Théophile Gautier

Captain Fracasse (Le Capitaine Fracasse)

Part IV: Chapters XVI-XXII

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Chapter XVI: Vallombreuse.
Chapter XVII: The Amethyst Ring.
Chapter XVIII: En Famille.
Chapter XIX: Nettles and Spiders’ Webs.
Chapter XX: Chiquita’s Declaration of Love.
Chapter XXI: Hymenaios, O Hymenaios!
Chapter XXII: Epilogue – The Castle of Happiness.

Chapter XVI: Vallombreuse

Isabella, left alone in that unfamiliar room whence danger might arise at any moment in mysterious form, felt her heart oppressed by an inexpressible anguish, even though her wandering life had given her more courage than was common. Yet there was nothing sinister about the place, with its old yet well-maintained luxury. The flames danced cheerfully about the enormous logs in the hearth; the candles shed a bright light which, penetrating to the smallest corners, chased away her fearful imaginings along with the shadows. A gentle warmth reigned within, and everything invited a comfortable feeling of well-being. The paintings in the panels were too well-lit to take on any stranger an aspect, and the portrait in its ornamental frame above the fireplace, which Isabella had first noticed, lacked that fixed gaze, seen on the faces in certain pictures, which seems to follow one so frighteningly. Rather, the figure seemed to smile with a quiet, protective kindness, like the image of a saint one might invoke in times of danger. All this collection of tranquil, reassuring, and hospitable things failed to calm Isabella’s nerves, still quivering like the strings of a guitar that have just been plucked; her glance wandered, anxiously and furtively, about her, since she wished to look but feared to look, while her over-agitated senses tried to interpret, amidst the profound stillness of the night, those imperceptible noises which are the voice of silence, and which terrified her. Lord knows what formidable meanings she attributed to them! Soon her uneasiness became so great that she resolved to quit the room, despite it being so well-lit, warm, and comfortable, and venture into the corridors of the château, at the risk of some dubious encounter, in search of some obscure exit, or a place of refuge. After checking that the doors of her room were not locked, she took, from the side-table, the lamp that the footman had left there for the night and, sheltering it with her hand, set out.

First of all, she located the staircase, with its intricate ironwork banisters, which she had climbed, escorted by the servant; she descended, thinking, rightly, that no exit favourable to her escape existed on the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, in the vestibule, she perceived a large double door, one knob of which she turned. That side of the door opened before her, with a creaking of wood and a grinding of hinges, the noise of which seemed to her equal to that of thunder, though it was scarcely audible three paces away. The dim light of the lamp, whose wick gave off a crackling sound in the damp air of this apartment long-sealed, revealed, or rather offered the young actress, a glimpse of, a vast room, in no way dilapidated, but possessing the deadened feel of a place no longer used; large oak benches leaned against the walls covered with figured tapestries; trophies, formed of coats of arms, gauntlets, swords, and shields, lit by the sudden gleams of candlelight, hung there. A heavy table, on massive legs, with which the young woman almost collided, occupied the centre of the room; she circumnavigated it, but imagine her terror when, on approaching the door which faced the entrance and gave access to a further room, she encountered two figures armed from head to toe, motionless as sentinels, placed on each side of the doorway, their gauntlets crossed on the hilts of large swords whose points had been driven into the floor: the grilles of their helmets represented the faces of hideous birds, the holes simulated their eyes, and the nosepieces their beaks; on the crests, iron plates chiselled to represent feathers bristled like roused and palpitating wings; the lower part of the breastplate, gleaming luminously, bulged in a strange manner, as if swollen by full lungs beneath; from each knee and elbow pad protruded a point of steel curved like an eagle’s claw, and the ends of each sabaton (steel shoe) also extended in a claw. In the flickering light of the lamp, which trembled in Isabella’s hand, these two iron phantoms took on a truly frightening appearance, well-calculated to alarm the most courageous. Also, poor Isabella’s heart was beating so hard that she could hear it throb, and feel the tremors in her throat. One may well believe she regretted having left the room on this adventurous nocturnal expedition. However, as the warriors were motionless, though her presence was obvious, nor made any attempt to brandish their swords to block her path, she approached one of them, and held the lamp beneath its nose. The man-at-arms was not at all troubled and, completely insensible, maintained his pose. Isabella, emboldened, and suspecting the truth, raised the visor which, once open, revealed only a void full of shadow, like a helm on a coat of arms. The two sentries were simply suits of curiously-wrought German armour, arranged on mannequin bodies. But the illusion was indeed credible for a poor captive wandering at night in a solitary castle, so much do these metallic shells like militaristic statues, modelled on the human body, recall its form even when empty, and render it more formidable with their rigid projections, and articulated joints. Isabella, despite her situation, could not help but smile on recognising her error, and like the heroes of chivalric romances, when, by means of a talisman, they have broken the spell that binds an enchanted palace, she bravely entered the second room, no longer concerned by the twin guards thus reduced to impotence.

The chamber was a vast dining room, as evidenced by tall carved-oak dressers on which valuable objects shone dimly: ewers, salt-cellars, spice-boxes, goblets, vases with swollen bellies, great silver or silver-gilt platters resembling shields or chariot wheels, and Bohemian and Venetian glassware, in slender and capricious forms, which, caught by the light, displayed gleams of green, red, and blue. Square-backed chairs arranged around the table seemed to be awaiting guests who never arrived, or, at night, might seat a host of shadowy diners. Cordovan leather, embossed with gold and patterned with flowers, stretched over the oak panelling that covered the walls to half-height, lit up here and there with tawny reflections as the lamp passed over them, adding to the darkness a warm, sombre richness. Isabella, glanced at this aged magnificence and hastened to cross the room to a third door.

The room she now entered, which seemed to be the main salon, was larger than the others, already spacious. The light of the lamp failed to illuminate its depths, and its feeble rays were lost a few steps in front of Isabella, the yellowish threads shining like sunlight in fog. Despite its paleness, the light pierced the shadows sufficiently to render the darkness frightening, and highlight contorted figures, vague sketches of things whose forms fear and imagination completed. Ghosts draped themselves in curtain-folds; the armchairs seemed to seat spectres, and monstrous shapes crouched in the darkest corners, hideously curled upon themselves, or clinging there by bat-like claws.

Quelling these imaginary terrors, Isabella continued on her way, and saw at the rear of the room a lordly canopy topped with feathers, decorated with coats of arms, whose blazons it would have been difficult to decipher, and surmounting a throne-like armchair placed on a platform covered with carpeting, which was reached by three steps.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - Quelling these imaginary terrors, Isabella continued on her way…

‘Quelling these imaginary terrors, Isabella continued on her way…’

All this, bathed, confused, drowned in shadow, betrayed only by a few reflections, took on a fierce, colossal and mysterious grandeur. The chair seemed as if presiding over a gathering of spirits, and it would not have required a great effort of the imagination to see a dark angel with long black wings seated therein.

Isabella quickened her pace, and, despite her lightness, the creaking of her shoes seemed dreadfully loud amidst the silence. The fourth room was a bedroom partly occupied by an enormous bed whose curtains, made of dark-red Indian damask, fell heavily from the frame. At its side, the silver crucifix above an ebony prie-dieu shimmered. A curtained bed, even in daylight, is somehow disturbing. One wonders what lies behind those drawn hangings; but at night, in an abandoned room, a closely-draped one is frightening indeed. It may hide a sleeper, a corpse, even a living being lying in wait. Isabella thought she heard behind the curtains the deep, intermittent, rhythmic breathing of a sleeping person; was it illusion or reality? Eager to make sure, she dared to push aside the folds of red fabric and allowed the beam of her lamp to fall on the empty bed.

A library followed the bedroom. In cupboards surmounted by the busts of poets, philosophers, and historians, who observed Isabella with large blank eyes, were shelved numerous volumes, in some disorder, their spines labelled with numbers and titles, the gilding of which was illuminated by the passage of her lamp. At this point, she reached a corner of the building and emerged into a long gallery occupying a different facade of the courtyard. Here, family portraits followed one another in chronological order. A row of windows faced the wall on which these paintings hung in frames of reddened old-gold. Shutters, each pierced at the top with an oval hole, covered these windows, and the arrangement produced at that moment a singular effect. The moon had risen, and its rays pierced these holes painting its light on the opposite wall; sometimes the bluish patch illuminated the face of a portrait and adorned it with a pallid mask. Beneath the magical glow, the painting then took on an alarming life, all the more so because, the body remaining in shadow, the head with its silvery pallor seemed to spring from its frame, as if carved in solid relief, to watch Isabella pass by. Others, which only the lamplight reached, maintained, beneath the yellowed varnish, their solemn, and dead attitude, yet it seemed that, through their dark eyes, the ancestral souls looked out on the world, as if through openings formed expressly for that purpose, and they were not the least sinister effigies in the collection.

