, the
shore, and the castle of Maison-Forte with her brilliant light.

In the distance the city, immersed in fog, showed many a luminous point
through the cloudy, vapourous mass, and its sharp-pointed roofs and
belfries cut a black silhouette on the pale azure of the sky.

The sea, perfectly calm, was like a peaceful lake, and its soft murmurs
were scarcely audible. The waves seemed to sleep. A line of darker blue
marked the curve of the horizon.

The watchman looked anxiously at the windows of Maison-Forte, which were
all brilliantly illuminated.

By degrees, his eyelids grew heavy.

Attributing the sensation of heaviness in his head to the wine, which
he had partaken of in moderation, he began to walk about briskly, but,
notwithstanding his persistent efforts, he felt a sort of lassitude
stealing through all his limbs. His sight began to grow dim; he was
obliged to return and sit down on his bench.

For some minutes he struggled with all his might against this numbness
which was gradually taking possession of all his faculties.

Finally, although his reason commenced to share this state of general
stupor, he had the presence of mind to go in his cabin and plunge his
head in a basin of ice-cold water.

This immersion seemed for some moments to restore to him the use of his
senses.

“Miserable creature I am! What have I done!” cried he. “I have
made myself drunk--”

He took a few more steps, but was obliged to sit down again.

The soporific, thwarted in its effect for a moment, redoubled its
power over him. Leaning back against the wall of his cabin, he retained
perception enough to be the witness of a spectacle which overwhelmed him
with rage and despair.

Two galleys and a chebec appeared at the eastern point of the bay,--a
point which he alone was able to discover from the height of Cape
l’Aigle. These vessels were slowly doubling the promontory with the
utmost precaution. With one last effort he straightened himself up
to his full height, and cried, in a feeble voice, “Pirates!” He
stumbled as he tried to walk to the pile where were collected all sorts
of combustible material ready to be kindled at a moment’s notice. The
moment he reached it he fell, deprived of consciousness.

The Bohemian, who had been watching his every movement, then appeared
just where the foot-path entered the esplanade, and advanced with the
greatest circumspection. Hiding himself behind the cabin, he listened,
and heard only the laboured breathing of the watchman. Certain of the
effect of his soporific, he approached Peyrou, stooped down, and touched
his hands and his forehead and found that they were cold.

“The dose is strong,” said he, “perhaps too strong. So much the
worse, I did not wish to kill him.”

Then advancing to the edge of the precipice, he saw distinctly the three
pirate vessels in the distance. Moving slowly and cautiously, for fear
of being discovered, they made use of oars to reach the entrance of the
port, where the Bohemian was to join them.

The practised eye of Hadji recognised in front of the two galleys
certain luminous points or flames, which were nothing else than torches
designed to burn the city and the fishing-boats.

“By Eblis! they are going to smoke these citizens like foxes in their
burrows. It is time, perhaps, for this old man to go to sleep for ever;
but we must visit his cabin. I will have time to descend. I will be on
the beach soon enough to seize a boat and join Captain Pog, who expects
me before he begins the attack. Let us enter; they say the old man hides
a treasure here.”

Hadji took a brand from the fireplace and lit a lamp.

The first object which met his eye was a trunk or box of sculptured
ebony placed near the watchman’s bed.

“That is a costly piece of furniture for such a recluse.”

Not finding a key, he took a hatchet, broke open the lock, and opened
the two leaves of the door; the shelves were empty.

“It is not natural to lock up nothing with so much precaution; time
presses, but this key will open everything.” He took up the hatchet
again, and in a moment the ebony case was in pieces.

A double bottom fell apart.

The Bohemian uttered a cry of joy as he perceived the little embossed
silver casket of which we have spoken, and on which was marked a Maltese
cross. This casket, which was quite heavy, was fastened no doubt by a
secret spring, as neither key nor lock could be discovered.

“I have my fine part of the booty, now let us run to help Captain
Pog in taking his. Ah, ah!” added he, with a diabolical laugh, as he
beheld the bay and the city wrapped in profound stillness, “soon Eblis
will shake his wings of fire over that scene. The sky will be in flames,
and the waters will run with blood!” Then, as a last precaution, he
emptied a tunnel of water on the signal pile, and descended in hot haste
to join the pirate vessels.



CHAPTER XXIX. CHRISTMAS

While so many misfortunes were threatening the city, the inhabitants
were quietly keeping Christmas.

Notwithstanding the uneasiness the opinion of the watchman had given,
notwithstanding the alarm caused by terror of the pirates, in every
house, poor or rich, preparations were being made for the patriarchal
feast.

We have spoken of the magnificent cradle which had long been in course
of preparation through the untiring industry of Dame Dulceline.

It was at last finished and placed in the hall of the dais, or hall of
honour in Maison-Forte.

Midnight had just sounded. The woman in charge was impatiently awaiting
the return of Raimond V., his daughter, Honorât de Berrol, and other
relations and guests whom the baron had invited to the ceremony.

All the family and guests had gone to La Ciotat, to be present at the
midnight mass.

Abbé Mascarolus had said mass in the chapel of the castle for those who
had remained at home.

We will conduct the reader to the hall of the dais, which occupied
two-thirds of the long gallery which communicated with the two wings of
the castle.

It was never opened except on solemn occasions.

A splendid red damask silk covered its walls. To supply the place of
flowers, quite rare in that season, masses of green branches, cut from
trees and arranged in boxes, hid almost entirely the ten large arched
windows of this immense hall.

At one end of the hall rose a granite chimneypiece, ten feet high and
heavily sculptured.

Notwithstanding the season was cold, no fire burned in this vast
fireplace, but an immense pile, composed of branches of vine, beech,
olive, and fir-apples, only waited the formality of custom to throw
waves of light and heat into the grand and stately apartment.

Two pine-trees with long green branches ornamented with ribbons,
oranges, and bunches of grapes, were set up in boxes on each side of
the chimney, and formed above the mantelpiece a veritable thicket of
verdure.

Six copper chandeliers with lighted yellow wax candles only partially
dissipated the darkness of the immense room.

At the other end, opposite the chimney, rose the dais, resembling
somewhat the canopy of a bed, with curtains, hangings, and cushions of
red damask, as were, too, the mantle and gloves, a part of the equipment
of office.

The red draperies covered, with their long folds, five wooden steps,
which were hidden under a rich Turkey carpet.

Ordinarily the armorial chair of Raimond V. was placed on this
elevation, and here enthroned, the old gentleman, as lord of the manor,
administered on rare occasions justice to high and low. On Christmas
Day, however, the cradle of the infant Jesus occupied this place of
honour.

A table of massive oak, covered over with a rich oriental drapery,
furnished the middle of the gallery.

On this table could be seen an ebony box handsomely carved, with a coat
of arms on its lid. This box contained the book of accounts, a sort of
record in which were written the births and all other important family
events.

Armchairs and benches of carved oak, with twisted feet, completed the
furniture of this hall, to which its size and severe bareness gave an
imposing character.

Dame Dulceline and Abbé Mascarolus had just finished placing the cradle
under the dais. This marvel was a picture in relief about three feet
square at the base and three feet high. The faithful representation
of the stable where the Saviour was born would have been too severe a
limitation to the poetical conceptions of the good abbé.

So, instead of a stable, the holy scene was pictured under a sort of
arcade sustained by two half ruined supports. In the spaces between the
stones, real little stones artistically cut, were hung long garlands of
natural vines and leaves, most beautifully intertwined.

A cloud of white wax seemed to envelope the upper part of the arcade.
Five or six cherubs about a thumb high, modelled in wax painted
a natural colour, and wearing azure wings made of the feathers of
humming-birds, were here and there set in the cloud, and held a streamer
of white silk, in the middle of which glittered the words, embroidered
in letters of gold: Gloria in Jezcelriir.

The supports of the arcade rested on a sort of carpet of fine moss,
packed so closely as to resemble green velvet, and in front of this
erection was placed the cradle of the Saviour of the world; a real,
miniature cradle, covered over with the richest laces. In it reposed the
infant Jesus.

Kneeling by the cradle, the Virgin Mary bent over the Babe her maternal
brow, the white veil of the Queen of Angels falling over her feet and
hiding half of her azure coloured silk robe.

The paschal lamb, his four feet bound with a rose coloured ribbon, was
laid at the foot of the cradle; behind it the kneeling ox thrust his
large head, and his eyes of enamel seemed to contemplate the divine
Infant.

The ass, on a more distant plane, and half hidden by the posts of the
arcade, behind which it stood, also showed his meek and gentle head.

The dog seemed to cringe near the cradle, while the shepherds, clothed
in coarse cassocks, and the magi kings, dressed in rich robes of
brocatelle, were offering their adoration.

A fourth row of little candles, made of rose-scented wax, burned around
the cradle.

An immense amount of work, and really great resources of imagination,
had been necessary to perfect such an exquisite picture. For instance,
the ass, which was about six thumbs in height, was covered in mouse-skin
which imitated his own to perfection. The black and white ox owed his
hair to an India pig of the same colour, and his short and polished
black horns to the rounded nippers of an enormous beetle.

The robes of the magi kings revealed a fairy-like skill and patience,
and their long white hair was really veritable hair, which Dame
Dulceline had cut from her own venerable head.

As to the figures of the cherubs, the infant Jesus, and other actors in
this holy scene, they had been purchased in Marseilles from one of those
master wax-chandlers, who always kept assorted materials necessary in
the construction of these cradles.

Doubtless it was not high art, but there was, in this little monument of
a laborious and innocent piety, something as simple and as pathetic
as the divine scene which they tried to reproduce with such religious
conscientiousness.

The good old priest and Dame Dulceline, after having lit the last
candles which surrounded the cradle, stood a moment, lost in admiration
of their work.

“Never, M. Abbé,” said Dame Dulceline, “have we had such a
beautiful cradle at Maison-Forte.”

“That is true, Dame Dulceline; the representation of the animals
approaches nature as closely as is permitted man to approach the marvels
of creation.”

“Ah, M. Abbé, why did it have to be that the accursed Bohemian, who
they say is an emissary of the pirates, should give us the secret of
making glass eyes for these animals?”

“What does it matter, Dame Dulceline? Perhaps some day the miscreant
will learn the eternal truth. The Lord employs every arm to build his
temple.”

“Pray tell me, M. Abbé, why we must put the cradle under the dais
in the hall of honour. Soon it will be forty years since I began making
cradles for Maison-Forte des Anbiez. My mother made them for Raimond
IV., father of Raimond V., for as many years. Ah, well! I have never
asked before, nor have I even asked myself why this hall was always
selected for the blessed exposition.”

“Ah, you see, Dame Dulceline, there is always, at the base of our
ancient religious customs, something consoling for the humble, the weak,
and the suffering, and also something imposing as a lesson for the happy
and the rich and the powerful of this world. This cradle, for instance,
is the symbol of the birth of the divine Saviour. He was the poor child
of a poor artisan, and yet some day he was to be as far above the most
powerful of men as the heavens are above the earth. So you see, Dame
Dulceline, upon the anniversary day of the redemption, the poor and
rustic cradle of the infant Saviour takes the place of honour in the
ceremonial hall of the noble baron.”

“Ah, I understand, M. Abbé, they put the infant Jesus in the place of
the noble baron, to show that the lords of this world should be first to
bow before the Saviour!”

“Without doubt, Dame Dulceline, in thus doing homage to the Lord
through the symbol of his power, the baron preaches by example the
communion and equality of men before God.”

Dame Dulceline remained silent a moment, thinking of the abbé’s
words, then, satisfied with his explanation, she proposed another
question to him, which in her mind was more difficult of solution.

“M. Abbé,” asked she, with an embarrassed air, “you say that at
the base of all ancient customs there is always a lesson; can there be
one, then, in the custom of Palm Sunday, when foundling children run
about the streets of Marseilles with branches of laurel adorned with
fruit? For instance, last year, on Palm Sunday,--I blush to think of
it even now, M. Abbé,--I was walking on the fashionable promenade
of Marseilles with Master Tale-bard-Talebardon, who was not then the
declared enemy of monseigneur, and, lo! one of the unfortunate little
foundlings stopped right before me and the consul, and said, with a
sweet voice, as he kissed our hands, ‘Good morning, mother! good
morning, father!’ By St Dulceline, my patron saint, M. Abbé, I turned
purple with shame, and Master Talebard-Talebardon did, too. I beg
your pardon, respectfully, for alluding to the coarse jokes of Master
Laramée, who accompanied us, on the subject of this poor foundling’s
insult! But this Master Laramée has neither modesty nor shame. I could
not help repulsing with horror this nursling of public charity, and I
pinched his arm sharply, and said to him: ‘Will you be silent, you
ugly little bastard?’ He felt his fault, for he began to weep, and when
I complained of his indecent impudence to a grave citizen, he replied
to me: ‘My good lady, such is the custom here; on Palm Sunday foundlings
have the privilege of running through the streets, and saying, ‘father
and mother,’ to all whom they may meet.”

“That is really the custom, Dame Dulceline,” said the abbé.

“Well, it may be the custom, M. Abbé, but is that not a very
impertinent and improper custom, to permit unfortunate little children
without father or mother to walk up and say ‘mother’ to honest, discreet
persons like myself, for example, who prefer the peace of celibacy to
the disquietudes of family? As to the morality of this custom, I pray
you explain it, M. Abbé. I look for it in vain with all my eyes. I can
see nothing in it but what is outrageously indecent!”

“And you are mistaken, Dame Dulceline,” said Abbé Mascarolus;
“this custom is worthy of respect, and you were wrong to treat that
poor child so cruelly.”

“I was wrong? That little rascal comes and calls me mother, and I
permit it? Why, then, thanks to this custom, there would--”

“Thanks to this custom,” interrupted the abbé, “thanks to the
privilege that these little unfortunates have, of being able to say, one
day in the year, ‘father and mother’ to those they meet,--those dear
names that they never pronounce, which, perhaps, may have never passed
their lips--alas! how many there are, and I have seen them, who say
these words with tears in their eyes, as they remember that, when that
day is past, they cannot repeat the blessed words! And sometimes it
happens, Dame Dulceline, that strangers, moved to pity by such innocence
and sorrow, or being touched by the caressing words, have adopted some
of these unfortunates; others have given abundant alms, because this
innocent appeal for charity is almost always heard. You see,
Dame Dulceline, that this custom, too, has a useful end,--a pious
signification.”

The old woman bowed her head in silence, and finally replied to the good
chaplain:

“You are a clever man, M. Abbé; you are right. See what it is to have
knowledge! Now I repent of having repulsed the child so cruelly. Next
Palm Sunday I will not fail to carry several yards of good, warm cloth,
and nice linen, and this time, I promise you, I will not act the cruel
stepmother with the poor children who call me mother! But if that old
sot, Laramée, makes any indecent joke about me, as sure as he has eyes
I will prove to him that I have claws!”

“That would prove too much, Dame Dulceline. But, since monseigneur
does not yet return, and since we are discussing the customs of our good
old Provence, and their usefulness to poor people, come, now, what
have you observed on the day of St Lazarus, concerning the dance of St
Elmo?”

“What do you want me to tell you, M. Abbé? Now I distrust myself;
before your explanation I railed against the custom of foundlings on
Palm Sunday, now I respect it.”

“Say always, Dame Dulceline, that the sin of ignorance is excusable.
But what is your opinion concerning the dance of St Elmo?”

“Bless me, M. Abbé, I understand nothing about it! I sometimes ask
myself what is the good, the day of the feast of St. Elmo, of dressing
up, at the expense of the city or community, all the poor young boys and
girls as handsomely as possible. That is not all. Not content with that,
these young people go from house to house, among the rich citizens and
the lords, asking to borrow something. This one wants a gold necklace,
that one a pair of diamond earrings, another a silver belt, another a
hatband set with precious stones, or a sword-belt braided in gold. Ah,
well! in my opinion,--but I may change it in an hour,--M. Abbé, it is
wrong to lend all these costly articles to poor people and artisans who
have not a cent.”

“Why so? Since the feast of St. Lazarus has been celebrated here, have
you ever heard, Dame Dulceline, that any of those precious jewels have
been lost or stolen?”

“Good God in Heaven! Never, M. Abbé, neither here, nor in Marseilles,
nor in all Provence, I believe. Thank God, our youth is honest, after
all! For instance, last year Mlle. Reine loaned her Venetian girdle,
which Stephanette says cost more than two thousand crowns. Ah, well!
Thereson, the daughter of the miller at Pointe-aux-Cailles, who wore
this costly ornament during all the feast, came and brought it back
before sunset, although she had permission to keep it till night. And
for this same feast of St. Lazarus, monseigneur loaned to Pierron, the
fisherman of Maison-Forte, his beautiful gold chain, and his medallion
set with rubies, that Master Laramée cleans, as you told him to do,
with teardrops of the vine.”

“That is true; and if one can mix with these teardrops of the vine a
tear of a stag killed in venison season, Dame Dulceline, the rubies will
shine like sparks of fire.”

“Ah, well, M. Abbé, Pierron, the fisherman, brought back faithfully
that precious chain even before the appointed hour. I repeat, M. Abbé,
our youth is an honest youth, but I do not see the use of risking
the loss, not by theft, but by accident, of beautiful jewels, for the
pleasure of seeing these young people dance the old Provençal dances in
the streets and roads, to the sound of tambourines and cymbalettes and
flutes, that play the national airs, ooubados and bedocheos, until you
are deaf.”

“Ah, well, Dame Dulceline,” said Mascarolus, smiling sweetly, “you
are going to learn that you were wrong not to see in this custom, too,
a lesson and a use. When mademoiselle loaned to Thereson, the poor
daughter of a miller, a costly ornament, she showed a blind confidence
in the girl; now, Dame Dulceline, confidence begets honesty and prevents
dishonesty. That is not all; in giving Thereson the pleasure of wearing
this ornament for one day, our young mistress showed her at the same
time the charm and the nothingness of it, and then, as this pleasure is
not forbidden to the poor people, they do not look on it with jealousy.
This custom, in fact, establishes delightful relations between rich and
poor, which are based on probity, confidence, and community of interest
What do you think now of the dance of St. Elmo, Dame Dulceline?”

“I think, M. Chaplain, that, although I have no jewels but a cross and
a gold chain, I will lend them with a good heart to young Madelon, the
best worker in my laundry, on the next feast of St. Lazarus, because
every time I take this gold cross out of its box the poor girl devours
it with her eyes, and I am sure that she will be wild with joy. But I
am getting bewildered, M. Abbé; I brought some pure oil to fill the
two Christmas lamps, which mademoiselle is to light, and I was about to
forget them.”

“Speaking of oil, Dame Dulceline, do not forget to fill well with oil
that jug in which I have steeped those two beautiful bunches of grapes.
I wish to attempt the experiment cited by M. de Maucaunys.”

“What experiment, M. Abbé?”

“This erudite and veracious traveller pretends that by leaving bunches
of grapes, gathered on the day which marks the middle of September, in
a jug of pure oil for seven months, the oil will acquire such a peculiar
property that whenever it burns in a lamp whose light is thrown on the
wall or the floor, thousands of bunches of grapes will appear on this
wall or floor, perfect in colour, but as deceptive as objects painted
on glass.” Dame Dulceline was just about to testify her admiration for
the good and credulous chaplain, when she heard in the court the sound
of carriage and horses, which announced the return of Raimond V.

She disappeared precipitately. The door opened, and Raimond V. entered
the gallery with several ladies and gentlemen, friends and their wives,
who had also been present at the midnight mass in the parochial church
of La Ciotat.

The baron and the other men were in holiday attire, and the women in
that dress which going and coming on horseback rendered necessary,
inasmuch as carriages were very rare.

Although the countenance of Raimond V. was always joyous and cordial
when he welcomed his guests at Maison-Forte, an expression of sadness
from time to time now came over his features, for he had relinquished
all hope of seeing his brothers at this family festival.

The guests of the baron all admired the cradle Dame Dulceline had
prepared with so much skill, and the chaplain received the praises of
the company with as much modesty as gratitude.

Honorât de Berrol appeared more melancholy than ever.

Reine, on the contrary, realising the necessity for making him forget
the refusal of her hand, which she had at last decided upon, by means of
various evidences of kindness and friendship, treated the young man with
cousinly esteem and affection.

Nevertheless, she was conscious of a painful embarrassment; she had not
yet informed the baron of her determination not to marry Honorât
de Berrol. She had only obtained her father’s consent to have the
nuptials delayed until the return of the commander and Father Elzear,
who, from what was implied in their last letters, might arrive at any
moment.

Eulogies on the cradle seemed inexhaustible, when the baron, approaching
the company of admiring guests, said: “My opinion is, ladies, that we
had better begin the _cachofué_, for this hall is very damp and cold,
and the fire is only waiting to blaze!”

The _cachofué_, or _feu caché_, was an old Provençal ceremony, which
consisted of bringing in a Christmas log and lighting it every evening
until the New Year. This log was lighted and extinguished, so that it
would last the given time.

“Yes, yes, the _cachofué_, baron!” exclaimed the ladies, gaily.
“You are to be the actor in the ceremony, so the time to begin depends
on you.”

“Alas! my friends, I hoped indeed that this honoured ceremony of our
fathers would have been more complete, and that my brother the commander
would have brought with him my good brother Elzear. But that is not to
be thought of for this night at least.”

“The Lord grant that the commander may arrive soon with his black
galley,” said one of the ladies to the baron. “These wicked pirates,
whom we all dread, would not dare make a descent if they knew he was in
port.” “The pirates to the devil, good cousin!” cried the baron,
gaily. “The watchman is spying them from the height of Cape l’Aigle;
at his first signal all the coast will be in arms. The port of La Ciotat
is armed; the citizens and fishermen are keeping Christmas with only one
hand, they have the other on their muskets; my cannon and small guns
are loaded, and ready to fire on the entrance to the port, if these
sea-robbers dare show themselves. Manjour! my guests and cousins, if I
had obeyed the Marshal of Vitry, at this hour my house would be disarmed
and out of condition to defend the city.”

“And you did very bravely, baron,” said the lord of Signerol, “to
act as you did. Now the example has been given and the marshal will
meddle no longer with our affairs.”

“Manjour! I hope so indeed. If he does, we will meddle with his,”
 said the baron. “But where is my young comrade of the _cachofué?_”
 added he. “I am the eldest, but I must have the youngest to go for the
Christmas log.”

“Here is the dear child, father,” said Reine, leading a beautiful
boy of six years, with large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lovely curls,
up to the baron. His mother, a cousin of the baron, looked at the boy
with pride, not unmixed with fear, for she suspected that he might
not be equal to the complicated rôle necessary to be played in this
patriarchal ceremony.

“Are you sure you understand what is to be done, my little Cæsar?”
 asked the baron, bending over the little boy.

“Yes, yes, monseigneur. Last year, at grandfather’s house, I carried
the Christmas log,” replied the child, with a capable and resolute
air.

“The linnet will become a hawk, I promise you, my cousin,” said the
baron to the mother, delighted with the child’s self-confidence.

