legitimate prey, and ought to have devoted himself to her in the first
place, instead of weakly yielding to the vulgar blandishments of the
pretty waiting-maid, as he should no longer be permitted to do—if she
had any power.

Meanwhile the _soubrette_, feeling sure of her conquest, had given
herself up to castle-building with all the fervour of her ardent
southern nature. Isabelle, who was not preoccupied by any ambitious
projects, turned her head now and then to glance and smile tenderly at
de Sigognac, who was sitting in the chariot behind her and who she knew
must be feeling acutely the painful contrast between this splendid
estate and his own desolate, half-ruined château. Her loving heart
ached for him, and her eyes spoke sweetest sympathy to the poor young
nobleman, reduced so low a fortune, yet so worthy of a better fate.

The tyrant was deep in thought, trying to decide how, much he might
venture to demand for the services of his troupe, and mentally
increasing the amount at every step, as new glories disclosed
themselves to his wondering eyes. The pedant was looking forward
impatiently to the copious draughts of generous wine he felt sure of
enjoying in the splendid château that was now in full view, and
Leander, striving to smooth his slightly dishevelled locks with a
dainty little tortoise-shell pocket-comb, was wondering, with a
fluttering heart, whether a fair _marquise_ dwelt within those walls,
and would gaze down upon him from one of those windows as he
alighted—indulging in high hopes of the impression he should make upon
her susceptible heart.

The Château de Bruyères, which had been entirely rebuilt in the
preceding reign, was a noble structure, of immense size, three stories
in height, and enclosing a large interior court. It was built of red
brick, with elaborate, white stone facings. There were many pretty
balconies with sculptured stone railings, and large, clear panes of
glass—an unusual luxury at that epoch—in the numerous lofty windows,
through which the rich hangings within were visible; and a projecting
porch, reached by an imposing flight of broad stone steps, in the
centre of the facade, marked the main entrance. The high, steep roof
was of slate, in several shades, wrought into a quaint, pretty pattern,
and the groups of tall chimneys were symmetrically disposed and
handsomely ornamented. There was a look of gaiety and luxury about this
really beautiful château which gave the idea of great prosperity, but
not the slightest approach to vulgar pretension. There was nothing
meretricious or glaring; everything was substantial and in perfect
taste, and an indescribably majestic, dignified air, if we may be
allowed the expression, pervaded the whole establishment, which spoke
of ancient wealth and nobility under all this modern splendour.

Behind the château, its gardens and terraces, was a veritable forest of
lofty, venerable trees, forming the magnificent park, which was of
great extent, and for centuries had been the pride of the Bruyères.

Although our high-minded young hero had never been envious of any one
in his life, he could not altogether suppress the melancholy sigh with
which he remembered that in former years the de Sigognacs had stood
higher than the de Bruyères in the province, and had taken precedence
of them at court; nor could he help contrasting in his own mind this
fresh, new château, replete with every beauty and luxury that a
cultivated taste could devise and plentiful wealth procure, with his
own desolate, dilapidated mansion—the home of owls and rats—which was
gradually but surely crumbling into dust, and a keen pang shot through
his heart at the thought. He recalled the dreary, solitary, hopeless
life he had led there, and said to himself that the Marquis de Bruyères
ought to be a very happy man, with so much to make his existence
delightful. The stopping of the chariot at the foot of the broad stone
steps in the front of the château aroused him from his reverie; he
dismissed as quickly as he could the sad thoughts that had engrossed
him, endeavoured to dismiss also the dark shadow from his brow, and
jumping lightly to the ground turned and held out his hand to help
Isabelle to descend, before any one else could offer her that little
service.

The Marquis de Bruyères, who had seen the chariot advancing slowly up
the avenue, stood in the porch to receive them. He was superbly
dressed, and looked very handsome, as both Serafina and the _soubrette_
secretly remarked. He descended two or three steps as the chariot
stopped, and welcomed his guests with a friendly wave of the hand—doing
them as much honour as if they had been of his own rank—which act of
courtesy, let us hasten to explain, was because of the Baron de
Sigognac’s presence among them; but for that they would not have been
brought to the main entrance at all.

At this moment the wily _soubrette_, seeing her opportunity for a bold
stroke, prepared to alight; and as de Sigognac was fully occupied with
Isabelle, and nobody else thought of paying any attention to her—for
she always jumped to the ground as lightly as a bird, disdaining
assistance—she hesitated for a moment, with an adorable little air of
timidity, and then raised an appealing glance to the marquis. He could
not resist it, and, rushing down the steps to her aid, held out both
hands to her. With wonderful art the clever little actress managed to
slip and lose her balance, so as to fall into his extended arms,
clasping him around the neck as she did so.

“Pardon me, my lord,” said she, breathlessly, to the marquis, feigning
a confusion she was far from really feeling, “I thought I was going to
fall, and grasped your collar, just as a drowning man clutches at the
nearest object. A fall is a bad omen, you know, as well as a serious
matter, for a poor actress.”

“Permit me to look upon this little accident as a favour,” the marquis
replied, giving her a most significant glance, and lightly pressing her
yielding form in his arms before he released her.

Serafina had watched this little by-play out of the corner of her eye,
though her face was apparently turned away from them, and she bit her
lip till it bled, with vexation; so after all the _soubrette_ had
succeeded, by an abominably bold action, in compelling the marquis to
neglect her betters and give his warmest welcome to a low _intrigante_,
said the “leading lady” to herself, swelling with righteous
indignation, and abusing the offender roundly in her thoughts—wishing
that she could do it aloud, and expose her outrageous, unmannerly
artifice.

“Jean,” said the marquis to a servant in livery who stood near, “have
this chariot taken into the court, and see that the decorations,
scenery, etc., are carefully put in some convenient place; have the
luggage of these ladies and gentlemen carried to the rooms that I
ordered to be made ready for them, and take care that they have
everything they want;” then in a lower tone, but very emphatically, “I
desire that they should be treated with the utmost courtesy and
respect.”

These orders being given, the marquis gravely ascended the steps,
followed by the comedians, and having consigned them to his major-domo
to show them to their respective rooms and make them comfortable, he
gracefully bowed and left them; darting an admiring glance at the
_soubrette_ as he did so, which she acknowledged by a radiant smile,
that Serafina, raging inwardly, pronounced “abominably bold.”

The chariot meantime had made its way into a back court, accompanied by
the tyrant, the pedant and Scapin, who superintended the unloading of
the various articles that would be needed—a strange medley, which the
supercilious servants of the château, in their rich liveries, handled
with a very lofty air of contempt and condescension, feeling it quite
beneath their dignity to wait upon a band of strolling players. But
they dared not rebel, for the marquis had ordered it, and he was a
severe master, as well as a very generous one.

The major-domo, however, conducted his charges to their appointed
chambers with as profound an air of respect as if they had been real
princes and princesses; for the marquis himself had visited the left
wing of the château, where they were to be lodged, had specified the
room for each guest, and ordered that they should want for nothing—a
very unusual proceeding on his part, as he was in the habit of leaving
all such minor details to his trusty major-domo. A beautiful chamber,
hung with tapestry which represented the loves of Cupid and Psyche, was
given to the _soubrette_, the pretty, dainty, blue one to Isabelle, and
the luxurious red one to Serafina, whilst the more sober brown one was
assigned to the duenna. The Baron de Sigognac was installed in a
magnificent apartment, whose panelled walls were covered with richly
embossed Spanish leather. It was close to Isabelle’s room—a delicate
attention on the part of the marquis. This superb chamber was always
reserved for his most honoured guests, and in giving it to our young
hero he desired to testify that he recognised and appreciated his rank,
though he religiously respected his incognito.

When de Sigognac was left alone, and at liberty to think over quietly
the odd situation in which he found himself, he looked at his
magnificent surroundings with surprise as well as admiration—for he had
never in his life seen, or even imagined, such splendour and luxury.
The rich glowing colours of the chimerical flowers and foliage embossed
on a golden ground of the Spanish leather on the walls, the
corresponding tints in the frescoed ceiling and the heavy, silken
hangings at the windows and doors and round the bed, the elaborately
carved and gilded furniture, the luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, the
large mirrors with bevelled edges, and the dainty dressing-table,
lavishly furnished with all the accessories of the toilet, with its
oval glass draped with lace which was tied back with knots of gay
ribbon, certainly did make up a charming whole, and the wood fire
burning brightly in the open fireplace gave a cheerful, cosy air to it
all.

Our poor young baron blushed painfully as he caught sight of his own
figure in one of the long mirrors—his shabby, ill-fitting clothes
looked so sadly out of place amidst all this magnificence—and for the
first time in his life he felt ashamed of his poverty. Highly
unphilosophical this, but surely excusable in so young a man as our
hero. With a natural desire to improve his forlorn appearance if he
could, he unpacked the scanty supply of clothing that his faithful
Pierre had put up for him—hoping that he might come across something a
little less thread-bare than the suit he actually had on his back—but
the inspection was not satisfactory, and he groaned as he discarded one
faded, shabby garment after another. The linen was not any better—worn
so that it was thin everywhere, with numerous darns and patches, and
many holes, he could not find a single shirt that was whole and in good
condition. He was so absorbed in this melancholy inspection that he did
not hear a low knock at the door, nor notice that it was slowly pushed
open, having been already ajar, to admit the stout person of Blazius,
who approached him with many bows and flourishes, though entirely
unobserved. When the pedant reached his side de Sigognac was just
holding up before him a shirt that had as many openings as the rose
window of a cathedral, and slowly shaking his head as he gazed at it,
with an expression of utter discouragement.

“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the pedant—his voice, so close at hand,
startling the astonished baron, who had believed himself alone, and
safe from intrusion—“that shirt has verily a valiant and triumphant
air. It looks as if it had been worn by Mars himself in battle, so
riddled has it been by lances, spears, darts, arrows, and I know not
what besides. Don’t be ashamed of it, Baron!—these holes are honourable
to you. Many a shirt of fine linen, ruffled and embroidered, according
to the latest fashion, disguises the graceless person of some rascally
parvenu—and usurer as well perhaps—who usurps the place of his betters.
Several of the great heroes, of immortal fame, had not a shirt to their
backs—Ulysses, for example, that wise and valiant man, who presented
himself before the beautiful Princess Nausicaa, with no other covering
than a bunch of sea-weed—as we are told, in the Odyssey, by the grand
old bard, Homer.”

“Unfortunately,” de Sigognac replied, “there is no point of
resemblance, my dear Blazius, between me and the brave King of Ithaca,
save the lack of linen. _I_ have done no deeds of valour to shed a
lustre over MY poverty. I have had no chance to make myself famous, and
I fear that the poets will never celebrate my praises in glowing
hexameters. But, jesting aside, I must confess that I do feel greatly
annoyed at being forced to appear in this guise here. The Marquis de
Bruyères recognised me, though he made no sign, and he may betray my
secret.”

“It _is_ a pity,” said the pedant in reply, “but there’s a remedy for
every ill under the sun, save death, according to the old saying, and
if you will permit me, I think that I can help you out of this awkward
dilemma. We, poor players, shadows of real men and women, phantoms of
personages of every degree, from the highest to the lowest, have the
means necessary for assuming almost any character, you know. As
‘_costumier_’ of the troupe I am accustomed to make all sorts of
transformations, and can turn a miserable vagabond into an Alexander,
or a vulgar wench into a princess. Now, if you are not too proud, I
will exercise my poor skill in your lordship’s service. Since you have
been willing to join our company for this journey, do not disdain to
make use of our resources, such as they are, and put aside these
ill-fitting garments, which disguise your natural advantages, and make
you feel ill at ease. Most fortunately I happen to have in reserve a
handsome suit of black velvet, which has not the least of a theatrical
air about it, and has never been used; any gentleman could wear it, and
unless I am much mistaken it will fit you capitally. I have also the
fine linen shirt, silk stockings, shoes—with broad buckles, and cloak
to go with it—there is nothing wanting, not even the sword.”

“Oh! as to that,” cried de Sigognac, with a gesture expressive of all
that pride of birth which no misfortunes could crush, “I have my
father’s sword.”

“True,” answered Blazius, “and guard it sacredly, my lord! for a sword
is a faithful friend—defender of its master’s life and honour. _It_
does not abandon him in times of peril and disaster, like the false
friends who cling only to prosperity. Our stage swords have neither
edge nor point, for they are only intended for show; the wounds they
make disappear suddenly when the curtain falls, without the aid of the
surgeon with his instruments and lint. That trusty sword of yours you
can depend upon in any emergency, and I have already seen it doing good
service in our behalf. But permit me to go and fetch the things I spoke
of; I am impatient to see the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.”

Having thus spoken, in the theatrical way that had become habitual with
him, the worthy pedant quitted the room, and soon reappeared, carrying
a large package, which he deposited on the table in the centre of the
chamber.

“If your lordship will accept an old actor as _valet-de-chambre_,” he
said, rubbing his hands joyfully together, “I will beautify you in no
time. All the ladies will be sure to fall in love with you, for—with no
disrespect to the larder at the Château de Sigognac be it said—you have
fasted so much in your lonely life there that it has made you most
interestingly slender and pale—just what the dear creatures delight in.
They would not listen to a word from a stout lover, even if the
diamonds and pearls of the fairy tale dropped from his lips whenever he
spoke. That is the sole reason for my want of success with the fair
sex, and I long ago deserted the shrine of Venus for the worship of
Bacchus. A big paunch is not amiss among the devotees of that merry
god, for it bears witness to plentiful libations.”