It was for Isabella, courageous as she was, as brave an action to traverse this gallery, lined with threatening figures, as for a soldier to march in step before a firing squad. A cold sweat soaked her chemise between her shoulders as, anguished, she felt that these phantoms in breastplates and doublets adorned with orders of chivalry, and these dowagers with high ruffs and outsized farthingales, were descending from their frames behind her, and following, funereally, in procession. She even thought she could hear vague footsteps brushing, almost imperceptibly, the parquet floor at her heels. Finally, she reached the end of the long corridor and came to a glass door which opened onto the courtyard; she opened it, not without bruising her fingers on the old rusty key which turned with difficulty in the lock, and after having taken care to hide her lamp, so as to find it if and when she retraced her steps, she left the gallery, that place of terror and nocturnal phantoms.

At the sight of the open sky, in which a few stars, not quite eclipsed by the white light of the moon, glittered with a silvery scintillation, Isabella felt profound and delicious joy, as if she were returning from death to life; it seemed to her that God now looked down on her from his firmament, whereas he might well have forgotten her when she was lost in the intense darkness, under those obscure ceilings, amidst that maze of rooms and corridors. Though her situation was in no way improved, an immense weight had lifted from her breast. She continued her explorations, but the courtyard was enclosed on all sides like the inner court of a fortress, with the exception of a postern, or brick arch, doubtless opening onto the moat, for Isabella, leaning cautiously over it, felt a cool dampness, like that above deep water, rise to her face with a gust of air, and she heard the faint murmur of waves lapping at the base of the moat’s wall. It was probable that the castle’s kitchens were supplied from this moat; but to reach the far side, a boat would be needed, housed no doubt at the foot of the rampart, in some shed beyond Isabella’s reach.

Escape was therefore as impossible on this side as on the others. This explained her relative freedom. Her cage was open, but only like those of exotic birds transported by sea, which, as we know, are obliged to return to perch on the mast after a brief excursion, since the nearest land is still so far away that their wings would cease to bear them before they could reach it. The moat round the castle acted the role of the ocean round a ship.

In a corner of the courtyard, a reddish glow filtered through the shutters of a ground-floor room, and, amidst the nocturnal silence, a vague murmur emanated from its shadowy angle. Isabella moved towards the light and the associated sounds, stirred by a feeling of curiosity readily comprehended; she applied her eye to these shutters, less hermetically sealed than the rest, and was easily able to see what was happening inside the room.

Around a table lit by a three-pronged lamp, which was suspended from the ceiling by a copper chain, a group of rogues of fierce and truculent mien were banqueting, among whom Isabella, though she had only seen them masked, easily recognised the men who had participated in her abduction. They were Piedgris, Tordgueule, La Râpée and Bringuenarilles, whose forms suited their charming names. The light falling from above made their foreheads shine, plunged their eyes into shadow, outlined the bridges of their noses, and clung to their extravagant moustaches, so as to exaggerate still further the savagery of those heads which scarcely needed to be illuminated to appear frightening. A little further away, at the end of the table, was seated, like some provincial brigand who could not compete with Parisian swordsmen, Agostin, free of the wig and false beard which had served him well when playing the part of the blind man. In the place of honour sat Malartic, unanimously elected king of the feast. His face was even paler and his nose redder than usual; a phenomenon which could be explained by the number of empty bottles arranged on the sideboard, like corpses borne from battle, and by the number of full bottles which the sommelier placed in front of him with tireless agility.

Isabella could only make out a few words, amidst the confused conversation of the drinkers, the meaning of which most often escaped her; since they were terms employed in the gambling dens, taverns, and fencing halls, sometimes even hideous slang terms borrowed from the dictionary of the Court of Miracles (the slum district in Paris populated by beggars whose ailments miraculously vanished when not begging) where the languages of Egypt and Bohemia are spoken. She found nothing in these fellows’ speeches that enlightened her as to her fate, and somewhat overcome by the cold, she was about to withdraw when Malartic, to obtain silence, struck the table a frightful blow, that made the bottles reel as if they too were inebriated, and the glasses clink together with a crystalline ringing yielding the notes do, mi, so, ti. The topers, drunk though they were, jumped half a foot in the air on their benches, and their faces turned, instantly, towards Malartic.

Taking advantage of this respite from the noise, Malartic rose, and lifting his glass, the wine glowing in the light like the gem set in a ring, said: ‘Friends, listen to this song I’ve composed, for I employ the lyre as well as the sword; tis a Bacchic song as befits a true drunkard. Fish, that drink water, are mute; if they drank wine, they would sing. So, let us show that we are human with a melody to accompany our drinking session.’

— ‘The song! The song!’ cried Bringuenarilles, la Râpée, Tordgueule and Piedgris, unable to comprehend such subtle dialectic.

Malartic cleared his throat, with a vigorous ‘Hem!’ or two, and, with all the manners of a singer summoned to the king’s chamber, he intoned, in a voice which, though a little hoarse, was not lacking in pitch, the following verses:

‘To Bacchus, that drunkard divine,

All shout “Drink!” and sing, as one:

“Long live the pure juice of the wine,

Trampled from the fruit of the vine!

And long live the ruby liquor won!”

Priests of the vine and grape are we,

The hue of the vintage, now, we bear.

The bottle holds the crimson we see,

With which the grape dyes you and me,

And pricks our noses, here and there.

Shame on him who sips clear water

Instead of downing the purest wine,

Let him bow down to jug and pitcher!

Or be changed to a frog forever,

And splash in the mud, no friend of mine!’

The song was greeted with cries of joy, and Tordgueule, who prided himself on poetry, did not hesitate to proclaim Malartic the emulator of Saint-Amant (Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant, 1594-1661, noted for his Bacchanalian songs) an opinion which proved the degree to which drunkenness had swayed his judgement. A glass of red, full to the brim, was raised by each in honour of the singer, and as the glasses were emptied, they each poured out the last drop onto a fingernail, conscientiously, to show they had done so. This round finished off the weakest of the band; La Râpée slid under the table, where he acted as a mattress for Bringuenarilles, Piedgris and Tordgueule, who being more robust, merely let their heads fall forward, and fell asleep with their crossed arms for pillows. As for Malartic, he sat upright in his chair, cup in hand, eyes wide open and nose glowing so bright a red that it seemed to be shedding sparks like iron from the forge; he repeated, mechanically with the solemn stupor of contained drunkenness, and without anyone joining him in the chorus:

‘To Bacchus, that drunkard divine,

All shout “Drink!” and sing, as one.’

Disgusted by this spectacle, Isabella took her eye from the gap in the shutters, and continued her investigations, which soon found her beneath the vault in which hung the chains and counterweights of the castle’s raised drawbridge. There was no hope of setting the heavy mechanism in motion, and, as it was necessary to lower the bridge to leave, the courtyard having no other exit, the captive had to abandon all plans of escape. She returned to collect her lamp from where she had left it, by the door to the portrait gallery, which she traversed this time with less terror, since she now knew its cause, fear being increased by the unknown. She crossed the library, swiftly, the hall of honour, and all the rooms she had explored with anxious caution. It seemed laughable to her to have been so frightened by the suits of armour, and she climbed the stairs she had descended with a deliberate step, holding her breath, and on tiptoe, for fear of awakening the slightest echo from the silent walls.

But what was her terror when, at the threshold of her room, she perceived a figure seated by the corner of the hearth! It was certainly no ghost, since the light of the candles, and the rays from the fire illuminated it in a way too clearly for her to be mistaken; it was a slender and delicate figure, indeed, but very much alive, as attested by two large black eyes of a wild brilliance, lacking the dull gaze of a spectre, which fixed themselves on Isabella framed in the doorway, with a compelling calmness. Long brown hair, swept back, allowed one to see in all its details an olive-coloured face, with finely sculpted features, and a youthful and lively leanness, the half-open mouth revealing a set of teeth of dazzling whiteness. The hands, tanned by the open air, but charmingly formed, crossed over the chest, showed nails paler than the fingers. The figure’s bare feet did not reach the ground, the legs being too short to reach the parquet floor from the armchair’s seat. Through a gap in the coarse linen shirt, beads of a pearl necklace shone vaguely.

From this last detail, Chiquita was immediately identifiable. It was she, in fact, dressed not as a girl but as a boy still, having adopted that disguise to play the deceitful role of the blind man’s guide. This outfit, composed of a chemise and wide breeches, did not become her badly; for she was at that age when the person’s gender is not always obvious.

Recognising the strange creature, Isabella at once recovered from the emotion this unexpected apparition had caused her. Chiquita was not in herself very formidable, and besides, she seemed to profess, towards the young actress, a sort of confused and unmerited gratitude, which she had displayed in her own way in their last encounter.

Chiquita, while gazing at Isabella, murmured in a low voice the prose-song she had hummed in a wild tone, as she passed through the bull’s-eye window, during that first attempted kidnapping at Les Armes de France: ‘Chiquita climbs through the holes in the wall, dances on the edge of the bars…’

— ‘Do you still have the knife,’ said this strange creature to Isabella as she approached the fireplace, ‘the knife with three red stripes?’

