CHAPTER XI. CHATEAU DES NOIRES-FONTAINES
The Chateau of Noires-Fontaines, whither we have just conducted two ofthe principal characters of our story, stood in one of the most charmingspots of the valley, where the city of Bourg is built. The park, of fiveor six acres, covered with venerable oaks, was inclosed on three sidesby freestone walls, one of which opened in front through a handsome gateof wrought-iron, fashioned in the style of Louis XV.; the fourth sidewas bounded by the little river called the Reissouse, a pretty streamthat takes its rise at Journaud, among the foothills of the Jura, andflowing gently from south to north, joins the Saone at the bridge ofFleurville, opposite Pont-de-Vaux, the birthplace of Joubert, who, amonth before the period of which we are writing, was killed at the fatalbattle of Novi.
Beyond the Reissouse, and along its banks, lay, to the right and leftof the Chateau des Noires-Fontaines, the village of Montagnac andSaint-Just, dominated further on by that of Ceyzeriat. Behind thislatter hamlet stretched the graceful outlines of the hills of the Jura,above the summits of which could be distinguished the blue crests of themountains of Bugey, which seemed to be standing on tiptoe in order topeer curiously over their younger sisters' shoulder at what was passingin the valley of the Ain.
It was in full view of this ravishing landscape that Sir John awoke. Forthe first time in his life, perhaps, the morose and taciturn Englishmansmiled at nature. He fancied himself in one of those beautiful valleysof Thessaly celebrated by Virgil, beside the sweet slopes of Lignon sungby Urfe, whose birthplace, in spite of what the biographers say,was falling into ruins not three miles from the Chateau desNoires-Fontaines. He was roused by three light raps at his door. It wasRoland who came to see how he had passed the night. He found him radiantas the sun playing among the already yellow leaves of the chestnuts andthe lindens.
"Oh! oh! Sir John," cried Roland, "permit me to congratulate you. Iexpected to find you as gloomy as the poor monks of the Chartreuse, withtheir long white robes, who used to frighten me so much in my childhood;though, to tell the truth, I was never easily frightened. Instead ofthat I find you in the midst of this dreary October, as smiling as amorn of May."
"My dear Roland," replied Sir John, "I am an orphan; I lost my motherat my birth and my father when I was twelve years old. At an age whenchildren are usually sent to school, I was master of a fortune producinga million a year; but I was alone in the world, with no one whom I lovedor who loved me. The tender joys of family life are completely unknownto me. From twelve to eighteen I went to Cambridge, but my taciturn andperhaps haughty character isolated me from my fellows. At eighteen Ibegan to travel. You who scour the world under the shadow of your flag;that is to say, the shadow of your country, and are stirred by thethrill of battle, and the pride of glory, cannot imagine what alamentable thing it is to roam through cities, provinces, nations, andkingdoms simply to visit a church here, a castle there; to rise at fourin the morning at the summons of a pitiless guide, to see the sun risefrom Rigi or Etna; to pass like a phantom, already dead, through theworld of living shades called men; to know not where to rest; to know noland in which to take root, no arm on which to lean, no heart in whichto pour your own! Well, last night, my dear Roland, suddenly, in aninstant, in a second, this void in my life was filled. I lived in you;the joys I seek were yours. The family which I never had, I saw smilingaround you. As I looked at your mother I said to myself: 'My mother waslike that, I am sure.' Looking at your sister, I said: 'Had I a sisterI could not have wished her otherwise.' When I embraced your brother, Ithought that I, too, might have had a child of that age, and thus leavesomething behind me in the world, whereas with the nature I know Ipossess, I shall die as I have lived, sad, surly with others, a burdento myself. Ah! you are happy, Roland! you have a family, you have fame,you have youth, you have that which spoils nothing in a man--you havebeauty. You want no joys. You are not deprived of a single delight. Irepeat it, Roland, you are a happy man, most happy!"
"Good!" said Roland. "You forget my aneurism, my lord."
Sir John looked at Roland incredulously. Roland seemed to enjoy the mostperfect health.