Raimond V. then took the little fellow by the hand, and, followed by his
guests, he descended to the door of Maison-Forte, which opened into the
inner court, before beginning the ceremony of the _cachofué_.

All the inmates and dependents of the castle, labourers, farmers,
fishermen, vine-dressers, servants, women, children, and old men, were
assembled in the court.

Although the light of the moon was quite bright, a large number of
torches, made of resinous wood fastened to poles, illuminated the court
and the interior buildings of Maison-Forte.

In the middle of the court were collected the combustibles necessary
to kindle an immense pile of wood, which was to be set on fire the same
moment that the _cachofué_ in the hall of the dais was lighted.

Raimond V. appeared before the assembly attended by four lackeys in
livery, who walked before him, bearing candlesticks with white wax
candles. He was followed by his family and his guests.

At the sight of the baron, cries of “Long live monseigneur!”
 resounded on all sides.

In front of the door on the ground lay a large olive-tree, the trunk and
branches. It was the Christmas log.

Abbé Mascarolus, in cassock and surplice, commenced the ceremony by
blessing the Christmas log, or the _calignaou_, as it was called in the
Provençal language; then the child approached, followed by Laramée,
who, in his costume of majordomo, bore on a silver tray a gold cup
filled with wine.

The child took the cup in his little hands and poured, three times, a
few drops of wine on the _calignaou_, or Christmas log, and recited, in
a sweet and silvery voice, the old Provençal verse, always said upon
this solemn occasion:

     “‘Allègre, Diou nous allègre,

     Cachofué ven, tou ben ven,

     Diou nous fague la grace de veire l’an que ven,

     Se si an pas mai, que signen pas men.’”


     “Oh, let us be joyful, God gives us all joy;

     Cachofué comes, and it comes all to bless;

     God grant we may live to see the New Year;

     But if we are no more, may we never be less!”

These innocent words, recited by the child with charming grace, were
listened to with religious solemnity.

Then the child wet his lips with the wine in the cup, and presented it
to Raimond V., who did likewise, and the cup passed from hand to hand,
among all the members of the baron’s family, until each one had wet
his lips with the consecrated beverage.

Then twelve foresters in holiday dress lifted the calignaou, and carried
it into the hall of the dais, while, in conformity to the law of the
ceremony, Raimond V. held in his hand one of the roots of the tree, and
the child held one of the branches; the old man saying, “Black roots
are old age,” and the child answering, “Green branches are youth,”
 and the assistants adding in chorus, “God bless us all, who love him
and serve him!”

The log, borne into the hall on the robust shoulders of the foresters,
was placed in the immense fireplace, whereupon the child took a pine
torch, and held it to a pile of fir-apples and boughs; a tall white
flame sparkled in the vast, black hearth, and threw a joyous radiance to
the farther end of the gallery.

“Christmas, Christmas!” cried the guests of the baron, clapping
their hands.

“Christmas! Christmas!” repeated the vassals assembled in the
interior court.

At the same moment, the pile of wood outside was kindled, and the tall
yellow flames mounted in the midst of enthusiastic shouts, and whirls of
a Provençal dance.

One other last ceremony was to take place, and then the guests would
gather around the supper-table.

Reine advanced to the cradle, and Stephanette brought to her a wooden
bowl filled with the corn of St. Barbara, which was already green. For
it was the custom in Provence, every fourth of December, St Barbara’s
day, to sow grains of corn in a porringer filled with earth frequently
watered. This wet earth was exposed to a very high temperature, and the
com grew rapidly. If it was green, it predicted a good harvest, if it
was yellow, the harvest would be bad.

Mlle, des Anbiez placed the wooden bowl at the foot of the cradle, and
on each side of this offering lit two little square silver lamps, called
in the Provençal tongue the lamps of Calenos, or Christmas lamps.

“St Barbara’s corn, green; fine harvests all the year!” cried
the baron: “so may my harvests and your harvests be, my guests and
cousins! Now to the table, yes, to the table, friends, and then come the
Christmas presents for friends and relations!”

Master Laramée opened the folding doors which led to the dining-room,
and announced supper. It is needless to speak of the abundance of this
meal, worthy in every respect of the hospitality of Raimond V.

What, however, we must not fail to remark, is that there were three
table-cloths, in conformity to another ancient custom.

On the smallest, which was in the middle of the table, in the style of a
centre-piece, were the presents of fruits and cakes that the members of
the family made to their head.

On the second, a little larger and lapping over the first, were arranged
the national dishes of the simplest character, such as bouillabaisse, a
fish-soup, famous in Provence, and broiled salt tunny.

Lastly, on the third cloth, which covered the rest of the table, were
the choicest dishes in abundance, and artistically arranged.

We will leave the guests of Raimond V. to the enjoyment of a patriarchal
hospitality as they discussed old customs, and grew excited over
arguments relating to freedom and ancient privileges, always so
respected and so valiantly defended by those who remain faithful to the
pathetic and religious traditions of the olden time.

That happy, peaceful evening was but too soon interrupted by the events
to which we will now introduce the reader.



CHAPTER XXX. THE ARREST

While Raimond V. and his guests were supping gaily, the company of
soldiers seen by the watchman, about fifty men belonging to the regiment
of Guitry, had arrived almost at the door of Maison-Forte.

The recorder Isnard, followed by his clerk, as usual, said to Captain
Georges, who commanded the detachment:

“It would be prudent, captain, to try a summons before attacking by
force, in order to take possession of the person of Raimond V. There are
about fifty well-armed men in his lair behind good walls.”

“Eh! what matters the walls to me?”

“But, besides the walls, there is a bridge, and you see, captain, it
is up.”

“Eh! what do I care for the bridge? If Raimond V. refuses to lower
it--ah, well, zounds! my carabineers will assault the place; that
happened more than once in the last war! If necessary, we will attach a
petard to the door, but let it be understood, recorder, that, whatever
happens, you are to follow us to make an official report.”

“Hum! hum!” grunted the man of law. “Without doubt, I and my clerk
must assist you; I shall be able, even under that circumstance, to note
the good conduct and zeal of the aforesaid clerk in charging him with
this honourable mission.”

“But, Master Isnard, that is your office, and not mine!” said the
unhappy clerk.

“Silence, my clerk, we are here before Maison-Forte. The moments are
precious. Do you prepare to follow the captain and obey me!”

The company had, in fact, reached the end of the sycamore walk, which
bordered the half-circle.

The bridge was up, and the windows opening on the interior court were
brilliant with light, as the baron’s guests had departed but a little
while.

“You see, captain, the bridge is up, and more, the moat is wide and
deep, and full of water,” said the recorder.

Captain Georges carefully examined the entrances of the place; after
a few moments of silence, he pulled his moustache on the left side
violently,--a sure sign of his disappointment.

A sentinel, standing inside the court, seeing the glitter of arms in the
moonlight, cried, in a loud voice:

“Who goes there? Answer, or I will fire!”

The recorder jumped back three steps, hid himself behind the captain,
and replied, in a high voice:

“In the name of the king and the cardinal, I, Master Isnard, recorder
of the admiralty of Toulon, command you to lower this bridge!”

“You will not depart?” said the voice. At the same time a light
shone from one of the loopholes for guns which defended the entrance. It
was easy to judge that the sentinel was blowing the match of his musket.

“Take care!” cried Isnard. “Your master will be held responsible
for what you are going to do!”

This warning made the soldier reflect; he fired his musket in the air,
at the same time crying the word of alarm in a stentorian voice.

“He has fired on the king’s soldiers!” cried the recorder, pale
with anger and fright “It is an act of armed rebellion. I saw it.
Clerk, make a note of that act!”

“No, recorder,” said the captain, “he has barked, but he has not
desired to murder. I saw the light, too, and he fired in the air to give
the alarm.”

In answer to the sentinel’s cries, several lights appeared above the
walls; numerous precipitate steps, and a great clang of arms were heard
in the court At last, Master Laramée, a helmet on his head and his
breast armed with a cuirass, appeared at one of the embrasures of the
gate.

“In the name of God, what do you want?” cried he. “Is this
the time, pray, to come here and trouble good people who are keeping
Christmas?”

“We have an order from the king which we come to put into
execution,” said the recorder, “and I--”

“I have some wine left yet in my glass, recorder; good evening, I am
going to empty it,” said Laramée, “only, remember the bulls, and
know that a musket-ball reaches farther than their horns. So, now,
good-night, recorder!” “Think well on what you are going to do,
insolent scoundrel,” said Captain Georges; “you are not dealing this
time with a wet hen of a recorder, but with a fight-ing-cock, who has a
hard beak and sharp spurs, I warn you.”

“The fact is, Master Isnard,” said the clerk, humbly, to the
recorder, “we are to this soldier what a pumpkin is to an artillery
ball.”

The recorder, already very much offended by the captain’s comparison,
rudely repulsed the clerk, and, addressing Laramée with great
importance, said:

“You have this time, at your door, the right and the power, the hand
and the sword of justice. So, majordomo, I order you to open and to
lower the bridge.”

A well-known voice interrupted the recorder; it was that of Raimond
V., who had been informed of the arrival of the captain. Escorted by
Laramée, who carried a torch, the old gentleman appeared erect upon the
little platform that formed the entablature of the gate masked by the
drawbridge.

The fluctuating light of the torch threw red reflections on the group of
soldiers, and shone upon their steel collars and iron head-pieces; half
of the scene being in the shade or lighted by the rays of the moon.

Raimond V. wore his holiday attire, richly braided with gold, and his
white hair fell over his lace collar. Nothing was more dignified, more
imposing or manly than his attitude.

“What do you want?” said he, in a sonorous voice. Master Isnard
repeated the formula of his speech, and concluded by declaring that
Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, was arrested, and would be conducted under
a safe escort to the prison of the provost of Marseilles, for the crime
of rebellion against the orders of the king.

The baron listened to the recorder in profound silence. When the man of
law had finished, cries of indignation, howls, and threats, uttered by
the dependents of the baron, resounded through the interior court.

Raimond V. turned around, commanded silence, and replied to the
recorder:

“You wished to visit my castle illegally, and to exercise in it an
authority contrary to the rights of the Provençal nobility. I drove
you away with my whip. I did what I ought to have done. Now, Manjour! I
cannot allow myself to be arrested for having done what I ought to have
done in chastising a villain of your species. Now, execute the orders
with which you are charged,--I will not prevent you, any more than I
prevented your visit to my magazine of artillery. I regret the departure
of my guests, for they also, in their name, would have protested against
the oppression of the tyranny of Marseilles.” This speech from the
baron was welcomed with cries of joy by the garrison of Maison-Forte.

Raimond V. was about to descend from his pedestal when Captain Georges,
who had the rough language and abrupt manners of an old soldier,
advanced on the other side of the moat; he took his hat in his hand, and
said to Raimond V., in a respectful tone:

“Monseigneur, I must inform you of one thing, which is, that I have
with me fifty determined soldiers, and that I am resolved, though to my
regret, to execute my orders.”

“Execute them, my brave friend,” said the baron, smiling, with a
jocose manner, “execute them. Your marshal wishes to know if my powder
is good; he instructs you to be the gunpowder prover. We will begin the
trial whenever you wish.”

“Captain, this is too much parley,” cried the recorder. “I order
you this instant to employ force of arms to take possession of this
rebel against the commands of the king, our master, and to--”

“Recorder, I have no orders to receive from you; only take care not
to put yourself between the lance and the cuirass,--you might come to
grief,” said the captain, imperiously, to Master Isnard.

Then, turning to the baron, he said, with as much firmness as deference:

“For the last time, monseigneur, I beseech you to consider well: the
blood of your vassals will flow; you are going to kill old soldiers
who have no animosity against you or yours, and all that,
monseigneur,--permit an old graybeard to speak to you frankly,--all
that because you wish to rebel against the orders of the king. May God
forgive you, monseigneur, for causing the death of so many brave men,
and me, for drawing the sword against one of the most worthy gentlemen
of the province; but I am a soldier, and I must obey the orders I have
received.”

This simple and noble language made a profound impression on Raimond V.
He bowed his head in silence, remained thoughtful for some minutes, then
he descended from the platform. Murmurs inside were distinctly heard,
dominated by the ringing voice of the baron. At the same instant the
bridge was lowered and the gate opened; Raimond V. appeared, and said to
the captain, as he offered his hand with a dignified and cordial air:

“Enter, sir, enter; you are a brave and honest soldier. Although my
head is white, it is sometimes as foolish as a boy’s. I was wrong. It
is true, you must obey the orders which have been given to you. It
is not to you, it is to the Marshal of Vitry that I should express my
opinion of his conduct toward the Provençal nobility. These brave men
ought not to be the victims of my resistance. To-morrow at the break of
day, if you will, we will depart for Marseilles.”

“Ah, monseigneur,” said the captain, pressing the hand of Raimond
V. with emotion, and bowing with respect, “it is now that I really
despair of the mission that I am to fulfil.”

The baron was about to reply to the captain when a distant, but dreadful
noise rose on the air, attracting the attention of all those who filled
the court of Maison-Forte. It was like the hollow roar of the sea in its
fury.

Suddenly a tremendous light illuminated the horizon in the direction of
La Ciotat, and the bells of the convent and the church began to sound
the alarm.

The first idea that entered the baron’s mind was that the city was on
fire.

“Fire!” cried he, “La Ciotat is on fire! Captain, you have my
word, I am your prisoner, but let us run to the city. You with your
soldiers, I with my people, we can be useful there.”

“I am at your orders, monseigneur.”

At that moment the prolonged, reverberating sound of artillery made the
shore tremble with its echoes, and shook the windows of Maison-Forte.

“Cannon! Those are the pirates! The watchman to the devil for allowing
us to be surprised! The pirates! To arms, captain! to arms! These demons
are attacking the city. Laramée, my sword! Captain, to horse! to horse!
You can take me prisoner to-morrow, but to-night let us run to defend
this unfortunate city.”

“But, monseigneur, your house--”

“The devil take them if they venture here! Laramée and twenty men
could defend it against an entire army. But this unfortunate city is
surprised. Quick! to horse! to horse!”

The roar of the artillery became more and more frequent. All the
bells were ringing,--a deep rumbling sound reached as far as
Maison-Forte,--and the flames increased in number and intensity.

Laramée, in all haste, brought the baron’s helmet and cuirass.
Raimond V. took the helmet, but would not hear of the cuirass.

“Manjour! what time have I to fasten that paraphernalia? Quick, bring
Mistraon to me,” cried he, running to the stable.

He found Mistraon bridled, but, seeing that it required some time to
saddle him, he mounted the horse barebacked, told Laramée to keep
twenty men for the defence of Maison-Forte, commended his daughter to
his care, and took, in hot haste, the road to La Ciotat.



CHAPTER XXXI. THE DESCENT

As the baron and the captain approached the city, they saw the whirlwind
of flames more distinctly.

The bells continued to ring at random; a thousand cries, more or less
distinct, mingled with the bursts of musketry and the roar of artillery
from the galleys.

When they arrived behind the walls of the Ursuline convent, situated at
the extreme end of the city, Raimond V. said: “Captain, let us halt
here a moment to collect our people and agree upon operations. Manjour!
I feel young again; the blood thickens in my veins. I have not felt
that since the wars of Piedmont; it is because a pirate is worse than a
foreigner, and in the civil wars, a man’s heart is oppressed in
spite of himself. Silence!” said the baron to his troops as he turned
around. “Let us hear where the firing comes from.”

After listening closely for some minutes, he said to the captain:
“Will you listen to my counsel?”

“I will follow your orders, monseigneur, for I am not well acquainted
with La Ciotat.”

Then, addressing one of his men, Raimond V. said: “Do you conduct the
captain and his soldiers to the port, going around the city so as not
to be seen. When you are there, captain, if there are any more demons
to land, you will drive them back to their galleys; if they have all
disembarked, do you wait until they return, so as to cut off their
retreat; during that time, I will try to beat them up for you like a
herd of wild boars.”

“In what part of the city do you think they are, monseigneur?”

“As far as I can judge by the noise of the musketry, they are in
the town-hall square, occupied in plundering the houses of the richest
citizens. They will not dare venture farther in, as no doubt they are
in communication with the port by a little street which goes from that
place to the wharf. So, then, captain, to the port,--to the port! let us
rather throw these villains back into the sea, than into their vessels.
If God gives me life I will expect you at Maison-Forte after the affair,
for I do not forget that I am your prisoner. To the port, captain! to
the port!”

“Count on me, monseigneur,” said the captain, hastening his march in
the direction indicated.

“Now, my children,” said the baron, “keep silence, and let us
hurry to the town hall, and put all these brigands to the sword. Our
Lady! and forward!” Raimond V. then descended from his horse, and
entered the streets of La Ciotat at the head of a determined body of
men, full of confidence in their leader.

As Raimond V. approached the centre of action, he recognised, here
and there, women who uttered heartrending cries, as they ran in the
direction of the mountain, followed by their weeping children, and
carrying on their heads their most precious possessions.

In other places, priests and distracted monks, seized with the panic
of terror, had left their houses, where they were peaceably keeping
Christmas, and were running to throw themselves at the foot of the
church altar.

In many deserted streets, armed men stood at their windows, resolved
to defend their houses and their families to the utmost, and were
thoroughly prepared to give the pirates a vigorous reception.

Clouds of sparks and cinders were encountered by the resolute troops
as they steadily marched, and the whirling flames made the streets they
crossed as bright as broad day.

At last they reached the square, and, as the baron had foreseen, the
principal action was on that side of the town.

The pirates rarely ventured into the streets remote from the coast, for
fear of being cut off from their vessels.

It is impossible to paint the spectacle which struck Raimond V. with
horror. By the light of the dazzling flames, he saw a part of the
pirates engaged in a bloody combat with a number of fishermen and
citizens entrenched in the upper story of the town hall.

Other corsairs, thinking only of plunder,--these belonged to the galley
of Trimalcyon,--ran like so many demons across the conflagration they
had kindled, some laden with costly articles, and others bearing in
their robust arms women and young girls, who uttered shrieks of agony
and terror.

The ground was already strewn with bodies riddled with wounds,
unfortunate victims who at least bore testimony to a desperate
resistance on the part of the inhabitants.

Near the middle of the square, and not far from the little street which
conducted to the port, could be seen a confused mass of all sorts of
objects guarded by two Moors.

The pirates increased this pile of plunder every moment, by coming there
and throwing down additional booty, then returning to pillage and murder
with renewed ardour.

The number of brave sailors and citizens, who were defending themselves
in the town hall, began to diminish sensibly under the blows of the
spahis of Pog, who thirsted far more for blood than for pillage.

Armed with a hatchet, Pog attacked the door with fury, voluntarily
exposing his life. He wore neither helmet nor cuirass, and was only
clothed in his yellek of black velvet.

At the height of this attack Raimond V. arrived on the square.

His troops announced their presence by a general discharge of musketry
on the assailants of the town hall.

The pirates, attacked unawares, turned and threw themselves in a rage
against the soldiers of the baron. Each side then abandoned firearms.
A hand to hand struggle ensued; the conflict became bloody, terrible
beyond words to describe. The band of Trimalcyon, seeing this unexpected
reinforcement, left their pillage and rallied around Fog’s pirates,
surrounding the little company of Raimond V., who was performing
prodigies of valour.

The old gentleman seemed to recover the strength of the years of his
youth. Armed with a heavy boar-spear, which was provided with a sharp
and well-tempered bayonet, he employed this murderous weapon, both lance
and club, with tremendous power, and although his helmet was broken in
several places and his sword-belt covered with blood, Raimond V., in his
enthusiasm as a warrior, did not feel his wounds.

Carried along on the wave of battle, Pog suddenly found himself face to
face with the baron. His pale, haughty face, his long red beard, were
too conspicuous not to have made a lively impression on Raimond V.

He recognised in this pirate one of the two strangers who accompanied
Erebus, at the time of the meeting in the gorges of Ollioules.

“It is the Muscovite who accompanied the brave young man to whom I
owe my life,” cried Raimond V.; then he added, as he lifted his spear:
“Ah! wild bear, you come from the ice of the north to ravage our
provinces!”

And with these words Raimond V. aimed a terrible blow full in the
breast. Pog avoided the blow by a quick movement in retreat, but his arm
was run through.

“I am a Frenchman, like you,” cried the renegade, with a brutal
sneer, “and it is French blood for which I thirst! That your death may
be more bitter, know that your daughter is in my power!”

At these terrible words, the baron stood for a moment, bewildered.

Pog profited by his inaction to strike him a terrible blow on the head
with his battle-axe. The baron’s helmet had already been broken; he
staggered a moment like a drunken man, then fell unconscious.

“Another one of these Provençal bulls killed!” cried Pog,
brandishing his battle-axe.

“Let us avenge our lord!” cried the people of Raimond V., hurling
themselves at the pirates with such fury that they drove them back into
the little street which led to the port.

Soon, reinforced by the sailors who had been besieged in the town hall,
and whom the attack of Raimond V. had just delivered, they had such
a decided advantage over the pirates, that the trumpets of the latter
sounded a retreat.

At this signal, a part of the brigands formed in good order in the
middle of the square, under the command of Pog. Then they made a
vigorous resistance so as to give the other pirates time to transport
their booty on board the galleys, and to drag to these vessels the men
and women they had captured.

Remaining master of the position that he had defended, Pog covered the
entrance of the little street leading to the port, and thus assured the
retreat of the band of Trimalcyon, occupied in dragging the captives on
board the galleys.

Pog, yielding the ground to his enemies, foot by foot, fell back into
the little street, sure that his communication with the port and
the galleys could not be intercepted, and that he could effect his
reëmbarkation without danger. The street was so narrow that twenty
determined men could defend it against ten times the number.

The rumour of the pirates’ retreat was spread through the city, and
all the inhabitants who, entrenched in their houses, either from fear or
a desire to watch over their dearest interests, had not dared to venture
out, now rushed into the streets and joined the combatants, whose number
increased in proportion as that of the pirates diminished.

Pog, although wounded in the head and arm, continued his retreat with
rare intrepidity.

He was only a few steps from what he believed to be a place of safety.
It proved to be otherwise.

The freebooters, who had directed their steps toward the port, in order
to regain their galleys, fell into the ambuscade of Captain Georges.

Vigorously attacked by these fresh troops, the pirates fell into
disorder in the little street, at the very moment when Pog entered it
at the opposite end. Thus, caught in this narrow way, the two outlets
of which were obstructed by assailants, the pirates found themselves
between two fires.

From the side of the square they were attacked by the baron’s troops;
from the side of the port, by the carabineers of Captain Georges.

Trimalcyon remained on board his galley, having that of Pog temporarily
under his orders. At some distance from the quay, he awaited the return
of the long-boats, which were to bring on board the booty and the
pirates.