— ‘Yes, Chiquita,’ replied the young woman, ‘I keep it here, between my blouse and my bodice. But why the question? Is my life in danger?’

— ‘A knife,’ said the little girl, whose eyes shone with a fierce light, ‘a knife is a faithful friend; it does not betray its owner, if its owner allows it to drink; for knives are thirsty.’

— ‘You frighten me, you wicked child.’ replied Isabella, troubled by those extravagantly sinister words, which, given the position in which she found herself, might contain a useful warning.

— ‘Sharpen the point on the marble fireplace,’ continued Chiquita, ‘and strop the blade on your leather shoe.’

— ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ said the actress, looking very pale.

— ‘No reason; but whoever wishes to defend themselves should ready their weapons, that’s all.’

These strange and fierce phrases worried Isabella, and yet, on the other hand, Chiquita’s presence in her room reassured her. The little girl seemed to bear her a sort of affection which, though based on an idle whim of her own, was nonetheless real. ‘I will never kill you!’ Chiquita had said; and, in her savage mind, it was a solemn promise, a pact of alliance which she would not fail to keep. Isabella was the only human being who, after Agostin, had shown her sympathy. She had received from her the first jewel by which her childish coquetry had been pleased, and, still too young to be jealous, she naively admired the beauty of the young actress. That sweet face exercised a seduction over her, who until then had seen only haggard and ferocious expressions harbouring thoughts of rebellion, plunder or murder.

— ‘How is it that you’re here?’ Isabella asked Chiquita after a moment of silence. ‘Are you tasked with guarding me?’

— ‘No,’ Chiquita replied: ‘I came alone; the light of the lamp and the fire guided me. I was bored, stuck in a corner while those fellows drank bottle after bottle. I am so small, young, and thin, that no one pays any more attention to me than to a cat asleep under the table. At the height of their din, I slipped away. The odours of wine and meat repel me, accustomed as I am to the scent of the heather and resinous pine trees.’

— ‘And weren’t you afraid to wander without a candle, through these long dark corridors, these vast rooms full of darkness?’

— ‘Chiquita knows no fear. Her eyes see amidst shadows. Her feet walk there without stumbling. If she meets an owl, the owl shuts its eyes, and the bat folds its wings when she approaches. The ghosts step aside to let her pass or they retreat. The night is her friend, and hides from her none of its mysteries. Chiquita knows the owl’s nest, the thief’s hiding place, the murdered man’s grave, the places haunted by spectres; but never speaks of them in daylight.’

As she uttered these strange words, Chiquita’s eyes shone with a supernatural brilliance. One might surmise that her spirit, exalted by solitude, believed itself to possess magical powers. The scenes of robbery and murder with which her childhood had been filled had exerted a strong influence on her ardent, uncultivated and feverish imagination. Her voice full of conviction had its effect on Isabella, who looked at her with superstitious apprehension.

— ‘I prefer,’ continued the girl, ‘to stay here, near the fire, beside you. You are beautiful, and I like to look at you; you resemble the good Virgin whom I saw shining on the altar; but only from a distance, for they chased me from the church, and set the dogs on me, on the pretext that my hair was unkempt, and my canary-yellow petticoat would make the faithful mock me. How white your hand is! Mine, set beside it, looks like a monkey’s paw. Your hair is as fine as silk; my mop bristles like a bush. Oh! I am very ugly, am I not?’

— ‘No, my little one,’ replied Isabella, touched in spite of herself by this naive burst of admiration, ‘you have your beauty too; you only need to be tidied a little to be the prettiest of girls.’

— ‘Do you think so? I’ll steal some nice clothes, so as to look well, and then Agostin will love me.’

This idea lit the child’s tawny face with a rosy glow, and for a few minutes she remained as if lost in a delightful and profound reverie.

— ‘Do you know where we are?’ Isabella asked, when Chiquita raised her eyelids, fringed with long black eyelashes that she had lowered for a moment.

— ‘In a castle belonging to the lord who has heaps of gold, and who wished to have you kidnapped in Poitiers. I had but to pull back the bolt, and it was done. But you had given me the pearl necklace, and I had no wish to cause you pain.’

— ‘Yet this time you helped to carry me off,’ said Isabella; ‘you don’t love me anymore, handing me over to my enemies thus?’

— ‘Agostin so ordered; it was necessary to obey. Besides, someone else would have acted as guide to the blind man, and I could not have entered the castle with you. Here, perhaps I can be of some use. I am courageous, agile, and strong, though small, and I would not see anyone hurt you.’

— ‘Is this castle where I am being held prisoner far from Paris?’ said the young woman, drawing Chiquita against her knee: ‘have you heard any of these men say its name?’

— ‘Yes, Tordgueule said the place was called...what was it again?’ murmured the girl, scratching her head in embarrassment.

— ‘Try to remember, my child,’ said Isabella, caressing Chiquita’s brown cheeks with her hand. The latter blushed with pleasure at this caress, for no one had ever shown her such attention.

— ‘I think it is Vall-om-breuse,’ replied Chiquita, syllable by syllable, as if listening to an inner echo. ‘Yes, Vallombreuse, I’m sure of it now; the very name of the lord your friend Captain Fracasse wounded in a duel. He would have done better to kill him. That duke is very wicked, though he scatters handfuls of gold about as a sower throws grain. You hate him, don’t you? And you would be very happy if you could manage to escape him.’

— ‘Oh, yes! But that’s impossible,’ said the young actress: ‘a deep moat surrounds the castle, and the drawbridge is closed. Any escape is impracticable.’

— ‘Chiquita laughs at gates, locks, walls, moats. Chiquita can leave the most secure prison at will, and fly to the moon before the astonished eyes of a jailer. If she wishes, before the sun rises, the captain will know where the one he seeks is hidden.’

Isabella feared, on hearing these incoherent sentences, that madness troubled Chiquita’s weak brain; but the child’s countenance was so perfectly calm, her eyes held so lucid a look, and the sound of her voice such an accent of conviction, that the supposition was inadmissible; surely this strange creature possessed some part of the almost magical powers which she attributed to herself.

As if to convince Isabella that she was not boasting, Chiquita said: ‘I will leave in a moment; let me think how to find a way; don’t speak, hold your breath; the slightest noise distracts me; I must listen to the Spirits.’

Chiquita tilted her head, put her hand over her eyes to isolate herself, remained deathly still for a while, then she raised her head, opened the window, climbed onto the sill, and gazed into the darkness with profound intensity. The dark water of the moat, stirred by the night breeze, lapped at the foot of the wall.

— ‘Will she, truly, take flight like a bat?’ the young actress said to herself, following Chiquita’s every movement with an attentive eye.

Opposite the window, on the far side of the moat, stood a large tree, several hundred years old, whose main branches extended almost horizontally, half over the ground, half over the water of the moat; but the end of the longest branch was eight or ten feet short of the castle wall. It was on this tree that Chiquita’s plan for escape was based. She retreated to the room, took from one of her pockets a very fine, tightly-coiled cord woven of horsehair, measuring twelve yards or more, and unrolled it, methodically, on the floor; took from another pocket a sort of iron hook which she attached to the rope; then she approached the window, and cast the hook into the branches of the tree. At the first attempt the iron failed to bite and, along with the rope, it fell back, clattering on the stones of the wall. On the second try, the hook’s claw pierced the bark, and Chiquita pulled the rope towards her, asking Isabella to pull on it with all her weight. The hanging branch gave way as much as the flexibility of the trunk allowed, and its tip drew five or six feet closer to the window. Then Chiquita tied the cord to the window’s ironwork with a knot that would not slip and, raising her wiry body with singular agility, she hung from the rope with both hands, and by shifting her wrists soon reached the branch which she straddled as soon as she felt its solidity beneath her.

— ‘Now undo the knot, so I can pull it towards me,’ she said to the prisoner in a low but distinct voice, ‘unless you feel like following me; but fear would fill your head, and vertigo drag at your feet and make you fall into the water. Farewell! I’m off to Paris, but I’ll be back soon. One moves swiftly by moonlight.’

Isabel obeyed, and the branch, no longer restrained, resumed its usual position, bearing Chiquita to the other side of the ditch. In less than a minute, using her knees and hands, she found herself at the bottom of the trunk, on firm ground, and soon the captive saw her move away at a quick pace and disappear into the bluish shadows of the night.

Everything that had just happened seemed like a dream to Isabella. In a kind of stupor, having not yet closed the window, she gazed at the motionless tree, the black outlines of whose skeleton were outlined against the milky grey of a cloud penetrated by a diffuse light from the moon’s disc which it half hid. She shuddered at seeing how frail at its tip the branch was to which the courageous and light-hearted Chiquita had not feared to confide herself. She was moved by the thought of the attachment shown by this poor, wild and wretched being whose eyes were so beautiful, luminous and passionate, the eyes of a woman in a child’s face, and who showed so much gratitude for that paltry gift of hers. As the cool air seized her, and made her pearly teeth chatter feverishly, she closed the window, drew back the curtains, and settled herself in an armchair by the fire, her feet resting on the copper spheres of the andirons.