Thus running on gaily, the worthy pedant strove to amuse the melancholy
young nobleman, while he deftly performed his duties as valet; and they
were very quickly completed, for the requirements of the stage
necessitate great dexterity on the part of the actors to make the
metamorphoses frequently needed with sufficient promptness and
rapidity. Charmed with the result of his efforts he led de Sigognac up
to one of the large mirrors, wherein, upon raising his eyes, he saw a
figure which, at the first glance, he thought must be that of some
person who had entered the room without his knowledge, and turned to
ask who the intruder was—but there was no stranger there, and he
discovered that it was his own reflection—so changed that he was mute
with astonishment. A young, handsome, richly-dressed de Sigognac stood
before him, and a radiant smile parted his lips and lighted up his face
as he gazed at his own image, which perfected the really marvellous
transformation. Blazius, standing near, contemplated his work with
undisguised pride and satisfaction, changing his position several times
so as to get different views, as a sculptor might who had just put the
finishing touches to his statue altogether to his liking.

“When you have made your way at court, my lord, and regained the
position held by your ancestors, as I hope and expect that you will do,
I shall pray you to give me a refuge for my old age in your household,
and make me intendant of your lordship’s wardrobe,” said he, with a
profound bow to the baron.

“I will not forget your request, my good Blazius, even though I fear
that I shall never be able to comply with it,” de Sigognac answered
with a melancholy smile. “You, my kind friend, are the first human
being that has ever asked a favour of me.”

“After our dinner, which we are to have very shortly, we are to consult
with his lordship, the marquis, as to what play shall be given this
evening, and learn from him where we are to rig our theatre. You will
pass for the poet of the troupe; it is by no means an unheard-of thing
for men of learning and position to join a band of players thus—either
for the fun of the thing, and in hope of adventures, or for the love of
a young and beautiful actress. I could tell you of several notable
instances; and it is thought to be rather to a man’s credit than
otherwise in fashionable circles. Isabelle is a very good pretext for
you; she is young, beautiful, clever, modest, and virtuous. In fact
many an actress who takes like her the role of the ingenuous young girl
is in reality all that she personates, though a frivolous and
frequently licentious public will not credit it for a moment.”

Herewith the pedant discreetly retired, having accomplished, to his
great satisfaction, what he had really feared to propose to the young
baron, for whom he had conceived a very warm affection.

Meanwhile the elegant Leander, indulging in delightful dreams of the
possible fair _châtelaine_ who was to fall a victim to his charms, was
making his careful toilet—arraying himself in his most resplendent
finery, scrupulously kept for grand occasions—convinced that great good
fortune awaited him, and determined to carry the noble lady’s heart by
storm.

As to the actresses, to whom the gallant marquis, with princely
munificence, had sent several pieces of rich stuffs and silks, it is
needless to say that they spared no pains to make themselves as
charming as possible, and obeyed the summons to dinner radiant with
smiles and in high good humour—excepting indeed the fair Serafina, who
was inwardly consumed with envy and spite, but careful to conceal it
from all beholders.

The marquis, who was of an ardent, impatient nature, made his
appearance in the dining-room before they had quite finished the
sumptuous repast which had been served to them; he would not allow them
to rise, but seated himself at the table with them, and when the last
course had been removed, asked the tyrant to be good enough to give him
a list of the plays they were in the habit of acting, so that he might
select one for the evening’s entertainment. But so many were enumerated
that his lordship found it not easy to make a choice, and expressed his
desire to have the tyrant’s ideas upon the subject.

“There is one piece we often play,” Hérode said, “which never fails to
please, and is so full of good-natured fun and nonsense that it keeps
the audience in a roar of laughter from the beginning to the end.”

“Let us have that one, by all means,” the marquis exclaimed; “and pray
what is the name of this delightful play?”

“The Rodomontades of Captain Matamore.”

“A capital title, upon my word! and has the _soubrette_ a good part in
it?” asked his lordship, with a languishing glance at her.

“The most racy, mischievous role imaginable,” said Hérode warmly, “and
she plays it to perfection—it is her chef d’oeuvre. She is always
applauded to the echo in it.”

At this high praise from the manager, Zerbine—for such was the
_soubrette’s_ name—tried her best to get up a becoming blush, but in
vain. Modesty she had none, and the tint she would fain have called
into requisition at that moment was not contained in any of her
numerous rouge-pots. So she cast down her eyes, thereby displaying to
advantage the length and thickness of her jet-black lashes, and raised
her hand with a deprecating gesture, which called attention to its
pretty, taper fingers and rosy nails. The marquis watched he
admiringly, and she certainly was very charming in her way. He did not
vouchsafe even a glance to the other two young actresses—refraining
from testifying any marked admiration for Isabelle because of the prior
claim of the Baron de Sigognac—though he was secretly very much
delighted with her sweet, refined style of beauty, and the quiet
dignity and grace of her deportment. Serafina, who was naturally
indignant that the marquis had not even asked if there was a part for
her in the piece to be performed, accused him in her heart of being no
gentleman, and of having very low, vulgar tastes, but she was the only
one of the party that felt any dissatisfaction.

Before the marquis left them he said to Hérode, “I have given orders to
have the orangery cleared so that our theatre can be arranged there;
they are carrying planks, trestles, benches, hangings, and all other
needful articles in there now. Will you kindly superintend the workmen,
who are new to this sort of business? They will obey your orders as
they would my own.”

Accordingly the tyrant, Blazius and Scapin repaired to the orangery,
which was at a little distance from the château and admirably
calculated for the purpose it was now to serve, and where they found
everything necessary to convert it into a temporary theatre.

Whilst this work is going forward we will make our amiable, indulgent
readers acquainted with the fair mistress of the château—having
heretofore forgotten to mention that the Marquis de Bruyères was a
married man; he thought of it so seldom himself that we may surely be
pardoned for this omission. As can be readily imagined, from our last
remark, love had not been the moving cause in this union. Adjoining
estates, which, united in one, formed a noble domain, and equality of
rank had been the chief considerations. After a very brief honeymoon,
during which they had become painfully aware of a total want of
congeniality, the marquis and _marquise_—like well-bred people, making
no outcry about their matrimonial failure—had tacitly agreed to live
amicably under the same roof, but entirely independent of each other—he
to go his way and she hers, with perfect freedom. They always treated
each other in public, and indeed whenever they chanced to meet, with
the greatest courtesy, and might easily have been mistaken by a casual
observer for an unusually happy and united pair. Mme. la Marquise
occupied a sumptuous suite of apartments in the château, which her
husband never thought of entering without first sending to ascertain
whether it would be convenient for madame to receive him, like a formal
visitor. But we will avail ourselves of the time-honoured privilege of
authors, and make our way into the noble _châtelaine’s_ bed-chamber,
without any form or ceremony—feeling sure of not disturbing its fair
occupant, since the writer of a romance wears upon his finger the
wonder-working ring of Gyges, which renders him invisible.

It was a large, lofty room, hung with superb tapestry representing the
adventures of Apollo, and exhibiting every luxury that wealth could
procure. Here also a bright wood fire was, burning cheerily, and the
Marquise de Bruyères sat before her dressing table, with two maids in
attendance upon her, absorbed in the all-important business of putting
the finishing touches to her extremely becoming as well as effective
toilet. Mme. la Marquise was a handsome brunette, whose embonpoint,
which had succeeded to the slender outline of early youth, had added to
her beauty; her magnificent black hair, which was one of her ladyship’s
greatest charms, was dressed in the most elaborate fashion—an intricate
mass of glossy braids, puffs and curls, forming a lofty structure, and
ornamented with a large bow of crimson ribbon, while one long curl fell
upon her fair neck, making it look all the whiter by contrast. Her
dress of crimson silk, cut very low, displayed to advantage—the plump,
dimpled shoulders, and her snowy bosom, and from a band of black velvet
round her throat was suspended a heart-shaped locket, set with superb
rubies and brilliants. A white satin petticoat covered with priceless
old lace, over which the crimson silk gown, open in front, was looped
high upon the hips, and then swept back in a long, ample, richly
trimmed train, completed the elegant toilet of Mme. la Marquise.

Jeanne, the favourite maid and confidante, held open the box of tiny
black, “_mouches_”—without which no fashionable lady of that epoch
considered herself fully equipped—while the _marquise_ placed one, with
most happy effect, near the corner of her rather pretty mouth, and then
hesitated some time before she could decide where to put the other,
which she held ready on the tip of her forefinger. The two maids stood
motionless, breathlessly watching their mistress, as if fully impressed
with the importance of this grave question, until at last the little
black star found a resting-place just above the edge of the crimson
silk bodice, to the left—indicating, in the accepted hieroglyphics of
that age of gallantry, that he who aspired to the lips of the fair
wearer must first win her heart.

After a last lingering look in the mirror Mme. la Marquise rose and
walked slowly towards the fire, but suddenly, remembering that there
was yet one adornment wanting, turned back, and took from a beautiful
casket standing open on the toilet-table, a large, thick watch—called
in those days a Nuremberg egg—which was curiously enamelled in a
variety of bright colours, and set with brilliants. It hung from a
short, broad chain of rich workmanship, which she hooked into her
girdle, near another chain of the same description, from which depended
a small hand-mirror in a pretty gold frame.

“Madame is looking her loveliest to-day,” said Jeanne in flattering
tones; “her hair is dressed to perfection, and her gown fits like a
glove.”

“Do you really think so?” asked her mistress languidly, and with
affected indifference. “It seems to me, on the contrary, that I am
positively hideous. My eyes are sunken, and this colour makes me look
immensely stout. I have half a mind to exchange this dress for a black
one now. What do you think, Jeanne? Black makes people look slender,
they say.”

“If madame insists upon it I can quickly make the exchange; but it
would be a sad pity not to wear such an elegant and becoming costume as
madame has on now.”

“Well, let it be then; but it will be all your fault, Jeanne, if I fail
to receive as much admiration as usual this evening. Do you know
whether the marquis has invited many people to come and see this play?”

“Yes, madame, several messengers have been sent off on horseback in
different directions, and there will be sure to be a large
gathering—they will come from all the châteaux within driving
distance—for such an occasion as this is rare, here in the depths of
the country.”

“You are right,” said Mme. la Marquise, with a deep sigh, which was
almost a groan; “we are buried alive in this dreary place. And what
about these players?—have you seen them, Jeanne?—are there any handsome
young actors among them?”

“I have only had a glimpse of them, madame, and such people are so
painted and fixed up, they say, that it is hard to tell what they
really do look like; but there was one slender young man, with long,
black curls and a very good figure, who had quite a grand air.”

“That must be the lover, Jeanne, for it is always the best looking
young actor in the troupe who takes that part. It would be ridiculous,
you know, to have a stout old codger, or a very ugly man, or even an
awkward one, making declarations of love, and going down on their
knees, and all that sort of thing—it would not do at all, Jeanne!”

“No, madame, it would not be very nice,” said the maid with a merry
laugh, adding shrewdly, “and although it seems to make very little
difference what husbands may be like, lovers should always be
everything that is charming.”

“I confess that I have a weakness for those stage gallants,” Mme. la
Marquise said with a little sigh, “they are so handsome, and so
devoted—they always use such beautiful language, and make such graceful
gestures—they are really irresistible. I cannot help feeling vexed when
their impassioned appeals are received coldly, and they are driven to
despair, as so often happens in plays; I would like to call them to me
and try to console them, the bewitching creatures!”

“That is because madame has such a kind heart that she can’t bear to
see any one suffer without trying to help and comfort them,” said the
specious Jeanne. “Now I am of quite a different mind—nothing I would
like better than to flout a sentimental suitor; fine words would not
gain any favour with me—I should distrust them.”

“Oh! you don’t understand the matter, Jeanne! You have not read as many
romances, or seen as many plays as I have. Did you say that young actor
was very handsome?”

“Mme. la Marquise can judge for herself,” answered the maid, who had
gone to the window, “for he is just crossing the court this blessed
minute, on his way to the orangery, where they are rigging up their
theatre.”

Mme. la Marquise hastened to the window, and there was Leander in full
view, walking along slowly, apparently lost in thought, and wearing a
tender, sad expression, which he considered especially effective and
interesting—as we have said, he never for a moment forgot his role. As
he drew near he looked up, as by a sudden inspiration, to the very
window where the _marquise_ stood watching him, and instantly taking
off his hat with a grand flourish, so that its long feather swept the
ground, made a very low obeisance, such as courtiers make to a queen;
then drew himself up proudly to his full height, and darting an ardent
glance of admiration and homage at the beautiful unknown, put on his
broad felt hat again and went composedly on his way. It was admirably
well done; a genuine cavalier, familiar with all the gallant usages in
vogue at court, could not have acquitted himself better. Flattered by
this mark of respect for her rank and admiration of her beauty, so
gracefully tendered, Mme. la Marquise could not help acknowledging it
by a slight bend of the head, and a little half suppressed smile. These
favourable signs did not escape Leander, who, with his usual
self-conceit, took a most exaggerated view of their import. He did not
for a moment doubt that the fair mistress of the château—for he took it
for granted it was she—had fallen violently in love with him, then and
there; he felt sure that he had read it in her eyes and her smile. His
heart beat tumultuously; he trembled with excitement; at last it had
come! the dream of his life was to be accomplished; he, the poor,
strolling player, had won the heart of a great lady; his fortune was
made! He got through the rehearsal to which he had been summoned as
best he might, and the instant it was over hastened back to his own
room, to indite an impassioned appeal to his new divinity, and devise
some means to insure its reaching her that same evening.