One of their number, throwing himself in the water, went to inform him
of the danger which threatened his companions. Then Trimalcyon resorted
to extreme measures. He had the irons removed from a part of the crew,
armed them, and approached his galleys so near the quay that their
beak-heads served as a landing-place, and at the head of this
reinforcement, he, uttering a wild cry, threw himself upon the soldiers
of Captain Georges, who in his turn found himself between two fires.
Fog’s company, which had kept the street, sure of being supported,
made a last effort against the carabineers, already attacked behind
by Trimalcyon, cut their way through, operating in union with
Trimalcyon’s men, and after a great loss, succeeded in gaining their
vessels, carrying with them several prisoners, among whom were Master
Isnard and his clerk.

The boldest of the sailors and citizens, and almost all of the
carabineers of Captain Georges, jumped into their boats to pursue the
pirates.

Unfortunately the advantage was on the side of the galleys.

Their ten pieces of artillery struck the boats which tried to approach
them. Then the galley, by vigorous use of oars, rapidly gained the
outlet of the port, and prepared to double the point of Verte Island.

Pog was standing in the stem of the Red Galleon; he was pale, his hair
and his clothes were full of blood; he threw a look of sullen triumph on
the flames which continued to rise in the centre of the city.

Suddenly a cannon-shot resounded; a ball whistled above his head, and
carried off a part of his galley’s stem. He turned around quickly.
A second ball killed four of the galley-slaves and tore away the first
seat of the rowers.

By a little cloud of whitish smoke which crowned the embattled terrace
of Maison-Forte, that could be seen in the distance by moonlight, the
pirate recognised the spot whence these projectiles were sent.

From his acquaintance with the habits of war, he perceived, from the
great distance at which these missiles were fired, that they must have
been shot by a culverin of large calibre, and consequently he could not
return the fire, as the artillery of the _Red Galleon_ was unable to
carry to such a distance.

These first shots were followed by several others, not less happy, which
caused considerable damage either on board the _Red Galleon_ or the
_Sybarite_.

“Hell and damnation!” cried Pog. “So long as we do not double the
point of the bay, we will be under the fire of that hovel! Ply your oars
faster, dogs,” cried he, addressing the crew. “Ply your oars faster,
I tell you, or when I reach Tripoli, I will have your arms cut off to
the shoulder!”

The crew had no need of that encouragement to redouble their efforts;
the dead bodies of slaves killed by the cannon-balls, and still chained
to the benches where their companions were rowing, proved to them the
danger of remaining under the fire of that murderous culverin.

That piece, however, continued to aim with such marvellous accuracy,
that it sent several balls on board the two galleys.

“Death and fury!” cried Pog, “once out of this channel I will go
and anchor at the foot of the rocks within half-range of the musket,
and there shall not remain one stone on another of the house where that
culverin is in battery.”

“Impossible, Captain Pog,” said a Frenchman, a renegade Provençal,
who served as pilot. “The Black Rocks extend between wind and water
more than half a league from the coast, and you would be sure to lose
your galley, if you tried to come nearer to Maison-Forte.”

The pirate made a gesture of rage, and promenaded the deck in great
agitation.

Finally the two galleys got out of the dangerous pass where they had
been caught.

The artillery of Maison-Forte had disabled many men, and had damaged
them to such a degree that they would be compelled to anchor promptly
in some harbour on the coast, before they would be able to set sail for
Tripoli.

The _Sybarite_ had received several shots below her water-line, and the
_Red Galleon_ had her tree cut in two.

When they had doubled the promontory of Cape l’Aigle, the master
carpenter of the galley, a renegade Calabrian, a good sailor and a man
of great courage, came forward with a solemn air to Pog-Reis, and said:
“Captain, I have daubed as much as I possibly can the damages in the
peel, but they are too large, and a thorough refitting is absolutely
necessary, for if we have stormy weather, we will not stand the sea two
hours with such injuries.”

Pog made no reply, but continued walking the deck with agitation; then
he called the pilot and said to him: “Can we not anchor a day or two
in the islands of Ste. Marguerite or St Honorât? They say these islands
are not armed. You left the coast a year ago; is it true?”

“It is true,” answered the pilot “There ought to be good
anchorage in the isles of Pieres and St. Feriol, on the windward of St.
Honorât?” asked Pog, who was acquainted with these islands.

“Yes, captain, the coast is so high, and the harbour so protected
by the rocks which form these islands, that the galleys will be hidden
better there than at Port-Cros.”

“There are not, I believe, fifty inhabitants on the island?” asked
Pog.

“Not more, captain, and twenty men at the outside; there is besides a
very convenient shore for careening the ship.”

“Then steer for those islands; we ought to be about twenty-five
leagues distant.”

“Thirty leagues, captain.”

“That is a great deal for the damage we have sustained, but it is,
however, our surest place to put in. We will be there in a day if the
wind is favourable.”

The galley of Trimalcyon, as well as the chebec, followed the manoeuvres
of the _Red Galleon_, and the three vessels crowded sail toward the
island of St Honorât, situated on the coast of Provence, a short
distance from Cannes.

These orders given, Pog estimated the losses sustained by his crew; they
were quite numerous. Sixteen soldiers had been killed in La Ciotat, and
there were a great many wounded men on board.

Besides, the culverin of Maison-Forte had, as we have seen, killed four
of the galley-slaves.

They unchained the bodies and threw them into the sea, and replaced them
with five soldiers.

The wounded were more or less cared for by a Moor, who performed the
functions of surgeon.

Pog had two wounds; one in the head, the other in the arm.

The baron’s spear had given this last wound, which was very deep, but
the one in his head was comparatively insignificant.

The Moor who discharged the duties of surgeon had just completed the
first dressing of these wounds, when the chebec of Erebus, under full
sail, approached the galley of Pog, and ranged herself within reach of
his voice.



CHAPTER XXXII. THE CHEBEC

We will now retrace our steps in order to inform the reader what were
the manoeuvres of this chebec, during the attack on La Ciotat, in which
it took no part. We will also tell how Reine des Anbiez fell into the
power of Erebus.

The Bohemian, after having put the watchman to sleep by means of a
narcotic, descended to the shore, and reached the point of land behind
which the galleys and the chebec of the pirates awaited his arrival,
conformable to the instructions he had sent to Pog-Reis by a second
pigeon.

Hadji, in spite of the cold, bravely plunged into the water and soon
reached the _Red Galleon_, which was resting on her oars a little
distance from the coast.

After a long conversation with Pog-Reis, to whom he gave the necessary
information to assure the success of his descent upon La Ciotat, the
Bohemian, following the orders of Pog, returned on board the chebec
commanded by Erebus.

This vessel was to take no part in the action, but was to approach
Maison-Forte in order to assist in the abduction of Reine des Anbiez.

As soon as the young girl was in the power of Erebus, the chebec had the
order, to give the signal, upon which the galleys of the pirates would
begin their attack upon the city.

During the combat the chebec was to serve as light-ship and cruiser at
large, so as to give the alarm to the pirates if by chance the royal
galleys of the Duke de Brézé appeared in the west.

These plans agreed upon, the chebec, separating herself from the
galleys, and doubling the promontory, under the guidance of the
Bohemian, who was well acquainted with the localities, advanced toward
the belt of rocks which extended at the foot of Maison-Forte.

As a consequence of his conversation with Pog the day before, Erebus had
taken a fit of the most profound sadness.

In one of those frequent and bitter moments of introspection, he had
seen his conduct in its true light; he was moved to pity as he thought
of the misfortunes soon to befall this defenceless city, and when the
posts of action were being distributed, he had formally declared to Pog
that he would take no part in this new deed of robbery.

Pog, who always urged him to evil, did not oppose this resolution,
but even encouraged it, and advised Erebus to take advantage of this
opportunity to abduct Mile, des Anbiez.

As a necessary sequence he left him all liberty of manoeuvre to execute
this project.

Erebus accepted; he had his designs.

Since his first singular meeting with Reine, since, especially, the
report of Hadji had made him believe that he was loved, his passion for
the young girl had increased with each day of his life.

The Bohemian, in praising to him the sweetness, the charms, the mind,
and the loftiness of character possessed by Mlle, des Anbiez, had
aroused in his soul the noblest although the most undefined hopes.

His last conversation with Pog decided him to risk everything to realise
those hopes.

He had often heard Pog give vent to his cruel misanthropy, but never had
the wickedness of the man, the baseness of the motives which instigated
and controlled his actions, been so revealed, and finding he was not
bound to him by any tie which demanded his respect, he resolved to avail
himself of the first opportunity which offered to escape his influence.

He affected, then, some hours before the enterprise which was designed
to lay La Ciotat in ruins, a brutal and licentious gaiety.

Pog was, or appeared to be, the dupe of these demonstrations. As we have
said, he gave Erebus entire liberty to conduct the abduction of Reine,
and Erebus, eager to profit from this permission, confided his plans to
Hadji, from whom he received valuable suggestions.

Doubtless his action was criminal, but the unhappy young man, reared, as
we may say, outside the pale of society, knowing only the intensity
of his own desires, loving passionately and believing himself not
less passionately loved, could not hesitate a moment before this
determination.

As soon as they came in sight of Maison-Forte, the chebec lay to, and
Erebus descended into a small boat with Hadji and four capable rowers.

The Bohemian had profited from his sojourn on the coast, and thus
directed the little craft across the reefs and quicksands until it was
moored under the shelter of a rock.

At this moment the guests of Raimond V. had just left him, the Christmas
feast being ended, and the recorder Isnard, assisted by Captain Georges,
had not arrived to arrest the old gentleman.

Erebus, Hadji, and the four rowers landed and cautiously advanced to the
foot of the embattled walls of Maison-Forte.

It will be remembered that the Bohemian had often scaled these walls in
order to exhibit his agility before the eyes of Stephanette and Reine.

The moon was shining, but the shadow projected by the massive buildings
of Maison-Forte had covered the descent and march of the six pirates.

A sentinel who promenaded the terrace perceived nothing.

The windows in the gallery of the castle flamed with light, but those
belonging to Reine’s oratory were dark.

Hadji thought very naturally that Mlle, des Anbiez had not yet retired
to her apartments.

He proposed to Erebus to wait until Reine should return to her oratory,
then scale the wall, stab the sentinel, and, once masters of the
terrace, climb up to the balcony as he had often done during his stay at
Maison-Forte.

The window could be broken open, and the cries of Mlle, des Anbiez could
be stifled by gagging her. The descent from the window to the terrace
was comparatively easy, and from the terrace to the rocks. The girl
could be carried down by mean of a sort of girdle, contrived for the
landing or embarking of recalcitrant slaves, with which the Bohemian was
provisionally furnished.

In case of alarm, the pirates relied upon their address and intrepidity
to make good their escape to the boat before the inmates of Maison-Forte
could reach them.

The plan was accepted by Erebus, who only opposed the murder of the
sentinel. To that he would not give his consent.

The four pirates then prepared to scale the walls, leaving two rowers in
the boat. The sentinel was walking on the side opposite to that on which
they intended to climb to the terrace.

Hadji, followed by one of his companions, climbed the wall with the aid
of holes which time had worn, and the long branches of ivy which had
taken root in the hollows of the stones.

Having reached the summit of the wall, the pirates perceived, to their
great joy, that the sentry-box stood between them and the sentinel, and
thus hid them from his view.

The moment was critical. They leaped upon the platform of the
fortification. At the instant in which the soldier in his regular march
returned to the sentry-box, Hadji and his companion threw themselves on
him with the rapidity of lightning.

Hadji placed his two hands over the sentinel’s mouth, while his
companion seized his musket; then, by the aid of a gag, called by the
pirates a tap, with which the Bohemian was provided, they soon stopped
his cries, and fastened his limbs firmly with a long cotton cloth, which
they wound around him.

Then Hadji threw a rope ladder to Erebus, who in a moment mounted to the
terrace. It was then about one o’clock in the morning.

Hadji knew that the post would not be relieved until two o’clock.

Suddenly a light shone from the windows of Reine’s oratory.

Hidden in the shadow of the sentry-box, Hadji and Erebus deliberated a
moment upon what they must do, to accomplish their purpose.

The Bohemian proposed to scale the balcony alone, as its length exceeded
by far the breadth of the window-casement, and there to hide and spy
through the glass panes, in order to learn the most propitious moment
for acting, which he would signify to Erebus by a sign.

The latter adopted the plan, but insisted upon taking part in it.

Hadji climbed up the first, threw the rope ladder to Erebus, and both
lay in ambuscade on each side of the casement.

Erebus was just about to look through the panes, when the window-blinds,
which were on the outside, opened softly, and Reine walked out on the
balcony.

Thus Erebus and Hadji found themselves concealed from sight.

The young girl, sad and anxious, wished to enjoy for awhile the beauty
of the night.

Time was precious, and the opportunity favourable, and the same idea
entered the minds of the Bohemian and Erebus.

Quickly closing the window-blinds behind Reine, they seized her before
she was able to utter a cry.

Imagine her fright, her anguish, when she recognised in her ravisher the
stranger of the rocks of Ollioules!

Erebus, in the feeble struggle which occurred between him and the
unhappy girl, employed every possible means to prevent violence or
injury to the one he loved.

In less time than it requires to write it, Mlle, des Anbiez was
surrounded with the girdle, which rendered her incapable of movement.

Erebus, not able to use his hands in descending the rope ladder, since
he carried Reine in his arms, made Hadji fasten a rope around his body;
as he descended each step of the ladder, the Bohemian let the rope slip
softly so as to sustain the ravisher; finally, with Reine in his arms,
Erebus reached the foot of the wall.

Hadji, in his turn, was just about to leave the balcony, when
Stephanette entered the chamber, crying: “Mademoiselle! mademoiselle!
the recorder and his soldiers have come to arrest monseigneur!” For at
that moment Master Isnard and Captain Georges had arrived at the castle.

Not finding her mistress in her chamber, and seeing the window open,
Stephanette ran thither.

The Bohemian, seeing the danger to which he was exposed by the presence
of Stephanette, hid himself again.

The girl, astonished not to find her mistress, went out on the balcony.
The Bohemian softly shut the window behind her, and put his hand over
her mouth.

Although surprised and frightened, Stephanette made bold efforts to
deliver herself from the pirate, who, scarcely able to hold her, cried
in a low voice to Erebus:

“Help! help! This she devil is as strong as a little demon; she bites
like a wildcat If she cries, all is lost!”

Erebus, not willing to leave Reine, ordered the other pirate to go to
the help of Hadji.

In fact, Stephanette, much more robust than her mistress, and having
habits calculated to develop her strength, made a heroic and vigorous
resistance; she even succeeded in making use of her pretty teeth, to
make Hadji relinquish his prize, and in uttering a few cries.

Unfortunately, the window was closed and her calls for help were not
heard.

The second pirate came to the aid of the Bohemian, and, in spite of her
efforts, the betrothed of the worthy Captain Trinquetaille shared the
fate of her mistress, and was lowered down to the terrace with much less
ceremony.

Having gained the platform of the rampart, the enterprise met with no
other serious difficulty, and the two young girls were carried down
the length of the wall with the same means and precautions which
accomplished their descent from the balcony.

Erebus and Hadji gained the long-boat which awaited them, and the two
captives were on board the chebec without a suspicion having entered the
thought of a single inmate of Maison-Forte.

All, up to that time, had transpired according to the will of Erebus.

Reine and Stephanette, released from their bonds, were respectfully
deposited in the cabin of the chebec, which Erebus had arranged with the
most scrupulous care.

The first feeling of alarm and amazement past, Reine recovered her
wonted firmness and dignity of character.

Stephanette, on the contrary, after having valiantly resisted, yielded
to a grief which was nothing less than desperate.

When Erebus presented himself, she threw herself on her knees before
him, weeping in anguish.

Reine preserved a gloomy silence, and did not deign even to look at her
captor.

Erebus then began to be frightened at the success of his venture. He
was still under the influence of good and bad instincts which struggled
within him for mastery. He was not an audacious ravisher; he was a timid
child.

The sullen silence, the dignified and grieved manner of Reine, impressed
him and pained him at the same time.

Hadji, during the whole time of their fatal expedition, had constantly
repeated to Erebus that Reine loved him passionately, and that the first
moment of shame and anger past, he would find the young girl full
of tenderness and even gratitude. Making one courageous effort, he
approached Reine with an insolent ease of manner and said to her:

“After the storm, the sunshine. To-morrow you will think only of the
song of the emir, and my love will dry your tears.”

As he said these words, he tried to take one of Reine’s hands, which
she kept over her face.

“Wretch! do not come near me!” cried she, repulsing him with horror,
and looking at him so disdainfully that Erebus did not dare take another
step.

A veil fell from his eyes. The accent, the emotion, the indignation of
Reine were so sincere that, in an instant, he lost all hope. He saw, or
rather believed, that he had been grossly deceived, that the young girl
had no affection for him.

In his painful surprise, he fell on his knees before Reine and, with
clasped hands, cried, in a pathetic voice:

“You do not love me then?”

“You--you---”

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, mademoiselle,” continued Erebus, on his
knees, with his hands clasped, and he added with charming ingenuousness:
“My God! forgive me, I thought you loved me. Ah, well! no, no, do
not be angry! I believed it,--the Bohemian told me so; if he had not, I
should never have done what I have done.”

But for the gravity of the occasion, one would have laughed to see this
young pirate, lately so bold, so resolute, trembling and lowering his
eyes before the angry glance of Reine.

Stephanette, struck with this contrast, in spite of her grief, could not
help saying:

“Why, to hear him, one would think it was the waggish trick of a page,
about some stolen ribbon or bouquet! Fie, fie, sir, you are a pagan, a
monster!”

“Ah, how dreadful--how dreadful! And my father, my poor father!”
 cried Reine, bursting into tears.

This sincere sorrow tore the heart of Erebus; he felt the whole extent
of his crime.

“Oh! for pity--for pity’s sake, do not weep so!” cried he, his own
eyes full of tears. “I see my wrongs now. Tell me, what do you wish
me to do to expiate them? I will do it,--command me,’--my life is
yours.” “Then send me back to my father, this very instant. My
father, my father! if he knows of this capture, what a terrible blow
for him! It is a crime for which you will always have to reproach
yourself.”

“Spurn me,--I deserve it,--but at least do not forget that I saved the
life of your father.”

“And what matters that, since you have saved it only to make him so
wretched now? I shall think of you henceforth, not to bless you, but to
curse you--”

“No, no!” cried Erebus, rising to his feet. “No, you will not
curse me! You will say, yes, you will soon say that your words have
snatched an unhappy soul from the abyss which was about to engulf it for
ever. Listen to me. This city is now happy and peaceful. The pirates
are near: let the signal be given from this chebec,--death, pillage, and
flames will desolate this coast--”

“My God! my God! oh, my father!” cried Reine.

“Take courage, that signal shall not be given. I will save this city.
You are in my power, and this very hour, I will have you carried back
to land. Ah, well, then say--oh, say, if I do that,” implored Erebus,
with profound sadness, “will you think of me sometimes without anger
and without contempt?”

“I will never thank God, for having restored me to my father, without
thinking with gratitude of the saviour of the Baron des Anbiez,” said
Reine, with dignity.

“And Erebus shall be worthy of your remembrance!” cried the young
pirate. “I am going now to prepare for your departure, and I shall
return for you.”

He went up on deck in haste. The chebec was lying to. The two galleys
could be seen in the distance. Although the chebec belonged to Pog-Reis,
Erebus had commanded the vessel for three years. He believed that he had
won the affection of the whole crew. When he reached the deck, he saw
Hadji in the act of lighting a fuse, the signal agreed upon between Pog
and Erebus, to announce that Mlle, des Anbiez was on board the chebec,
and therefore the attack on La Ciotat could begin.

“Stop,” said Erebus to Hadji, “do not give the signal yet. For
a long time you have been devoted to me; today, especially, you have
served me faithfully. Listen to me now.”

“Speak quickly, Lord Erebus, for Pog-Reis is waiting for the signal,
and if I delay to give it, he will make me ride the chase-gun on his
galley, with a ball on each foot to hold me in position.”

“If you obey me, you will have nothing to fear. This life of murder
and robbery is hateful to me; the men that I command are less brutal
than their companions; they love me; they have confidence in me; I can
propose to them to abandon the galleys. The chebec is superior to
the galleys in speed. After the expedition of which I will tell you
presently, we will set sail for the East,--the Grecian Archipelago; when
we arrive at Smyrna, we will put ourselves in the pay of the bey, and
instead of being pirates, we will become soldiers; instead of cutting
the throats of merchants on the deck of their vessels, we will fight
men. Will you second me?” Hadji had kept the lighted match in
his hand; holding it to his mouth, he brightened the flame with
imperturbable coolness, and said to Erebus:

“Are those all the plans you have, Lord Erebus?”

“No, they are not all. To prevent the new crimes contemplated by
Pog-Reis, we are going to approach the galleys under full sail, and cry
with fright that we have just seen, on the horizon, the fires of the
king’s galleys. They know that the galleys of the King of France are
at Marseilles, and dread their coming, and so will easily believe
us. Pog-Reis will take flight before these superior forces, and this
unfortunate city will escape, at least for this time, the horrible
fate which threatens it. Ah, well, what do you say to my plan? You have
influence over the crew, second me.”

Hadji blew his match again, looked at Erebus steadily, and for reply,
before the latter could prevent it, set fire to the fuse which was to
serve as a signal for the attack of the pirates.

The fatal light darted into space like a meteor.

“Wretch!” cried Erebus, throwing himself on Hadji with rage.

Hadji, with strength superior to that of the young man, wrested himself
from his hands, and said to him, with mingled irony, respect, and
affection:

“Listen, Lord Erebus; neither I nor these brave men have any desire to
exchange our liberty for the discipline of the bey’s soldiers. The sea
in all its immensity is ours; we would be the proud courser that has the
limitless desert for his career, rather than the blindfolded horse
that turns the machinery to draw water from a well. Now the service of
beyliks, compared to our adventurous life, is nothing more. In a word,
we are devils, and we are not old enough yet to become hermits, as the
Christians say. Our trade pleases us. We will not give up liberty for a
prison.”

“So be it; you are a hardened villain, I believed you had nobler
sentiments. But so much the worse for you; the crew is attached to me,
they will listen to me and will give me a strong hand to get rid of you,
if you dare oppose my plans.”

“By Eblis! what are you saying, Lord Erebus?” cried the Bohemian,
with an ironical air. “You treat me so, I, who, to serve you, sang to
your lady-love the song of the emir! I, who demeaned myself to the low
trade of a tinker! I, who defiled myself by helping Dame Dulceline raise
a sort of altar to the God of the Christians! I, who, to serve you, set
the foot of the greyhound belonging to Raimond V. and even consented to
shoe the old sot’s horse!”

“Be silent, you scoundrel! not a word more of that unhappy father to
whom I have given such a cruel blow! Reflect well, I am going to speak
to the crew, whatever it may cost me; there is still time for you to
rally to my aid and become an honest man.”

“Listen, my Lord Erebus; you propose to me to become an honest man.
I shall reply to you as a poet and a tinker. When for years a thick and
corrosive rust has accumulated on a copper vase, and this rust has been
bronzed by fire, you may rub a thousand years and more without giving
back to this vase its original purity and brilliancy, and at last
succeed in making it a little less black only than the wings of Eblis!
Ah, well! such as we, I and my companions, we are bronzed by evil.
Do not try to entice us to good. You will be neither understood nor
obeyed.”