She had barely seated herself when the butler entered, followed by the same two servants as before carrying a small table covered with a rich, fringed tablecloth, on which a supper was served, no less fine and delicious than the dinner. A few minutes earlier, the entrance of these footmen would have thwarted Chiquita’s escape. Isabel, still agitated by that moving scene, left the dishes placed before her untouched, and signalled that they should be taken away. But the butler had a plate of blancmanges and marzipans placed near the bed; he also spread a robe, nightcap, and nightgown, all trimmed with lace and of the finest design, on an armchair. Enormous logs were thrown onto the crumbling embers, and the candles were renewed. This done, the butler told Isabel that if she needed a maid to assist her, one would be sent to her. The young actress having made a gesture of dismissal, the butler left, with the most respectful bow in the world.

Once the butler and the footmen had withdrawn, Isabella, having thrown the robe over her shoulders, went to bed fully-dressed without getting between the sheets, so as to be ready to rise quickly in case of an alarm. She took Chiquita’s knife from her bodice, opened it, locked the ferrule, and placed it near her within reach of her hand. These precautions taken, she lowered her long eyelids desiring to sleep, but sleep was hard to come by. The events of the day had agitated Isabella’s nerves, and the apprehensions of the night were hardly designed to calm them. Besides, those ancient châteaux, no longer inhabited, have, during the dark hours, singular physiognomies; it seems that some being or other has been disturbed, that an invisible guest retreats at one’s approach, into some secret corridor hidden in the walls. All sorts of small, inexplicable noises occur, unexpectedly. A piece of furniture creaks, a deathly hand seems to strike the woodwork sharply, a rat passes behind the curtain, a log riddled with woodworm bursts in the fire like a roasted chestnut and wakes one from a trance just as one is about to doze off. This is what happened to the young prisoner; she would sit up, frightened, open her eyes, look around the room, and, seeing nothing unusual, would rest her head on the pillow again. However, sleep finally overcame her, isolating her from the real world, the rumours from which no longer reached her. Vallombreuse, if he had been there, would have been free to pursue his reckless amorous enterprises; for fatigue had overcome modesty. Fortunately for Isabella, the young duke had not yet arrived at the château. Did he no longer care about his prey, now prisoned in his lair, and had the possibility of satisfying his whim quenched it? Not at all; the will of that handsome and wicked duke was more tenacious than ever, especially the will to do evil; for he felt, apart from voluptuousness, a certain perverse pleasure in flouting all divine or human law; but, so as to divert suspicion, on the very day of the abduction he had shown himself at Saint-Germain, had paid court to the king, followed the hunt, and, unemotionally, spoken to several people. That evening, he had gambled and openly lost sums that would have been significant for someone less wealthy. He had seemed in a charming mood, especially after a confidant had entered with a sombre face, bowed, and handed him a letter. His need to establish, in the event of an investigation, an incontestable alibi had safeguarded Isabella’s virtue that night.

After a slumber punctuated by strange dreams, in which sometimes she saw Chiquita running, waving her arms like wings, in front of Captain Fracasse on horseback, and sometimes the Duke of Vallombreuse with blazing eyes full of love or hatred, Isabella awoke and was surprised at how long she had slept. The candles had burned down to their sockets, the logs had been consumed, and a cheerful shaft of sunlight, penetrating the gap in the curtains, played freely over her bed, uninvited. The return of light was a great relief to the young woman. Her position, no doubt, was scarcely improved; but the danger was no longer magnified by the illusory fears that night and the unknown arouse in the steadiest minds. However, her joy was not long-lasting, for a creaking of chains was heard; the drawbridge was lowered: the sounds of the wheels of a carriage drawn at a brisk pace echoed from the bridge’s platform, rumbled beneath the vault like a dull thunder, and died away in the inner courtyard.

Who could be entering in so haughty and magisterial a manner if not the lord of the place, the Duke of Vallombreuse himself? Isabella felt from these sounds, warning the dove of the hawk’s presence though as yet he was invisible, that it was indeed the enemy, and none other. Her beautiful cheeks became pale as virgin wax, and her poor little heart began to beat wildly behind the fortress of her bodice, though without thought of surrender. Soon, making an effort to calm herself, the brave girl gathered her wits and prepared to defend herself. ‘If only,’ she said to herself, ‘Chiquita arrives in time, and brings help’; and her eyes involuntarily turned towards the portrait medallion above the fireplace: ‘O you, who have such a good and noble air, protect me against the insolence and perversity of your descendant. Let not this place in which your image shines witness my dishonour!’

After an hour, which the young duke had spent repairing the disorder that a quick journey always brings to a toilette, the butler entered Isabella’s chamber, and, ceremoniously, asked her if she would receive the Duke of Vallombreuse.

— ‘I am but a prisoner,’ replied the young woman with dignity. ‘My answer is no freer than my person, and this request, which would be polite in an ordinary situation, is only derisory in the state I in which I find myself. I have no means of preventing Monsieur the Duke from entering this room which I cannot leave. I do not accept his visit; I submit to it. It is a case of force-majeure. Let him enter if he pleases, at this hour or at another: it is all the same to me. Go and repeat my words to him.’

The butler bowed, retreated backwards towards the door, for he had been instructed to show the greatest respect towards Isabella, and disappeared to inform his master that ‘Mademoiselle’ agreed to receive him. After a few moments the butler reappeared, and announced the Duke of Vallombreuse.

Isabella had half-risen from her armchair, into which emotion made her retreat, covered with a deathly pallor. Vallombreuse advanced towards her, hat in hand, in an attitude of the deepest respect. As he saw her start at his approach, he stopped in the middle of the room, bowed to the young actress, and said to her in that voice which he knew how to sweeten so as to seduce:

— ‘If my presence is too odious to the charming Isabella at the moment, and she requires some time to become accustomed to the idea of seeing me, I will withdraw. She is my prisoner, but I am no less her slave.’

— ‘Such courtesies arrive tardily,’ replied Isabella, ‘after the violence you have employed against me.’

— ‘That is the result,’ the duke continued, ‘of driving people to the limit with too fierce a show of virtue. Denied hope, they resort to extreme measures, knowing that such cannot worsen their situation. If you had been willing to allow me to pay court to you, and shown some indulgence to my suit, I would have remained among the ranks of your adorers, trying, by dint of delicate gallantry, amorous magnificence, chivalrous devotion, ardent and restrained passion, to slowly soften your rebellious heart. I would have inspired you, if not with love, at least with that tender pity which sometimes precedes it and inspires it. In the long run, perhaps, your coldness would have seemed unjust, for nothing would have induced me to wrong you.’

— ‘If you had employed honest means,’ said Isabella, ‘I would have pitied a love that I could not share, since my heart could never yield itself, and at least I would not have been forced to hate you, a feeling that is not familiar to my soul, and which it is painful for me to experience.’

— ‘Then, you hate me so greatly?’ said the Duke of Vallombreuse, his voice quivering with spite. ‘Yet I have not deserved it. My wrongs towards you, if any, derive from my passion alone; and what woman, however chaste and virtuous she may be, seriously resents in a gallant man the effect that her charms have produced on him despite herself?’

— ‘Certainly, there is no reason for aversion when the lover keeps himself within the bounds of respect, and sighs away with discreet timidity. The most prudish can bear it; but when his insolent impatience gives way at the outset to the last excess, and proceeds by way of ambush, kidnapping, and sequestration, as you have not feared to proceed, there is no other possible feeling than unconquerable repugnance. Any soul, though the least haughty and proud, rebels when one tries to force it. Love, which is a divine thing, cannot be commanded or extorted. It arises where it wishes.’

— ‘So, unconquerable repugnance, is all I may expect from you,’ replied Vallombreuse, whose cheeks had grown pale and who had bitten his lips more than once as Isabella spoke to him with that gentle firmness which was the natural tone of that young person, as sensible as she was amiable.

— ‘You have a way to regain my esteem and win my friendship. Grant me the freedom you have robbed me of. Have me borne by carriage to my anxious companions who do not know what has become of me, and are desperately searching for me, in mortal fear. Let me resume my humble life as an actress before this venture, from which my honour would suffer if it became known amongst a public astonished by my absence.’