As everything was in readiness the play was to begin as soon as the
invited guests had all assembled. The orangery had been transformed
into a charming little theatre, and was brilliantly lighted by many
clusters of wax candles. Behind the spectators the orange trees had
been arranged in rows, rising one above the other, and filled the air
with their delicious fragrance. In the front row of seats, which was
composed of luxurious arm-chairs, were to be seen the beautiful Yolande
de Foix, the Duchesse de Montalban, the Baronne d’Hagémeau, the
Marquise de Bruyres, and many other titled dames, resplendent in
gorgeous array, and vying with each other in magnificence and beauty.
Rich velvets, brilliant satins, cloth of silver and gold, misty laces,
gay ribbons, white feathers, tiaras of diamonds, strings of pearls,
superb jewels, glittering in delicate shell-like ears, on white necks
and rounded arms, were in profusion, and the scene would have graced
the court itself. If the surpassingly lovely Yolande de Foix had not
been present, several radiant mortal goddesses in the exceptionally
brilliant assemblage might have made it difficult for a Paris to decide
between their rival claims to the golden apple; but her beauty eclipsed
them all, though it was rather that of the haughty Diana than the
smiling Venus. Men raved about her, declared her irresistible,
worshipped at her shrine, but never dared aspire to her love; one
scornful glance from her cold blue eyes effectually extinguished any
nascent hope, and the cruel beauty punished presumption as
relentlessly, and won and flung away hearts with as much nonchalance,
as ever did her immortal prototype, the fair goddess of the chase.

How was this exquisite creature dressed? It would require more
_sang-froid_ than we are possessed of to venture upon a description of
her perfect toilet; her raiment floated about her graceful form like a
luminous cloud, in which one could think only of herself; we believe,
however, that there were clusters of pearls nestling amid the bright
curls that made an aureola—a veritable golden glory—about her beautiful
head.

Behind these fair ladies sat or stood the nobles and gentlemen who had
the honour of being their fathers, husbands, and brothers. Some were
leaning forward to whisper soft nothings and dainty compliments into
willing ears, others lounging and fanning themselves lazily with their
broad felt hats, and others still standing in the background looking
admiringly at the pretty group before them. The hum of conversation
filled the air, and a slight impatience was just beginning to manifest
itself among the waiting audience, when the traditional three knocks
were heard, and all suddenly subsided into silence.

The curtain rose slowly and revealed a very pretty scene representing a
public square where several streets met, surrounded by picturesque
houses with small latticed windows, overhanging gables, high peaked
roofs, and smoke curling upwards from the slender chimneys against the
blue sky.

One of these houses had a practicable door and window, whilst two of
those in the side scenes enjoyed equal advantages, and one of them was
furnished with a balcony. A few trees were scattered about in front of
the houses, and, though the painting was not of the highest order of
scenic art, the general effect was very good, and won a round of
applause from the aristocratic audience. The piece opens with a quarrel
between the testy old _bourgeois_, Pandolphe, and his daughter,
Isabelle, who, being in love with a handsome young suitor, obstinately
refuses to obey her father’s commands and marry a certain Captain
Matamore, with whom he is perfectly infatuated. She is ably supported
in her resistance by her pretty maid, Zerbine, who is well paid by
Leander, the favoured lover, to espouse his cause. To all the curses
and abuse that Pandolphe showers upon her, she answers gaily with the
most exasperating and amusing impertinences, advising him to marry this
fine captain himself if he is so fond of him; as for her part she will
never suffer her dear, beautiful mistress to become the wife of that
horrid old codger, that abominable bully, that detestable scarecrow!
Whereupon Pandolphe, furiously angry, orders her into the house, so
that he may speak to his daughter alone; and when she refuses to obey,
and defies him to make her, he takes her by the shoulders and attempts
to force her to go, but she, bending forward with admirable elasticity,
from the waist only, at each vigorous effort of his, stands her ground
and does not budge one inch from her place, breaking into peals of
laughter at every fresh attempt, and accompanying it all with an
irresistibly saucy, comical by-play, that wins her round after round of
enthusiastic applause—whilst the Marquis de Bruyères, enchanted with
her spirited acting, congratulates himself anew upon the happy chance
that threw this charming creature in his way.

Another character now enters upon the scene, looking cautiously about
him at every step, as if he feared an unpleasant surprise. This is
Leander, the horror of fathers, husbands, and guardians, the delight of
wives, daughters, and wards—in one word, the lover—the very beau-ideal
of a lover; young, handsome, ardent, ready for anything, winning over
strict old duennas, bribing pert waiting-maids, climbing up
rope-ladders, overcoming every obstacle to reach the fair mistress of
his affections, and kneeling at her feet to pour out burning
protestations of love and devotion, that no mortal woman could ever
resist. Suddenly perceiving that Pandolphe is here, where he only
expected to find Isabelle, Leander stops and throws himself into an
attitude, which he has frequently practised before the mirror, and
which, he flatters himself, shows his handsome person to great
advantage; standing with his weight thrown upon the left leg, the right
one advanced and slightly bent at the knee; one hand on the hilt of his
sword, the other stroking his chin, so as to make the big diamond on
his finger flash in the light, and a slight smile playing about his
lips. He really did look very handsome as he stood there, and was
greatly admired by all the ladies—even the haughty Yolande herself not
disdaining to smile upon him approvingly. Profiting by the opportunity
that this pause gave him, Leander fixed his eyes upon the Marquise de
Bruyères, with such a look of passionate entreaty and admiration that
she blushed crimson in spite of herself under his ardent gaze; then he
turned reluctantly towards Isabelle, with an absent, indifferent air,
which he intended should indicate to the fair object of his aspirations
the difference between real and simulated passion.

When Pandolphe becomes aware of the presence of Leander he is more
furious than ever, and hustles his daughter and her maid into the house
as quickly as possible, not, however, without Zerbine’s finding means
to take from Leander a note for Isabelle, which she slips into the
pocket of her coquettish little apron. The young man, left alone with
the irate father, assures him in the most respectful manner that his
intentions are honourable; that he asks the hand of his fair daughter
in marriage; that he is of gentle birth, has an ample fortune, and is
in high favour at court; that nothing could ever induce him to give up
Isabelle; he is ready to risk everything to win her, for he loves her
better than his life—delicious words, which the young girl listens to
with rapture from her balcony, whence she makes little signs of
approval and encouragement to her lover, quite unknown to the stern
father, whose back is turned to her, and who believes her safely locked
up in the house. Despite the mellifluous eloquence of the ardent young
suitor Pandolphe remains obstinate and unmoved, and swears, by all the
gods that either he will have Captain Matamore for his son-in-law, or
his refractory daughter shall be shut up in a convent and forced to
become a nun. Off he bustles in hot haste to find a notary and have the
contract of marriage drawn without further delay.

As soon as he is out of sight Leander tries to persuade Isabelle—who is
still in her balcony, her father having carried off the key of the
street door in his pocket—to consent to fly from such persecution, and
accompany him to the cell of a certain holy hermit whom he knows, and
who is always willing and ready to marry runaway couples like
themselves, whose loves are thwarted by tyrannical parents. But the
young girl answers modestly, yet firmly, that, although she wishes
nothing so earnestly as to be permitted to bestow her hand upon her
faithful Leander, who already has her heart, she cannot disobey her
father, for that she, like all dutiful daughters, is in duty bound to
respect and submit to the commands of the author of her being; but she
promises never to marry the detested Captain Matamore—she will go into
the convent rather than listen to him for a moment. Unable to shake her
decision Leander then retires to devise plans, with the aid of his
clever valet, to overcome the formidable obstacles in his way—more than
ever determined not to give up the fair Isabelle, and promising her to
return in the evening and report progress.

Isabelle retires from her balcony and closes her window, and a moment
after Captain Matamore strides fiercely upon the stage—his appearance
is greeted with peals of laughter—his tall, attenuated figure is
encased in an absurd costume, in which the bright red and yellow
stripes of his tunic meet in points in front and behind, whilst they
run spirally round his long, thin arms and legs, producing the most
preposterously comical effect imaginable; a stiffly-starched ruff,
immensely broad, encircles his neck, upon which his head seems to be
set, like that of John the Baptist on the charger; a large felt hat,
turned up at one side, and ornamented with a huge tuft of red and
yellow feathers, is stuck jauntily on his head, and a short cloak of
the same colour, fastened round his neck and thrown back from his
shoulders, floats behind him. He wears an enormous sword, whose heavily
weighted hilt keeps the point always raised and standing out
prominently behind him, whilst from it dangles a clever imitation of a
spider’s web—a convincing proof of how much he is in the habit of
making use of this formidable weapon. Closely followed by his valet,
Scapin, who is in imminent danger of having an eye put out by the end
of his master’s big sword, he marches several times around the stage,
taking preternaturally long strides, rolling his eyes about fiercely,
twisting the long ends of his huge mustache, and indulging in a variety
of ridiculous gestures indicative of exaggerated rage and fury, which
are irresistibly funny—all the more so because there is nothing
whatever to provoke this display of ferocity. Finally he stops in front
of the footlights, strikes an attitude, and delivers himself thus: “For
to-day, Scapin, I am willing to let my man-killer here have a little
rest, so that there may be an opportunity to get all its recent victims
decently buried, in the cemeteries I contribute so largely towards
filling. When a man has performed such feats of courage and carnage as
I have—killing my hundreds single-handed, while my dastardly comrades
trembled with fear, or turned and fled from the foe—to say nothing of
my daily affairs of honour, now that the wars are over—he may assuredly
indulge himself occasionally in milder amusements. Besides, the whole
civilized world, having now been subjugated by my good sword, no longer
offers any resistance to my indomitable arm, and Atropos, the eldest of
the dread Parcae sisters, has sent word to me that the fatal scissors,
with which she cuts the threads of human lives, have become so dulled
by the great amount of work my trusty blade has given her to do with
them, that she has been obliged to send them to Vulcan to be sharpened,
and she begs for a short respite. So you see, Scapin, I must put force
upon myself and restrain my natural ardour—refrain for a time from
wars, massacres, sacking of cities, stand-up fights with giants,
killing of monsters and dragons, like Theseus and Hercules of glorious
memory, and all the other little pastimes which usually occupy my good
sword and me. I will take my ease now for a brief period, and Death may
enjoy a short rest too. But to whom did my worthy prototype, Mars, the
great god of war, devote _his_ leisure hours? in whose sweet society
did _he_ find delight? Ask Venus, the immortal goddess of love and
beauty, who had the good taste to prefer a warlike man to all others,
and lent a willing ear to the suit of my valiant predecessor. So I,
following his illustrious example, condescend to turn my attention for
the moment to the tender sex, and pay my court to the fair Isabelle,
the young and beautiful object of my ardent love. Being aware that
Cupid, with all his assurance, would not dare to aim one of his
golden-tipped arrows at such an all-conquering hero as my unworthy
self, I have given him a little encouragement; and, in order that the
shaft may penetrate to the generous lion’s heart that beats in this
broad breast, I have laid aside the world-famed coat of mail—made of
the rings given to me by goddesses, empresses, queens, infantas,
princesses, and great ladies of every degree, my illustrious admirers
the world over—which is proof against all weapons, and has so often
saved my life in my maddest deeds of daring.”

“All of which signifies,” interrupts the valet, who had listened to
this high-blown tirade with ill-concealed impatience, “as far as my
feeble intellect can comprehend such magnificent eloquence, that your
most redoubtable lordship has fallen in love with some young girl
hereabouts, like any ordinary mortal.”

“Really, Scapin,” says Matamore, with good-humoured condescension, “you
have hit the nail upon the head—you are not so stupid after all, for a
valet. Yes, I have fallen in love, but do not imagine for a moment that
my courage will suffer diminution on that account. It was all very well
for Samson to allow his hair to be cut off, and for Alcides to handle
the distaff at the bidding of his mistress; but Delilah would not have
dared to touch one hair of my head, and Omphale should have pulled off
my boots for me—at the least sign of revolt I would have given her
worse to do: cleaning the skin of the Nemaean lion, for instance, when
I brought it home all fresh and bleeding, just as I had torn it from
the quivering carcass. The thought that has lately occurred to me, that
I have subjugated only half of the human race, is humiliating. Women,
by reason of their weakness, escape me; I cannot treat them as I do my
masculine opponents—cut their throats, run them through the body, or
hew off their arms and legs; I must lay siege to their hearts, and
conquer them in that way. It is true that I have stormed and taken a
greater number of such fair citadels than there are drops of water in
the ocean, or stars in the sky—why, I sleep on a mattress stuffed with
thousands of beautiful curls and tresses of every shade, light and
dark, golden and jet-black, which are among my most treasured trophies.
Juno herself has made overtures to me, but I turned a deaf ear to her
blandishments, finding her charms rather too ripe for my taste; I
prefer the first flush of youthful beauty; it is a pure and innocent
maiden that I would honour with my notice now, but she repulses me—that
I should live to say it!—she dares to repulse me. I cannot permit such
an impertinence on her part, and the fair Isabelle must humbly sue to
me for pardon, and herself bringing the golden keys of the citadel of
her heart, upon a salver of silver, offer them to me upon her bended
knees, with streaming eyes and dishevelled tresses, begging for grace
and favour in my sight. Go now, and summon the fortress to
surrender—this house contains the rebellious fair.”