“I shall not be understood, perhaps, but I shall be obeyed.”

“You will not be obeyed if your orders are contrary to certain
instructions given by Pog-Reis to the crew before departing from
Port-Cros.”

“Instructions? You lie like a dog!”

“Listen, my Lord Erebus,” said Hadji, with unalterable coolness;
“although I do not wish to enter into the good road, I love you in my
fashion, and I would wish to prevent your taking a false step. Pog-Reis,
after a certain conversation with you, which he told me, distrusts you.
A little while ago, when on the height of Cape l’Aigle, where I put
the old watchman to sleep, I saw our galleys coming, I descended to
the shore and went on board the _Red Galleon_, and there I had a secret
conversation about you with Pog-Reis.” “Traitor! why have you
concealed that from me?” “The wise man hides three things for every
two he tells. Pog-Reis told me he had informed the crew, and he did
inform me that the orders which he had given you were these: carry off
the young girl, give a signal that the abduction has been successful,
then cruise around La Ciotat while the galleys are attacking that swarm
of fat citizens; lastly, watch that our men are not surprised by the
galleys of the King of France, coming from the west,--is that true?”

“That is true.”

“Ah, well, then, Lord Erebus, I tell you that if the orders you are
going to give are contrary to those, they will not listen to you.”

“That is a lie!”

“Try it.”

“This very instant,” said Erebus, and turning to the steersman and
sailors who awaited his orders, he commanded them to make a manoeuvre
which would bring the chebec nearer to Maison-Forte.

What was his astonishment when, instead of executing his orders, he
saw the steersman and sailors, at a sign from Hadji, make a contrary
manoeuvre, which brought the chebec nearer the place of action.

“You refuse to obey me!” cried Erebus.

“Ah, well! Lord Erebus, what did I tell you?”

“Not a word from you, scoundrel!”

Erebus tried in vain to shake the fidelity of the sailors; whether from
terror, or the habit of passive obedience, or from the love of their
gross and licentious life, they remained faithful to the orders they had
received.

Erebus bowed his head in despair.

“Since you are the commander of this chebec,” said he to Hadji, with
a bitter smile, “then I address you to have the sails put back, and
have the long-boat which is in tow brought to the side of the vessel.”

“You are the captain here, Lord Erebus; order, without going contrary
to the commands of Pog-Reis,--and I will be the first to haul the
rigging or turn the helm.”

“A truce to words; then have the long-boat manned with four men.”

“Bring the chebec’s sails back? Nothing prevents that,” said Hadji.
“Watch is kept as well standing still as moving about, and from time
to time the sentinel stops. As to manning the long-boat, that will be
done when I know your intention.”

Erebus stamped his foot impatiently.

“My intention is to conduct these two young girls back to land.”

“Throw back the pearl of the gulf on a savage coast!” cried the
Bohemian, “when she is in your power, when you are loved, when--”

“Be silent and obey! That, I think, is my personal affair, and
Pog-Reis shall not force me to abduct a woman, if I do not wish to do
it.”

“That abduction is a personal affair to Pog-Reis also, Lord Erebus. I
cannot order the long-boat to be manned.”

“What do you mean?” cried the young man, almost in fright.

“Pog-Reis is an old stager, Lord Erebus. He knows that, in spite of
his strength and courage, the tiger can fall, as well as the stupid
buffalo, in the snare that the artful trapper has set for his steps.
Eblis has shaken his wings over La Ciotat; the flames crackle, the
cannon thunder, the musketry flashes; our people are glutting themselves
with pillage and putting the Christians in chains,--that is well. But
suppose Pog-Reis, suppose Trimalcyon-Reis should be surprised and taken
prisoners by these dogs of Christians! Suppose our people should be
obliged to fly back to their galleys and abandon the prisoners, Pog and
Trimalcyon, to be quartered and burned as renegades--”

“Will you finish, say, will you finish?”

“By keeping the pearl of La Ciotat, Reine des Anbiez, as hostage,
until the end of the enterprise, she can be of great help to us, and
be worth to us, by her exchange, the liberty of Pog-Reis, or of
Trimalcyon-Reis. So, then, this young girl and her companion must remain
here until Pog-Reis has decided their fate.”

Erebus was overwhelmed.

Neither threats nor entreaties could shake the determination of Hadji,
or of the crew.

For a moment, in his despair, he was on the point of throwing himself
into the sea and swimming to the coast, that he might be killed by the
pirates; then he remembered that such a course would leave Reine without
a defender. He descended to the cabin in the gloom of despair.

“There is our generous saviour,” cried Reine, rising and walking up
to him. Erebus shook his head sadly, and said:

“I am now a prisoner like you.”

And he related to the two young girls what had just transpired on the
bridge. One moment calmed by a deceitful assurance, the distress of
Reine now burst forth with renewed violence, and notwithstanding the
repentance of Erebus, she accused him, with reason, of being the author
of the misery which oppressed her.

Such was the state of affairs on board the chebec, when, now commanded
by Hadji, since Erebus had joined Reine and Stephanette, it approached
the galleys of Pog and Trimalcyon, which, by dint of oars, were leaving
La Ciotat after their fatal expedition.

The Bohemian stood at the stem of the chebec, when Pog-Reis, hailing it
from his galley, said to him:

“Ah, well! is that girl on board?”

“Yes, Captain Pog, and more, there is a linnet with the dove.”

“And Erebus?”

“Captain Erebus wanted to do what Captain Pog foresaw,” said the
Bohemian, making an intelligent sign.

“I expected it Watch him. Keep the command of the chebec, sail in my
waters, and follow my manoeuvres.”

“You will be obeyed, Captain Pog. But before parting from you, let me
make you a present There are the papers and playthings of love belonging
to a chevalier of Malta. It is, I believe, a story worthy of Ben-Absull.
I got this treasure-trove from the cabin of the watchman. I thought I
had found a diamond, and found only a grain of corn. But it may interest
you, Captain Pog. There is a Maltese cross on the casket; everything
which bears that hated sign returns to you by right.”

As he said these words, Hadji threw at the feet of Pog-Reis the carved
silver casket that he had stolen from the ebony case belonging to
Peyrou. This casket was wrapped in a scarf, designed to protect the
broken cover.

Pog-Reis, little appreciative of the Bohemian’s attention, made a sign
to him to continue his route.

The chebec took her place of headway behind the galley of Pog, and the
three vessels soon disappeared in the east, directing their course with
all possible speed toward the isles of St Honorât, where they intended
to lie in for repairs.



CHAPTER XXXIII. DISCOVERY

Pog was too closely occupied with the disabled condition in which he
found his galleys, to lend attention to the last words of Hadji. One
of the spahis picked up the casket, and placed it in Pog’s chamber, to
which the latter had descended, after leaving the galley in the command
of the pilot.

This chamber was entirely covered with a coarse red woollen material.
On this tapestry could be seen, here and there, a great number of black
crosses traced by the hand with charcoal. Among them a small number of
white crosses appeared, drawn with chalk.

A copper lamp threw a wan and sepulchral light in this room.

The only furniture of the room consisted in a bed, covered with a
tiger-skin, two chairs, and an oak table, hardly square.

When the Moor had dressed the wounds of the captain, he retired.

Pog, left alone, remained seated, resting his head on his hand, and
reflecting upon the events of the night His vengeance was only half
satisfied.

His precipitate retreat humiliated his self-love, and aroused new
resentments in his heart.

Nevertheless, he smiled as he thought of the evil he had wrought, and
rose from his seat, saying:

“It is always so! My night will not have been lost, if--”

Then he took a piece of charcoal, and made several black crosses on the
tapestry. From time to time he paused, as if to collect his thoughts. He
had just traced a black cross when he said to himself:

“That Baron des Anbiez was killed! I think so, and I hope so. From the
hollow vibration of the handle of the battle-axe in my hand, I thought
I felt his skull broken. But the baron wore a helmet, his death is not
certain. We will not make a false estimate of victims.” After this
lugubrious pleasantry, he erased the cross, and began to count the white
crosses.

“Eleven,” said he, “eleven chevaliers of Malta, slain by my hand.
Oh! they are surely dead, for I would have killed myself a thousand
times on their bodies, rather than have left in them one breath of
life.”

He then sank into a gloomy silence. Suddenly, standing up, his arms
crossed on his breast, his head bowed, he said, with a deep sigh:

“For more than twenty years I have pursued my vengeance,--my work of
destruction. For twenty years has my sorrow diminished? Are my regrets
less desperate? I do not know. Without doubt I feel a horrible joy in
saying to man: ‘Suffer--die.’ But after--after! Always regret--always!
And yet I have no remorse, no! It seems to me that I am the blind
instrument of an all-powerful will. Yes, that must be. It is not
the love of gain which guides me. It is an imperious necessity, an
insatiable need of vengeance. Where am I going? What will be the
awakening from this bloody life which sometimes seems to me a horrible
dream? When I think upon what was formerly my life, on what I was
myself, it is something to drive me mad,--as I am. Yes, I must be mad,
for sometimes there are moments when I ask myself: ‘Why so many cruel
deeds?’ To-night, for instance, how much blood--how much blood! That old
man! Those women! Oh, I am mad, furiously mad! Oh, it is terrible! What
had they done to me?”

He hid his face in his hands. After a few moments of sullen reflection,
he cried, in an agonising voice:

“Oh, what had I done to him,--to the one who hurled me from heaven
to hell? I never did him a wrong! What had I done to her,--to his
accomplice? I surrounded her with all the adoration, all the idolatry
that man could feel here below for a creature. And, yet! Oh!--this
sorrow,--will it always be bleeding? Will this memory always be so
dreadful,--always burning like a hot iron? Oh, rage! Oh, misery! Oh, to
forget! to forget! I only ask to forget!”

As he uttered these words, Pog fell with his face on the bed, tore the
tiger-skin in his convulsed hands, and groaned with a sort of hollow,
stifled roar.

The paroxysm lasted some time, and was succeeded by a heavy stupor.

Suddenly he straightened himself up, his complexion paler than usual,
his eyes brilliant, and his lips contracted.

He passed his hand over his forehead to fasten the bandage around
his wound, which had become disarranged. As he let his arm fall
from weakness, he felt near the partition an object which he had not
remarked. It was the casket which Hadji had thrown on board the _Red
Galleon_, and that one of the men had left in the captain’s chamber.

Pog mechanically took up the casket and placed it on his knees. The
Maltese cross embossed on the lid met his sight, and made him start.

He threw it abruptly away from him; the scarf became untied, and fell
open.

Quite a large number of letters rolled on the floor, with two
medallions, and a long tress of blond hair.

Pog was seated on his bed; the medallions had fallen a considerable
distance from him.

The light in his chamber was pale and fluctuating.

By what miracle of love, of hatred, or of vengeance, did he recognise
instantly the features that he had never forgotten?

The event was so startling, so dreadful, that at first he believed
himself to be the sport of a dream.

He did not dare move. His body leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the
medallion, he feared every moment to see what he took for a vision of
his excited imagination vanish from his sight.

Finally, falling on his knees, he threw himself upon the medallions, as
if he feared they might escape his grasp.

He seized the portraits. One of them represented a woman of resplendent
beauty. He was not mistaken; he had recognised it.

The other was the face of a child.

The pirate let the medallion fall on the floor; he was petrified with
amazement. He had just recognised Erebus! Erebus, at least, as he was
fifteen years before, when he had carried him away from the coasts of
Languedoc!

Still doubting what he saw with his own eyes, he rallied from this
passing weakness, picked up the medallion, recalled his memories with
exactness, to provide against every error, and again examined the
portrait with a consuming anxiety. It was Erebus, indeed,--Erebus at the
age of five years.

Then Pog threw himself on the floor with the letters, and read them
on his knees without a thought of rising. The scene was something
terrible,--ghastly.

This man, pale, stained with blood, kneeling in the middle of that
lugubrious chamber, read with eagerness the pages which revealed to him,
at last, the dark mystery which he had sought for so many years.



CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTERS

We will now put before the eyes of the reader the letters that Pog was
reading with such painful attention.

The first had been written by himself, about twenty years before the
period of which we now speak. So striking was the contrast between his
life then,--a life calm, happy, and smiling,--and the life of a pirate
and murderer, that one might be moved to pity the unhappy man, if only
by comparing him as he was, to what he had been in the past.

The height from which he had fallen, the depth of infamy to which he had
descended, must have moved the most obdurate heart to pity!

These letters will unveil also what mysterious tie united the Commander
des Anbiez, Erebus, and Pog, to whom we restore his real name, that of
Count Jacques de Montreuil, former lieutenant of the king’s galleys.

M. de Montreuil--Pog--had written the following letter to his wife on
his return from a campaign of eight or nine months in the Mediterranean.

This letter was dated from the lazaretto, or pest-house, in Marseilles.

The galley of Count de Montreuil, having touched at Tripoli, of Syria,
where the plague had been declared, was compelled according to custom to
submit to a long quarantine.

Madame Emilie de Montreuil lived in a country house situated on the
borders of the Rhone, near Lyons.

_First Letter_.

“_Lazaretto de Marseilles_, December 10,1612.

“On board the _Capitaine_.

“Can it be true, Emilie,--can it be true? My heart overflows with joy.

“I do not know how to express my surprise to you. It is an
intoxication of happiness, it is a flowering of the soul,--a foolish
exaltation which borders on delirium, if each moment a holy, grateful
thought did not lead me to God, the almighty author of our felicities!

“Oh, if you only knew, Emilie, how I have prayed to him, as I
have blessed him! with what profound fervour I have lifted to him my
transported soul! Thanks to thee, my God, who hast heard our prayers.
Thanks to thee, my God, who dost crown the sacred love which unites us
by giving us a child.

“Emilie--Emilie, I am crazy with joy.

“As I write this word,--a child,--my hand trembles, my heart leaps.

“Wait, for I am weeping.

“Oh, I have wept with delight!

“What sweet tears! How good it is to weep!

“Emilie, my wife, soul of my soul, life of my life, pure treasure of
the purest virtues!

“It seems to me now that your beautiful brow must radiate majesty. I
prostrate myself before you, there is something so divine in maternity.

“Emilie, you know it, since the three years of our union, our love,
never has a cloud troubled it. Each day has added a day to this life of
delight.

“Yet, in spite of myself, doubtless, I have caused you, perhaps, not
some pain, not some displeasure, but some little contrariety, and you
always so sweet, so good, you have no doubt hidden it from me. Ah, well!
in this solemn day I come to you on both knees, to ask your forgiveness
as I would ask forgiveness of God for having offended him.

“You know, Emilie, that dear as you are to me, our ever reviving
tenderness would change our solitude to paradise. Ah, well! this
happiness of the past, which seemed then to go beyond all possible
limits, is yet to be doubled.

“Do you not find, Emilie, that in the happiness of two there is a sort
of egotism, a sort of isolation, which disappears when a cherished child
comes to double our pleasures by adding to them the most tender, most
touching, most adorable duties?

“Oh, these duties, how well you will understand them!

“Have you not been a model of daughters? What sublime devotion to your
father! What abnegation! What care!

“Oh, yes! the best, the most adorable of daughters will be the best,
the most adorable of mothers!

“My God! how we love each other, Emilie! And as we love each other,
how we shall love it, this poor little being! My God! how we shall love
it!

“My wife, my beloved angel, I weep again.

“My reason is lost. Oh, forgive me, but I have had no news from you
in so long a time, and then the first letter that you write me, after
so many months of absence, comes to inform me of this. My God! how can I
resist weeping?

“I do not know how to tell you of my dreams, my plans, the visions
that I caress.

“If it is a daughter, she must be named Emilie, like you. I wish it.
I ask it of you. There can be nothing more charming than these happy
repetitions of names.

“Do you see how I will gain by it? When I call an Emilie tenderly, two
will come to me. That sweet name, the only name which now exists for me,
will reach in two hearts at once.

“If it is a boy, would you wish to call it for me?

“And now, Emilie, we must not forget to put a little fence around the
lake and on the border of the river. Great God! if our child should--

“You see, Emilie, as I know your heart, this fear will not appear
exaggerated to you. It will not make you smile. No, no, but tears will
fill your eyes. Oh, is not that true? is it not? I know you so well!

“Is there an emotion of your heart to which I am a stranger? But
tell me, how have I deserved so much love? What have I done so good, so
great, that Heaven should recompense me thus?

“You know that I have always had religious sentiments.

“You know that you have often said that, if I did not know exactly the
feasts of the Church, I knew perfectly well the number of poor in the
neighbourhood. Now, I feel the need, not of a more ardent faith, for
I believe. Oh, I have so many reasons to believe,--to believe with
fervour. But I feel the need of a life more soberly religious,--more
serious.

“I owe all to God; paternity is such an imposing priesthood. Now
no action of our lives can be indifferent. Nothing belongs to us any
longer. We must not only look forward to our own future, but to that of
our child.

“You think, Emilie, that what you desire so much, that what you dared
not ask me, out of respect for the will of my father; you think that my
dismissal from the service is not a question.

“There is not now an hour, a minute of my life, which does not belong
to our child. If I have yielded to your entreaties with so much regret,
poor wife, because I desired to follow the last request of my father
faithfully, now it need be so no longer. Although our wealth is
considerable, we must neglect nothing now which can increase it.

“Heretofore we have trusted to agents the management of our affairs;
now I shall undertake them myself.

“That will be so much gained for our child. When the lease of our
farms near Lyons has expired, we ourselves will put our lands in good
condition.

“You know, my love, the dream of my life has been to lead the life of
a country gentleman in the midst of sweet and sacred family joys. Your
tastes, your character, your angelic virtues, fit you also for the
enjoyment of such peaceful pleasures and associations. What more can I
say, my Emilie, my blessed angel of God?

“I have just been interrupted. The lazaretto boat is leaving this
moment.

“I am in despair when I think of the long mortal month which still
separates me from the spot where I shall fall on my knees, and we shall
join our hands in thanking God for his gift.”

This artless letter, puerile perhaps in its detail, but which pictured
a happiness so profound, which spoke of hopes so radiant, was enclosed
in another letter, bearing this address, “To the Commander Pierre des
Anbiez,” and containing the following words, written in haste, and
with a weak and trembling hand:


_Second Letter_.

“December 13th, midnight.

“He believes me--read--read. I feel that I am about to die--read, that
his letter may be our torment here below, while we wait for that which
God reserves for us.

“Now, I am ashamed of you--of myself; we have been base--base like the
traitors we are.

“This infamous lie--never will I dare assert it before him--never will
I allow him to believe that this child--Ah, I am in an abyss of despair!

“Be accursed! Depart, depart!

“Never has my sin appeared more terrible to me than since this
execrable lie was made to impose upon his noble confidence in order to
shield ourselves.

“May Heaven protect this unfortunate child.

“Under what horrible auspices will it be born, if it is born, for I
feel now it must die before seeing the light--I can never survive the
agony I suffer. Yet my husband is coming,--never will I lie to him. What
shall I do?

“No, do not depart--my poor head wanders--at least--surely--you will not
abandon me--no, no, do not depart--come--come--

“Emilie.”

Pog, the Count de Montreuil, as the sequel will show, had never been
able, in discovering his wife’s guilt, to learn the name of the
unhappy woman’s seducer. Nor did he know that Erebus was the child of
this adulterous connection.

For a moment he was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Although such
a bitterness of resentment might seem puerile, after the lapse of so
many years, his rage reached its height when he saw this letter, written
by himself in the very intoxication of happiness, and full of those
confidences of the soul which a man dares pour out only in the heart
of a beloved wife, enclosed in one addressed to her seducer, when he
realised that it had been read, perhaps laughed at, by his enemy, the
Commander des Anbiez.

In his fury he could only think of the painful ridiculousness of his
attitude in the eyes of that man, as he spoke with so much freedom, so
much love, and so much idolatry, of a child which was not his, and of
this wife who had so basely deceived him.

The deepest, the most agonising, the most incurable wounds are those
which pain our heart and our self-love at the same time.

The very excess of his wrath, his burning thirst for vengeance, brought
Pog back, so to speak, to his religious sentiment. He saw the hand of
God in the strange chance which had thrown Erebus, the fruit of this
criminal love, in his pathway.

He thrilled with a cruel joy at the thought that this unfortunate child,
whose soul he had perverted, whom he had led in a way so fatal to all
purity and happiness, would, perhaps, carry desolation and death into
the Des Anbiez family.

He saw in this startling coincidence a terrible providential
retribution.

His first thought was to go at once and assassinate Erebus, but, urged
by a consuming curiosity, he desired to discover all the secrets of this
guilty connection.

So he continued to read the letters contained in the casket. The next
letter, written by Madame de Montreuil, was also addressed to the
Commander des Anbiez.


_Third Letter_,

“December 14th, one o’clock in the morning.

“God has had pity on me.

“The unfortunate child lives; if he continues to live, he will live
only for you,--only for me.

“My women are safe; this house is isolated, far from all help.
To-morrow I shall send to the village for the venerable Abbé de
Saint-Maurice,--another lie,--a sacrilegious lie!

“I will tell him that this unfortunate child died in birth. Justine
has already engaged a nurse; this nurse is waiting in the house occupied
by the guard of the crossroads. This evening she will take the poor
little being with her. This evening she will depart for Languedoc, as we
have agreed upon.

“Oh, to be separated from my child, who has cost me so many tears, so
much sorrow, and such despair! To be separated from it for ever! Ah, I
dare not, I cannot complain! It is the least expiation of my crime.

“Poor little creature, I have covered it with my tears, with my
kisses; it is innocent of all this sin. Ah, dreadful, how dreadful it
is! I shall not survive these heartrending emotions. That is all
my hope. God will take me from this earth,--yes,--but to damn me in
eternity!

“Ah, I do not wish to die; no, I do not wish to die! Oh, pity, pity,
mercy!

“I have just recovered from a long fainting-fit Peyrou will carry this
letter to you; send him back without delay.”

The next letter announced to the commander that the sacrifice had been
completed.


_Fourth Letter_.

“December 15th, ten o’clock in the morning.

“All is over. This morning the Abbé de Saint-Maurice came.

“My women told him that the child was dead, and that I, in my despair,
had wished, in pious resignation, to shroud it myself in its coffin.

“You know that this poor priest is very old; and, besides, he has
known me from my birth, and has a blind confidence in me, and not for a
moment did he suspect this impious lie.

“He prayed over an empty coffin!

“Sacrilege, sacrilege!

“Oh, God will be without pity! At last the coffin was carried and
buried in our family chapel.

“Yesterday, in the night, for the last time I embraced this
unfortunate child, now abandoned, now without a name. Now the shame and
remorse of those who have given it birth will ever--

“I could not give him up--I could not. Alas! it was always a
kiss,--just a last kiss. When Justine snatched it from my arms it
uttered a pitiful cry.