— ‘What misfortune,’ cried the duke, ‘that you should ask me for the one thing I cannot give you without betraying myself! If you desired but an empire, a throne, I would grant it; a star, I would go and seek it for you, by mounting into the heavens. But you wish me to open the door of this cage to which you would never return once you had left. Impossible! I find that you love me so little that I have no other way to see you other than to imprison you. Whatever the cost to my pride, I employ that means; for I can no more do without your presence than a plant can do without the light. My mind turns to you as to its sun, and it is as night for me where you are not. If what I have risked is a crime, I must at least profit by it, for you would refuse to forgive, whatever you say. Here, at least, I hold you, I surround you, I envelop your hatred with my love, I breathe on your cold icy wastes the warm breath of my passion. Your eyes are forced to reflect my image, your ears to hear the sound of my voice. Something of myself insinuates itself into your soul despite you; I act upon you, if only by the terror I cause you, for the sound of my footsteps in the antechamber made you shudder. And then, this captivity separates you from that person you regret, and whom I abhor for having seduced the heart that should have been mine. My jealousy, sated, revolves around this small happiness, and will not risk it by granting you a freedom you would use against me.’

— ‘And how long,’ said the young woman, ‘do you intend to hold me in seclusion, acting like a Barbary corsair not a Christian lord?’

— ‘Until you love me, or tell me so, which amounts to the same thing,’ replied the young duke with perfect seriousness, and the most assured air in the world. Then he bowed, most graciously, to Isabella, and made his exit, smoothly, like a true courtier whom no situation embarrasses.

Half an hour later, a footman brought her a bouquet, an assemblage of the rarest flowers, of blended colours and perfumes; though, all were rare at that time of year, and it had taken all the talent of the gardeners and the artificial climate of the greenhouses to induce these charming daughters of Flora to bloom so early. The stem of the bouquet was clasped by a magnificent bracelet, worthy of a queen. Among the flowers, a sheet of white paper folded in two attracted her eye. Isabella opened it roughly, for in her situation, these small details of gallantry no longer had the significance they would have had if she had been free.

It was a note from Vallombreuse, written in the following terms, in bold handwriting consistent with the character of its author. The prisoner recognised the hand that had written ‘For Isabella’ on the jewellery box left in her room in Poitiers:

— ‘Dear Isabella, I send you these few flowers, although I am certain they will be poorly received. Coming from me, their freshness and novelty will find small favour in the face of your unparalleled rigor. But, whatever their fate, and even if you only choose to cast them from the window as a sign of your vast disdain, they will force, by your very anger, your mind to pause for a moment, if only to curse the one who declares himself, in spite of everything, your stubborn admirer.

Vallombreuse.’

This elegant note of gallantry, which nonetheless revealed in he who had written it a formidable tenacity, which nothing could dispel, produced, in part, the effect that the duke had promised himself. Isabella held it in her hand with a gloomy air, and the figure of Vallombreuse presented itself to her mind in a diabolical manner. The perfumes of the flowers, most of them not native to France, placed near her, on the pedestal table, by the footman, were enhanced by the room’s warmth, and their exotic aromas spread through the air, powerful and dizzying. Isabella took them, and placed them in the antechamber, without removing the diamond bracelet which surrounded the stems, fearing that the flowers were impregnated with some subtle philtre, narcotic, or aphrodisiac, calculated to trouble her reason. Never were lovely blooms mistreated more, and yet Isabella loved such things greatly; but she feared that if she were to keep them, the duke’s conceit would take advantage of the fact; and besides, these plants with their bizarre shapes, strange colours, and perfumes unknown to her, lacked the modest charm of common flowers; their proud beauty recalled that of Vallombreuse, and resembled him too much.

She had barely set the forbidden bouquet on a sideboard in the next room, and seated herself once more in her armchair, when a chambermaid appeared to assist her in dressing. This girl, quite pretty, very pale, and with a sad and gentle air, was somehow inert in manner, seemingly subdued by secret terror, or a dreaded influence. She offered her services to Isabella, almost without looking at her, and in a toneless voice as if she feared being heard by the walls themselves. At an affirmative sign from Isabella, she combed the latter’s blond hair, which was in disarray following the violence of the previous evening, and the nervous anxieties of the night, tied her silky curls with velvet bows, and relinquished her work like a hairdresser who knows her trade. She then took from a wardrobe, set in the wall, several dresses of rare richness and elegance, which seemed tailored to Isabella’s measurements, but which the young actress refused, even though hers was faded and wrinkled, since she would have appeared to be wearing the Duke’s livery, and her formal intention was to accept nothing from him, even if her captivity were to last longer than she hoped.

The chambermaid did not insist, and respected her whim, since condemned persons are allowed to do what they wish within the confines of their prison. It was also as if she avoided becoming intimate with her temporary mistress, for fear of taking an unnecessary interest in her. She reduced herself as much as possible to the state of an automaton. Isabella, who thought she might gain some insight from her, understood that it was superfluous to question her, and abandoned herself to her silent attentions, not without a kind of dread.

When the maid had retired, dinner appeared, and despite the sadness of her situation, Isabella did honour to it; nature imperiously demands its rights even in the most delicate of people. This refreshment gave her the strength she sorely needed, her own being exhausted by her emotions and the assaults upon her. With her mind a little calmer, the prisoner began to think of Sigognac, who had behaved so valiantly, and though alone would have snatched her from her kidnappers, if he had not lost time unravelling himself from the cloak thrown over him by the blind traitor. He must surely have heard news by now, and there was no doubt that he would rush to the defence of the one he loved more than his life. At the thought of the dangers to which he was about to expose himself in this perilous undertaking, for the duke was not a man to let go of his prey without resistance, Isabella’s breast swelled with a sigh and a tear rose from her heart to her eyes; she blamed herself for being the cause of such conflict, and almost cursed her own beauty, as the origin of this evil. However, she was modest, and had not sought, out of coquetry, to excite the passions around her, as many actresses, and even great ladies or members of the bourgeoisie do.

She was lost in reverie, when a brief but sharp knock sounded at the window, a pane of which was starred, as if it had been struck by a hailstone. Isabella approached the window, and saw Chiquita, in the tree opposite her, who signalled mysteriously to her to open the window, while swinging the cord equipped with that iron claw. The actress understood the child’s intention, obeyed her gesture, and the device, thrown with a sure hand, bit into the balcony support. Chiquita tied the other end of the rope to the branch, and hung from it as she had the day before: but she was scarcely halfway across, when the knot came undone, to Isabella’s great fright, and the rope detached itself from the tree. Instead of falling into the green waters of the moat, as might have been feared, Chiquita, whose presence of mind was untroubled by the accident, if it was one, swung forward on the rope fastened to the balcony by the iron claw, and hung flat against the wall of the castle, beneath the window, which she soon reached, employing her hands and feet pressed hard against the stone. Then she climbed over the balcony, and leapt down lightly into the room. Seeing Isabella quite pale, and almost fainting, she said, with a smile:

— ‘You were scared; you thought Chiquita would join the frogs in the ditch. I only tied a slipknot about the branch so I could pull the rope towards me. At the end of that black line, thin and brown as I am, I must have looked like a spider climbing back up its thread.’

— ‘Little one,’ said Isabella, kissing Chiquita on the forehead, ‘you are a dear, brave and courageous child.’

— ‘I found your friends, they were looking for you; but without Chiquita, they would never have discovered your retreat. The captain was pacing back and forth like a lion; his hair was steaming, his eyes flashing. He set me on his saddlebow, and now he is hidden in a small wood not far from the castle with his comrades. They dare not show themselves. Tonight, as soon as darkness falls, they will attempt your rescue; there will be sword thrusts and pistol volleys. It will be superb. Nothing is as fine as men fighting; but don’t be scared or scream. A woman’s screams would lessen their courage. If you wish, I’ll stay with you to reassure you.’

— ‘Worry not, Chiquita, I’ll not trouble with foolish fears the brave friends who risk their lives to save me.’

— ‘That’s good’ the girl continued; ‘defend yourself if you need to, until this evening, with the knife I gave you,. The blow must be struck from below, upwards. Don’t forget. As for me, we must not be seen together, so I’m off to seek some place where I can sleep. Above all, don’t look out of the window, it might arouse suspicion by suggesting you’re waiting for help from that quarter. Then they’d conduct a search around the castle and discover your friends. The attempt would be a failure, and you would remain in the power of this Vallombreuse whom you hate.’

— ‘I’ll not go near the window, I promise you,’ replied Isabella, ‘however curious I might feel.’

Reassured on that important point, Chiquita disappeared and went to join the swordsmen in the lower room who, drowned in drink, and weighed down like beasts by sleep, had not even noticed her absence. She leant against the wall, clasped her hands on her breast, which was her favourite position, closed her eyes and was soon asleep; for her doe’s feet had travelled more than twenty miles the previous night, between Vallombreuse and Paris. The return on horseback, at a pace she was unaccustomed to, had perhaps tired her more. Although her wiry body had the strength of steel, she was exhausted, and her sleep was so profound that she seemed dead.