"Your aneurism against my million, Roland," said Lord Tanlay, with afeeling of profound sadness, "providing that with this aneurism you giveme this mother who weeps for joy on seeing you again; this sister whofaints with delight at your return; this child who clings upon your necklike some fresh young fruit to a sturdy young tree; this chateau withits dewy shade, its river with its verdant flowering banks, these bluevistas dotted with pretty villages and white-capped belfries gracefulas swans. I would welcome your aneurism, Roland, and with death intwo years, in one, in six months; but six months of stirring, tender,eventful and glorious life!"
Roland laughed in his usual nervous manner.
"Ah!" said he, "so this is the tourist, the superficial traveller,the Wandering Jew of civilization, who pauses nowhere, gauges nothing,judges everything by the sensation it produces in him. The tourist who,without opening the doors of these abodes where dwell the fools we callmen, says: 'Behind these walls is happiness!' Well, my dear friend,you see this charming river, don't you? These flowering meadows, thesepretty villages? It is the picture of peace, innocence and fraternity;the cycle of Saturn, the golden age returned; it is Eden, Paradise!Well, all that is peopled by beings who have flown at each other'sthroats. The jungles of Calcutta, the sedges of Bengal are inhabitedby tigers and panthers not one whit more ferocious or cruel than thedenizens of these pretty villages, these dewy lawns, and these charmingshores. After lauding in funeral celebrations the good, the great, theimmortal Marat, whose body, thank God! they cast into the common sewerlike carrion that he was, and always had been; after performing thesefuneral rites, to which each man brought an urn into which he shedhis tears, behold! our good Bressans, our gentle Bressans, thesepoultry-fatteners, suddenly decided that the Republicans were allmurderers. So they murdered them by the tumbrelful to correct them ofthat vile defect common to savage and civilized man--the killing hiskind. You doubt it? My dear fellow, on the road to Lons-le-Saulnier theywill show you, if you are curious, the spot where not six months agothey organized a slaughter fit to turn the stomach of our most ferocioustroopers on the battlefield. Picture to yourself a tumbrel of prisonerson their way to Lons-le-Saulnier. It was a staff-sided cart, one ofthose immense wagons in which they take cattle to market. There weresome thirty men in this tumbrel, whose sole crime was foolish exaltationof thought and threatening language. They were bound and gagged; headshanging, jolted by the bumping of the cart; their throats parched withthirst, despair and terror; unfortunate beings who did not even have,as in the times of Nero and Commodus, the fight in the arena, thehand-to-hand struggle with death. Powerless, motionless, the lust ofmassacre surprised them in their fetters, and battered them not only inlife but in death; their bodies, when their hearts had ceased to beat,still resounded beneath the bludgeons which mangled their flesh andcrushed their bones; while women looked on in calm delight, lifting highthe children, who clapped their hands for joy. Old men who ought to havebeen preparing for a Christian death helped, by their goading cries, torender the death of these wretched beings more wretched still. And inthe midst of these old men, a little septuagenarian, dainty, powdered,flicking his lace shirt frill if a speck of dust settled there, pinchinghis Spanish tobacco from a golden snuff-box, with a diamond monogram,eating his "amber sugarplums" from a Sevres bonbonniere, given himby Madame du Barry, and adorned with the donor's portrait--thisseptuagenarian--conceive the picture, my dear Sir John--dancing with hispumps upon that mattress of human flesh, wearying his arm, enfeebledby age, in striking repeatedly with his gold-headed cane those of thebodies who seemed not dead enough to him, not properly mangled in thatcursed mortar! Faugh! My friend, I have seen Montebello, I have seenArcole, I have seen Rivoli, I have seen the Pyramids, and I believe Icould see nothing more terrible. Well, my mother's mere recital, lastnight, after you had retired, of what has happened here, made my hairstand on end. Faith! that expla
ins my poor sister's spasms just as myaneurism explains mine."
Sir John watched Roland, and listened with that strange wondermentwhich his young friend's misanthropical outbursts always aroused. Rolandseemed to lurk in the niches of a conversation in order to fall uponmankind whenever he found an opportunity. Perceiving the impression hehad made on Sir John's mind, he changed his tone, substituting bitterraillery for his philanthropic wrath.