“Oh, that feeble wail of sorrow reëchoes in the depths of my soul;
what a fatal omen!

“Again I ask, what will become of it? Oh, what will become of it?
That woman--that nurse, who is she? What interest will she take in
this unfortunate orphan? She will be indifferent to its tears, to its
sorrows; miserable woman, its poor weeping will never move her as I have
been stirred by its one feeble wail!

“Who is this woman? Who is this woman, I ask. Justine says she will
answer for her, but has Justine the heart of a mother, which could
answer for her, could judge her? I, yes, I would have known so quickly
if she was worthy of confidence. Why did I not think of that? Why did
I not see her myself? Ah, God is just! the guilty wife could be nothing
but a bad mother!

“Poor little one! He is going to suffer. Who will protect him? Who
will defend him? If this woman is unfaithful,--if she is avaricious, she
is going to let him want for everything,--he is going to be cold,--he is
going to be hungry,--perhaps she will beat him! Oh, my child, my child!

“Oh! I am an unnatural mother,--I am base,--I am infamous,--I am
afraid,--I have not the courage of my crime. No, no, I will not! I will
not! I will brave all, the return of my husband, the shame, ay, death
itself, but I will not be separated for ever from my child; nothing but
death shall separate us,--there is time enough yet Justine is coming.
I am going to tell her to go for the nurse and instruct her to remain
here.

“Nothing, nothing!--oh, my God! to be at the mercy of these people
like that! Justine refuses to tell me the route this woman has
taken,--she has dared to speak to me of my duties, of what I owe to my
husband. Oh, shame, shame! once I was so proud, to be reduced to this!
Yet she weeps while she denies me; poor woman, she thinks I am insane.

“What is so awful is, that I dare not invoke Heaven’s blessing on
this unfortunate child, abandoned at its birth; it is devoted to grief.
What will become of it?

“Ah! you at least will not abandon it, but in his infancy, at that age
when he will have so much need of care and tenderness, what can you do
for him? Nothing, oh, my God, nothing! And besides, may you not die in
battle? Oh, how dreadful would that be--fortunately I am so weak, that I
shall not survive this agony, or rather I shall die under the first look
of him whom I have so terribly offended.

“Each one of his letters, so faithful, so noble, so tender, strikes me
a mortal blow. Yesterday I announced to him the fatal news, another lie.
How he will suffer! Already he loved the child so much!

“Ah, how dreadful, how dreadful! but this struggle will soon end, yes,
I feel it, the end is very near.

“Pierre, I wish nevertheless to see you before I die. It is more than
a presentiment--it is a certainty. I tell you that never shall I see him
again.

“I am sure of it, if I see him again, I feel it, his presence will
kill me.

“To-morrow you must leave France.

“When this poor child is confided to you, if he survives his sad
infancy, Pierre, love him, oh, love him! He will never have had a
mother’s love. I wish, if he is worthy of the sacred vocation, and if
it suits his mind and his character, I wish him to be a priest. Some day
you will tell him the terrible secret of his birth.

“He will pray for you and for me, and perhaps Heaven will hear his
prayers. I feel very feeble, very feeble. Again, Pierre, I must see you.
Ah, how cruelly we expiate a few days of madness!

“Once more, that which most pains me is his confidence. Oh, I tell you
that the sight of him will kill me. I feel that I must die.”

The marks of the tears could still be seen upon this letter written with
a feeble, fainting hand.

Pog, after having read the pages which portrayed so faithfully the agony
of Emilie’s soul, gazed thoughtfully upon the lines.

He bowed his head on his breast. That man so cruelly outraged, that man
hardened by hatred, could not refuse a feeling of pity for this unhappy
woman.

A tear, a burning tear, the only one he had shed in years, coursed his
weather-beaten cheek.

Then his resentment against the author of all these woes rose again in
fury. He thanked Heaven for having at last made known to him the seducer
of Emilie, but he did not now wish to concentrate his thought on the
terrible vengeance that he meditated.

He continued to read.

The next letter was in the handwriting of Emilie. She informed the
commander of the consequence of the last venture.

_Fifth Letter_.

“December 16th, nine o’clock in the morning.

“My husband knows the supposed death of the child; his despair borders
on madness. His letter terrifies me with its wild and passionate grief.
The quarantine ends in fifteen days. I shall not live until that time;
my crime will be buried with me, and he will regret me, and he will weep
my memory, perhaps. Oh, to deceive, to deceive, to deceive even to the
coffin and the grave! God! will he ever forgive me? It is an abyss
of terror into which I dare not cast my eyes. This evening, at eleven
o’clock, Justine will open the little gate at the park. Pierre, these
are solemn farewells, funereal, perhaps. To-morrow, then, to-morrow.”



CHAPTER XXXV. THE MURDERER

A paper, part of which was torn, contained this written confession, in
the handwriting of the commander, a few days after the bloody tragedy
which he relates. The person to whom it was addressed is unknown. Some
passages, tom intentionally, perhaps, seem to refer to a journey, made
by the commander in Languedoc at the same period, for the purpose, no
doubt, of learning the fate of his unfortunate child.

“And my hands are stained with blood. I have just committed a murder.

“I have assassinated the man against whom I have committed a deadly
wrong.

“At eleven o’clock I presented myself at the little gate of the
park. I was conducted into the chamber of Emilie.

“She was in bed, pale, almost dying.

“She, formerly so beautiful, seemed the ghost of herself. The hand of
God had already touched her.

“I seated myself at her bedside. She extended to me her trembling, icy
hand.

“I pressed it to my lips, my cold lips.

“We gave a last painful look at the past I accused myself of having
destroyed her.

“We spoke of our unfortunate child. We wept, oh, how bitterly! when
suddenly--

“Ah! I feel still the cold sweat deluge my brow. My hair stands on
end, and a terrible voice cries to me, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’

“Oh, I will not seek to fly from remorse; till my last day I shall
keep before me the image of my victim.

“By the judgment of God, which has already condemned me, I take oath
to do it.

“Let me recall the scene.

“It was a terrible moment.

“The chamber of Emilie was dimly lighted by a night-lamp placed near
the door.

“My back was toward this door. I was seated by her bed. She could not
retain her sobs. My forehead was resting on my hand.

“The most profound silence reigned around us.

“I had just spoken to her of our child. I had just promised to fulfil
her will in reference to him.

“I had tried to console her, to induce her to hope for better days,
to reanimate her courage, to give her strength to conceal all from her
husband; to prove to her that, for his own peace and happiness, it was
better to let him remain in confident security.

“Suddenly the door behind me opened with violence.

“Emilie cried in terror: ‘My husband! I am dead!’

“Before I could turn around, an involuntary movement of her husband
extinguished the lamp.

“We were all three in the dark.

“‘Do not kill me before forgiving me!’ cried Emilie.

“‘Oh--you first--him afterwards,’ said Count de Montreuil, in a
hollow voice.

“The moment was horrible.

“He advanced irresolutely. I advanced also.

“I wished to meet him and hold him back.

“We said nothing. The silence was profound.

“Nothing was heard but the sound of our oppressed breathing, and the
low, spasmodic voice of Emilie, who murmured: ‘Lord have pity on me!
Lord have pity on me!’

“Suddenly I felt a hand as cold as marble on my forehead.

“It was the hand of her husband. In seeking her, he had touched me.

“He started, and said, without concerning himself further about me:
‘Her bed ought to be on the left!’

“His calmness terrified me. I threw myself on him.

“At that moment, Emilie, whom he had doubtless already seized, cried,
‘Mercy! Mercy!’

“I tried to take him by the middle of his body. I felt the point of a
dagger graze my hand.

“Emilie uttered a long sigh. She was killed or wounded, her blood
spouted up on my forehead.

“Then my brain became wild; I felt myself endowed with a supernatural
strength. With my left hand I seized the right arm of the murderer; with
my right hand I snatched his dagger from him, and plunged it twice in
his breast.

“I heard him fall without uttering a cry. From that moment I remember
nothing.

“I found myself at the rising of the sun lying by the side of a hedge.
I was covered with blood.

“For some moments I could remember nothing, then all returned to my
memory. I returned home, avoiding the sight of every one.

“I discovered, as I entered, that my Maltese cross was lost. Perhaps
it had been taken away from me in the struggle.

“I found Peyrou, who was waiting for me with my horses. I arrived
here.”

[Some pages are wanting in this place.]

“... and she is no more.

“He lies by her side in the same tomb. The idea of murder pursues me.
I am doubly criminal.

“My entire life will not suffice to expiate this murder, and...”

The rest of this page was wanting.

The last letter which the casket contained was a letter addressed to
Peyrou by a bargemaster in the neighbourhood of Aiguemortes five years
after the events which we have just recorded, and the same year,
no doubt, of the abduction of Erebus by the pirates on the coast of
Languedoc.

Peyrou, who was then serving on board the galleys of religion with the
commander, was in the secret of this strange and bloody tragedy.

The following letter was addressed to Malta, to which place he had
followed the commander, who, five years after these fatal events had
transpired, was still unwilling to enter France.

_To M. Bernard Peyrou, Overseer-Patron of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_.

“My dear Peyrou:--Three days ago a great calamity occurred. A pirate
galley made a descent on the unguarded coast.

“The pirates put all to fire and sword, and carried off into slavery
all the inhabitants upon whom they could fasten their chains. I hardly
know how to tell you the rest of this misfortune. The woman Agniel
and the child that you confided to her care have disappeared, no doubt
massacred, or carried away captives by these pirates. I went into her
house, and everything there showed marks of violence. Alas! I must tell
you, there remained no doubt that the woman and child had shared the
fate of the other inhabitants of this unfortunate village. We can hardly
hope that the child was able to endure the fatigues and hardships of the
voyage. I send you the only thing that could be found in the house,
the picture of the child, which, in obedience to your order, the woman
Agniel had taken to Montpellier, where the portrait had been executed
about a month before. I saw the child quite recently, and I can assure
you that it is an excellent likeness. Alas! it is, perhaps, all that
remains of him now. I send this letter directly to Malta by the tartan
_St. Cecile_, so that it may reach you safely.

“P. S. In case the child is recovered, I inform you that there is a
Maltese cross tattooed on his arm.”

To complete the explanation of the tragedy, it remains to be said
that, although Pog--the Count de Montreuil--was dangerously wounded, he
retained sufficient strength and presence of mind to keep the events of
that fatal night a profound secret.

After the death of Emilie, he commanded Justine, under the direst
threats, to say that her mistress, overwhelmed with grief at the death
of her child, had finally succumbed to the desperate illness which
ensued.

Nothing seemed more plausible than this account, hence it was generally
accepted.

The Count de Montreuil remained concealed in his house until his wound
was thoroughly healed. With every conceivable threat and promise,
he tried to induce Justine to reveal the secret of the child’s
hiding-place, but all his efforts were unavailing.

It now becomes necessary to explain how the count surprised the
interview between Emilie and the commander.

Learning the supposed death of his child, while in the lazaretto or
pest-house near Marseilles, he was plunged in desperate grief. He
believed that his wife was no less inconsolable, and, notwithstanding
the penalty of death incurred by deserters from the lazaretto, before
the expiration of the established quarantine, he swam that night even
from the island Ratonneau, where the sanitary buildings were situated.

Reaching the coast, where a trusty servant awaited him with clothing,
he assumed another name, and galloped in hot haste on the road to Lyons.
Leaving his horses about two leagues from his house, he accomplished the
rest of the journey on foot. Passing through the little gate which the
commander had left open, he entered the park.

Several days before, by way of precaution, Emilie had dismissed most of
her servants, under various pretexts, retaining two women only of whom
she felt sure. Her husband, finding the house almost deserted, entered
unperceived, and stood at the door of Emilie’s chamber, while she
believed that he would remain ten days longer in the lazaretto.

Hearing the conversation which took place between his wife and Pierre
des Anbiez, the Count de Montreuil could have no further doubt of her
infidelity.

When he had entirely recovered from his wounds, he abandoned his house,
situated in the country near Lyons, for ever; and feeling sure of
Justine’s silence, as the woman had no interest in betraying his
secret, he left France, taking with him a considerable sum in gold.

When his disappearance from the lazaretto was discovered, it was
believed and currently reported that the Count de Montreuil, frenzied by
grief over the loss of his child, had thrown himself into the sea. While
this rumour was accepted in France, the commander believed that his
victim had died from his wounds.

Thus it was that the Count de Montreuil was ignorant of the name of
Emilie’s seducer, and the only clew he had was the commander’s
Maltese cross, which had fallen on the floor of the chamber.

This cross bore the initials L. P. on its ring, which letters proved
that its owner belonged to the Provençal nation. This explains the
intense hatred which Pog cherished against the chevaliers of Malta.

His thirst for vengeance was so blind, that, by preference, he directed
his attacks against Languedoc and Provence, because Emilie’s seducer
must have been a chevalier of Malta, born in that province.

It is needless to say, if the love Pog felt for Emilie before her
betrayal was strong and passionate, the rage, or rather the monomania,
which seized his mind after he learned of the deception practised upon
him, was in itself a terrible proof of his love and desperate grief.

The portrait which hung above the coffin which served as a bed for the
Commander des Anbiez, as a part of the expiation of his crime, was the
portrait of the Count de Montreuil, or Pog,--obtained by Peyrou at the
sale of the house near Lyons.

Let us now return to Pog, in his chamber on the _Red Galleon_.

After having read the letters which unveiled so many mysteries, he
remained for a time in a sort of dazed state of mind. He closed his
eyes. A thousand conflicting thoughts and ideas reached his brain. He
feared he was losing his mind.

By degrees he recovered his self-possession, and contemplated the new
opportunities which this discovery offered his hatred with a calmness
which was more dreadful than anger.



CHAPTER XXXVI. PLANS

Once enlightened on the subject of the birth of Erebus, Pog, in his
diabolical joy, thanked the devil for having delivered the child into
his hands.

All the feelings of aversion which Erebus had inspired in him were now
explained; all his impulses of tenderness for the unfortunate youth
could now be easily understood.

Erebus was the son of his mortal enemy; but he was also the son of the
woman whom he had adored.

Without the secret instinct of hatred and of vengeance which dominated
his being unconsciously, he could never have taken such pleasure in
corrupting and perverting a young and innocent soul.

The most hardened hearts find a solace in the thought that their crimes
are justifiable.

From this moment, Pog saw into his hatred clearly, if it may be said;
his only indecision now was how to satiate his revenge.

He saw the necessity for prudence, that his vengeance might be sure and
complete.

The death of Erebus could not satisfy him; that death, however slow,
however cruel it might be, would be only one day of torment,--that no
longer sufficed him.

The violence of his rage could not dissociate the innocent result of the
crime from the crime itself, or from those who committed it, but Pog had
long ceased to think or act with regard to justice.

In his opinion, Erebus was justly devoted to his wrath. He felt, too, a
sinister joy in learning that Pierre des Anbiez was the seducer of his
wife. Now he knew where to direct his blows.

Everything seemed to favour his plans. He believed he had killed Raimond
V., Baron des Anbiez, in the attack on La Ciotat. Reine, abducted by
Erebus, was the niece of the commander. Thus destiny assisted him in his
hatred and pursuit of this family. Such were the bitter and triumphant
feelings which filled his heart when the two galleys and the chebec
reached their place of anchorage off the isles of Ste. Marguerite.

They had scarcely anchored when Hadji came on board the _Red Galleon_,
and found Pog absorbed in his reflections.

In a few words he informed him of the designs of Erebus, and of his vain
attempts to seduce the crew of the chebec and fly to the Orient.

Pog turned pale with fright. Erebus might have escaped him but for the
fidelity of Hadji and his sailors! His vengeance baffled!

He manifested toward the Bohemian such overwhelming gratitude for his
behaviour under the circumstances, that the latter stood gazing at him
in bewilderment, so strangely did these grateful expressions contrast
with the usual habit and bearing of Pog.

“Reassure yourself, Captain Pog,” said Hadji, “you need not
carry on your conscience such a weight of gratitude; the sailors and I
remained faithful to you because our interest demands it That obligation
is superior to all others; but if you will believe me, Captain Pog, you
will seize the first opportunity to put that young man ashore. He is
getting spoiled,--he is getting weak; a little while ago he was weeping
at the feet of those two women. So I advise you to abandon him at the
first opportunity. He can only be in our way now.”

“Abandon Erebus!” cried Pog, with such passionate energy that Hadji
looked at him in amazement “Abandon Erebus! but you do not know--what
am I saying,--how can you know? This instant,--this instant bring the
boy to me. You answer to me for him with your life--with your life, do
you understand? Or indeed--but no--I will go myself on board his chebec;
that will be more sure.”

At the same moment the pilot of the Red Galleon entered with an excited
air. “Captain,” said he, to Pog, “in examining the horizon with
my telescope, I have just discovered a galley and a polacre. These two
vessels may pass without discovering us. Eblis grant it, for the black
galley is fatal to those she attacks.”

“The black galley?” asked Pog.

“Who does not know the black galley of the Commander des Anbiez?”
 said the pilot.

“Eh, no doubt!” cried the Bohemian. “They expected the commander
every day at Maison-Forte, the castle of Raimond V. Pierre des Anbiez
must have arrived after us, he must have seen the citizens’ houses in
flames, and known that his niece was carried off and his brother killed,
and he is seeking us to avenge them.”

“That galley is the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez?”
 said Pog, stuttering, so profound was his astonishment “Pierre des
Anbiez--the commander--here--he!”

It is impossible to picture the burst of savage joy with which Pog
uttered these words.

After a short silence, during which he passed his hand over his brow, as
if to assure himself that what happened around him was real, he suddenly
fell on his knees, clasped his hands, and said, with an air of the
deepest piety:

“My God, my God! Forgive me. Long have I doubted thy justice; to-day
it reveals itself to me in all its glorious majesty! Lord--Lord--forgive
me. Grief has distracted me; now thine almighty power is manifest in my
sight. The same day thou dost place father and son at the mercy of my
vengeance, after twenty years of torture. My God! after twenty years.
Lord--Lord, upon my knees I thank thee; my entire life will not suffice
to pray to thee, and to bless thee! The father and son in my power! My
God, thou art sovereignly great! Thou art sovereignly just!”

The violent transports of fury to which Pog was subject had never
terrified Hadji, but this prayer, delivered in a low, trembling, solemn
voice, filled him with a vague disquietude.

This miserable creature, who hesitated before no evil, now trembled with
fright.

In fact, something formidable was required thus to bow Pog in the dust,
and wrest from him this cry of gratitude and submission.

After having uttered this prayer, Pog rose and walked a long time in
great agitation without saying a word. He forgot the presence of Hadji
and the pilot A half-hour passed thus, the Bohemian staring at Pog all
the while with an eager, sinister curiosity.

He was waiting to see what strange and fatal result would follow this
chaos of ideas.

Pog, as was ordinarily the case when he yielded to such violence of
emotion, felt quite weak; he became as pale as a ghost, he sank down,
and, but for the timely aid of Hadji and the pilot, would have fallen
backwards.

The Bohemian bore him to his bed, drew a smelling-bottle from his
girdle, held it to his nostrils, and soon Pog-Reis recovered from his
swoon.

“I remember all now,” said he, looking around him anxiously. “I
remember all. You see I am weak,--but, Hadji, what do you wish? the time
of miracles has returned. Oh, this mark of the almighty power of the
Most High imposes obligations on me; now I am strong; now I will not
compromise the ends of Heaven’s justice by anticipating it No, no,
I await its voice. It shall be obeyed, and a terrible example shall be
given to the world. You must send Erebus to me, Hadji.”

These words, and the calmness of Pog’s countenance and accent, were
additional cause for the astonishment of Hadji.

“It shall be done as you wish, captain. I am going to send the young
man to you, or, for greater surety, conduct him to you myself.”

“That is not all, Hadji. You love pillage as much as Trimalcyon-Reis,
but you also love combat for the sake of combat, and danger for
danger’s sake.”

“And I did not have my part either in the pillage or the danger last
night, captain! I held the hook, but the fish was not for me.”

“Listen, Hadji, you can have presently your part in a brilliant
combat, or remain spectator. You must go out with the chebec to join the
black galley of the Commander des Anbiez. The speed of your vessel is
superior to that of all the galleys. You will hoist the black flag and
allure the commander into this road.”

“I understand, captain.”

“You understand me, Hadji! The culverin of Mai-son-Forte has done such
damage to our water-line and other parts of the ship that it will be
several days before she is repaired sufficiently to put to sea, but we
could in a few hours put her in a state to sustain a battle at anchor,
and few such battles have been as you will see, Hadji, if you lead the
black galley into this bay! If you wish to preserve the chebec which
belongs to me, do not enter the bay, Hadji, for as soon as the black
galley once sees the _Red Galleon_, she will hardly think of pursuing
you. Then you can set sail to the south. I give you the chebec and
slaves, Hadji.”

“It is not for the sake of possessing the chebec that I will do as you
wish me to do,” replied Hadji, with sullen pride. “Who could have
prevented my profiting from the offers of Erebus? Who now could prevent
my saying I consent to what you wish, and then setting sail to the
south, instead of going out to sea after the black galley? I will lead
the commander’s ship here to you, and I will take part in the battle,
because it pleases me, because, notwithstanding your calm appearance,
a terrible tempest has gathered in your soul, which I wish to see burst
forth. I am of an inquisitive turn of mind, captain.”

“Ah, by the wrath of Heaven, whose instrument I am, you will see a
beautiful storm let loose, if you return!”

“And I shall return, captain.”

“Above all, say nothing to Trimalcyon of my plan; that fat brute, once
under fire, will do his duty in spite of himself.”

“Make yourself easy, captain, before an hour the black galley will be
in pursuit of me around this point.”

“And then--and then,” said Pog, talking to himself with a solemn,
inspired air,--“then this bay, now so peaceful, will behold one of the
greatest tragedies,--a tragedy whose very memory will terrify humanity
for generations.”

“I am going, and I shall return with Erebus, captain,” said Hadji.

He disappeared.

Pog knelt down and prayed.



CHAPTER XXXVII. THE INTERVIEW

While the Bohemian was on board the Red Galleon Erebus, now virtually
considered a prisoner, shared the cabin of the chebec with Reine and
Stephanette.

Notwithstanding her anger, notwithstanding her fright, notwithstanding
her keen anxiety concerning the fate of her father, Mlle. des Anbiez
could not remain insensible to the despair of Erebus.

He reproached himself so bitterly for her abduction, and had done
so much to obtain from the Bohemian both her liberty and that of
Stephanette, that she could not stifle every emotion of pity that rose
in her heart.

Besides, in the frightful position in which she was placed, she felt
that in him, at least, she had a defender.

A feeble ray of the sun lighted the little apartment where these three
persons were associated.

Stephanette, exhausted by fatigue, was sleeping, half-recumbent on a
mat.

Reine, seated, hid her face in her two hands.

Erebus stood with his arms crossed and head bowed, while great tears
rolled down his pale cheeks.

“Nothing--nothing, I see no help,” said he, in a low voice; then,
lifting a supplicating glance to Reine, he said: “What can be done, my
God, to snatch you from the hands of these wretches?”