— ‘How prone to sleep children are!’ said Malartic, who had finally awakened. ‘In spite of our bacchanal, she takes a nap! Hey! You amiable brutes, try standing on your hind legs, go to the courtyard, and each of you pour a bucket of cold water over his head. The Circe named Drunkenness has made pigs of you (see Homer’s Odyssey, Book X); turn yourselves back into men again by means of that baptism, and then we’ll do the rounds and see if anything is planned on behalf of this beauty, with whose guardianship and defence Lord Vallombreuse has entrusted us.’

The swordsmen rose, heavily, and departed, in order to comply with the wise instructions of their leader, though not without wandering a little between the table and the door. When they had more or less regained their wits, Malartic, taking Tordgueule, Piedgris and La Râpée, with him, went towards the postern, and unbolted the padlock which held the chain mooring the boat to the water-door of the kitchen. The boat, driven forward by a pole, after cleaving the glaucous mantle of duckweed, soon landed at a narrow staircase cut into the embankment of the moat.

— ‘You stay here,’ Malartic said to La Râpée, once his men had clambered up, ‘and guard the boat, in case the enemy tries to seize it, and enter. Besides, you don’t look too firm on your feet. The rest of us will patrol around and beat the bushes a little, to make the birds fly away.’

Malartic, followed by his two acolytes, circled about the château for more than an hour, without encountering anything suspicious. On returning to their starting point, he found La Râpée asleep, standing, but leaning against a tree.

— ‘If we were regular troops,’ he said, waking him with a blow of his fist, ‘I’d have you shot for napping on sentry duty, something contrary to all good martial discipline; but since we are not, I pardon you and only sentence you to drink a pint of water.’

— ‘I'd rather have a pair of bullets in my brain than a pint of water in my stomach,’ replied the drunkard.

— ‘A fine answer,’ said Malartic, ‘and worthy of a Plutarchan hero. Your fault is forgiven, go unpunished, but sin no more.’

The patrol returned, and the boat was carefully moored and padlocked, with all the precautions customary in a stronghold. Satisfied with his inspection, Malartic said to himself: ‘If the charming Isabella can escape, or the valiant Captain Fracasse enter, for both cases have been foreseen, may my nose turn white and my cheeks red.’

Left alone, Isabella had opened a volume of Monsieur Honoré d’Urfé’s L’Astrée, which was lying forgotten on a console table. She tried to focus her thoughts on her reading. But her eyes, alone, followed the lines mechanically. Her mind flew far from the pages, unable to identify for a moment with its now-outdated shepherdesses. Bored, she threw down the volume, and folded her arms, awaiting events. By dint of conjecturing, she had grown tired of the process, and without trying to guess how Sigognac would deliver her, she counted on the absolute devotion of that gallant fellow.

Evening came. The footmen lit the candles, and soon the butler appeared announcing a visit from the Duke of Vallombreuse. He entered on the heels of his valet, and greeted his captive with the most perfect courtesy. He was, in truth, supremely handsome and elegant. His charming face was fit to inspire love in every unprejudiced heart. A jacket of pearl-grey satin, crimson-velvet breeches, pale-leather cauldron boots trimmed with lace, and a silver-brocade sash supporting a sword with a jewelled pommel, highlighted the advantages of his person wondrously well, and it required all of Isabella’s virtue and constancy not to be impressed by his appearance.

— ‘I visit you, my adorable Isabella,’ he said, seating himself in an armchair close to the young woman, ‘to see if I will be better received than my bouquet; I am not so conceited as to believe so, but I wish you to become accustomed to my presence. Tomorrow, a fresh bouquet and a further visit.’

— ‘Both your bouquets and your visits will prove useless,’ Isabella replied, ‘it may seem impolite to say so, but my sincerity leaves you no hope.’

— ‘Well,’ said the duke, with a gesture of haughty indifference, ‘I shall forego all hope, and be content with the reality. You do not know, poor child, what Vallombreuse is, you who try to resist him. Never has a desire unfulfilled entered his soul; he pursues what he longs for, and nothing can sway or divert him: neither tears nor supplications, nor cries, nor corpses, nor smoking ruins obstructing his path; a universal collapse would not surprise him, for on the ruins of the world he would fulfil his whim. Be not the woman impossible of approach, who swells his passion, imprudently encouraging the tiger to scent the presence of the lamb, then driving him away.’

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - Both your bouquets and your visits will prove useless.

‘Both your bouquets and your visits will prove useless.’

Isabella was frightened by the change in Vallombreuse’s expression as he spoke these words. His gracious look had vanished. Nothing remained but cold malice, and implacable resolution. With an instinctive movement, Isabella drew back her chair, and reached up to feel Chiquita’s knife at her bosom. Vallombreuse moved his chair closer, without affectation. Controlling his anger, he had already reassumed that charming, playful, and tender air which had hitherto proved irresistible.

— ‘Accommodate yourself to what is; cease to look back towards a life that must henceforth appear but a forgotten dream. Forego this obstinate and fanciful loyalty to a love languishing and unworthy of you, and reflect that in the eyes of the world you will be mine from henceforth. Consider above all that I adore you with a passion, a frenzy, a delirium no woman has ever before inspired in me. Seek not to escape the flames that envelop you, an inescapable will that nothing can deflect. Like cold metal thrown into the crucible in which molten iron is already seething, your indifferent self, drowned by my passion, will melt, and amalgamate therein. Whatever the future, you must love me, either willingly, or through force, because that is my wish, because you are young and beautiful, and I am young and handsome. Resist, you may, but, despite your struggles, you will fail to free yourself from the arms that close about you. Therefore, resistance is merely ungracious, since it will but prove in vain. Resign yourself, with grace and a smile; is it so great a misfortune, after all, to be loved, and desperately so, by the Duke of Vallombreuse? A misfortune that would render more than one person happy.’

While he was speaking with that warm ardour that conquers a woman’s reason, and overcomes her modesty, but which on this occasion had scant effect, Isabella, attentive to the slightest noise without, from whence her deliverance must come, thought she heard a small, almost imperceptible noise on the far side of the moat. It sounded dull, and rhythmic, like the sound of repeated efforts directed, cautiously, against some obstacle. Fearing that Vallombreuse would note it, the young woman replied in such a way as to wound the proud conceit of the young duke. She preferred him in a state of irritation to one of amorous affection, and preferred his outbursts to his tenderness. She hoped, moreover, by quarrelling with him, to prevent him from hearing.

— ‘Such happiness, she said, ‘would shame me, one that I would escape by death if I lacked all other means. You will never gain anything from me but my corpse. You fill me with indifference; I hate you for your outrageous, violent, and infamous conduct. Yes, I love Sigognac, whom you have sought, several times, to assassinate, have you not?’ The furtive sounds had continued, and Isabella, no longer sparing herself, had raised her voice to hide them.

At these audacious words, Vallombreuse turned pale with rage, his eyes flashed viperous glances; a light foam frothed at the corners of his lips; he convulsively raised his hand to the hilt of his sword. The idea of killing Isabella had flashed through his mind; but, by a prodigious effort of will, he restrained himself and began to laugh, in a shrill, fraught tone, as he advanced towards the young actress.

— ‘By all the devils,’ he cried, ‘you please me so; when you insult me, your eyes take on a particular brightness, your complexion a supernatural radiance; your beauty is redoubled. You do well to speak frankly. Restraint bores me. Ah! You love Sigognac! So much the better! It will be sweeter still, for me to possess you. What a pleasure to kiss those lips that say: ‘I abhor you!’ Far more stimulating than thet eternal and insipid ‘I love you,’ with which women so disgust us.’

Fearful of Vallombreuse’s resolution, Isabella rose, and slid Chiquita’s knife from her corset.

— ‘Excellent!’ said the duke, seeing the young woman armed, her dagger already freed. ‘If you knew anything of Roman history, my dear, you would recall that Lucretia used her dagger only after the attempt on her by Sextus, the son of Tarquinius Superbus. That example from antiquity is a good one to follow.’

And as indifferent to the blade as he would have been to a bee’s sting, he advanced on Isabella, seizing her in his arms before she had time to raise the knife.

At that very moment, a crack was heard, followed promptly by a loud crash, and the window, as if it had suffered a blow from the knee of a giant, fell, midst a din of pulverised glass, into the room, as a mass of branches, catapulted downward and forward to act as a flying bridge, penetrated loudly.

Here was the tree’s crown that had facilitated Chiquita’s exit and re-entry. The trunk, sawn through by Sigognac and his comrades, had yielded to the law of gravity. Spanning the water, its fall had been so directed as to link the bank of the moat to Isabella’s window.

Vallombreuse, surprised by this sudden irruption, which cut short his assault, released the young actress and, sword in hand, stood ready to receive the first person who presented himself.

Chiquita, who had entered on tiptoe, light as a shadow, pulled Isabella by the sleeve, and said to her: ‘Take shelter behind this piece of furniture, the dance is about to begin.’

The girl was speaking no less than the truth, for a flurry of shots rang out in the nocturnal silence. The garrison had discovered the attack.