But doors and windows remain inexorably closed, and no notice is taken
of the valet’s thundering knocks and mocking summons to surrender;
secure in the strength of their bolts and bars, the garrison, which
consists of Isabelle and her maid, vouchsafes no reply. Matamore,
becoming more enraged at each vain attempt to gain a response from his
fair enemy, stamps about the stage, roaring out his defiance,
threatening to sack and burn the place, pouring out volleys of
remarkable oaths, and lashing himself into such a fury that he actually
foams at the mouth. When his valet at length, after many vain efforts,
is able to gain a hearing, and tells him of his formidable rival,
Leander, and how he has already won the lady’s heart, all his rage is
turned against that fortunate suitor, of whom he vows that he will make
mince-meat as soon as he can lay hands on him. At this very moment
Leander himself returns, and Scapin points him out to his master as he
approaches, adding that he will keep a sharp look-out for the police
while Matamore is giving him his quietus. But the cowardly braggadocio
would fain withdraw, now that the enemy is actually in sight, and is
only restrained from flight by his servant, who pushes him forward
directly in Leander’s path.

Seeing that escape is impossible, Matamore settles his hat firmly on
his head, twists the long ends of his mustache, puts his hand on the
hilt of his big sword, and advances threateningly towards Leander—but
it is pure bravado, for his teeth are chattering with fear, and his
long, thin legs waver and tremble under him visibly, like reeds shaken
by the wind. Only one hope remains to him—that of intimidating Leander
by loud threats and ferocious gestures, if, by a happy chance, he be a
fellow of his own kidney. So in a terrible voice he addresses him thus:
“Sir, do you know that I am the great Captain Matamore of the
celebrated house of Cuerno de Cornazan, and allied to the no less
illustrious family of Escobombardon de la Papirontonda? I am a
descendant, on my mother’s side, of the famous Antacus, the ancient
hero and giant.”

“Well, you may be a descendant of the man in the moon for all that I
care,” answers Leander, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders; “what
the devil have I to do with such absurd stuff and nonsense?”

“Blood and bones! thunder and Mars! You see, sir, you shall see, and
that very quickly, what you have to do with it, unless you take
yourself off in the twinkling of an eye. I will give you one minute’s
grace, for your extreme youth touches me, so take to your heels and fly
while there is yet time. Observe me well! I am the terror of the whole
world—my path is marked with graves—my own shadow scarcely dares to
follow me into the perils I delight in. If I enter a besieged city, it
is by the breach—when I quit it I pass under a triumphal arch; if I
cross a river, it is one of blood, and the bridge is made of the bodies
of my adversaries. I can toss a knight and his horse, both, weighted
with armour, high into the air. I can snap elephants’ bones, as you
would pipe-stems. When great Mars himself chances to meet me on the
battle-field he turns and flees, dreading the weight of my arm. My
prowess is so well known, and the terror I inspire so great, that no
one dares to meet me face to face, and I never see anything but the
backs of my retreating foes.”

“Is it so? well, you shall meet _me_ face to face. Take _that_, and see
how you like it!” says Leander laughing merrily, and giving him a
sounding slap on one cheek which almost knocks the poor devil over, and
is instantly followed by an equally hearty one on the other, to restore
his equilibrium.

During this scene Isabelle and Zerbine come out upon the balcony. The
mischievous _soubrette_ goes into convulsions of laughter, whilst her
mistress nods encouragingly to Leander. Meantime Pandolphe, accompanied
by the notary, turns the corner of one of the streets and enters the
square just in time to see Leander’s extraordinary exploit, whereat he
is horrified and amazed. The valiant captain bellows like a bull,
shrieks out the most frightful threats and curses, vowing all sorts of
vengeance, and making prodigious efforts to draw his big sword, so that
he may forthwith set about cutting up his unmannerly assailant into
mince-meat. He tugs and strains until he is red in the face, but his
“man-killer” cannot be induced to quit the scabbard and Leander,
growing impatient, follows up his first attack with a vigorous, well
directed kick, which sends the unlucky bully flying to the other side
of the stage, where he falls all in a heap and rolls in the dust. The
handsome, young gallant then bows gracefully to Isabelle and retires
from the scene.

Captain Matamore meanwhile lies sprawling on the ground, making
ludicrous and ineffectual efforts to regain his feet. Pandolphe and
Scapin go to his assistance, and when they have hauled him up, and he
has made sure that Leander is no longer present, he roars out in a
voice of thunder: “Scapin, quick, hoop me with iron bands or I shall
burst! I am in such a rage! I shall explode like a bomb! and you,
treacherous blade, do _you_ play me false at such a moment? Is it thus
you reward me for having always tried to slake your insatiable thirst
with the blood of the bravest and noblest? I don’t know why I have not
already broken you into a thousand pieces, as you so richly
deserve—false, ungrateful weapon that you are! But stay—was it to teach
me that it is unworthy of the true warrior to desert his post?—or
forget his sterner duties in the soft delights of love?—was it for that
you refused to leap from your scabbard as of old? It is true, alas!
that thus far this week I have not defeated a single army—I have killed
neither ogre nor dragon—I have not furnished his usual rations to
Death—and in consequence my trusty blade has rusted in the
scabbard—that I should live to say it! rusted!—and I have been forced
to submit to insults, and even blows, before the very eyes of my
mistress. What a lesson! Henceforth I shall make it a rule to kill at
least three men every morning before I break my fast, so as to be sure
that my good sword plays freely—keep me in mind, Scapin, do you hear?”

“Perhaps Leander will return before long,” says the valet; “suppose we
all help you to draw your ‘_trusty blade_,’ so that you may be ready
for him.”

Matamore, accordingly, plants himself firmly, holding the scabbard in
both hands, Scapin seizes the handle of the sword, Pandolphe clasps him
firmly round the waist, the notary tries to do as much by Pandolphe’s
stout person, and they all pull and pull. For some time the rusty old
sword resists all their efforts, but at last yields suddenly, and the
three fall in a confused heap on the ground, with legs and arms waving
wildly in the air, while Matamore tumbles the other way, still clinging
to the now empty scabbard. Picking himself up as quickly as possible he
seizes his big sword, which has dropped from the valet’s hand, and
waving it triumphantly says with stern emphasis, “Now Leander’s fate is
sealed! There is but one way for him to escape certain death. He must
emigrate to some distant planet. If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to
remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he
strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword—unless
indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of
my eye.”

In spite of all that he has witnessed, the obstinate old father still
feels unbounded faith in Matamore’s valour, and persists in his
lamentable intention to bestow the hand of his fair daughter upon this
magnificent hero. Poor Isabelle bursts into tears, and declares that
she prefers the convent to such a fate. Zerbine loudly swears that this
marriage shall never take place, and tries to console her weeping
mistress. Matamore attributes this rather discouraging demonstration on
the part of Isabelle to an excess of maidenly modesty, not doubting her
_penchant_ for himself, though he acknowledges that he has not yet
properly paid his court, nor shown himself in all his glory to her—this
last from prudential motives, fearing lest she might be dangerously
dazzled and overwhelmed if he should burst upon her too suddenly in the
full splendour of his heroic character, remembering, and taking warning
by, the sad and terrible fate that befell Semele, when Jupiter,
reluctantly yielding to her wishes, appeared before her with all the
insignia of his majesty.

Isabelle and her maid withdrew from the balcony, without taking any
further notice of the valiant Matamore; but he, undaunted, wishing to
play the lover after the most approved fashion, plants himself
resolutely under her window and sends Scapin to fetch a guitar; upon
which he thrums awkwardly for a while, and then accompanies it with his
voice, in an attempt at a Spanish love song, which sounds much like the
nocturnal caterwauling of a disconsolate tabby than anything else we
can compare it to. A dash of cold water, mischievously thrown down on
him by Zerbine under pretext of watering the plants in the balcony,
does not extinguish his musical ardour. “A gentle shower from the sweet
eyes of my Isabelle, moved to tears by this plaintive melody,” says he,
“for it is universally conceded that I excel in music as in arms, and
wield the lyre as skilfully as the sword.”

Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant
that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade _his_ mistress,
snatches the guitar from his hands and begins whacking him over the
head with it, so furiously that it is quickly broken through, and
slipping over the unhappy serenader’s head remains fixed round his
neck, so that he is completely at the mercy of his assailant. Holding
fast to the handle of the guitar, Leander hauls him about the stage,
banging him against the side-scenes, dragging him forward to the
footlights—making the most absurd scene imaginable—and finally, letting
go of him suddenly, sends him sprawling on the ground. Fancy the
ridiculous appearance of the unfortunate bully, who looked as if he had
put his head through a frying-pan!

But his miseries are not yet at an end. Leander’s valet had been
arranging a clever little plot to prevent the fulfilment of the
proposed marriage between Isabelle and Captain Matamore. At his
instigation, a certain Doralice, very pretty and coquettish, makes her
appearance, accompanied by a fierce-looking brother—represented by
Hérode—carrying two immensely long rapiers under his arm, and evidently
“spoiling for a fight.” The young lady complains that she has been
shamefully jilted by Captain Matamore, who has deserted her for
Isabelle, the daughter of a certain Pandolphe, and demands instant
reparation for this outrage, adding that her brother is ready to exact
it at the point of the sword, or avenge the insult by taking the life
of the heartless villain who has trifled with her youthful affections.

“Make haste to give this rascal his quietus,” says Pandolphe to his
future son-in-law; “it will be only child’s play for you, who have
fearlessly encountered, single-handed, a whole army of Saracens.”

Very reluctantly, and after many most absurd grimaces, Matamore crosses
swords with Doralice’s ferocious brother, but he trembles so that the
latter, with one quick movement, sends his weapon flying out of his
hand, and chastises him with the flat of his sword until he roars for
mercy.

To cap the climax, Mme. Léonarde comes upon the scene, mopping her
streaming eyes with an enormous pocket-handkerchief, sighing and
sobbing, and bewailing herself. She goes straight to Pandolphe and
shows him a written promise of marriage, over Matamore’s signature,
cleverly counterfeited; whereupon the poor wretch, convicted of such
abominable and complicated perfidy, is assailed with a new shower of
blows and curses, and finally condemned, by the unanimous vote of all
present, to marry old Mme. Léonarde—who has made herself as hideous as
possible—as a fitting punishment for all his deviltries, rodomontades,
and cowardice. Pandolphe, thoroughly disgusted with Matamore at last,
makes no further objections to Leander’s suit, and the curtain falls as
he gives his consent to the marriage of the two young lovers.

This _bouffonnade_, being played with great spirit, was
enthusiastically applauded. The gentlemen were charmed with the
mischievous, coquettish _soubrette_, who was fairly radiant with beauty
that evening; the ladies were greatly pleased with Isabelle’s
refinement and modesty; whilst Matamore received the well merited
encomiums of all. It would have been impossible to find, even in the
great Parisian theatres, an actor better fitted for the part he had
played so admirably. Leander was much admired by all the younger
ladies, but the gentlemen agreed, without a dissenting voice, that he
was a horridly conceited coxcomb. Wherever he appeared indeed this was
the universal verdict, with which he was perfectly content—caring far
more for his handsome person, and the effect it produced upon the fair
sex, than for his art; though, to do him justice, he was a very good
actor. Serafina’s beauty did not fail to find admirers, and more than
one young gentleman swore by his mustache that she was an adorable
creature—quite regardless of the displeasure of the fair ladies within
hearing.

During the play, de Sigognac, hidden in the _coulisses_, had enjoyed
intensely Isabelle’s charming rendering of her part, though he was more
than a little jealous of the favour she apparently bestowed upon
Leander—and especially at the tender tone of her voice whenever she
spoke to him—not being yet accustomed to the feigned love-making on the
stage, which often covers profound antipathies and real enmity. When
the play was over, he complimented the young actress with a
constrained, embarrassed air, which she could not help remarking, and
perfectly understood.

“You play that part admirably, Isabelle! so well that one might almost
think there was some truth in it.”

“Is it not my duty to do so?” she asked smilingly, secretly pleased at
his displeasure; “did not the manager engage me for that?”

“Doubtless,” de Sigognac replied, “but you seemed to be _really_ in
love with that conceited fellow, who never thinks of anything but his
own good looks, and how to display them to the best advantage.”

“But the role required it. You surely would not have had me play it as
if he disgusted me! besides, did I not preserve throughout the quiet
demeanour of a well-bred, respectable girl? If I failed in that you
must tell me how and where, so that I may endeavour to correct it in
future.”

“Oh no! you appeared from the beginning to the end like a modest,
retiring, young lady—no, there is no fault to be found with you in that
respect; your acting was inimitable—so graceful, lady-like, and
easy—but withal so true to nature that it was almost too real.”

“My dear baron, they are putting out the lights; everybody has gone but
ourselves, and we shall be left in the dark if we don’t make haste. Be
good enough to throw this cloak around my shoulders and accompany me to
the château.”