“My father, my father!” said Reine, in a hollow voice. Then turning
to Erebus, she exclaimed: “Ah, be accursed, you have caused all
my sorrows! But for you I should be with my father. Perhaps he is
suffering--perhaps he is wounded! And then at least he would have my
care. Ah, be accursed!”

“Yes, always accursed!” repeated Erebus, with bitterness. “My
mother doubtless cursed me at my birth! Cursed by the man who reared me!
Cursed by you!” added he, in a heartrending voice.

“Have you not taken a daughter from her father? Have you not often
been the accomplice of the brigands who ravaged that unfortunate
city!” cried Reine, with indignation.

“Oh, for pity’s sake do not crush me! Yes, I have been their
accomplice. But, my God! have compassion on me. I was brought up to
evil, as you have been brought up to good. You had a mother. You have a
father. You have had always before your eyes noble examples to imitate.
I,--thrown by chance among these wretches at the age of four or five
years, I believe, without parents, without relations, a victim of
Pog-Reis, who for his pastime--he told me yesterday--trained me to evil
as one would train a young wolf to slaughter, accustomed to hear nothing
but the language of bad passions, to know no restraint,--yet, at least,
I repent of the evils I have caused. I weep--I weep with despair,
because I cannot save you. These tears, which the most cruel suffering
would not have wrung from me,--these tears are the expression of the
remorse I feel for having wronged you. This wrong I have tried to repair
by wishing to conduct you back to your father. Unfortunately, I could
not succeed. Ah, if I only had not met you that day in the rocks of
Provence, if only I had not seen your beauty--”

“Not a word more,” said Reine, with dignity. “It was that day my
sorrows began. Oh, it was indeed a fatal day!”

“Yes, fatal, for if I had not seen you I should never have felt an
aspiration toward good. My life would always have been a life of crime.
I should never have been tormented by the remorse which now consumes
me,” said Erebus, with a gloomy air.

“Unhappy man!” cried Reine, carried away in spite of herself by her
secret preference. “Do not speak thus. Notwithstanding all the evil
you have done me and mine, I shall despise our fatal meeting less, if
you owe to it the only feelings which some day may result in the saving
of your soul.”

Reine des Anbiez uttered these words with such earnestness, and with
such an accent of interest, that Erebus clasped his hands, looking at
her with gratitude and astonishment.

“Save my soul! I do not understand your words. Pog-Reis has always
taught me there was no soul, but at last I see that you have a little
pity for me. Those are the only kind words I have ever heard during my
existence. Severity and cruelty repel me. Goodness would surely conquer
me, would render me better, but, alas! who cares whether I am better or
not? No one! I see only hatred, contempt, or indifference around me.”

He put his hand over his eyes, and remained silent.

Reine could not repress an emotion of pity for the unfortunate youth,
nor a feeling of horror at the thought of his cruel education.

Moved with compassion, she could but hope that his natural instincts
toward good had prevented his utter corruption. Since she had been in
the power of the pirates, the conduct of Erebus had never transgressed
the limits of the most profound respect. If he had abducted her from
her father’s castle, with a most criminal audacity, he had, at least,
shown in his bearing toward her a delicacy and forbearance which seemed
almost like timidity.

This decided contrast proved to her the struggle of a noble, generous
nature against a perverse education, and her imagination fondly pictured
what he might have been, but for the cruel fate which imposed such a
life upon him.

But these sentiments soon gave way to the anxious fears which agitated
her mind concerning her father, and she cried with tears, “Oh, my
father, my father! when shall I see him again? Oh, how dreadful!”
 Erebus, thinking that she addressed him, replied, sadly, “Do you
think I would not attempt everything in the world to take you from this
vessel? But what can be done? Ah, without you, without the vague hope
that I have been useful to you--” Erebus could not finish, but his
countenance was so sad that Reine, frightened, cried, “What do you
mean?”

“I mean that when one cannot endure life the best thing is to get
rid of it; when you are rescued and in safety, Erebus will give a last
thought to you, and then kill himself.”

“Another crime! he will end a life already so guilty by another
misdeed!” cried Reine. “But you do not know that your life belongs
to God only!”

Erebus smiled bitterly, and replied: “My life belongs to me, since I
can free myself from it when it becomes a burden. When I shall have left
you, I can live no longer. I do not kill myself at your feet, because
I still hope to be useful to you. What good is my life henceforth?
You have made me understand how criminal has been the life I have been
leading. But the future! The future for me is you, and I am unworthy of
you, and you do not love me--and you will never love me. Ah, cursed be
the Bohemian who has deceived me, who told me that you had not forgotten
him who saved your father’s life!”

“I have never forgotten that you were my father’s saviour,” said
Reine, with dignity, “nor can I forget the outrage practised upon
me, yet I ought to take kindly what you have done to repair that wrong.
Repentance for the greatest crimes finds pardon before the Lord! If I
am permitted to see my father and my home again, I will forgive you.
But before I leave, I will say to you: ‘Never despair of the infinite
goodness of God! Instead of yielding to an insane despair, abandon for
ever those who made you their accomplice, seek instruction in our holy
religion, learn to know and love and bless the Lord, become a good man;
prove by an exemplary life that you have forsaken the criminal
career which wicked men forced upon you; then can we pity your past
misfortunes, then we can forget your outrages, then we can believe,
indeed, that you wish to expiate the guilty actions of the past, by
good.’”

“And if I follow your counsel,” cried Erebus, transported by the
pious and lofty language of Reine, “if I become a good man, may I some
day present myself at Maison-Forte?”

Reine looked downwards.

The door of the cabin suddenly opened, and the Bohemian entered, and
perhaps saved the young girl from an embarrassing reply.

Stephanette started out of sleep, and said, artlessly:

“Ah, my God, mademoiselle, I dreamed that I was married to my poor
Luquin, who had rescued us, and that he was having that wicked vagabond
hanged.”

“All I wish, my pretty girl,” said the Bohemian, with an insolent
smile, “is that the very opposite of your dream may happen, which is
usually the case. You can believe that such are my intentions concerning
Captain Luquin.”

“What do you want?” asked Erebus, impatiently, interrupting Hadji.

“I have come for you. Pog-Reis wants you. He is waiting for you on
board the _Red Galleon_.”

“Tell Pog-Reis that I will not leave this chebec except to conduct
Mlle, des Anbiez ashore. She has no other protector, and I will not
abandon her.”

The Bohemian, knowing the determined spirit of Erebus, preferred to have
recourse to a lie to employing force to take him away from the young
girls, and said to him:

“Pog-Reis asks for you because he wishes to get rid of you. He knows
that you tried to make his crew act contrary to his orders. As to these
two women, he prefers a ransom. You are to go and demand this ransom
from Raimond V. As soon as the money is here, you can conduct the two
doves to Maison-Forte.”

“That is a decoy to separate me from them,” cried Erebus. “You are
lying.”

“And if I only wished to take you away, my young captain, what would
hinder my calling our men to my aid, and making them carry you off?”

“I have a kangiar in my belt,” said Erebus.

“And when you have stabbed one, or two, or three of these honest
pirates, will you not be obliged to yield to numbers sooner or later?
So believe me; go on board the _Red Galleon_. Pog-Reis will give you his
orders and a little boat. You will go to Raimond V., and to-morrow you
can be here with a large sum of gold that the old baron will be only too
glad to give for his daughter. To-morrow, I tell you, you can take away
these two girls.”

“My God, what is to be done?” cried Reine. “That man perhaps is
speaking the truth. And my father would not hesitate to give any sum,
whatever it might be. Yet, if the man is lying, we will only lose our
only protector,” added she, turning to Erebus.

Erebus was equally perplexed. He realised that he must succumb to
numbers at last, and that, in refusing Pog-Reis, he would only aggravate
the situation of Mlle, des Anbiez.

After some moments of reflection Reine said to Erebus, in a voice full
of courage:

“Go to my father, and give me that weapon,” and she pointed to the
dagger which Erebus wore at his side.

“I am left without a defender, but at least death will be able to save
from dishonour.”

Impressed with these simple and dignified words, Erebus knelt
respectfully before Reine, and gave her his kangiar without uttering a
word, as if he feared to profane the solemnity of the scene.

He left the cabin, followed by the Bohemian, embarked in a small boat,
and presented himself to Pog, on board the _Red Galleon_.

Hadji left Erebus on board this vessel, and returned to the chebec to
carry out the orders of Pog.

The Bohemian set sail and was out of the bay before Reine and
Stephanette knew that he had returned.

After a few tacks, he distinguished perfectly the commander’s black
galley and Captain Trinquetaille’s polacre to his windward. The two
vessels were coming from La Ciotat. A few words will explain their
presence in sight of the bay, and how they had been able to follow the
track of the pirates.



CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE THREE BROTHERS

Pierre des Anbiez arrived at Cape l’Aigle at the break of day. Scarcely
had the black galley anchored in the port of La Ciotat, when the
commander and his brother descended to the shore.

Everywhere they saw marks of the pirate’s barbarity.

The weeping inhabitants then knew all the extent of their losses. Each
family had learned which one of its members had perished or had been
taken captive.

During the battle, they thought only of defending themselves and
repulsing the enemy; then, too, night had veiled the disasters which
day revealed in all their horror. On one side, walls blackened by the
conflagration barely supported the tottering carpentry.

Farther on was the town hall, of which only the walls remained. Its
windows were broken, its balcony demolished, its doors burned to ashes,
its foundations charred, and showers of balls everywhere proved that the
citizens had defended themselves with vigorous earnestness.

The large square of La Ciotat, the theatre of the most murderous
conflict of that fatal night, was covered with dead bodies.

Nothing could be more heartrending than to see the afflicted inhabitants
seeking a father, a brother, a son, or a friend among these dead.

When they recognised one whom they sought, the others, petrified with
grief, would look on in silence; again, some would utter impotent cries
for vengeance; and some in their wild lamentation would rush to the
port, as if they would there find the galleys of the lawless brigands.

The commander and Father Elzear walked through this scene of desolation,
speaking words of consolation to the unfortunate sufferers, and asking
information of Raimond V.

They learned that he had made a most valuable and courageous defence, by
attacking the pirates at the head of the company from Maison-Forte, but
no one could tell them if the baron was wounded or not.

The two brothers, in their anxiety, hastened to Maison-Forte,
followed by a few subordinate officers of the galley, and by Luquin
Trinquetaille, who had also anchored his polacre in the port.

They arrived at the Castle des Anbiez. The bridge was lowered, and the
great court deserted, although it was the hour for work.

They mounted the stairs in haste, and reached the immense hall in which
the pious Christmas ceremonies had taken place the evening before.

All the inmates of Maison-Forte, men, women, old people, and children,
were kneeling in this vast hall, where reigned the most profound
silence.

So absorbed was this crowd in its devotions, and so anxiously did
they watch the half-open door of the baron’s chamber, that not one
perceived the entrance of the commander and Father Elzear.

At the bottom of the hall, under the dais, was the cradle, the
masterpiece of Dame Dulceline and the good chaplain. A few candles still
burned in the copper chandeliers. The colossal Christmas log was smoking
in the depth of the vast chimney, still ornamented with green branches
and fruits and flowers and ribbons.

Nothing seemed more startling than this scene lighted by the first pale
rays of a winter day; nothing more painful than the contrast between the
feast of the night and the sorrow of the morning.

After having contemplated this quiet and imposing scene, the commander
gently called aside some of the baron’s vassals to open a way to the
door of the baron’s chamber.

“Monseigneur, the commander, and good Father Elzear!” were the words
which circulated among the anxious crowd, as they waited for news of the
baron’s condition, whether or not his wounds permitted them to indulge
a hope for his recovery.

Pierre des Anbiez and his brother, with a soft and cautious tread,
entered the chamber of Raimond V.

The old gentleman, still dressed in his holiday attire, even to his
long boots, was lying on his bed. His venerable face was livid, and his
flowing white locks were stained with blood.

Abbé Mascarolus was dressing the wounds in his head, assisted in this
pious duty by Honorât de Berrol. Dame Dulceline, whose tears never
ceased to flow, was cutting cloth bands, while the majordomo Laramée,
standing at the foot of the bed, apparently unconscious of all around
him, was sobbing aloud.

So absorbed were the actors in this sad scene, that Father Elzear and
Pierre des Anbiez entered unperceived.

“My brother!” cried the commander and the priest at the same time,
falling on their knees at the bedside of the baron, and kissing his cold
hands affectionately.

“Are the wounds serious, abbé?” said the commander, while Father
Elzear remained on his knees.

“Alas! is it you, M. Commander?” said the chaplain, clasping his
hands in surprise; “if only you had arrived yesterday all these
misfortunes would not have happened, and monseigneur would not be in
danger of death.”

“Great God!” cried Pierre des Anbiez, “we must send at once for
Brother Anselm, the surgeon on board my galley. He will assist you; he
understands wounds made by weapons of war.”

Seeing Luquin Trinquetaille at the door, the commander said to him:
“Go immediately for Brother Anselm, and bring him here.”

Luquin disappeared to execute the commander’s orders. The abbé was
anxiously listening to the laboured breathing of the baron. Finally,
the wounded man made a light movement, turned his head from the chaplain
without opening his eyes, and uttered a long sigh. The commander and the
priest gazed inquiringly into the chaplain’s face, who made a sign of
approval, and took advantage of the baron’s position to dress another
part of the wounds.

Father Elzear, disappointed at not seeing Reine at her father’s
bedside at such a time, said, in a low voice to Honorât: “And where
is Reine? The poor child no doubt cannot endure this painful sight!”

“Great God!” cried Honorât, in astonishment, “and do you not
know, Father Elzear, all the misfortunes which have befallen this house?
Reine has been carried off by the pirates!”

Father Elzear and the commander looked at each other, bewildered.

“My God! my God! spare his old age this last blow!” said the priest,
clasping his hands in supplication, and looking up to heaven. “Grant
us the power to take this unfortunate child from their hands!”

“And does no one know to what point these pirates have fled?” said
the commander, his wrath beyond all bounds. “Inquire of the boats
that arrive; the night was clear, and they must be able to give us some
information.” “Alas!” said Honorât, “I have just arrived at
Maison-Forte, which I and the baron’s guests left that night in peace.
I was ignorant of all these disasters. When the baron was brought home
unconscious, the good abbé sent for me in haste, and I came, finding
him in this desperate state, and his vassals informed me of the
abduction of Mlle, des Anbiez.”

Raimond V. still lay unconscious. From time to time he uttered a feeble
sigh, and then relapsed into a lethargic torpor.

The commander anxiously awaited the coming of the surgeon from his
galley, as he thought his medical attainments superior to those of the
chaplain.

Finally he arrived, followed by Luquin Trinquetaille, who,
notwithstanding the profound silence guarded by the watchers around
the wounded man, cried out to the commander, as he entered the door:
“Monseigneur, the pirates must be anchored on the coast, twenty-five
or thirty leagues from here at the most.”

Pierre des Anbiez, making a sign to the worthy captain to be silent,
walked up to him rapidly, and conducted him into the gallery, which the
vassals had just left at the chaplain’s request.

“What do you say?” said he to Trinquetaille. “Who told you
that?”

“Monseigneur, the coxswain Nicard told me. That night he passed very
near to two galleys and a chebec, which hugged the shore, and he easily
recognised the _Red Galleon_. These vessels were moving very, very
slowly, as if they had been so badly damaged as to be compelled to halt
every few minutes in some deserted harbour on the coast.”

“That must be so,” said the commander, thoughtfully, “they must
have been seriously crippled to stay near the shore, instead of flying
south with their captives and their booty.”

“There is no doubt, monseigneur, that the culverin of Maison-Forte did
them great damage, for Pierron, the fisherman, told me that he saw them
fire that artillery the whole time the galleys of those demons were
doubling the point of the island Verte, and that pass is a fine aim for
the culverin; Master Laramée has told me so a thousand times.”

“The vengeance of the Lord will overtake these robbers, glutted with
blood and pillage,” said the commander, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps I
shall be able to snatch my brother’s unfortunate daughter from their
hands.”

“And also her attendant, Stephanette, if you please, monseigneur,”
 said Luquin. “These brigands, no doubt, have carried her off with the
aid of a cursed Bohemian, that the good God will send some day, perhaps,
within reach of my arm.”

“There is not a moment to lose,” said the commander, after a few
moments’ reflection. Then addressing Luquin, he said: “Run to the
port, and issue my order to the king of the chevaliers to prepare my
galley for immediate departure. Do you follow with your polacre. Where
did the coxswain Nicard meet the _Red Galleon?_”

“Near the island of St. Fereol, monseigneur.”

“Then we only need to watch the coast this side of the island of St.
Fereol As soon as you put to sea, set all your sails so as to examine
every point on the coast which may serve as a retreat for the pirates.
If you see anything suspicious, give me warning. I will keep in sight of
your vessel.”

“May Heaven bless your undertaking, monseigneur, and grant that I may
be able to aid you.”

Luquin Trinquetaille, inspired by the hope of recovering Stephanette,
and eager to wreak his vengeance upon the Bohemian, ran to the port in
all possible haste.

Pierre des Anbiez returned to the baron’s chamber. The surgeon from
the galley already saw signs of hope in the improved respiration and
more quiet sleep of the wounded man. The commander gazed sadly and
thoughtfully at his brother. Presentiments he could not conquer told
him that this day would prove a fatal one to him. It grieved him much to
leave the baron without being recognised by him, but time pressed, and
he approached the bed, leaned over the patient, and, kissing his cold
cheeks, said, in a low and broken voice: “Farewell, my poor brother,
farewell.”

When he rose, his hard and austere countenance betrayed his emotion, and
a tear flowed down his cheek.

“Embrace me, my brother,” said he to Elzear, “I am going into
battle, and into a bloody battle, for the _Red Galleon_ is intrepid. I
hope to meet these pirates in some harbour on the coast.”

“M. Commander, I shall follow you,” cried Honorât de Berrol,
“although it pains me to leave Raimond V. at such a time. I ask you to
accept me as a volunteer.”

Pierre des Anbiez seemed agitated by an inward struggle. He recognised
the courage of Honorât, but he also realised the danger of the
enterprise he was about to undertake, and foresaw that it would result
in one of the most desperate encounters in which they had ever taken
part.

“I understand your interest,” said he to Honorât. “We will meet
the pirates, and succeed, perhaps, in rescuing Reine des Anbiez, but if
I do not return, and if his daughter should not return, who will console
him?” and he pointed to the baron. “Does he not love you as a second
son?”

“And if you do not return, and if his daughter does not return,”
 eried Honorât, “who will console me for not having followed you, and
for not having shared your dangers?”

“Come, then,” said the commander, “I cannot combat your noble
resolution any longer. Let us go. Farewell, again, my brother, pray for
us,” added the soldier, tenderly embracing his brother Elzear.

“Alas! may the Lord bless your undertaking. God grant you may bring
our dear child back to us, and our brother, waking from the painful
sleep, may find his daughter kneeling at his bedside!”

“May Heaven hear you, brother!” said the commander. For the last
time he pressed the cold hand of Raimond V., and hurried out of the
chamber toward the port There he found his galley ready to depart, and
set sail at once, followed by the polacre of the brave Trinquetaille.

Thus it was that the black galley found itself in sight of the Bay of
Lérins, where the two galleys of the pirates were anchored, when Hadji
came out of the road with his chebec to execute the orders of Pog, and
lead in pursuit of him the galley of religion.



CHAPTER XXXIX. PREPARATIONS FOR THE COMBAT

The wind was favourable for the black galley and the polacre, and after
having passed the island of Lerol the two vessels slackened their speed.

Luquin Trinquetaille touched at the different harbours along the coast,
without meeting the pirate ships, which he was to announce to the
commander by a shot from his swivel-gun.

Toward evening, just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, the black
galley and the polacre arrived in sight of the isles of Ste. Marguerite,
at the moment, as we have just said, when the chebec of Hadji issued
from the road, in quest of the Christian galleys, in obedience to the
commands of Pog.

Captain Trinquetaille signalled the chebec, and set every sail to join
it. The Bohemian slackened his speed and waited for him. The betrothed
of Stephanette, by the aid of his telescope, recognised Hadji, who was
commanding the little craft. The worthy captain of the _Holy Terror to
the Moors_ boiled with rage at this encounter, and had need of all his
self-control not to attack the author of Stephanette’s abduction, but,
faithful to the orders of the commander, he doubled the point of Lerol,
and soon perceived the _Red Galleon_ and the galley of Trimalcyon
anchored in the bay, very near each other.

Thus having obtained an exact knowledge of the position of the pirates,
he stood toward the black galley in order to announce this discovery to
Pierre des Anbiez, while the chebec of Hadji was entering the bay under
full sail.

When he arrived near the stem of the black galley and gave this
information to the pilot, the latter, in obedience to the commander,
ordered him to set back the sails of the polacre, and come on board.

Luquin obeyed, but was in despair to see that the chebec of Hadji, whom
he was burning to fight, had escaped him.

The chevaliers had assembled on the deck of the galley, and, according
to the methods of warfare of that time, had cleared the deck for action.

The rambades, which formed a sort of forecastle at the prow, where the
five pieces of artillery belonging to the galley were in battery, were
already covered with coarse oakum cloth, several inches in thickness.
This heavy covering was designed to deaden the effect of the enemy’s
projectiles.

In case the galley was boarded by the enemy, an entrenchment called
a bastion had been erected, which extended the entire length of the
ship’s balcony, and reached to the height of the fourth bench of the
prow.

This entrenchment was constructed of beams and crosspieces of timber,
the spaces between being filled with old cordage and dilapidated sails.
This construction, six feet high on the side of the stem, was only
five feet high at the prow, toward which it sloped to the level of the
rambades, and was designed to prevent the raking fire of the enemy’s
artillery, sweeping the length of the galley.

The subordinate officers and soldiers were armed with steel helmets,
buff-skin, and neck-pieces of iron. Matches ready for lighting lay near
the cannon and swivel-guns; the masts had been hauled down and placed in
the waist of the vessel, as galleys never fight with sails up, but are
sustained by their oars.

The slaves who composed the crew looked on these preparations for battle
with mute terror or sullen indifference. These poor creatures, chained
to their benches, were accounted only a locomotive power. The discipline
of force, to which they had been subjected on board the galley, had,
through its severity, given them the calmness necessary for confronting
danger.

Their position was one of peculiar trial. The gagged and passive
spectators of a desperate battle,--since during a conflict the crews
were generally gagged by means of a piece of wood inserted in the
mouth,--they were not able to deaden their perception of danger, or
satisfy that instinct of ferocity which self-preservation always awakens
in men at the sight of carnage, that enthusiasm or courage which demands
blow for blow, and kills in order not to be killed.

Nor had these slaves any hope of the ordinary results which follow a
victory. If their vessel was the conqueror they continued to row
on board of her; if she was conquered, they rowed on board of the
conqueror.