Chapter XVII: The Amethyst Ring

Climbing the steps four at a time, Malartic, Bringuenarilles, Piedgris and Tordgueule rushed to Isabella’s room to bring aid to Vallombreuse, and defend him, while La Râpée, Mérindol and the Duke’s usual swordsmen, whom he had brought with him, used the boat to cross the moat so as to attempt a sortie, and take the enemy in the rear. A clever strategy, worthy of a sound army general!

The tree’s top branches, blocking the window-opening which was quite narrow, extended almost to the middle of the room; it was therefore impossible to present a sufficiently wide front to the enemy. Malartic lined up with Piedgris against the wall, on one side, and ordered Tordgueule and Bringuenarilles to the other, so that they would avoid the initial fury of the attack, and possess a greater advantage. Before entering the room, it was therefore necessary to pierce this menacing line of soldiers waiting with sword in one hand and pistol in the other. All had replaced their masks, for none of those honest people cared to be recognised in case the affair turned out badly, and they made for rather a frightening sight, that quartet of faces clad in black, motionless, and silent as ghosts.

— ‘Withdraw, or conceal yourself,’ Malartic murmured in a low voice to Vallombreuse, ‘it is needless for you to be seen in this encounter.’

— ‘What matter?’ replied the young duke. ‘I fear no one in the world, and those who have seen me will not live to speak of it,’ he added, waving his sword in a threatening manner.

— ‘At least take Isabella, the Helen of this new Trojan War, to another room, since a stray bullet might spoil your plan, which would be a shame.’

The Duke, finding the advice judicious, advanced towards Isabella, who was sheltering with Chiquita behind an oak chest, and seized her in his arms, though she clung with clenched fingers to the sculpted projections on its sides, and vigorously resisted Vallombreuse’s efforts; the virtuous girl, overcoming her timidity, preferred to remain on the battlefield, exposed to bullets, and sword-thrusts which at worst could only end her life, to being alone with Vallombreuse, protected from the fight, but exposed to an assault which would shame her honour.

— ‘No, no, leave me,’ she cried, struggling, and desperately gripping the doorframe, for she knew Sigognac could not be far away. At last, the duke, having succeeded in half-opening the door, was about to drag Isabella into the next room, when the young woman freed herself from his hands, and ran towards the window; but Vallombreuse caught hold of her again, lifted her from the ground, and bore her to the rear of the apartment.

— ‘Save me,’ she cried, in a weak voice, feeling at the end of her strength, ‘save me, Sigognac!’

A rustling amidst the tree-branches was heard, a loud voice that seemed to fall from heaven cried: ‘Here I am!’ and, a dark shadow passed swiftly between the twin pairs of swordsmen, driven by such momentum, that it was already in the middle of the room, when four pistol shots rang out almost simultaneously. Clouds of smoke spread in dense patches that for a few seconds hid the result of this quadruple fire. When they had dissipated a little, the swordsmen saw Sigognac, or, to be more accurate, Captain Fracasse, since they only knew him by that name, standing upright, sword in hand, and with no harm done, but the feather in his felt hat trimmed, the discharge from their wheel-lock pistols not having been achieved swiftly enough, nor his foes able to aim accurately enough, for their bullets to find him in a passage as unexpected as it was rapid. But Isabella and Vallombreuse were no longer there. The duke had taken advantage of the tumult to carry off his half-fainting prey. A solid and bolted door, stood between the poor actress and her generous defender, already hindered by the quartet on hand. Happily, Chiquita, lively and supple as a snake, seeking to be of use to Isabella, had slipped through the half-open door, in the footsteps of the Duke, who, amidst the chaos of violent action, and the crackle of firearms, failed to notice her, especially since she instantly hid in a dark corner of the vast room, which was only dimly lit by a lamp placed on a sideboard.

— ‘You wretches,’ cried Sigognac, ‘where is Isabella? I heard her voice just now.’

— ‘We are not her keepers,’ replied Malartic with the greatest composure in the world, ‘nor are we cut out to play the role of duenna.’

With that, he fell upon the Baron with sword raised high, the latter countering him in fine style. Malartic was not an adversary to be disdained; he was considered, after Lampourde, the most skilful gladiator in Paris, but he was not a strong enough swordsman to fight with Sigognac for long.

— ‘Guard the window, while I deal with this fellow,’ he shouted, as he fought, addressing Piedgris, Tordgueule and Bringuenarilles, who were hastily reloading their pistols.

At the same moment, a new assailant burst into the room. It was Scapin, whose former professions, of acrobat and soldier, had developed in him a singular facility for this sort of siege warfare. With a quick glance, he saw that the swordsmen’s hands were occupied in reloading their weapons with powder and bullets, while they had laid their swords beside them; as swift as lightning, he took advantage of that moment of uncertainty in the ranks of his enemies, astonished by his sudden entrance, to gather their rapiers and hurl them through the window; then he ran towards Bringuenarilles, seized him by the body, and employing his foe as a shield, he thrust him before him, turning him so as to present his face to the muzzles of the pistols pointed at him.

— ‘By all the devils, don’t shoot,’ cried Bringuenarilles, half-suffocated by Scapin’s wiry arms, ‘don't shoot. You’ll strike my chest or my head, and it would go hard to be slain by my comrades.’

So as not to give Tordgueule and Piedgris the opportunity of firing at his rear, Scapin prudently backed against the wall, using Bringuenarilles as a defence; and, in order to spoil their aim, shoved the swordsman here and there, who, though his feet sometimes touched the ground, failed to regain fresh strength as Antaeus did (in the Greek myth).

The manoeuvre was most judicious; for Piedgris, who thought little of Bringuenarilles, and cared not a straw about killing a man, even if he was his companion, aimed at Scapin’s head, who was a fraction taller than the swordsman before him; the shot sped true, but the actor had bent forward, raising Bringuenarilles to protect himself, and the bullet pierced the woodwork, after striking the latter and removing the ear of the poor devil, who began to shout: ‘I’m killed! I’m killed!’ with a vigour that proved him very much alive.

Scapin, who was in no mood to wait for a second pistol shot, knowing full well that the bullet might pass through the body of Bringuenarilles if the latter fell sacrifice to his merciless comrades, and could still wound him grievously, now employed the wounded man as a projectile, and thrust him so roughly against Tordgueule, who was advancing, with the barrel of his weapon lowered, that the pistol slipped from Tordgueule’s hand, while that swordsman rolled hither and thither on the floor beside his comrade, whose blood spurted in his face and blinded him. The fall had been so sudden that he remained stunned and bruised for several minutes, which gave Scapin time to kick the pistol under a piece of furniture, and raise his dagger to meet Piedgris, who was charging at him furiously, poniard in hand, enraged at having missed his shot.

Scapin bent down and, with his left hand, seized Piedgris’ wrist, and forced the arm that held the dagger upwards, while with his right hand, gripping his own knife, he dealt his enemy a blow that would certainly have slain him, had it not been for the thickness of his buff leather vest. The blade sliced it open and pierced the flesh, but was deflected by a rib. Although it was neither mortal, nor even dangerous, the wound surprised Piedgris and made him stagger; so that the actor, giving the arm he still held a sudden jerk, had no difficulty in knocking his enemy down, the latter already having collapsed on one knee. As an extra precaution, he hammered at his opponent’s head with his heel to make him stay completely still.

While all this was occurring, Sigognac, possessed of the cold fury of one whose profound knowledge of the art was at the service of great courage, was fencing with Malartic. He parried all the swordsman’s strokes, and had already grazed his arm, as evidenced by a sudden flush of crimson on Malartic’s sleeve. The latter, feeling that, if the fight continued, he was lost, resolved to make a supreme effort, and lunged fiercely, so as to deliver a direct blow to Sigognac. The two blades clashed with so sharp and rapid a movement that the shock caused sparks to fly; but the Baron’s sword, gripped in a fist of iron, drove aside the other’s arched sword. The point passed beneath Captain Fracasse’s armpit, scratching the fabric of his doublet without piercing. Malartic rose; but, before he could readopt his defensive stance, Sigognac knocked the rapier from his hand, placed his foot upon it, and raising his blade to Malartic’s throat, cried: ‘Surrender, or die!’

At this critical juncture, a solid figure, striding through the litter of branches, entered the heart of the battle, and the newcomer, seeing Malartic’s compromised position, said, in a tone of authority: ‘You may yield, without dishonour, to this valiant man; he has your life at the point of his sword. You have done your duty, loyally; consider yourself a prisoner of war.’

Then, turning to Sigognac: ‘Trust to his word,’ he said, ‘he is a gallant fellow in his own way, and will not attempt anything against you from here on.’