De Sigognac acquitted himself of this novel duty with less awkwardness
than might have been expected, though his hands trembled a little, and
he felt an almost irresistible desire to take her into his arms as he
wrapped the mantle round her slender form; but he restrained himself,
and respectfully offering his arm led her out of the orangery, which by
this time was entirely deserted. It was, as we have said, at a little
distance from the château, and on the level of the park, lower than the
mansion, which stood on a high terrace, with a handsome stone
balustrade at the edge, supporting at regular intervals large vases
filled with blooming plants, in the pretty Italian fashion. A broad,
easy flight of stone steps led up to the terrace, affording in their
ascent a most imposing view of the château, which loomed up grandly
against the evening sky. Many of the windows on this side were lighted,
whilst the others glistened brightly as the silvery moon-beams struck
upon them—as did also the dewdrops on the shrubbery and the
grass-plots—as if a shower of diamonds had fallen on this favoured
spot. Looking towards the park, the long vistas cut through the wood,
losing themselves in the hazy blue of the distance, called to mind
Breughel’s famous picture of Paradise, or else disclosed the far-away
gleam of a marble statue, or the spray of a misty fountain sparkling in
the moonlight.

Isabelle and de Sigognac slowly ascended the broad steps, pausing
frequently to turn and look back at this enchanting scene, and charmed
with the beauty of the night walked for a little while to and fro upon
the terrace before retiring to their rooms. As they were in full sight
of the windows, and it was not yet very late, the modest young girl
felt that there could be no impropriety in this little indulgence; and
besides, the baron’s extreme timidity was very reassuring to her, and
she knew that he would not presume upon the favour accorded to him. He
had not made a formal avowal of his love to her, but she was as well
aware of it as if he had, and also of his profound respect for her,
which sentiment is indeed always an accompaniment of a worthy passion.
She knew herself beloved—the knowledge was very sweet to her—and she
felt herself safe from all fear of offence in the company of this
honourable gentleman and true lover. With the delicious embarrassment
of nascent, unavowed love, this young couple wandering by moonlight in
a lonely garden, side by side, arm in arm, only exchanged the most
insignificant, commonplace remarks; but if no undercurrent was betrayed
by actual words, the trembling, voices, long pauses, stifled sighs, and
low, confidential tones told of strong emotions beneath this quiet
surface.

The chamber assigned to the beautiful Yolande de Foix, near that of
Mme. la Marquise, was on this side of the château, overlooking the
park, and after she had dismissed her maid, she went to the window to
look out once more upon the exceeding beauty of the night, and caught
sight of de Sigognac and Isabelle, pacing slowly back and forth on the
terrace below, without any other company than their own shadows.
Assuredly the disdainful Yolande, haughty as a goddess, could never
have felt anything but scorn for our poor young baron, past whom she
had sometimes flashed in a whirlwind of light and noise in the chase,
and whom she had so recently cruelly insulted; but still it displeased
her to see him devoting himself thus to a beautiful young girl, to whom
he was undoubtedly making love at that very moment. She had regarded
him as her own humble vassal—for she had not failed to read the
passionate admiration in his eyes whenever they met her own—and could
not brook his shaking off his allegiance thus; her slaves ought to live
and die in her service, even though their fidelity were never rewarded
by a single smile. She watched them, with a frowning brow, until they
disappeared, and then sought her couch in anything but a tranquil mood,
haunted by the lover-like pair that had so roused her wrath, and still
kept her long awake.

De Sigognac escorted Isabelle to the door of her chamber, where he bade
her good-night, and as he turned away towards his own, saw, at the end
of the corridor, a mysterious looking individual closely wrapped in a
large cloak, with one end thrown over the shoulder in Spanish fashion,
and so drawn up round his face that only the eyes were visible; a
slouch hat concealed his forehead, so that he was completely disguised,
yet he drew back hurriedly into a dark corner when de Sigognac turned
towards him, as if to avoid his notice. The baron knew that the
comedians had all gone to their rooms already, and besides, it could
not be one of them, for the tyrant was much larger and taller, the
pedant a great deal stouter, Leander more slender, Matamore much
thinner, and Scapin of quite a different make. Not wishing to appear
curious, or to annoy the unknown in any way, de Sigognac hastened to
enter his own room—not however without having observed that the door of
the tapestry-hung chamber stood ajar. When he had closed his, he heard
stealthy footsteps approaching, and presently a bolt shot home softly,
then profound silence.

About an hour later, Leander opened his door as quietly as possible,
looked carefully to see if the corridor was empty, and then, stepping
as lightly and cautiously as a gipsy performing the famous egg-dance,
traversed its whole length, reached the staircase, which he descended
as noiselessly as the phantoms in a haunted castle, and passed out into
the moonlight; he crept along in the shadow of the wall and of some
thick shrubbery, went down the steps into the park, and made his way to
a sort of bower, where stood a charming statue of the mischievous
little god of love, with his finger on his lip—an appropriate presiding
genius of a secret rendezvous, as this evidently must be. Here he
stopped and waited, anxiously watching the path by which he had come,
and listening intently to catch the first sound of approaching
footsteps.

We have already related how Leander, encouraged by the smile with which
Mme. la Marquise acknowledged his salutation, and convinced that she
was smitten with his beauty and grace, had made bold to address a
letter to her, which he bribed Jeanne to place secretly upon her
mistress’s toilet-table, where she would be sure to see it. This letter
we copy here at length, so as to give an idea of the style of
composition employed by Leander in addressing the great ladies of whose
favours he boasted so loudly.

“Madame, or rather fair goddess of beauty, do not blame anything but
your own incomparable charms for this intrusion upon you. I am forced
by their radiance to emerge from the deep shadow in which I should
remain shrouded, and approach their dazzling brilliancy—just as the
dolphins are attracted from the depths of ocean, by the brightness of
the fisherman’s lanterns, though they are, alas! to find destruction
there, and perish by the sharp harpoons hurled pitilessly at them with
unerring aim. I know but too well that the waves will be reddened by my
blood; but as I cannot live without your favour, I do not fear to meet
death thus. It may be strangely audacious, on my part to pretend to the
privileges of gods and demi-gods—to die by your fair hand—but I dare to
aspire to it; being already in despair, nothing worse can come to me,
and I would rather incur your wrath than your scorn, or your disdain.
In order to direct the fatal blow aright, the executioner must look
upon his victim, and I shall have, in yielding up my life under your
fair, cruel hand, the supreme delight of being for one blissful moment
the object of your regard. Yes, I love you, madame! I adore you! And if
it be a crime, I cannot repent of it. God suffers himself to be adored;
the stars receive the admiration of the humblest shepherd; it is the
fate of all such lofty perfection as yours to, be beloved, adored, only
by inferior beings, since it has not its equal upon earth, nor scarcely
indeed in heaven. I, alas! am but a poor, wandering actor, yet were I a
haughty duke or prince, my head would not be on a level with your
beauteous feet, and there would be, all the same, between your heavenly
height and my kneeling adoration, as great a distance as from the
soaring summit of the loftiest Alp to the yawning abyss far, far below.
You must always stoop to reach a heart that adores you. I dare to say,
madame, that mine is as proud as it is tender, and she who would deign
not to repulse it, would find in it the most ardent love, the most
perfect delicacy, the most absolute respect, and unbounded devotion.
Besides, if such divine happiness be accorded me, your indulgence would
not have to stoop so low as you might fancy. Though reduced by an
adverse destiny and the jealous hatred of one of the great ones of the
earth, who must be nameless, to the dire necessity of hiding myself
under this disguise, I am not what I seem. I do not need to blush for
my birth—rather I may glory in it. If I dared to betray the secrecy
imposed upon me, for reasons of state, I could prove to you that most
illustrious blood runs in my veins. Whoever may love me, noble though
she be, will not degrade herself. But I have already said too much—my
lips are sealed. I shall never be other than the humblest, most devoted
of your slaves; even though, by one of those strange coincidences that
happen sometimes in real life, I should come to be recognised by all
the world as a king’s son. If in your great goodness you will
condescend to show me, fair goddess of beauty, by the slightest sign,
that my boldness has not angered you, I shall die happy, consumed by
the burning brightness of your eyes upon the funeral pyre of my love.”

How would Mme. la Marquise have received this ardent epistle? which had
perhaps done him good service already more than once. Would she have
looked favourably upon her humble suitor?—who can tell?—for the
feminine heart is past comprehension. Unfortunately the letter did not
reach her. Being entirely taken up with great ladies, Leander
overlooked their waiting-maids, and did not trouble himself to show
them any attentions or gallantries—wherein he made a sad mistake—for if
the _pistoles_ he gave to Jeanne, with his precious epistle, had been
supplemented by a few kisses and compliments, she would have taken far
more pains to execute his commission. As she held the letter carelessly
in her hand, the marquis chanced to pass by, and asked her idly what
she had got there.

“Oh! nothing much,” she answered scornfully, “only a note from Mr.
Leander to Mme. la Marquise.”

“From Leander? that jackanapes who plays the lover in the Rodomontades
of Captain Matamore? What in the world can _he_ have to say to Mme. la
Marquise? Doubtless he asks for a gratuity!”

“I don’t think so,” said the spiteful waiting-maid; “when he gave me
this letter he sighed, and rolled up his eyes like a love-sick swain.”

“Give me the letter,” said the marquis, “_I_ will answer it—and don’t
say anything about it to your mistress. Such chaps are apt to be
impertinent—they are spoiled by admiration, and sometimes presume upon
it.”

The marquis, who dearly loved a joke, amused himself by answering
Leander’s extraordinary epistle with one in much the same style—written
in a delicate, lady-like hand upon perfumed paper, and sealed with a
fanciful device—altogether a production well calculated to deceive the
poor devil, and confirm him in his ridiculous fancies. Accordingly,
when he regained his bed-chamber after the play was over, he found upon
his dressing-table a note addressed to himself. He hastened to open it,
trembling from head to foot with excitement and delight, and read as
follows: “It is true, as you say so eloquently—too eloquently for my
peace of mind—that goddesses can only love mortals. At eleven o’clock,
when all the world is sunk in slumber, and no prying human eyes open to
gaze upon her, Diana will quit her place in the skies above and descend
to earth, to visit the gentle shepherd, Endymion—not upon Mount Latmus,
but in the park—at the foot of the statue of silent love. The handsome
shepherd must be sure to have fallen asleep ere Diana appears, so as
not to shock the modesty of the immortal goddess—who will come without
her cortege of nymphs, wrapped in a cloud and devoid of her silvery
radiance.”

We will leave to the reader’s imagination the delirious joy that filled
to overflowing the foolish heart of the susceptible Leander, who was
fooled to the top of his bent, when he read this precious note, which
exceeded his wildest hopes. He immediately began his preparations to
play the part of Endymion—poured a whole bottle of perfume upon his
hair and hands, chewed a flower of mace to make his breath sweet,
twisted his glossy curls daintily round his white fingers—though not a
hair was awry—and then waited impatiently for the moment when he should
set forth to seek the rendezvous at the foot of the statue of silent
love—where we left him anxiously awaiting the arrival of his goddess.
He shivered nervously from excitement, and the penetrating chilliness
of the damp night air, as he stood motionless at the appointed spot. He
trembled at the falling of a leaf—the crackling of the gravel under his
feet whenever he moved them sounded so loud in his ears that he felt
sure it would be heard at the château. The mysterious darkness of the
wood filled him with awe, and the great, black trees seemed like
terrible genii, threatening him. The poor wretch was not exactly
frightened, but not very far from it. Mme. la Marquise was tardy—Diana
was leaving her faithful Endymion too long cooling his heels in the
heavy night dew. At last he thought he heard heavy footsteps
approaching,—but they could not be those of his goddess—he must be
mistaken—goddesses glide so lightly over the sward that not even a
blade of grass is crushed beneath their feet—and, indeed, all was
silent again.

“Unless Mme. la Marquise comes quickly, I fear she will find only a
half-frozen lover, instead of an ardent, impatient one,” murmured
Leander with chattering teeth; and even as the words escaped him four
dark shadows advanced noiselessly from behind upon the expectant
gallant. Two of these shadows, which were the substantial bodies of
stout rascals in the service of the Marquis de Bruyères, seized him
suddenly by the arms, which they held pinioned closely to his sides,
while the other two proceeded to rain blows alternately upon his
back—keeping perfect time as their strokes fell thick and fast. Too
proud to run the risk of making his woes public by an outcry, their
astonished victim took his punishment bravely—without making a sound.
Mutius Scaevola did not bear himself more heroically while his right
hand lay among the burning coals upon the altar in the presence of
Porsenna, than did Leander under his severe chastisement. When it was
finished the two men let go of their prisoner, all four saluted him
gravely, and retired as noiselessly as they had come, without a single
word being spoken.