Placed during the action between the balls of the enemy and the pistols
of their keepers, who killed them on their first refusal to row, the men
of the crew only escaped certain death by exposing themselves to a
death less certain, inasmuch as there was a possibility of missing the
enemy’s balls, while the keepers fired their pistols into the breasts
of their helpless victims. Under such an alternative the galley-slaves
resigned themselves to their fate and continued to row.

In all cases, they were indifferent to victory, and not unfrequently
were interested in defeat, since the conquerors, Turks or Arabs, often
delivered their own nationality. As to the renegades, all crews were
alike to them. Hence, the convict-crew of the black galley knew only
that they were about to do battle with the _Red Galleon_, and were
utterly indifferent to the result of the engagement.

Preparations for the fight went on in the most profound silence. The
calm, austere countenances of the soldiers of the cross showed that
they found nothing unusual in these preliminary details. The chevaliers
carefully inspected the different services with which they were charged;
so seriously was every duty performed, that one might have thought the
actors were preparing for some religious rite.

At the stern, the assembled chevaliers made a rigid examination of the
position of the two galleys commanded by the pirates.

When Luquin Trinquetaille arrived on deck, the overseer ordered him
to attend the commander, who was expected there. Pierre des Anbiez,
kneeling in his chamber, was fervently praying. Since his departure from
Maison-Forte, the gloomiest presentiments had assailed his mind. In the
poignancy of his remorse, he had seen a providential coincidence in
his return and the frightful disasters which had just overwhelmed his
family. He accused himself of having, by his own crime, called down the
vengeance of Heaven upon the house of Anbiez.

His imagination, unnaturally excited by the violent emotions which had
shaken his whole being, evoked the strangest phantoms.

As he cast a serious yet fearful glance upon the portrait of Pog,--the
Count de Montreuil,--which was hanging in his chamber, it seemed to him
that the eyes of this portrait glowed with a supernatural brilliancy.

Twice he approached the frame to assure himself that he was not the
sport of an illusion; twice he recoiled terrified, feeling his brow
bathed in a cold sweat, and his hair standing up on his head.

Then he was struck with dizziness,--his reason forsook him,--he saw
nothing more. Objects unnamable passed before his eyes with frightful
rapidity; it seemed to him that he was being transported on the wings of
a whirlwind.

By degrees he came to himself,--the aberration was past, and he found
himself in his chamber on the galley, face to face with the portrait of
Pog.

For the first time in his life he felt a dark and painful presentiment
at the thought of going into battle. Instead of burning with that wild
enthusiasm which characterised him, instead of thinking with a sort of
ferocious joy upon the tumult of the fray, which had so often stifled
the remorse which cried aloud in his soul, his thoughts turned
involuntarily to death and disaster.

He started, as he asked himself if his soul was ready to appear before
the Lord,--if the austerities which he had imposed upon himself for so
many years sufficed for the expiation of his crime.

Terrified, he fell upon his knees, and began to pray with fervour,
beseeching God to give him the courage and the strength to accomplish
his last mission,--once more to uplift the cross triumphantly, and to
rescue Reine des Anbiez from the hands of her ravishers.

He had scarcely finished his prayer when some one knocked at his door.
He rose to his feet. The artilleryman, Captain Hugues, appeared.

“What do you want?”

“A man in a boat, sent by these miscreants, wishes to make some
terms with you. M. Commander, must I welcome him with a shot from my
swivel-gun, or send him on deck?”

“Send him on deck.”

“Where shall I conduct him?”

“Here.”

Pierre des Anbiez thought he understood the nature of the desired
interview. The pirates, holding Reine des Anbiez as a hostage, wished,
no doubt, to make terms for her ransom.

The artillery officer returned with the Bohemian.

“What do you want?” said the commander to him.

“Order this man to retire, monseigneur; your ears alone should hear
what my lips will say.”

“You are very impudent,” replied Pierre de Anbiez, looking at Hadji,
sharply.

Then he added, addressing Captain Hugues: “Leave us--go away.”

“Alone with this robber, M. Commander?”

“We are three,” said Pierre des Anbiez, pointing to his arms hanging
on the wall.

“Do you take me, then, for an assassin?” said Hadji, with scorn.

The artillery officer shrugged his shoulders, and went out with evident
regret, although the tall stature and robust figure of the commander,
compared to the slender proportions of the Bohemian, ought to have
reassured him.

“Speak, as I do not wish to have you crucified yet at the prow of my
galley,” said Pierre des Anbiez to the Bohemian.

The latter, with his accustomed insolence, replied: “When my hour
comes it shall find me. Pog-Reis, captain of the _Red Galleon_, sends me
to you, monseigneur. It was he who attacked La Ciotat that night; it is
he certainly who has Reine des Anbiez in his power.”

“Enough, enough, wretch, do not boast longer of your crimes, or I will
have your tongue torn out! What have you come to demand? I am eager to
chastise your accomplices and make a terrible example of them. If you
come to speak of favour and ransom, hear well what fate awaits you
and yours; let them try to defend themselves or not, they shall all be
carried in chains to La Ciotat, and burned in the middle of the town
hall square. Do you understand clearly?”

“I understand clearly,” said the Bohemian, with imperturbable
coolness. “Pog-Reis will not object to your burning his crew.”

“What do you mean? That he will deliver his accomplices to me, if I
grant him his life? It is natural that barbarity like his should hide an
ignoble cowardice. If that is his opinion, I am of another mind. The
two captains of the galleys and you, all three shall be quartered before
being burned, even if you deliver to me your accomplices bound hand and
foot, to receive the punishment they deserve. So, go at once, and tell
that to your confederates. Go! my blood boils when I think of that
unfortunate city and my brother! Go! I do not wish to soil my hands with
the blood of a bandit, and I wish you to warn your associates of the
fate which awaits them!”

“I had nothing to do with the massacre in the city, monseigneur.”

“Will you finish?”

“Ah, well, monseigneur, Pog-Reis and the other captain propose a
single combat to you and one of your chevaliers, two against two, with
the Spanish sword and dagger. If he is killed, you will attack his
galleys afterward, and easily capture them, as there will then be two
bodies without a head. If you are killed, your lieutenant will attack
the galleys of Pog-Reis. The desire to avenge your death will give new
zeal to your soldiers, and no doubt they will offer Pog-Reis and his
crew as a holocaust to your ghost. That need not change your plans in
the least; only the captain of the _Red Galleon_ will find himself face
to face with the captain of the black galley. The tiger and the lion can
thus defy each other.”

The commander listened to this proposition, as insolent as it was
unheard of, in silence and astonishment.

When the Bohemian ceased talking, Pierre des Anbiez, in his wrath, could
not resist seizing him by the throat, and crying: “What! you wretch,
is that the message with which you are charged? You dare propose to me
to cross swords with an assassin like Pog-Reis and one of his brigands!
By the holy cross!” added the commander, pushing back the Bohemian so
violently that he stumbled to the other end of the chamber, “to punish
you for your impudence, I shall have you given twenty lashes on the
chase-gun before handing you over to execution.”

The Bohemian darted the glance of a tiger at Pierre des Anbiez and
gnashed his teeth together in rage, but seeing that he would be at
a disadvantage in a contest, he restrained himself and replied:
“Pog-Reis, monseigneur, counted on your refusal at first, and,
to decide you, he instructed me to inform you that your brother’s
daughter was in his power. If you refuse his proposition, if you attack
his galleys at once, Reine des Anbiez and all the captives we have taken
shall be instantly put to death.”

“Wretch!”

“If, on the contrary, you accept the combat and send your gauntlet as
a pledge, Reine des Anbiez will be brought on board your vessel without
ransom, as well as the other prisoners that Pog-Reis has taken at
La Ciotat.” “I will never make terms with such murderers. Go!”
 “Think of it, consider it, monseigneur. Pog-Reis, if you attack him,
will defend himself vigorously. If he is defeated, he will blow up
his ship. You will have neither him nor Reine des Anbiez nor the other
captives, while by accepting this single combat you can return the young
girl to her father, and the captives to their city.”

“Be silent!” said the commander, who could not help reflecting
that this proposition had its advantage, notwithstanding its audacious
insolence.

“Finally,” said Hadji, as if he had guarded this last consideration
as the most decisive, “a mysterious spirit wishes the combat that
Pog-Reis proposes to you. Yes, this morning, after the attack on La
Ciotat, Pog-Reis, exhausted by fatigue, fell asleep and had a dream. A
voice said to him that a single combat between him and a soldier of the
cross to-day would expiate a great crime.”

These last words of the Bohemian struck the commander, and he started.
Already he believed, in the intensity of his remorse, that his crime had
brought upon his family the frightful evils which had befallen it. When
he heard Hadji speak of the expiation of a great crime, he believed
âiat the will of Heaven had been declared in these words, uttered by
chance.

“What dream? what dream? speak,” said he to the Bohemian, in a
hollow voice, as he was seized by a secret terror.

“What matters the dream to you, monseigneur?”

“Speak, I tell you, speak!”

“Pog-Reis was transported into the region of visions,” replied
Hadji, with an Oriental emphasis. “He heard the voice of the spirit.
It said to him, ‘Look!’ and he saw a woman in a coffin, and that woman
had been pierced to the heart and her wound was bleeding. And near the
dead woman Pog-Reis beheld the vision of a soldier of Christ,--that
vision was you!”

“I! I!” cried the commander, petrified with astonishment.

“You!” said Hadji, restraining his joy, for he saw that this story,
prepared by Pog-Reis, accomplished the desire of the pirate.

Pog,--the Count de Montreuil,--judging of the religious character of
the commander by the letters which the Bohemian had stolen from the
watchman’s cabin, did not doubt that Pierre des Anbiez would be
impressed by this dream, and thus be induced to decide in favour of the
combat. The commander was all the more impressed by this account of the
dream, inasmuch as he believed his crime had never been discovered.

“Ah, God wishes it, God wishes it,” murmured he, in a low voice.

The Bohemian continued without appearing to hear him: “The spirit said
to Pog, ‘Tomorrow you will fight this soldier of Christ, one to
one, and a great crime will be expiated.’ Pog-Reis has committed great
crimes, monseigneur, he has never felt remorse, the revelation of the
spirit has touched him, and he wishes to obey it. He offers you combat.
Take care not to refuse it. Christian, the God of all sends his dreams
to all indiscriminately. It is by dreams that he declares his will.
Perhaps, he chooses you, holy man, as an instrument of a great
vengeance; you ought to obey. Perhaps in asking combat of you, Pog-Reis
asks for death at your hands.”

The astonishment, the terror, of the commander can be comprehended. In
these words, he saw a divine revelation; he thought he heard the voice
of the Lord commanding this expiation, and, contrary to the prediction
of the Bohemian, believed that the anger of Heaven had decreed himself
to be the victim which should fall under the blows of Pog.

Finally, in accepting the combat, he assured the rescue of Reine des
Anbiez; he would return a daughter to her father, and prisoners to their
weeping families,--a last proof that divine justice desired to strike
him alone, since it offered him the means of repairing the evils his
crime had called down upon his own.

When we reflect that the constant remorse of Pierre des Anbiez, while
it did not impair his reason, had predisposed him to a sort of religious
fatalism by no means orthodox, but calculated to make a deep impression
upon his earnest and gloomy nature, we may comprehend the crushing
effect produced on him by the language of Hadji.

After a moment’s silence, he said to the Bohemian,

“Go up on deck, I will give you my orders.”

Then he sent for the overseer, and commanded him to conduct Hadji on
deck, to watch over him, and to take him under his protection.



CHAPTER XL. THE CHALLENGE

The commander sent for the chaplain of the black galley to descend
into his chamber. While Pierre des Anbiez confessed his sins,--with the
exception of the murder reserved for the great act of penitence of the
order,--and received absolution, the Bohemian went up on deck. The first
person whom he met there was the captain of the _Holy Terror to the
Moors, by the Grace of God_.

Hadji, affecting an easy and impertinent familiarity, approached Luquin
Trinquetaille and said to him: “Who would have believed, my boy, that
we would see each other again here, when that pretty girl enraged you so
much by giving me flame-coloured ribbons at Maison-Forte?”

This excess of impudence rendered the worthy captain speechless a
moment, then, putting his hand on his sword, he was about to attack
Hadji, when the overseer reminded him that the Bohemian was under his
protection by order of the commander.

“There is another place where we will meet, you villain,” said
Luquin, “and that will be under the gallows where you will be hanged;
for, zounds! although the office of executioner is repugnant to me, I
would sell my polacre even to have the right to put the rope around your
neck.”

“Ingrate, you do not think of the grief you would bring upon
Stephanette; the poor girl loves me so much that she would die of sorrow
to see me hanged, and especially by you.”

“You lie, you lie like a dog. Oh, that I could tear your cursed tongue
out by the roots!”

“You would be right, my boy, to tear out my tongue, for it was my
honeyed words which opened the way to this pretty girl’s heart A
little while ago, on board my chebec where she was with me, she said, as
she leaned her head on my shoulder--”

“You lie, you blaspheme!” cried Luquin, in fury.

“She said, as she leaned her head on my shoulder,” continued the
Bohemian, with imperturbable coolness, “‘What a difference, my
handsome captain, between your gallant and charming language, and the
tiresome twittering of that long-legged heron that flutters around me so
clumsily.’ That is the way she spoke of you, my poor boy.”

“Here, overseer,” exclaimed Luquin, pale with rage, “permit me to
cut this villain’s face with a few blows of my sabre scabbard.”

“If his words wound you, do not listen to them,” answered the
overseer. “The commander entrusted this pagan to me, and I cannot
permit any one to do him harm.”

Luquin uttered a groan of concentrated wrath.

“After all,” continued the Bohemian, with a disdain-ful
self-conceit, “that girl is rather good-looking, but you have made
her so silly, my boy, that the conversation I had with her yesterday was
enough to take away any desire to continue the interview. You can marry
her when you please, my boy, only when you see her look sad, you need
only mention my name to make her smile tenderly, since the memory of me
will live in her heart eternally. Poor girl, she told me so yesterday as
she kissed my hand as if I had been a lord.”

The indignant Luquin could hear no more. Shaking his fists at the
Bohemian, he turned away abruptly, followed by the derisive laugh of the
vagabond.

As we have said, the sun was just sinking and the sea was calm. In the
distance, between two points of the rocks at the depth of the bay, could
be seen the _Red Galleon_ and the galley of Trimalcyon anchored near
each other, while not far from them lay the chebec of Hadji.

The boat which had brought Hadji balanced on the waves, fastened to the
stem of the black galley. The sky was clear, with the exception of a
belt of reddish gray clouds around the setting sun.

Captain Hugues, the artilleryman, approached the overseer who guarded
the Bohemian, and said to him, as he shook his head and pointed to the
west:

“Brother, I do not like those clouds which are gathering down there,
they are threatening, we are in a dead calm. If the sun, as it sets,
scatters these clouds, the night will be beautiful; if, on the contrary,
the cloud covers the sun before it sets--”

“I understand you, Brother Hugues, we will have a shift of the wind,
a hurricane, and the night will be bad,” replied the overseer.
“Fortunately, we have time yet.” And, turning to Hadji, he said,
“Little it matters to you or to yours to be hanged in a storm or a
calm.”

“I prefer to be hanged in a storm, overseer; the wind rocks you like a
cradle, and you fall asleep sooner in eternity,” replied Hadji, with a
disdainful indifference.

The commander appeared on deck. The assembled chevaliers separated and
respectfully made way for him. Pierre des Anbiez was dressed entirely
in black. His face seemed paler and more sad than usual. At his side he
wore a heavy iron sword, and a long dagger in its bronze scabbard; on
his right hand he wore a glove of black buffalo skin, his left hand was
naked. He made a sign to the Bohemian and threw down before him his left
gauntlet. Hadji picked it up and was about to speak, when the commander,
with an imperious gesture, showed him the boat which had brought him to
the galley. Hadji descended and embarked, and was soon on his way to the
vessels of the pirates.

Astonished at the commander’s action, the chevaliers and Honorât
de Berrol, who was among them, looked at each other in surprise. The
commander followed the Bohemian’s departing boat with his eyes, then,
turning to the group around him, said, in a loud voice:

“Brothers, in a little while we will attack the galleys of these
miscreants; they are anchored near each other. The long-boat will be
put to sea, half the soldiers will descend into it, and, while the black
galley attacks the _Red Galleon_, the long-boat will attack the other
pirate vessel.” Then addressing the king of the chevaliers, he
continued: “You will command the black galley, brother, and the
Brother de Blinville, the oldest lieutenant of the galley, will command
the long-boat. Now, overseer, strokesman, all, ply your oars! the sun
is setting and only an hour of daylight is left us to chastise these
miscreants.”

Although the chevaliers had not understood why Pierre des Anbiez
abandoned the command of the black galley and the long-boat, they
hastened to execute his orders.

A part of the crew, well armed, embarked in the longboat of the galley,
which was put to sea under the orders of the Chevalier de Blinville, and
the two vessels, with full force of oars, directed their course toward
the entrance of the bay.

The commander having ordered Captain Trinquetaille to remain on board
the galley, the polacre was directed by the second in command, and
followed the black galley’s movements.

Honorât approached the commander, and said: “I wish to fight at your
side, M. Commander. Reine des Anbiez was my betrothed. Raimond V.
has been a second father to me, and my place should be the post of
danger.”

Pierre des Anbiez looked steadily at Honorât, and answered: “It
is true, chevalier, you have a double vengeance to wreak upon these
robbers. To assure the freedom of Reine, I have consented to fight in
single combat with one of the pirate captains. I need a second. Will you
accept that duty?”

“You, monsieur, you accede to such a proposition!” cried Honorât,
“do such honour to these miscreants!”

“Will you or will you not draw the sword and the dagger when I draw
them, young man?” rudely interrupted Pierre des Anbiez.

“I can only be proud to do what you do, M. Commander; my sword is at
your orders.”

“Go, then, and arm yourself, and hold yourself in readiness to follow
me when I descend.”

After a moment’s silence, he added: “You see that long-boat doubling
the point; she will bring on board my galley Reine des Anbiez and the
captives from La Ciotat.”

“Reine!” cried Honorât.

“There she is,” said the commander.

In fact, the long-boat of Hadji was rapidly approaching; the Chevalier
de Berrol soon recognised Reine, Stephanette, and two other young girls,
besides twenty inhabitants of La Ciotat, captured when the pirates made
their descent upon the city.

The chevaliers were ignorant of the agreement made between the commander
and the Bohemian. They could not understand why the pirates returned
their prisoners in this manner.

When the long-boat was within range of the voice, the commander ordered
the overseer to lift the galley’s oars and wait for this craft, which
soon reached them.

Pierre des Anbiez advanced to the height of the first rower’s seat,
and there received his niece, who threw herself in his arms with all the
effusion oi affectionate gratitude.

“And my father?” cried the young girl.

“Your return will relieve his anxiety, my child,” replied the
commander, who did not wish to inform Reine of her father’s condition.

“Honorât, is it you?” said Reine, extending her hand to the
chevalier, whom she did not see at first “Alas! my friend, under what
sad circumstances I see you. But who is with my father, pray? Why did
you leave him alone?”

“Reine, our aim was to rescue you, and I followed the commander.
Father Elzear is at Maison-Forte with Raimond V.”

“But now I am free, will you not return with me to my father?”

“Return with you? No, Reine, I must remain with the commander.
To-morrow, no doubt, I will see you. I bid you a tender farewell, Reine.
Farewell, farewell.”

“With what a serious air you bid me farewell, Honorât,” cried the
young girl, struck with the chevalier’s solemn expression. “But
there is no danger, they will not attack the pirates; what good can be
done by remaining here?”

“No, doubtless they will not fight,” said Honorât, with
embarrassment “The commander only wishes to assure the departure of
these wretches.”

Pierre des Anbiez, having given his orders, approached Reine and took
her by the hand, as he said: “Come, hasten, my child; embark at once,
the sun is sinking. Luquin Trinquetaille will take you on board his
polacre, and before to-morrow morning you will be in the arms of your
father.”

Then addressing the captain of the _Holy Terror to the Moors_, who was
darting furious glances at the Bohemian because this vagabond never took
his eyes from Stephanette, and affected to speak to her in a low voice,
the commander said: “With your life you will answer for Mlle, des
Anbiez. Depart this instant. Conduct her to Maison-Forte with the other
young girls and her attendant. The men will remain and reinforce the
crew of my galley. Come, farewell, Reine, embrace me, my child; say to
my brothers that I hope to take them by the hand to-morrow.”

“You hope, uncle,--pray, what danger is there?”

“The sun is setting, embark at once,” said the commander, without
replying to the question of his niece, as he led her to the boat which
was to conduct her to the polacre.

While Reine exchanged a last look with Honorât, the Bohemian, still
insolent and satirical, approached Luquin, holding Stephanette’s hand
in spite of her resistance, and said to him: “I give you this pretty
girl, my boy; marry her in all confidence. Alas! my poor little thing, I
must resign you. I will remember all your tenderness.”

“What! my tenderness!” cried Stephanette, indignant.

“It is true we agreed to say nothing about it before this cormorant.”

“Luquin, to your boat!” cried the commander, in an imperious voice.

The worthy captain was compelled to swallow this new insult, and to
descend in haste to his boat in order to receive there Mlle. des Anbiez.

Five minutes after the polacre, commanded by Luquin, set sail for
Maison-Forte, bearing Reine, Stephanette, and two other young girls so
miraculously saved from the fate which threatened them.

When the polacre had departed, the Bohemian approached the commander
respectfully, and said:

“Pog-Reis has kept his word, monseigneur.”

“I will keep mine. Go, wait for me in your longboat.”

The Bohemian bowed and left the galley.

Pierre des Anbiez said to the Chevalier de Blinville, who was to command
the galley in his absence:

“The hour-glass is full; in a half-hour, if I do not return on board,
you are to enter the bay and attack the pirates according to the
orders which I have given to you; the black galley will fight the _Red
Galleon_, and the boat will fight the other vessel.”

“Shall we begin the attack without waiting for you, M. Commander?”
 repeated the lieutenant, thinking he had not understood the
instructions.

“You will begin the attack without waiting for me, if I do not return
in a half-hour,” replied the commander, in a firm voice. One of
his men brought to him his hat and large black mantle, on which was
quartered the white cross of his order. He then left the galley,
followed by Honorât, to the great astonishment of the chevaliers and
the crew.

Hadji stood at the helm of the little boat; four Moorish slaves took the
oars, and soon the light craft bounded over the swelling waves in the
direction of the western point of the bay.

Pierre des Anbiez, wrapped in his mantle, turned his head and threw
a last lingering look upon his galley, as if to assure himself of the
reality of the events which were taking place. He felt himself dragged,
so to speak, by an irresistible force to which he submitted in blind
obedience.

After some moments of silence, he said to Hadji: “Where does that man
expect me?”

“On the beach, near the ruins of the Abbey of St. Victor,
monseigneur.”

“Make your crew row faster, they do not advance,” said Pierre des
Anbiez, with feverish impatience.

