The Merry Men, and Other Tales and Fables

  THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD.

  CHAPTER I. BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK.

  They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six. About eight somevillagers came round for the performance, and were told how mattersstood. It seemed a liberty for a mountebank to fall ill like realpeople, and they made off again in dudgeon. By ten Madame Tentaillon wasgravely alarmed, and had sent down the street for Doctor Desprez.

  The Doctor was at work over his manuscripts in one corner of the littledining-room, and his wife was asleep over the fire in another, when themessenger arrived.

  'Sapristi!' said the Doctor, 'you should have sent for me before. It wasa case for hurry.' And he followed the messenger as he was, in hisslippers and skull-cap.

  The inn was not thirty yards away, but the messenger did not stop there;he went in at one door and out by another into the court, and then ledthe way by a flight of steps beside the stable, to the loft where themountebank lay sick. If Doctor Desprez were to live a thousand years, hewould never forget his arrival in that room; for not only was the scenepicturesque, but the moment made a date in his existence. We reckon ourlives, I hardly know why, from the date of our first sorry appearance insociety, as if from a first humiliation; for no actor can come upon thestage with a worse grace. Not to go further back, which would be judgedtoo curious, there are subsequently many moving and decisive accidents inthe lives of all, which would make as logical a period as this of birth.And here, for instance, Doctor Desprez, a man past forty, who had madewhat is called a failure in life, and was moreover married, found himselfat a new point of departure when he opened the door of the loft aboveTentaillon's stable.

  It was a large place, lighted only by a single candle set upon the floor.The mountebank lay on his back upon a pallet; a large man, with aQuixotic nose inflamed with drinking. Madame Tentaillon stooped overhim, applying a hot water and mustard embrocation to his feet; and on achair close by sat a little fellow of eleven or twelve, with his feetdangling. These three were the only occupants, except the shadows. Butthe shadows were a company in themselves; the extent of the roomexaggerated them to a gigantic size, and from the low position of thecandle the light struck upwards and produced deformed foreshortenings.The mountebank's profile was enlarged upon the wall in caricature, and itwas strange to see his nose shorten and lengthen as the flame was blownabout by draughts. As for Madame Tentaillon, her shadow was no more thana gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemisphere of head. Thechair legs were spindled out as long as stilts, and the boy set perchedatop of them, like a cloud, in the corner of the roof.

  It was the boy who took the Doctor's fancy. He had a great arched skull,the forehead and the hands of a musician, and a pair of haunting eyes. Itwas not merely that these eyes were large, or steady, or the softestruddy brown. There was a look in them, besides, which thrilled theDoctor, and made him half uneasy. He was sure he had seen such a lookbefore, and yet he could not remember how or where. It was as if thisboy, who was quite a stranger to him, had the eyes of an old friend or anold enemy. And the boy would give him no peace; he seemed profoundlyindifferent to what was going on, or rather abstracted from it in asuperior contemplation, beating gently with his feet against the bars ofthe chair, and holding his hands folded on his lap. But, for all that,his eyes kept following the Doctor about the room with a thoughtfulfixity of gaze. Desprez could not tell whether he was fascinating theboy, or the boy was fascinating him. He busied himself over the sickman: he put questions, he felt the pulse, he jested, he grew a little hotand swore: and still, whenever he looked round, there were the brown eyeswaiting for his with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze.

  At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a leap. He remembered the looknow. The little fellow, although he was as straight as a dart, had theeyes that go usually with a crooked back; he was not at all deformed, andyet a deformed person seemed to be looking at you from below his brows.The Doctor drew a long breath, he was so much relieved to find a theory(for he loved theories) and to explain away his interest.

  For all that, he despatched the invalid with unusual haste, and, stillkneeling with one knee on the floor, turned a little round and looked theboy over at his leisure. The boy was not in the least put out, butlooked placidly back at the Doctor.

  'Is this your father?' asked Desprez.

  'Oh, no,' returned the boy; 'my master.'

  'Are you fond of him?' continued the Doctor.

  'No, sir,' said the boy.

  Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive glances.

  'That is bad, my man,' resumed the latter, with a shade of sternness.'Every one should be fond of the dying, or conceal their sentiments; andyour master here is dying. If I have watched a bird a little whilestealing my cherries, I have a thought of disappointment when he fliesaway over my garden wall, and I see him steer for the forest and vanish.How much more a creature such as this, so strong, so astute, so richlyendowed with faculties! When I think that, in a few hours, the speechwill be silenced, the breath extinct, and even the shadow vanished fromthe wall, I who never saw him, this lady who knew him only as a guest,are touched with some affection.'

  The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be reflecting.

  'You did not know him,' he replied at last, 'he was a bad man.'

  'He is a little pagan,' said the landlady. 'For that matter, they areall the same, these mountebanks, tumblers, artists, and what not. Theyhave no interior.'

  But the Doctor was still scrutinising the little pagan, his eyebrowsknotted and uplifted.

  'What is your name?' he asked.

  'Jean-Marie,' said the lad.

  Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes of excitement, andfelt his head all over from an ethnological point of view.

  'Celtic, Celtic!' he said.

  'Celtic!' cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps confounded the wordwith hydrocephalous. 'Poor lad! is it dangerous?'

  'That depends,' returned the Doctor grimly. And then once moreaddressing the boy: 'And what do you do for your living, Jean-Marie?' heinquired.

  'I tumble,' was the answer.

  'So! Tumble?' repeated Desprez. 'Probably healthful. I hazard theguess, Madame Tentaillon, that tumbling is a healthful way of life. Andhave you never done anything else but tumble?'

  'Before I learned that, I used to steal,' answered Jean-Marie gravely.

  'Upon my word!' cried the doctor. 'You are a nice little man for yourage. Madame, when my _confrere_ comes from Bourron, you will communicatemy unfavourable opinion. I leave the case in his hands; but of course,on any alarming symptom, above all if there should be a sign of rally, donot hesitate to knock me up. I am a doctor no longer, I thank God; but Ihave been one. Good night, madame. Good sleep to you, Jean-Marie.'