What a terrible fall was this! that famous one of Icarus himself,
tumbling down headlong from the near neighbourhood of the sun, was not
a greater. Battered, bruised, sore and aching all over, poor Leander,
crestfallen and forlorn, limping painfully, and suppressing his groans
with Spartan resolution, crept slowly back to his own room; but so
overweening was his self-conceit that he never even suspected that a
trick had been played upon him. He said to himself that without doubt
Mme. la Marquise had been watched and followed by her jealous husband,
who had overtaken her before she reached the rendezvous in the park,
carried her back to the château by main strength, and forced her, with
a poniard at her throat, to confess all. He pictured her to himself on
her knees, with streaming eyes, disordered dress and dishevelled hair,
imploring her stern lord and master to be merciful—to have pity upon
her and forgive her this once—vowing by all she held sacred never to be
faithless to him again, even in thought. Suffering and miserable as he
was after his tremendous thrashing, he yet pitied and grieved over the
poor lady who had put herself in such peril for his sake, never
dreaming that she was in blissful ignorance of the whole affair, and at
that very moment sleeping peacefully in her luxurious bed. As the poor
fellow crept cautiously and painfully along the corridor leading to his
room and to those of the other members of the troupe he had the
misfortune to be detected by Scapin, who, evidently on the watch for
him, was peeping out of his own half-open door, grinning, grimacing,
and gesticulating significantly, as he noted the other’s limping gait
and drooping figure.

In vain did Leander strive to straighten himself up and assume a gay,
careless air; his malicious tormentor was not in the least taken in by
it.

The next morning the comedians prepared to resume their journey; no
longer, however, in the slow-moving, groaning ox-cart, which they were
glad, indeed, to exchange for the more roomy, commodious vehicle that
the tyrant had been able to hire for them—thanks to the marquis’s
liberality—in which they could bestow themselves and their belongings
comfortably, and to which was harnessed four stout draught horses.

Leander and Zerbine were both rather late in rising, and the last to
make their appearance—the former with a doleful countenance, despite
his best efforts to conceal his sufferings under a cheerful exterior,
the latter beaming with satisfaction, and with smiles for everybody.
She was decidedly inclined to be munificent towards her companions, and
bestow upon them some of the rich spoils that had fallen plentifully to
her share—taking quite a new position among them—even the duenna
treating her with a certain obsequious, wheedling consideration, which
she had been far from ever showing her before. Scapin, whose keen
observation nothing ever escaped, noticed that her box had suddenly
doubled in weight, by some magic or other, and drew his own conclusions
therefrom. Zerbine was a universal favourite, and no one begrudged her
her good fortune, save Serafina, who bit her lip till it bled, and
murmured indignantly, “Shameless creature!” but the _soubrette_
pretended not to hear it, content for the moment with the signal
humiliation of the arch-coquette.

At last the new Thespian chariot was ready for a start, and our
travellers bade adieu to the hospitable château, where they had been so
honourably received and so generously treated, and which they all,
excepting poor Leander, quitted with regret. The tyrant dwelt upon the
bountiful supply of _pistoles_ he had received; the pedant upon the
capital wines of which he had drunk his fill; Matamore upon the
enthusiastic applause that had been lavished upon him by that
aristocratic audience; Zerbine upon the pieces of rich silk, the golden
necklaces and other like treasures with which her chest was replete—no
wonder that it was heavy—while de Sigognac and Isabelle, thinking only
of each other, and happy in being together, did not even turn their
heads for one last glimpse of the handsome Château de Bruyere.

CHAPTER VI.
A SNOW-STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

As may be readily supposed, the comedians were well satisfied with the
kind treatment they had received during their brief sojourn at the
Château de Bruyères; such a piece of good fortune did not often fall to
their lot, and they rejoiced in it exceedingly. The tyrant had
distributed among them each one’s share of the marquis’s liberal
remuneration for their services, and it was wonderfully pleasant to
them to have broad pieces in the purses usually so scantily supplied,
and not infrequently quite empty. Zerbine, who was evidently rejoicing
over some secret source of satisfaction, accepted good-naturedly all
the taunts and jokes of her companions upon the irresistible power of
her charms. She was triumphant, and could afford to be laughed
at—indeed, joined heartily in the general merriment at her own
expense—while Serafina sulked openly, with “envy, hatred, and malice”
filling her heart. Poor Leander, still smarting from his severe
beating, sore and aching, unable to find an easy position, and
suffering agonies from the jolting of the chariot, found it hard work
to join in the prevailing gaiety.

When he thought no one was looking at him, he would furtively rub his
poor, bruised shoulders and arms with the palm of his hand, which
stealthy manœuvre might very readily have passed unobserved by the rest
of the company, but did not escape the wily valet, who was always on
the lookout for a chance to torment Leander; his monstrous self-conceit
being intensely exasperating to him. A harder jolt than usual having
made the unfortunate gallant groan aloud, Scapin immediately opened his
attack, feigning to feel the liveliest commiseration for him.

“My poor Leander, what is the matter with you this morning? You moan
and sigh as if you were in great agony! Are you really suffering so
acutely? You seem to be all battered and bruised, like the Knight of
the Sorrowful Countenance, after he had capered stark naked, for a love
penance, among the rocks in the Sierra Morena, in humble imitation of
his favourite hero, Amadis de Gaul. You look as if you had not slept at
all last night, and had been lying upon hard sticks, rods, or clubs,
instead of in a soft, downy bed, such as were given to the rest of us
in the fine château yonder. Tell us, I pray you, did not Morpheus once
visit you all the night through?”

“Morpheus may have remained shut up in his cavern, but Cupid is a
wanderer by night, who does not need a lantern to find the way to those
fortunate individuals he favours with a visit,” Leander replied, hoping
to divert attention from the tell-tale bruises, that he had fancied
were successfully concealed.

“I am only a humble valet, and have had no experience in affairs of
gallantry. I never paid court to a fine lady in my life; but still, I
do know this much, that the mischievous little god, Cupid, according to
all the poets, aims his arrows at the hearts of those he wishes to
wound, instead of using his bow upon their backs.”

“What in the world do you mean?” Leander interrupted quickly, growing
seriously uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh! nothing; only that I see, in spite of all your efforts to hide it
with that handkerchief knotted so carefully round your neck, that you
have there on the back of it a long, black mark, which to-morrow will
be indigo, the day after green, and then yellow, until it fades away
altogether, like any other bruise—a black mark that looks devilishly
like the authentic flourish which accompanies the signature of a good,
stout club on a calf’s skin—or on vellum, if that term pleases you
better.”

“Ah! my good Scapin, you do not understand such matters,” Leander
replied, a scarlet flush mounting to the very roots of his hair, and at
his wits’ ends to know how to silence his tormentor; “doubtless some
dead and gone beauty, who loved me passionately during her lifetime,
has come back and kissed me there while I was sleeping; as is well
known, the contact of the lips of the dead leave strange, dark marks,
like bruises, on human flesh, which the recipient of the mysterious
caress is astonished to find upon awaking.”

“Your defunct beauty visited you and bestowed her mysterious caress
very apropos,” remarked Scapin, incredulously; “but I would be willing
to take my oath that yonder vigorous kiss had been imprinted upon your
lily-white neck by the stinging contact of a stout club.”

“Unmannerly jester and scoffer that you are! is nothing sacred to you?”
broke in Leander, with some show of heat.

“You push my modesty too far. I endeavoured delicately to put off upon
a dead beauty what I should have ascribed to a living one. Ignorant and
unsophisticated though you claim to be, have you never heard of kisses
so ardent that such traces of them are left?—where pearly teeth have
closed upon the soft flesh, and made their mark on the white skin?”

“Memorem dente notam,” interrupted the pedant, charmed to have a chance
to quote Horace.

“This explanation appears to me very judicious,” Scapin said; then,
with a low bow to the pedant, “and is sustained by unquestionable if
incomprehensible authority; but the mark is so long that this nocturnal
beauty of yours, dead or alive, must have had in her lovely mouth that
famous tooth which the three Gorgon sisters owned among them, and
passed about from one to the other.”

This sally was followed by a roar of laughter, and Leander, beside
himself with rage, half rose, to throw himself upon Scopin, and
chastise him then and there for his insufferable impertinence; but he
was so stiff and sore from his own beating, and the pain in his back,
which was striped like a zebra’s, was so excruciating, that he sank
back into his place with a suppressed groan, and concluded to postpone
his revenge to some more convenient season. Hérode and Blazius, who
were accustomed to settle such little disputes, insisted upon their
making up their differences, and a sort of reconciliation took
place-Scapin promising never to allude to the subject again, but
managing to give poor Leander one or two more digs that made him wince
even as he did so.

During this absurd altercation the chariot had been making steady
progress, and soon arrived at an open space where another great
post-road crossed the one they were following, at right angles. A large
wooden crucifix, much the worse for long exposure to the weather, had
been erected upon a grassy mound at the intersection of the two
highways. A group, consisting of two men and three mules, stood at its
foot, apparently awaiting some one’s arrival. As they approached, one
of the mules, as if weary of standing still, impatiently shook its
head, which was gaily decorated with bright, many-coloured tufts and
tassels, and set all the little silver bells about it ringing sharply.
Although a pair of leather blinkers, decked with gay embroidery,
effectually prevented its seeing to the right or to the left, it
evidently was aware of the approach of the chariot before the men’s
senses had given them any intimation of it.

“The Colonelle shakes her ear-trumpets and shows her teeth,” said one
of them; “they cannot be far off now.”

In effect, after a very few minutes the chariot was seen approaching,
and presently rolled into the open space. Zerbine, who sat in front,
glanced composedly at the little group of men and mules standing there,
without betraying any surprise at seeing them.

“By Jove! those are fine beasts yonder,” exclaimed the tyrant,
“splendid Spanish mules, especially that foremost one; they can easily
do their fifteen or twenty leagues a day, I’ll venture, and if we were
mounted on the like we should soon find ourselves in Paris. But what
the devil are they doing in this lonely place? it must be a relay,
waiting for some rich seignior travelling this way.”

“No,” said the duenna, “that foremost mule is intended for a lady—don’t
you see the cushions and housings?”

“In that case,” he replied, “there must be an abduction in the wind;
those two equerries, in gray liveries, certainly have a very
mysterious, knowing sort of an air.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Zerbine, demurely, with a significant
little smile and shrug.

“Can it be possible that the lady is among us?” asked Scapin; “one of
the men is coming this way by himself, as if he desired to parley
before resorting to violence.”

“Oh! there’ll be no need,” said Serafina, casting a scornful glance at
the _soubrette_, who returned it with interest.

“There are bold creatures that go of their own accord, without waiting
to be carried off.”

“And there are others who are NOT carried off, that would like to be,”
retorted the _soubrette_, “but the desire is not sufficient; a few
charms are needed too.”

At this point the equerry who had advanced to meet the chariot made a
sign to them to stop, and, cap in hand, politely asked if Mlle. Zerbine
was among them. The _soubrette_ herself answered this inquiry in the
affirmative, and sprang to the ground as lightly as a bird.

“Mademoiselle, I am at your disposal,” said the equerry to her, in a
respectful and gallant tone. Zerbine shook out her skirts, adjusted her
wraps, and then, turning towards the comedians, delivered this little
harangue: “My dear comrades, I pray you pardon me for quitting you in
this unceremonious manner. There are times when Opportunity offers
itself suddenly for our acceptance, and we must seize it without delay,
or lose it altogether; he would be a fool who let it slip through his
fingers, for once relinquished it returns not again. The face of
Fortune, which until now has always frowned upon me, at last vouchsafes
me a smile, and I am delighted to enjoy its brightness, even though it
may prove to be only fleeting. In my humble role of _soubrette_, I
could not aspire to, or expect to receive, the admiration of rich lords
and gentlemen—that is for my betters; and now that a happy chance has
thrown such an unhoped-for piece of good luck in my way, you will not
blame me, I am confident, for gladly accepting it. Let me take my
belongings then—which are packed in the chariot with the others—and
receive my adieux. I shall be sure to rejoin you some day, sooner or
later, at Paris, for I am a born actress; the theatre was my first
love, and I have never long been faithless to it.”

The two men accordingly, aided by the comedians, took Zerbine’s boxes
out of the chariot, and adjusted them carefully on the pack-mule. The
_soubrette_ made a sweeping curtsey to her friends in the chariot, and
threw a kiss to Isabelle from her finger tips, then, aided by one of
the equerries, sprang to her place behind him, on the back of the
Colonelle, as lightly and gracefully as if she had been taught the art
of mounting in an equestrian academy, nodded a last farewell, and
striking the mule sharply with the high heel of her pretty little shoe,
set off at a round pace.

“Good-bye, and good luck to you, Zerbine,” cried the comedians
heartily, one and all; save only Serafina, who was more furiously angry
with her than ever.

“This is an unfortunate thing for us,” said the tyrant regretfully, “a
serious loss. I wish with all my heart that we could have kept that
capital little actress with us; we shall not easily find any one to
replace her, even in Paris; she is really incomparable in her own
role—but she was not in any way bound to stay with us a moment longer
than she chose. We shall have to substitute a duenna, or a chaperon,
for the _soubrette_ in our pieces for the present; it will be less
pleasing of course, but still Mme. Léonarde here is a host in herself,
and we shall manage to get on very nicely, I dare say.”