“The waves are high, the cloud is gathering, and the wind is going to
blow; the night will be bad,” said Hadji, in a low voice.

The commander, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not reply to him. The
sun’s last rays were soon obscured by a large belt of black clouds,
which, at first heavy and motionless upon the horizon, began to
move with frightful rapidity. Deep and distant bursts of thunder, a
phenomenon quite common during the winter season of Provence, announced
one of those sudden hurricanes so frequent in the Mediterranean.



CHAPTER XLI. THE COMBAT

The clouds piled high in the west, spread rapidly over the sky which had
been so serene. The increasing murmur of the waves, the plaintive moan
of the wind, which was gradually rising, the distant rolling of the
thunder, all announced a terrible storm.

The little boat reached the shore, a lonely beach girded by blocks of
reddish granite. The commander and Honorât landed, when Hadji, who
had preceded them a few steps, stopped and said to Pierre des Anbiez,
“Monseigneur, follow this path hollowed out of the rock, and you will
soon arrive at the ruins of the Abbey of St. Victor. Pog-Reis awaits you
there.”

Without replying to Hadji, Pierre des Anbiez resolutely entered a sort
of crevasse formed by a rent in the rock, and scarcely large enough for
a man to pass through.

Honorât, not less courageous, followed him, reflecting at the same time
that a traitor, placed on the crest of the two rocks between which they
rather glided than walked, could easily crush them by rolling upon
them some one of the enormous stones which crowned the escarpment. The
tempest was gradually approaching. The loud voices of the wind and the
sea, which threatened more and more, at last burst forth into fury, and
were answered from the height of the clouds by the thunderbolts. The
elements had entered upon a tremendous struggle.

The commander walked with long strides. In the violence of the storm
he saw an omen; it seemed to him that the vengeance of Heaven clothed
itself in a terrible majesty before striking him.

The more he reflected, the more the strange dream related by the
Bohemian appeared to him a manifestation of the divine will.

By one of the ordinary phenomena of thought, Pierre des Anbiez in one
second recalled every detail of bloody tragedy which was the consequence
of his love for the wife of Count de Montreuil, the birth of his
unfortunate child, the death of Emilie, and the murder of her husband.
All of these events came back to his mind with awful precision, as if
the crime had been committed the day before.

The narrow passage which wound across the rocks enlarged somewhat, and
the commander and Honorât issued from this granite wall, and found
themselves opposite the ruins of the Abbey of St. Victor. In this spot
they beheld no one.

The interior basin of the bay formed a deep cove. At the south it was
shut in by the rocks through which they had just passed; at the north
and at the west, by the half-destroyed buildings of the abbey; at the
east could be seen the road in which the two galleys of the pirates were
anchored.

The imposing pile of the abbey ruins, the wreck of vaults and heavy
arches, the crumbling towers covered with ivy, outlined their sad, gray
forms upon the black clouds which hung lower and lower over the solemn
scene.

A wan, bleak day, which was neither light nor darkness, threw a strange
and weird radiance over the rocks, the ruins, the beach, and the sea.
The waves roared, the wind howled, the thunder rolled, yet no person
appeared.

Honorât, in spite of his courage, was struck with the awful and dismal
scene which lay around him. The commander, wrapped in his long black
mantle, his form erect, his face anxious and gloomy, seemed to evoke
evil spirits.

In a deep, sepulchral voice, he called three times: “Pog-Reis!
Pog-Reis! Pog-Reis!” No answer was heard.

An enormous owl uttered a doleful cry as it flew slowly and heavily from
a vault, as massive as the arch of a bridge, which had once been the
entrance to the cloister.

“Nobody comes,” said Honorât. “Do you not fear an ambuscade, M.
Commander? Perhaps you have placed too much confidence in the words of
these wretches.”

“Divine vengeance assumes all forms,” replied Pierre des Anbiez.

He then relapsed into silence, gazing abstractedly at the heavy arcade,
which formerly served as an entrance to the cloister, and whose interior
was now enveloped in dense shadow.

Suddenly a pale winter ray threw its wan light over this arch, casting a
livid, fantastic illumination over the solemn scene.

A thunderbolt broke and reverberated, and, by a strange coincidence, at
the same moment two men issued from the obscurity of the vault, and with
slow and deliberate steps advanced toward the commander and Honorât de
Berrol.

These men were Pog and Erebus.

Pog held a naked sword in his right hand; his left arm was around the
neck of Erebus, and he reclined tenderly upon the young man, as a father
would lean upon a son. Erebus also held an unsheathed sword in his hand.

Both continued to approach the commander and Honorât.

Suddenly Pierre des Anbiez stood for a moment petrified, then, without
uttering a word, quickly stepped back, seized the arm of the Chevalier
de Berrol, and pointed to Pog and Erebus, with a gesture of terror.

Notwithstanding the change produced by years in the countenance of Pog,
the commander recognised in him the Count de Montreuil, the husband of
Emilie, the man whom he believed he had killed, and whose portrait he
had preserved as an expiation of his crime.

“Have the dead come back from the grave?” said he, in a low voice,
recoiling and dragging Honorât with him as Pog advanced.

The Chevalier de Berrol was ignorant of all that pertained to that
terrible tragedy, but he felt a secret horror, less at the appearance
of the two pirates than at the evident fright of the commander, whose
intrepidity was so well known.

Then, as if to render the solemn scene still more awful, the tempest
increased in violence, and the thunder grew louder and more frequent.

Pog stopped.

“Do you know me? Do you know me?” said he to the commander.

“If you are not a ghost, I know you,” replied the commander, fixing
a look of amazement upon the husband of Emilie.

“Do you remember the unhappy woman whose murderer you were?”

“I remember, I remember, I accuse myself.” And the commander struck
his breast in the act of contrition.

At these words, uttered in a low voice by Pierre des Anbiez, Erebus,
whose countenance expressed the rage of desperation, raised his sword,
and started to throw himself upon the commander.

Pog restrained him with a firm hand, and said to him: “Not yet.”

Erebus rested the point of his sword on the ground, and raised his eyes
to heaven.

“You owe me a bloody reparation,” said Pog.

“My life belongs to you. I shall not lift my sword against you,”
 replied the commander, bowing his head upon his breast.

“You have accepted the combat. I have your word. Here is your
adversary,” and he pointed to Erebus. “Here is mine,” and he
pointed to Honorât.

“Take up your sword, then,” cried the Chevalier do Berrol, who
wished at any cost to put an end to a scene which, in spite of himself,
chilled him with horror.

He advanced toward Pog.

“They first, we afterward,” answered Pog.

“This instant, this instant! Take up your sword!” cried Honorât.

Pog, addressing Pierre des Anbiez, said, in an imperious tone: “Order
your second to await the result of your fight with the young captain.”

“Chevalier, I pray you to wait,” said the commander, with
resignation.

“Defend your life, murderer!” cried Erebus, rushing upon Pierre des
Anbiez with uplifted sword.

“But this is a child!” said the commander, looking at his adversary
with a sort of contemptuous compassion.

“Your mother! Your mother!” whispered Pog to Erebus.

“Yes, a child, the child of those whom you have murdered,” cried the
unfortunate youth, striking the commander in the face with the breadth
of his sword.

The livid countenance of the old soldier became purple; transported with
anger at this insult, he threw himself upon Erebus, saying, “Lord, thy
will be done!”

Then ensued a parricidal struggle.

And the darkness suddenly fell upon the scene, as if nature herself
revolted at the sight.

Thunderbolts rent the clouds, the tempest let loose its fury, and the
very rocks trembled upon their foundations.

The parricidal combat continued with undiminished rage.

[Illustration: This parricidal combat continued ]

With clasped hands, Pog, with ferocious eagerness, enjoyed the frightful
spectacle.

“At last, after twenty years, I taste one moment of true, ineffable
happiness. Roll, O thunder! Burst forth, O tempest! All nature takes
part in my vengeance!” cried he, in savage joy.

Honorât, unable to account for his own feelings, cried in dismay:

“Enough! enough!” and tried to separate Erebus and Pierre des
Anbiez.

Pog, endowed for the moment with superhuman strength, seized Honorât,
paralysed his efforts, and said, in a low voice, trembling with rage and
excitement, “My vengeance!”

Erebus fell.

“Pierre des Anbiez, you have killed your son! Here are your letters,
here are the portraits, you can see them,” cried Pog, in a voice that
rose above the storm, and he threw at the feet of the commander the
casket which Hadji had stolen from Peyrou.

Suddenly a thunderbolt struck with a noise impossible to describe. The
heavens, the bay, the ruins, the rocks, and the sea, appeared to be on
fire.

A terrible explosion followed, and the very earth trembled; a part of
the ruins of the abbey fell away, while a blast of wind, breaking
and driving everything in its path, enveloped the entire bay in its
irresistible and tremendous whirlpool.



CHAPTER XLII. CONCLUSION.

Three days after the dreadful combat between Pierre des Anbiez and
Erebus, the black galley and the polacre of Luquin were anchored in the
port of La Ciotat.

The great clock in the hall of Maison-Forte had just struck nine.
Captain Trinquetaille was walking softly on tiptoe through the gallery
where the Christmas ceremonies had taken place, directing his steps
toward the apartment of Mlle. des Anbiez. He knocked at the little door
of the oratory. Stephanette soon came out of the door.

“Ah, well, Luquin,” said the young girl, anxiously,

“how has he passed the night?”

“Badly, Stephanette, very badly; the abbé says there is no hope for
him.”

“Poor child!” said the young girl, “and how is M. Commander?”

“Always in the same state, seated at the youth’s bedside like a
statue; he never moves or speaks or sees or hears. Father Elzear says if
M. Commander could only weep, he might be saved, if not--”

“Well?”

“If not, he fears his head,” and Luquin made a gesture indicating
the alarm felt for the commander’s mind.

“Ah, my God, if that misfortune should be added to all the others!”

“And how is Mlle. Reine?” asked Luquin.

“Always suffering. The sad ceremony of the baptism yesterday affected
her so deeply! Monseigneur wished her to be with him sponsor to
this poor young pagan whom they called Erebus, so that he can die a
Christian. My God! at his age never to have been baptised! Fortunately,
Father Elzear has given him the sacrament! Ah, poor young man, he will
bear the Christian names that monseigneur and mademoiselle have given
him only until this evening.”

“And how is monseigneur?” asked Luquin.

“Oh, as to monseigneur, he would be on his feet and with the commander
if we would listen to him. Abbé Mascarolus says an ordinary man would
have been killed by such a wound, and that monseigneur must have a head
as hard as iron to have resisted that heavy club. Thank God, he who gave
that blow will not give any more.”

“Speaking of that, Stephanette, you know they have not been able to
find the body of Pog-Reis under the ruins of the abbey?”

“He was only an infidel, but, oh, to die without burial!” said
Stephanette, with a shudder. “How was he buried under the ruins?”

“This is what M. Honorât told me, and he ought to know. The moment
the unfortunate young man fell, wounded by the commander, Pog-Reis, as
they called him, seized M. Honorât, so as to prevent his separating
the two combatants. Suddenly, as you know, the thunderbolt burst in the
middle of the bay It struck the _Red Galleon_; her powder took fire,
and she was blown up, and carried with her the other galley, already
seriously damaged by the culverin of Master Laramée. Not a pirate
escaped. The waves of the bay were so high and so powerful that the best
swimmer would have been drowned a thousand times over.”

“But, Pog-Reis?” asked Stephanette.

“The explosion was so tremendous that the earth trembled. M. Honorât
told me this: ‘The pirate, startled, then left me. I ran to the
commander, who had already been thrown on the body of his son. He was
embracing him, as he sobbed. At the time of the explosion Pog-Reis was
standing on the ruins. Those old walls, shaken by the commotion and
violence of the wind, suddenly fell and crushed him beneath their
weight’ This morning, some fishermen coming from the bay said the
stones were so enormous that they could not be moved, and so they had
given up all hope of finding the body of the brigand.”

“My God! my God! What a disaster, Luquin, and how it proves that
Heaven is just See, the two galleys of these brigands were struck and
not one escaped! And Pog-Reis crushed under the ruins of the abbey!”

“No doubt, no doubt, Stephanette, Heaven has done much; but it has not
done all, there remains yet another account to settle.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we heard this explosion at sea, and when we set sail for
Maison-Forte, and a little faster, too, than I wished, for the tempest
was driving my polacre over the waves like a feather in the air, you
see--”

“That is true, Luquin, we thought we were lost What weather!
what waves! we thought we had escaped one danger only to fall into
another.”

“Yes, yes. Ah, well, what was it passed within range of my cannon
during the hurricane?”

“How do I know? I was too much frightened and too much occupied with
my mistress to see what was happening around us.”

“Indeed, Stephanette! Ah, well, it was the chebec of that cursed
Bohemian whom hell leaves on this earth I know not why. Yes, it was his
chebec that was near us. He had, by chance, anchored his ship so far
from the galleys that he did not feel the explosion. Two hours after,
when he had brought M. Commander, M. Honorât, and that poor young
man on board the galley, taking advantage of the commander’s
forgetfulness, who neglected to have him hanged, he had the audacity to
set sail again, and it was he we saw pass us, returning, no doubt, to
the south, where he will be drowned or burned if the good God wishes to
finish the example he has already given us in destroying the two galleys
of these infidels. That is what I wish may happen to him.”

“Come, come, Luquin, you are so enraged against this wretch; do not
think of him any more. Yet it was he who brought on board the black
galley Mlle. Reine, me, my companions, the prisoners, the recorder
Isnard and his clerk, who were among the captives, and who never
ceased to call him our deliverer. So do have a little pity on your
neighbour--”

“My neighbour! that miserable vagabond! My neighbour! the neighbour of
Satan! That is what he is!”

“Ah, how wicked you are in your hatred!”

“Come, now, that is pretty good!” cried Luquin, in a fury, “that
is the way you defend him now! You can do no more than regret him.
Besides, he said, really, that you would regret him, and perhaps he was
not wrong!” “Indeed, if you begin your jealousy again, you will make
me regret him.”

“Regret him--him! you dare--”

“Without doubt; for at least, one time in his ship, he left me to weep
and grieve in peace, and--”

“But that was not what he said. H’m--h’m--the honeyed words of
this insolent prattler were quite capable of making you forget your
grief for a time, no doubt.”

Stephanette, indignant, was about to reply to her betrothed, when the
whistle of Mlle, des Anbiez called her to that lady’s apartment.

She entered, after having thrown an angry glance at Luquin.

The captain was in the way of repenting of his suspicions when the
majordomo Laramée, coming precipitately out of the chamber of Raimond
V., said:

“Here you are, Luquin, come quick and help me to carry monseigneur
to the commander. He is too weak to walk; we will carry him in his
armchair.”

Luquin followed Laramée, and entered the baron’s chamber. The old
gentleman was still very pale, a wide black bandage wrapped his
head, but he had partly recovered his vivacity and his energy. Abbé
Mascarolus was with him.

“You say, then, abbé, that this poor young man is about to die, and
he wishes to speak to me?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“And how is my brother Pierre?”

“In the same state, monseigneur.”

“Quick, quick, Laramée, throw a mantle over my shoulders, and I will
walk on your legs and the legs of this boy, for my own will not support
me yet.” Luquin took the armchair on one side, and Laramée took
the other, and they transported the baron into the large chamber where
Erebus was lying. At the door of this chamber they found Peyrou, the
watchman, who anxiously awaited news from his old captain.

The face of Erebus already gave signs of approaching death. His
features, once so clear, so beautiful, so serene, were painfully
contorted. He was pale with the pallor of the dying. His eyes shone with
a brilliancy all the more intense because it was so soon to be eclipsed
in death. His wound was mortal, and no place was left for hope.

Pierre des Anbiez, wearing the same clothes he wore on the day of the
fatal encounter, was seated on the foot of his son’s bed, absolutely
motionless, his head bowed on his breast, his hands on his knees,
his gaze fixed upon the floor; since the day before he had kept this
position.

Father Elzear, seated by the pillow of Erebus, leaned over him, lifted
the poor young man’s heavy head, and pressed it tenderly to his
breast.

Raimond V. made his bearers place him near the bed. Luquin and Laramée
retired.

“God will forgive me, will he not, good priest?” said Erebus, in a
feeble voice, to Father Elzear. “He will have pity on my ignorance,
and look only at my zeal. Alas! I have known the true faith but
two-days.”

“Hope, hope in his infinite compassion, my child, you are a Christian
now. Two days of repentance and faith will atone for many sins. It
is the fervour and not the length of the repentance which touches the
Lord.”

“Oh, I would die with one hope more, if my father could forgive me
also,” said Erebus, bitterly. Then he cried, in a frenzy, “Oh, a
curse on Pog-Reis! Oh, why did he make me believe, as he showed me these
portraits, that my father had been the murderer of my mother and of my
family? Oh, how he excited all my bad passions! Alas! I believed him,
because he who had always been so cruel wept, yes, he wept, as he
pressed me to his heart and asked my forgiveness for all the evil he
had done me. Then, seeing this implacable man weep as he embraced me, I
believed him. I hoped the combat would be fatal to me. I knew Reine des
Anbiez would be returned in safety to her father, hence I was able
to die. And you--you--her father, will you forgive me, too?” added
Erebus, addressing Raimond V.

“Poor child, did you not save my life in the rocks of Ollioules?
Although my daughter was in your power, did you not respect her and
defend her? And are you not the son of my brother, after all? the son
of a guilty love, of course, but, Manjour! you are of the family.”
 “Raimond--Raimond!” said Father Elzear to his brother, softly, in a
tone of reproach.

“But, my father, my father does not hear me,” said Erebus. “I will
die without his saying to me, ‘My son!’” cried the unhappy youth,
in a failing voice, and then with a sadden movement he sat up, threw his
arms around the neck of Pierre des Anbiez, and letting his heavy head
fall on the paternal bosom, he cried, “My father, my father! Oh, hear
me!”

This despairing, expiring cry, in which Erebes seemed to have
concentrated all that remained of his strength, at last reached the
depth of the heart of Pierre, des Anbiez.

The commander slowly raised his head, looked around him, then fixed his
eyes on Erebus, who still hung around his neck. Then, pressing his son’s
head in his two hands, he kissed his forehead reverently and tenderly.
Placing his son’s head softly on the pillow, he said, in a low voice,
with a strange smile, and an accent full of kindness: “My child, you
have called me, I heard your voice in the midst of darkness. I have
come; now I return to it Farewell, sleep--sleep for ever, my child.”

And he spread a cloth on the face of Erebus as is done for the dead.

“My brother!” cried Father Elzear, quickly removing the cloth and
looking at the commander in astonishment.

The latter did not seem to hear him; he fell back into a sort of
lethargy from which he seemed unable to recover.

Erebus grew weaker and weaker, and said to Raimond V.:

“One last favour before I die.”

“Speak, speak, my child, I grant it already.”

“I would like to see your daughter once more, she who gave me a
Christian name. She too, alas! must forgive me.”

“Reine, your cousin, your godmother? I consent to it with all my heart
Elzear, my brother, will you go and tell her?”

“Your moments are numbered, you must think on God, my son,” said
Father Elzear to Erebus.

“For pity’s sake, let me see her, or I shall die in despair,” said
Erebus in such a heart-broken voice that Father Elzear went in search of
Reine.

Raimond V. took both hands of his nephew in his own. Already they were
cold.

“She does not come,” said Erebus, “and yet I must--”

His voice grew weaker, he could not continue.

Reine entered, accompanied by Father Elzear.

Erebus raised himself on his elbow; with his right hand he had the
strength to break a little chain of gold he wore around his neck.
He handed it to Reine, showing her, with a faint smile, the little
enamelled dove that he had fastened to it, formerly taken from Reine in
the rocks of Ollioules, and said to her:

“I return it to you. Will you forgive me?”

“I will always wear this chain in memory of the day you saved the life
of my father,” replied Reine, full of emotion.

“You will wear it always?” said Erebus.

“Always!” replied Reine, bursting into tears.

“Ah, now I can die!” said Erebus.

A last ray seemed to illumine his face, as death slowly approached.

“Brother,” said Father Elzear, in an austere voice, as he rose,
“this child is about to die.”

Raimond V. understood that the last moments of Erebus belonged to God.
He embraced his nephew, called Luquin and Laramée to cany him, and went
out with Reine.

The commander remained silent and motionless, seated on the bed of his
dying son.

Raimond V. sent Peyrou to him, hoping the watchman’s presence might
perhaps recall him to himself.

The watchman, approaching Pierre des Anbiez, said to him, “M.
Commander, come.”

Whether the voice of Peyrou, which he had not heard for so long a
time, impressed him all the more, or whether he obeyed an inexplicable
instinct, the commander rose and followed the watchman, alas! without
casting a look upon his son.

Father Elzear alone remained with the young man.

A quarter of an hour after, Erebus was no more.

Erebus was buried in the cemetery of La Ciotat. The black and gray monks
of La Ciotat followed his funeral procession. When the service was over,
they dispersed.

One penitent only remained long at the grave.

It was very strange. He had taken no part in the chants or the
ceremonies of the church, he had not sprinkled holy water on the coffin.

This penitent remained until night.

Then with slow steps he travelled to a stream where he found a boat in
which he embarked. That false penitent was Hadji. He had left his chebec
and had landed, braving every peril in order to come and render homage
to the memory of the unfortunate youth, whom he had, nevertheless, done
so much to destroy. From that time no more was heard of the Bohemian.

Pierre des Anbiez, until the end of his days, remained in a state which
was one neither of reason, nor insanity. He was never heard to utter a
word, although he continued to live at Maison-Forte. He never replied to
a question, but every morning went to sit by the grave of his son, and
there he remained until the evening, absorbed in profound meditation.
Peyrou never left him, but the commander never seemed to recognise his
presence.

Father Elzear, after some months’ sojourn at Maison-Forte, began again
his adventurous life as the ransomer of captives, and led that life
until old age permitted him to travel no longer.

Reine did not marry Honorât de Berrol. She remained faithful to the sad
memory of Erebus. Some years after, the chevalier married, and Reine was
the best of friends to him and to his wife.

Raimond V., healed of his wounds, rode Mistraon a long time.

Cardinal Richelieu, informed of the courageous conduct of the baron
at the time of the descent of the pirates, shut his eyes to the
misdemeanours of the old malcontent in his dealings with the recorder
Isnard.

A short time after, the Marshal of Vitry was sent to the Bastille, in
consequence of his quarrel with the Archbishop of Bordeaux.

Raimond V. felt that he was avenged, and, as much out of gratitude to
the cardinal as for his sense of right, he ever after took a very venial
part in rebellions.

The worthy Luquin Trinquetaille married Stephanette, and although he had
a blind confidence in his wife, which she deserved in every respect, he
always regretted not having been able to drown the Bohemian.

Master Laramée died in the service of the baron.

The venerable Abbé Mascarolus continued to give wonderful recipes to
Dame Dulceline, who made many Christmas cradles, which fortunately
were not attended by such disastrous happenings as marred the Christmas
festivity of 1632.


THE END.





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