"It is true," said he, "that, apart from this excellent aristocrat whofinished what the butchers had begun, and dyed in blood the red heelsof his pumps, the people who performed these massacres belonged to thelower classes, bourgeois and clowns, as our ancestors called those whosupported them. The nobles manage things much more daintily. For therest, you saw yourself what happened at Avignon. If you had been toldthat, you would never have believed it, would you? Those gentlemenpillagers of stage coaches pique themselves on their great delicacy.They have two faces, not counting their mask. Sometimes they areCartouche and Mandrin, sometimes Amadis and Galahad. They tell fabuloustales of these heroes of the highways. My mother told me yesterday ofone called Laurent. You understand, my dear fellow, that Laurent is afictitious name meant to hide the real name, just as a mask hides theface. This Laurent combined all the qualities of a hero of romance, allthe accomplishments, as you English say, who, under pretext that youwere once Normans, allow yourselves occasionally to enrich your languagewith a picturesque expression, or some word which has long, poor beggar!asked and been refused admittance of our own scholars. This Laurent wasideally handsome. He was one of seventy-two Companions of Jehu who havelately been tried at Yssen-geaux. Seventy were acquitted; he and oneother were the only ones condemned to death. The innocent men werereleased at once, but Laurent and his companion were put in prison toawait the guillotine. But, pooh! Master Laurent had too pretty a headto fall under the executioner's ignoble knife. The judges who condemnedhim, the curious who expected to witness him executed, had forgottenwhat Montaigne calls the corporeal recommendation of beauty. There wasa woman belonging to the jailer of Yssen-geaux, his daughter, sisteror niece; history--for it is history and not romance that I am tellingyou--history does not say which. At all events the woman, whoever shewas, fell in love with the handsome prisoner, so much in love thattwo hours before the execution, just as Master Laurent, expecting theexecutioner, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, as usually happensin such cases, his guardian angel came to him. I don't know how theymanaged; for the two lovers, for the best of reasons, never told thedetails; but the truth is--now remember; Sir John, that this is truthand not fiction--that Laurent was free, but, to his great regret, unableto save his comrade in the adjoining dungeon. Gensonne, under likecircumstances, refused to escape, preferring to die with the otherGirondins; but Gensonne did not have the head of Antinous on the body ofApollo. The handsomer the head, you understand, the more one holds on toit. So Laurent accepted the freedom offered him and escaped; a horsewas waiting for him at the next village. The young girl, who might haveretarded or hindered his flight, was to rejoin him the next day. Dawncame, but not the guardian angel. It seems that our hero cared more forhis mistress than he did for his companion; he left his comrade, buthe would not go without her. It was six o'clock, the very hour for hisexecution. His impatience mastered him. Three times had he turned hishorse's head toward the town, and each time drew nearer and nearer. Atthe third time a thought flashed through his brain. Could his mistresshave been taken, and would she pay the penalty for saving him? He wasthen in the suburbs. Spurring his horse, he entered the town with faceuncovered, dashed through people who called him by name, astonished tosee him free and on horseback, when they expected to see him bound andin a tumbrel on his way to be executed. Catching sight of his guardianangel pushing through the crowd, not to see him executed, but to meethim, he urged his horse past the executioner, who had just learned ofthe disappearance of one of his patients, knocking over two or threebumpkins with the breast of his Bayard. He bounded toward her, swung herover the pommel of his saddle, and, with a cry of joy and a wave of hishat, he disappeared like M. de Conde at the battle of Lens. The peopleall applauded, and the women thought the action heroic, and all promptlyfell in love with the hero on the spot."
Roland, observing that Sir John was silent, paused and questioned himby a look. "Go on," replied the Englishman; "I am listening. And as I amsure you are telling me all this in order to come to something you wishto say, I await your point."
"Well," resumed Roland, laughing, "you are right, my dear friend, and,on my word, you know me as if we had been college chums. Well, what ideado you suppose has been cavorting through my brain all night? It is thatof getting a glimpse of these gentlemen of Jehu near at hand."
"Ah, yes, I understand. As you failed to get yourself killed by M. deBarjols, you want to try your chance of being killed by M. Morgan."
"Or any other, my dear Sir John," replied the young officer calmly; "forI assure you that I have nothing in particular against M. Morgan; quitethe contrary, though my first impulse when he came into the room andmade his little speech--don't you call it a speech--?"