The chariot started on its way again as he spoke, at rather a better
pace than the lumbering old ox-cart. They were travelling through a
part of the country now which was a great contrast to the desolate
Landes. To the Baron de Sigognac, who had never been beyond their
desolate expanse before, it was a revelation, and he could not
sufficiently admire the richness and beauty of this region. The
productive, red soil was highly cultivated—not an inch of ground
neglected—comfortable, often handsome, stone houses scattered along
their route at frequent intervals, and surrounded by large, luxuriant
gardens, spoke of a well-to-do population. On each side of the broad,
smooth road was a row of fine trees, whose falling leaves lay piled
upon the ground in yellow heaps, or whirled in the wind before de
Sigognac and Isabelle, as they walked along beneath their spreading
branches, finding the exercise a welcome relief after sitting for a
long time in the chariot in rather a cramped position. One day as they
were walking thus side by side, de Sigognac said to his fair companion,
“I wish you would tell me, Isabelle, how it has happened that you, with
all the characteristics of a lady of lofty lineage in the innate
modesty and dignity of your manners, the refinement and purity of your
language, the incomparable grace of your carriage, the elevation of
your sentiments upon all subjects, to say nothing of the delicate,
aristocratic type of your beauty—should have become a member of a
wandering band of players like this—good, honest people no doubt, but
not of the same rank or race as yourself.”

“Don’t fancy that I am a princess in disguise, or a great lady reduced
to earn my living in this way,” she replied, with an adorable smile,
“merely because of some good qualities you think you have discovered in
me. The history of my life is a very simple, uneventful one, but since
you show such kind interest in me I will gladly relate it to you. So
far from being brought down to the station I occupy by some grievous
catastrophe or romantic combination of adverse circumstances, I was
born to the profession of an actress—the chariot of Thespis was, so to
say, my birthplace. My mother, who was a very beautiful woman and
finished actress, played the part of tragic princess. She did not
confine her role to the theatre, but exacted as much deference and
respect from those around her when off the stage, as she received upon
it, until she came to consider herself a veritable princess. She had
all the majesty and grace of one, and was greatly admired and courted,
but never would suffer any of the gallants, who flutter about pretty
actresses like moths around a candle, to approach her—holding herself
entirely above them, and keeping her good name unsullied through
everything. An account of this unusual conduct on the part of a
beautiful young actress chanced to reach the ears of a certain rich and
powerful prince, who was very much struck and interested by it, and
immediately sought an introduction to my mother. As his actual rank and
position equalled hers of imaginary princess, she received his
attentions with evident pleasure. He was young, handsome, eloquent, and
very much in love with her—what wonder then that she yielded at last to
his impassioned entreaties, and gave herself to him, though, because of
his high station, he could not do as his heart dictated, and make her
his wife. They were very happy in each other’s love, and after I was
born my young father was devoted to me.”

“Ah!” interrupted de Sigognac, eagerly, “that explains it all; princely
blood does flow in your veins. I knew it—was sure of it!”

“Their happiness continued,” resumed Isabelle, “until reasons of state
made it necessary for him to tear himself away from her, to go on a
diplomatic mission to one of the great capitals of Europe; and ere his
return to France an illustrious marriage had been arranged for him by
his family, with the sanction of royalty, which he found it impossible
to evade. In these cruel circumstances he endeavoured to do everything
in his power to soften the pain of this rupture to my poor
mother—himself almost broken-hearted at being forced to leave her—and
made every possible arrangement for her comfort and well-being;
settling a generous income on her, and providing lavishly for my
maintenance and education. But she would accept nothing from him—she
could not receive his money without his love—‘all or nothing’ was her
motto; and taking me with her she fled from him, successfully
concealing her place of refuge. She soon after joined a band of players
travelling through the provinces, and resumed her old role; but her
heart was broken, and she gradually faded away, dying at last when I
was only about seven years old. Even then I used to appear upon the
stage in parts suitable to my age. I was a precocious little thing in
many ways. My mother’s death caused me a grief far more acute than most
children, even a good deal older than I was then, are capable of
feeling. How well I remember being punished because I refused to act
the part of one of Medea’s children, the day after she died. But my
grief was not very long-lived—I was but a child after all, and the
actors and actresses of the troupe were so good to me, always petting
me, and devising all sorts of ways to please and divert me—theatrical
people are proverbially kind to comrades in distress, you know. The
pedant, who belonged to our company, and looked just as old and
wrinkled then as he does now, took the greatest interest in me,
constituted himself my master, and taught me thoroughly and
indefatigably all the secrets of the histrionic art—taking unwearied
pains with me. I could not have had a better teacher; perhaps you do
not know that he has a great reputation, even in Paris. You will wonder
that a man of his fame and attainments should be found in a strolling
company of players like this, but his unfortunate habits of
intemperance have been the cause of all his troubles. He was professor
of elocution in one of the celebrated colleges, holding an enviable and
lucrative position, but lost it because of his inveterate
irregularities. He is his own worst enemy, poor Blazius! In the midst
of all the confusion and serious disadvantages of a vagabond life, I
have always been able to hold myself somewhat apart, and remain pure
and innocent. My companions, who have known me from babyhood, look upon
me as a sister or daughter, and treat me with invariable affection and
respect; and as for the men of the outside world who haunt the
_coulisses_, and seem to think that an actress is public property, off
the stage as well as upon it, I have thus far managed to keep them at a
distance—continuing in real life my role of modest, ingenuous, young
girl, without hypocrisy or false pretensions.”

Thus, as they strolled along together, and could talk confidentially
without fear of listeners, Isabelle related the story of her life to de
Sigognac, who was a most attentive and delighted listener, and ever
more and more charmed with his fair divinity.

“And the name of the prince,” said he, after a short pause, “do you
remember it?”

“I fear that it might be dangerous to my peace to disclose it,” she
replied; “but it is indelibly engraven upon my memory.”

“Are there any proofs remaining to you of his connection with your
mother?”

“I have in my possession a seal-ring bearing his coat of arms” Isabelle
answered; “it is the only jewel of all he had lavished upon her that my
mother kept, and that entirely on account of the associations connected
with it, not for its intrinsic value, which is small. If you would like
to see it I will be very glad to show it to you some day.”

It would be too tedious to follow our travellers step by step on their
long journey, so we will skip over a few days—which passed quietly,
without any incidents worth recording—and rejoin them as they were
drawing near to the ancient town of Poitiers. In the meantime their
receipts had not been large, and hard times had come to the wandering
comedians. The money received from the Marquis de Bruyères had all been
spent, as well as the modest sum in de Sigognac’s purse-who had
contributed all that he possessed to the common fund, in spite of the
protestations of his comrades in distress. The chariot was drawn now by
a single horse-instead of the four with which they had set off so
triumphantly from the Château de Bruyères—and such a horse! a
miserable, old, broken-down hack, whose ribs were so prominent that he
looked as if he lived upon barrel-hoops instead of oats and hay; his
lack-lustre eyes, drooping head, halting gait, and panting breath
combined to make him a most pitiable object, and he plodded on at a
snail’s pace, looking as if he might drop down dead on the road at any
moment. Only the three women were in the chariot—the men all walking,
so as to relieve their poor, jaded beast as much as possible. The
weather was bitterly cold, and they wrapped their cloaks about them and
strode on in silence, absorbed in their own melancholy thoughts.

Poor de Sigognac, well-nigh discouraged, asked himself despondingly
whether it would not have been better for him to have remained in the
dilapidated home of his fathers, even at the risk of starving to death
there in silence and seclusion, than run the risk of such hardships in
company with these Bohemians. His thoughts flew back to his good old
Pierre, to Bayard, Miraut, and Beelzebub, the faithful companions of
his solitude; his heart was heavy within him, and at the sudden
remembrance of his dear old friends and followers his throat contracted
spasmodically, and he almost sobbed aloud; but he looked back at
Isabelle, wrapped in her cloak and sitting serenely in the front of the
chariot, and took fresh courage, feeling glad that he could be near her
in this dark hour, to do all that mortal man, struggling against such
odds, could compass for her comfort and protection. She responded to
his appealing glance with a sweet smile, that quickened his pulses and
sent a thrill of joy through every nerve. She did not seem at all
disheartened or cast down by the greatness of their misery. Her heart
was satisfied and happy; why should she be crushed by mere physical
suffering and discomforts? She was very brave, although apparently so
delicate and fragile, and inspired de Sigognac, who could have fallen
down and worshipped her as he gazed up into her beautiful eyes, with
some of her own undaunted courage.

The great, barren plain they were slowly traversing, with a few dreary
skeletons of misshapen old trees scattered here and there, and not a
dwelling in sight, was not calculated to dissipate the melancholy of
the party. Save one or two aged peasants trudging listlessly along,
bending under the weight of the fagots they carried on their backs,
they had not seen a human being all day long. The spiteful magpies,
that seemed to be the only inhabitants of this dreary waste, danced
about in front of them, chattering and almost laughing at them, as if
rejoicing in and making fun of their miseries. A searching north wind,
that penetrated to the very marrow in their bones, was blowing, and the
few white flakes that flew before it now and then were the
_avant-couriers_ of the steady fall of snow that began as nightfall
approached.

“It would appear,” said the pedant, who was walking behind the chariot
trying to find shelter from the icy wind, “that the celestial housewife
up above has been plucking her geese, and is shaking the feathers out
of her apron down upon us. She might a great deal better send us the
geese themselves. I for one would be glad enough to eat 114 them,
without being very particular as to whether they were done to a turn,
and without sauce or seasoning either.”

“Yes, so would I, even without salt,” added the tyrant, “for my stomach
is empty. I could welcome now an omelette such as they gave us this
morning, and swallow it without winking, though the eggs were so far
gone that the little chicks were almost ready to peep.”

By this time de Sigognac also had taken refuge behind the
chariot—Isabelle having been driven from her seat in front to a place
in the interior by the increasing violence of the storm-and Blazius
said to him, “This is a trying time, my lord, and I regret very much
that you should have to share our bad fortune; but I trust it will be
only of brief duration, and although we do get on but slowly, still
every step brings us nearer to Paris.”

“I was not brought up in the lap of luxury,” de Sigognac answered, “and
I am not a man to be frightened by a few snowflakes and a biting wind;
but it is for these poor, suffering women that I am troubled; they are
exposed to such severe hardships—cold, privations, fatigue—and we
cannot adequately shelter and protect them, do what we will.”

“But you must remember that they are accustomed to roughing it, my dear
baron, and what would be simply unendurable to many of their sex, who
have never been subjected to such tests, they meet bravely, and make
light of, in a really remarkable manner.”

The storm grew worse and worse; the snow, driven with great force by
the wind, penetrated into the chariot where Isabelle, Serafina, and
Mme. Léonarde had taken refuge among the luggage, in spite of all that
could be done to keep it out, and had soon covered their wraps with a
coating of white. The poor horse was scarcely able to make any headway
at all against the wind and snow; his feet slipped at every step, and
he panted painfully. Hérode went to his head, and took hold of the
bridle with his strong hand to lead him and try to help him along,
while the pedant, de Sigognac, and Scapin put their shoulders to the
wheels at every inequality in the road and whenever he paused or
stumbled badly, and Leander cracked the whip loudly to encourage the
poor beast; it would have been downright cruelty to strike him. As to
Matamore, he had lingered behind, and they were expecting every moment
to see his tall, spare figure emerge from the gloom with rapid strides
and rejoin them. Finally the storm became so violent that it was
impossible to face it any longer; and though it was so important that
they should reach the next village before the daylight was all gone,
they were forced to halt, and turn the chariot, with its back to the
wind. The poor old horse, utterly exhausted by this last effort,
slipped and fell, and without making any attempt to rise lay panting on
the ground. Our unhappy travellers found themselves in a sad
predicament indeed—wet, cold, tired and hungry, all in the superlative
degree—blinded by the driving snow, and lost, without any means of
getting on save their own powers of locomotion, in the midst of a great
desert—for the white covering which now lay upon everything had
obliterated almost all traces of the road; they did not know which way
to turn, or what to do. For the moment they all took refuge in the
chariot, until the greatest violence of the tempest should be over,
huddled close together for warmth, and striving not to lose heart
entirely. Presently the wind quieted down all of a sudden, as if it had
expended its fury and wanted to rest; but the snow continued to fall
industriously, though noiselessly, and as far as the eye could reach
through the gathering darkness the surface of the earth was white, as
if it had been wrapped in a winding sheet.

“What in the world has become of Matamore?” cried Blazius suddenly;
“has the wind carried him off to the moon I wonder?”

“Yes; where can he be?” said the tyrant, in an anxious tone; “I can’t
see him anywhere—I thought he was among us; perhaps he is lying asleep
among the stage properties at the back of the chariot; I have known him
curl himself down there for a nap before now. Holloa! Matamore! where
are you? wake up and answer us!” But no Matamore responded, and there
was no movement under the great heap of scenery, and decorations of all
sorts, stowed away there.

“Holloa! Matamore!” roared Hérode again, in his loudest tones, which
might have waked the seven sleepers in their cavern, and roused their
dog too.

“We have not seen him here in the chariot at all today,” said one of
the actresses; “we thought he was walking with the others.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Blazius, “this is very strange. I hope no
accident has happened to the poor fellow.”

“Undoubtedly he has taken shelter in the worst of the storm on the lee
side of the trunk of a tree somewhere,” said de Sigognac, “and will
soon come up with us.”

After a short discussion, it was decided to wait where they were a few
minutes longer, and then if he did not make his appearance go in search
of him. They anxiously watched the way by which they had come, but no
human form appeared on the great expanse of white, and the darkness was
falling rapidly upon the earth, as it does after the short days of
December. The distant howling of a dog now came to their ears, to add
to the lugubrious effect of their surroundings, but they were all so
troubled at the strange absence of their comrade that their own
individual miseries were for the moment forgotten. The doleful howling,
so far away at first, gradually became louder, until at last a large,
black dog came in sight, and sitting down upon the snow, still a long
distance from them, raised his head so that his muzzle pointed upward
to the sky and howled, as if in the greatest distress.

“I’m afraid something terrible has happened to our poor Matamore,”
cried the tyrant, and his voice trembled a little; “that dog howls as
if for a death.”

At this speech the two young women turned even paler than they had been
before, if that were possible, and made the sign of the cross devoutly,
while Isabelle murmured a prayer.

“We must go in search of him without a moment’s delay,” said Blazius,
“and take the lantern with us; it will as a guiding star to him if he
has wandered off from the road, as is very probable, with everything
covered with snow like this.”

They accordingly lighted their horn lantern, and set off with all
possible speed—the tyrant, Blazius, and de Sigognac—whilst Scapin and
Leander remained with the three women in the chariot. The dog,
meantime, kept up his dismal howling without a moment’s intermission as
the three men hastened towards him. The darkness and the newfallen
snow, which had completely obliterated all traces of footsteps, made
the task of looking for the missing actor a very difficult one, and
after walking nearly a mile without seeing a sign of him, they began to
fear that their search would prove fruitless. They kept calling,
“Matamore! Matamore!” but there was no reply, nothing to be heard but
the howling of the large black dog, at intervals now, or the scream of
an owl, disturbed by the light of the lantern. At last de Sigognac,
with his penetrating vision, thought he could make out a recumbent
figure at the foot of a tree, a little way off from the road, and they
all pressed forward to the spot he indicated.

It was indeed poor Matamore, sitting on the ground, with his back
against the tree, and his long legs, stretched out in front of him,
quite buried under the snow; he did not stir at the approach of his
comrades, or answer their joyful shout of recognition, and when
Blazius, alarmed at this strange apathy, hastened forward and threw the
light of the lantern upon his face, he had nearly let it fall from
fright at what it revealed. Poor Matamore was dead, stiff and stark,
with wide-open, sunken eyes staring out vaguely into the darkness, and
his ghastly face wearing that pinched, indescribable expression which
the mortal puts on when the spirit that dwelt within has fled. The
three who had found him thus were inexpressibly shocked, and stood for
a moment speechless and motionless, in the presence of death. The
tyrant was the first to recover himself, and hoping that some sign of
life might yet remain he stooped and took the cold hand into his, and
essayed to find a pulse at the wrist—in vain! it was still and icy.
Unwilling yet to admit that the vital spark was extinct, he asked
Blazius for his gourd, which he always carried with him, and
endeavoured to pour a few drops of wine into his mouth—in vain! the
teeth were tightly locked together, and the wine trickled from between
his pale lips, and dropped slowly down upon his breast.

“Leave him in peace! do not disturb these poor remains!” said de
Sigognac in trembling tones; “don’t you see that he is dead?” “Alas!
you are right,” Blazius added, “he is dead; dead as Cheops in the great
pyramid. Poor fellow! he must have been confused by the blinding snow,
and unable to make his way against that terrible wind, turned aside and
sat down under this tree, to wait until its violence should be spent;
but he had not flesh enough on his bones to keep them warm, and must
have been quickly frozen through and through. He has starved himself
more than ever lately, in hopes of producing a sensation at Paris, and
he was thinner than any greyhound before. Poor Matamore! thou art out
of the way of all trouble now; no more blows, and kicks, and curses for
thee, my friend, whether on or off the stage, and thou wilt be laughed
at no more forever.”

“What shall we do about his body?” interrupted the more practical
tyrant. “We cannot leave it here for dogs, and wolves, and birds of
prey to devour—though indeed I almost doubt whether they would touch
it, there is so little flesh upon his bones.”

“No, certainly, we cannot leave him here,” Blazius replied; “he was a
good and loyal comrade; he deserves better of us than that; we will not
abandon him, poor Matamore! He is not heavy; you take his head and I
will take his feet, and we will carry him to the chariot. To-morrow
morning we will bury him as decently as we can in some quiet, retired
spot, where he will not be likely to be disturbed. Unfortunately we
cannot do better for him than that, for we, poor actors, are excluded
by our hard-hearted and very unjust step-mother, the church, from her
cemeteries; she denies us the security and comfort of being laid to
rest for our last long sleep in consecrated ground. After having
devoted our lives to the amusement of the human race—the highest as
well as the more lowly among them, and faithful sons and daughters of
holy church too—we must be thrown into the next ditch when the end
comes, like dead dogs and horses. Now, Hérode, are you ready? and will
you, my lord, lead the way with the lantern?”

The mournful little procession moved slowly forward; the howling dog
was quiet at last, as if his duty was done, and a deathlike stillness
prevailed around them. It was well that there were no passers-by at
that hour; it would have been a strange sight, almost a frightful one,
for any such, for they might well have supposed that a hideous crime
had been committed; the two men bearing the dead body away at night,
lighted by the third with his lantern, which threw their shadows, long,
black and misshapen, upon the startling whiteness of the snow, as they
advanced with measured tread. Those who had remained with the chariot
saw from afar the glimmer of de Sigognac’s lantern, and wondered why
they walked so slowly, not perceiving at that distance their sad
burden. Scapin and Leander hastened forward to meet them, and as soon
as they got near enough to see them distinctly the former shouted to
them—“Well, what is the matter? why are you carrying Matamore like
that? is he ill, or has he hurt himself?”

“He is not ill,” answered Blazius, quietly, as they met, “and nothing
can ever hurt him again—he is cured forever of the strange malady we
call life, which always ends in death.”

“Is he really dead?” Scapin asked, with a sob he did not even try to
suppress, as he bent to look at the face of the poor comic actor, for
he had a tender heart under his rough exterior, and had cherished a
very sincere affection for poor Matamore.

“Very dead indeed, for he is frozen as well,” Blazius replied, in a
voice that belied the levity of his words.

“He has lived! as they always say at the end of a tragedy,” said
Hérode; “but relieve us, please, it is your turn now; we have carried
the poor fellow a long way, and it is well for us that he is no
heavier.”

Scapin took Hérode’s place, reverently and tenderly, while Leander
relieved the pedant—though this office was little to his taste—and they
resumed their march, soon reaching the chariot. In spite of the cold
and snow, Isabelle and Serafina sprang to the ground to meet them, but
the duenna did not leave her seat—with age had come apathy, and
selfishness had never been wanting. When they saw poor Matamore stiff
and motionless, and were told that he was dead, the two young women
were greatly shocked and moved, and Isabelle, bursting into tears,
raised her pure eyes to heaven and breathed a fervent prayer for the
departed soul.

And now came the question, what was to be done? The village for which
they were bound was still a league away; but they could not stay where
they were all night, and they decided to go on, even if they had to
abandon the chariot and walk—anything would be better than freezing to
death like poor Matamore. But after all, things were not at such a
desperate pass as they supposed; the long rest, and a good feed of oats
that Scapin had been thoughtful enough to give their tired horse, had
so revived the poor old beast that he seemed to be ready and willing to
go forward again—so their most serious difficulty was removed.
Matamore’s body was laid in the chariot, and carefully covered with a
large piece of white linen they fortunately happened to have among
their heterogeneous belongings, the women resumed their seats, not
without a slight shudder as they thought of their ghastly companion,
and the men walked—Scapin going in front with the lantern, and Hérode
leading the horse. They could not make very rapid progress, but at the
end of two hours perceived—oh, welcome sight!—the first straggling
houses of the village where they were to spend the night. At the noise
of the approaching vehicle the dogs began to bark furiously, and more
than one nightcapped head appeared at the windows as they passed along
through the deserted street—so the pedant was able to ask the way to
the inn, which proved to be at the other end of the hamlet—and the
worn-out old horse had to make one more effort; but he seemed to feel
that the stable, where he should find shelter, rest and food, was
before him, and pushed on with astonishing alacrity.

They found it at last—the inn—with its bunch of holly for a sign. It
looked a forlorn place, for travellers did not usually stop over night
in this small, unimportant village; but the comedians were not in a
mood to be fastidious, and would have been thankful for even a more
unpromising house of entertainment than this one. It was all shut up
for the night, with not a sign of life to be seen, so the tyrant
applied himself diligently to pounding on the door with his big fists,
until the sound of footsteps within, descending the stairs, showed that
he had succeeded in rousing somebody. A ray of light shone through the
cracks in the rickety old door, then it was cautiously opened just a
little, and an aged, withered crone, striving to protect the flame of
her flaring candle from the wind with one skinny hand, and to hold the
rags of her most extraordinary undress together with the other, peered
out at them curiously. She was evidently just as she had turned out of
her bed, and a more revolting, witch-like old hag it would be hard to
find; but she bade the belated travellers enter, with a horrible
grimace that was intended for a smile, throwing the door wide open, and
telling them they were welcome to her house as she led the way into the
kitchen. She kindled the smouldering embers on the hearth into a blaze,
threw on some fresh wood, and then withdrew to mount to her chamber and
make herself a little more presentable—having first roused a stout
peasant lad, who served as hostler, and sent him to take the chariot
into the court, where he was heard directly unharnessing the weary
horse and leading him into the stable.

“We cannot leave poor Matamore’s body in the chariot all night, like a
dead deer brought home from the chase,” said Blazius; “the dogs out
there in the court might find it out. Besides, he had been baptized,
and his remains ought to be watched with and cared for, like any other
good Christian’s.”

So they brought in the sad burden tenderly, laid it on the long table,
and covered it again carefully with the white linen cloth. When the old
woman returned, and saw this strange and terrible sight, she was
frightened almost to death, and, throwing herself on her knees, began
begging volubly for mercy—evidently taking the troupe of comedians for
a band of assassins, and the dead man for their unfortunate victim. It
was with the greatest difficulty that Isabelle finally succeeded in
calming and reassuring the poor, distracted, old creature, who was
beside herself with terror, and made her listen to the story of poor
Matamore’s death. When, at last, she fully understood the true state of
the case, she went and fetched more candles, which she lighted and
disposed symmetrically about the dead body, and kindly offered to sit
up and watch it with Mme. Léonarde—also to do all that was necessary
and usual for it—adding that she was always sent for in the village
when there was a death, to perform those last, sad offices. All this
being satisfactorily arranged—whereat they were greatly relieved—the
weary travellers were conducted into another room, and food was placed
before them; but the sad scenes just enacted had taken away their
appetites, though it was many long hours since they had eaten. And be
it here recorded that Blazius, for the first time in his life, forgot
to drink his wine, though it was excellent, and left his glass half
full. He could not have given a more convincing proof of the depth and
sincerity of his grief.

Isabelle and Serafina spent the night in an adjoining chamber, sharing
the one small bed it contained, and the men lay down upon bundles of
straw that the stable-boy brought in for them. None of them slept
much—being haunted by disturbing dreams inspired by the sad and trying
events of the previous day—and all were up and stirring at an early
hour, for poor Matamore’s burial was to be attended to. For want of
something more appropriate the aged hostess and Mme. Léonarde had
enveloped the body in an old piece of thick canvass—still bearing
traces of the foliage and garlands of flowers originally painted in
bright colours upon it—in which they had sewed it securely, so that it
looked not unlike an Egyptian mummy. A board resting on two cross
pieces of wood served as a bier, and, the body being placed upon it,
was carried by Hérode, Blazius, Scapin and Leander. A large, black
velvet cloak, adorned with spangles, which was used upon the stage by
sovereign pontiffs or venerable necromancers, did duty as a pall—not
inappropriately surely. The little cortege left the inn by a small door
in the rear that opened upon a deserted common, so as to avoid passing
through the street and rousing the curiosity of the villagers, and set
off towards a retired spot, indicated by the friendly old woman, where
no one would be likely to witness or interfere with their proceedings.
The early morning was gray and cold, the sky leaden—no one had ventured
abroad yet save a few peasants searching for dead wood and sticks, who
looked with suspicious eyes upon the strange little procession making
its way slowly through the untrodden snow, but did not attempt to
approach or molest it. They reached at last the lonely spot where they
were to leave the mortal remains of poor Matamore, and the stable-boy,
who had accompanied them carrying a spade, set to work to dig the
grave. Several carcasses of animals lay scattered about close at hand,
partly hidden by the snow—among them two or three skeletons of horses,
picked clean by birds of prey; their long heads, at the end of the
slender vertebral columns, peering out horribly at them, and their
ribs, like the sticks of an open fan stripped of its covering,
appearing above the smooth white surface, bearing each one its little
load of snow. The comedians observed these ghastly surroundings with a
shudder, as they laid their burden gently down upon the ground, and
gathered round the grave which the boy was industriously digging. He
made but slow progress, however, and the tyrant, taking the spade from
him, went to work with a will, and had soon finished the sad task. Just
at the last a volley of stones suddenly startled the little group, who,
intent upon the mournful business in hand, had not noticed the stealthy
approach of a considerable number of peasants.

These last had been hastily summoned by their friends who had first
perceived the mysterious little funeral procession, without priest,
crucifix, or lighted tapers, and taken it for granted that there must
be something uncanny about it.

They were about to follow up the shower of stones by a charge upon the
group assembled round the open grave, when de Sigognac, outraged at