Sir John nodded affirmatively.
"Though my first thought," resumed Roland, "was to spring at his throatand strangle him with one hand, and to tear off his mask with theother."
"Now that I know you, my dear Roland, I do indeed wonder how yourefrained from putting such a fine project into execution."
"It was not my fault, I swear! I was just on the point of it when mycompanion stopped me."
"So there are people who can restrain you?"
"Not many, but he can."
"And now you regret it?"
"Honestly, no! This brave stage-robber did the business with suchswaggering bravado that I admired him. I love brave men instinctively.Had I not killed M. de Barjols I should have liked to be his friend. Itis true I could not tell how brave he was until I had killed him. Butlet us talk of something else; that duel is one of my painful thoughts.But why did I come up? It was certainly not to talk of the Companions ofJehu, nor of M. Laurent's exploits--Ah! I came to ask how you would liketo spend your time. I'll cut myself in quarters to amuse you, my dearguest, but there are two disadvantages against me: this region, which isnot very amusing, and your nationality, which is not easily amused."
"I have already told you, Roland," replied Lord Tanlay, offering hishand to the young man, "that I consider the Chateau des Noires-Fontainesa paradise."
"Agreed; but still in the fear that you may find your paradisemonotonous, I shall do my best to entertain you. Are you fond ofarcheology--Westminster and Canterbury? We have a marvel here, thechurch of Brou; a wonder of sculptured lace by Colonban. There is alegend about it which I will tell you some evening when you cannotsleep. You will see there the tombs of Marguerite de Bourbon, Philippele Bel, and Marguerite of Austria. I will puzzle you with the problem ofher motto: 'Fortune, infortune, fort'une,' which I claim to have solvedby a Latinized version: 'Fortuna, in fortuna, forti una.' Are you fondof fishing, my dear friend? There's the Reissouse at your feet, andclose at hand a collection of hooks and lines belonging to Edouard, andnets belonging to Michel; as for the fish, they, you know, are the lastthing one thinks about. Are you fond of hunting? The forest of Seillonis not a hundred yards off. Hunting to hounds you will have perforce torenounce, but we have good shooting. In the days of my old bogies, theChartreuse monks, the woods swarmed with wild boars, hares and foxes.No one hunts there now, because it belongs to the government; and thegovernment at present is nobody. In my capacity as General Bonaparte'saide-de-camp I'll fill the vacancy, and we'll see who dares meddle withme, if, after chasing the Austrians on the Adige and the Mamelukeson the Nile, I hunt the boars and deer and the hares and foxes onthe Reissouse. One day of archeology, one day of fishing, and one ofhunting, that's three already. You see, my dear fellow, we have onlyfifteen or sixteen left to worry about."
"My dear Roland," said Sir John sadly, and without replying to the youngofficer's wordy sa
lly, "won't you ever tell me about this fever whichsears you, this sorrow which undermines you?"
"Ah!" said Roland, with his harsh, doleful laugh. "I have never beengayer than I am this morning; it's your liver, my lord, that is out oforder and makes you see everything black."
"Some day I hope to be really your friend," replied Sir John seriously;"then you will confide in me, and I shall help you to bear your burden."
"And half my aneurism!--Are you hungry, my lord?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I hear Edouard on the stairs, coming up to tell us thatbreakfast is ready."
As Roland spoke, the door opened and the boy burst out: "Big brotherRoland, mother and sister Amelie are waiting breakfast for Sir John andyou."
Then catching the Englishman's right hand, he carefully examined thefirst joint of the thumb and forefinger.
"What are you looking at, my little friend?" asked Sir John.
"I was looking to see if you had any ink on your fingers."
"And if I had ink on my fingers, what would it mean?"
"That you had written to England, and sent for my pistols and sword."
"No, I have not yet written," said Sir John; "but I will to-day."
"You hear, big brother Roland? I'm to have my sword and my pistols in afortnight!"
And the boy, full of delight, offered his firm rosy cheek to Sir John,who kissed it as tenderly as a father would have done. Then they went tothe dining-room where Madame de Montrevel and Amelie were awaiting them.