Malartic nodded, and the Baron lowered the point of his formidable rapier. As for the swordsman, he picked up his weapon with a rather pitiful air, replaced it in its scabbard, and seated himself silently in an armchair, where he clasped his handkerchief around his arm, on which the red blotch was widening.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …A solid figure, striding through the litter of branches…

‘…A solid figure, striding through the litter of branches…’

— ‘As for these others, who, if not dead, are more or less wounded,’ said Jacquemin Lampourde (for it was he), ‘it is best to make sure of them; we will, if you please, tie their legs as they do poultry borne upside down to market. Else they might leap up and bite, if only at our heels. They are pure scoundrels capable of pretending to be hors de combat, in order to spare their skin, which is however of little account.’

And, bending over the bodies lying on the floor, he pulled from his breeches various pieces of thin rope and with marvellous dexterity lashed together the feet and hands of Tordgueule, who pretended to resist, of Bringuenarilles, who began to utter cries like a lively plucked jay, and even of Piedgris, though the latter reacted no more than a corpse, the livid pallor of which he possessed

If the reader is surprised to behold Lampourde among the besiegers, I reply that the swordsman was possessed of a fanatical admiration for Sigognac, whose fine fencing style had so charmed him in their encounter on the Pont-Neuf, and that he had placed his services at the disposal of the captain; services which were not to be disdained in such difficult and perilous circumstances. It often happened, moreover, that in these hazardous enterprises, erstwhile comrades, being paid by opposing interests, met, with torch or dagger in hand, without it causing an issue.

Let it not be forgotten that La Râpée, Agostin, Mérindol, Azolan and Labriche, at the beginning of the attack, had left the castle, crossing over by boat, in order to create a diversion and fall upon the enemy’s rear. They had skirted the moat, silently, and arrived at the place where, detached from its base, the large tree-trunk crossed the water, serving both as a flying bridge, and a ladder for the liberators of the young actress. The noble Herod, as one may well imagine, had not failed to offer his services, brave as he was, to Sigognac, whom he prized highly and whom he would have followed to the very gates of Hell, even if it had not been dearest Isabella, beloved by the whole company, and by himself in particular, who was to be rescued. If he was not visible at the height of the battle, it was in no way due to cowardice; for he possessed as great a store of courage as the captain, even though he was merely an actor. He had straddled the tree, like the others, raising himself on his hands and arms, and shuffling forward at the expense of his breeches, the seat of which was frayed from the rough bark. In front of him, as best he could, slid the doorman of the comedy troupe, a determined fellow accustomed to using his fists, and countering the pressure of the crowd. The doorman, having reached the part where the branches forked, seized hold of a substantial one, and continued his ascent; but, having reached the same region, Herod, endowed with the corpulence of a Goliath, excellent for his role as Tyrant, but ill-suited to climbing, felt the branch bend beneath him, and crack in a disturbing way. He looked down and glimpsed in the shadows, about thirty feet below, the black waters of the moat. The prospect gave him thought, and he scrambled onto a more solid piece of wood, capable of supporting his body.

— ‘Hmm!’ he reflected, silently, ‘As wise for an elephant to dance on a spider’s thread as for me to risk my life on twigs a sparrow could bend. They might look fine to a lover, a Scapin, or some other agile creature obliged by their role to remain slim. A king and tyrant of comedy, more given to the table than to the ladies, I possess no such frivolous, acrobatic, tightrope-walking skill. If I make but one more move to go to the Captain’s aid, who must certainly need it, since I comprehend, from the pistol shots and the hammering of sword-blades, that the matter waxes hot, I will surely fall into that Stygian water, thick and black as ink, green with slimy plants, teeming with frogs and toads, sink into the mud up to my head, and meet an inglorious death, a fetid fate, a miserable and utterly profitless end, for I will have grieved the enemy not all. There is no shame in retreating. Courage here can do nothing. If I were Achilles, Roland or El Cid, I could not bring aid, weighing as I do two hundred and forty pounds and some ounces, and seated on a branch as thin as my little finger. It is no longer a matter of heroism but of physics. So, about-face; I will find a surreptitious way to enter the fortress, and prove useful to this brave Baron, who must presently doubt my friendship, if he has time to think of anyone or anything.’

This monologue completed, at the speed of thought, a hundred times more rapidly than audible speech, to which however the good Homer grants the epithet of ‘winged’, Herod turned about on his wooden horse, that is to say on the tree-trunk, and began a cautious descent. Suddenly, he halted. A slight noise, as of knees scraping against the bark, and the sound of a man’s breath, who was striving to climb, reached his ear, and though the night was dark and even more so in the shadow of the castle, he thought he could distinguish a vague form raising a hump on the straight body of the tree. So as not to be seen, he bent low, flattened himself as much as his majestic belly allowed, and, motionless and holding his breath, allowed the figure to approach. He raised his head a little after a minute or two, and finding the adversary quite close to him, suddenly straightened, and presented his broad face to the traitor who had thought to surprise him and strike him in the back. In order not to burden his hands occupied with climbing, Mérindol, the leader of the attack, bore his knife between his teeth, which, amidst the shadows, gave him the appearance of possessing a prodigious moustache. Herod, with his strong grip, seized the man’s neck, and squeezed his throat in such a way, that Mérindol, feeling as if he were caught in a noose, opened his mouth to catch a breath letting his knife fall, which plunged into the moat. As the pressure on his throat continued, his knees loosened, his fluttering arms made some convulsive movements; and soon the sound of a heavy fall echoed in the darkness, and the water in the moat splashed as high as Herod’s feet.

— ‘As for him,’ said the Tyrant to himself, ‘if he has not suffocated, he will drown. Alternatives which are a pleasant thought. But let me continue this perilous descent.’

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …The sound of a heavy fall echoed in the darkness…

‘…The sound of a heavy fall echoed in the darkness…’

He advanced a few feet further. A small bluish spark flickered a short distance away, betraying itself as the fuse of a wheel-lock pistol being lit; the wheel as it spun gave a sharp click, a flash of light pierced the darkness, a report was heard, and a bullet passed two or three inches above Herod, who had ducked as soon as he saw the flare of the discharge, and had drawn his head into his shoulders like a tortoise into its shell, a move which had served him well.

— ‘Thrice be cuckolded!’ growled a hoarse voice, which was none other than that of La Râpée, ‘I missed my aim.’

— ‘By a good way, my lad,’ cried Herod, ‘I’m plump enough; you must be a poor shot indeed; but take this!’

And the Tyrant raised a club attached to his wrist by a leather cord, an ignoble weapon perhaps, but one which he handled with admirable dexterity, having, during his theatrical tours, trained with the stick-fighters of Rouen (popular in Normandy and particularly Rouen, stick-fighting developed into the military art and sport of Canne de Combat, refined in the nineteenth century). The club met the blade the swordsman had drawn from its scabbard, after returning the useless pistol back in his belt, and shattered the sword like glass, so that nothing remained but the hilt in La Râpée’s fist. The end of the club even reached his shoulder, and raised a bruise, fairly slight in truth, the force of the blow having been broken.

The pair of enemies, finding themselves face to face, for the one was still descending while the other was trying to climb, grasped each other by the arms, and tried to hurl one another into the black abyss of the moat yawning beneath them. Though La Râpée was a villain full of skill and vigour, a mass like that of the Tyrant was not easy to shake. It was like trying to uproot a tower. Herod had interlaced his feet beneath the trunk of the tree, and held on as if with riveted crampons. La Râpée, squeezed in Herod’s arms, no less muscular than those of Hercules, sweated and panted as he sought to breathe. Almost flattened against the Tyrant’s broad chest, he pressed his hands against his opponent’s shoulders, to escape that formidable embrace. With a clever feint, Herod loosened his grip a little, and the swordsman rose up, sucking in a large, deep gulp of air. Then Herod suddenly released him, caught him lower down at the waist, and, raising him in the air, forced him from his feet. Now the Tyrant had only to release his hold to send La Râpée plunging through the duckweed covering the moat. Herod opened his hands wide and the swordsman fell; but he was a nimble, and vigorous fellow, as we have said, and with his clenched fingers, he clutched at the tree, his body hanging suspended over the abyss, as he sought to clasp the trunk with his legs and feet. He failed, and remained extended like a capital I, his arm straining to hold the weight of his body. His fingers, since he was unwilling to let go, dug into the bark like iron claws, and the sinews of his hand were taut to the point of snapping, like the strings of a violin whose tuning-pegs are tightened too far. In daylight, one would have seen blood spurt from his bluish nails.

His situation was scarcely pleasant. Hanging by one arm, stretched horribly by the weight of his body, La Râpée, in addition to physical suffering, experienced the dizzying horror of falling, as well as the power of attraction inspired by the abyss. His dilated eyes stared fixedly into the dark depths below; he felt a sharp ringing in his ears that pierced his brain and made his temples throb; he felt a desire to let himself fall, which almost overcame the perennial instinct for self-preservation: he knew not how to swim, and the moat seemed likely to prove his tomb.

Despite his fierce air, and overbearing eyebrows, Herod, deep down, was good-natured. He felt sorry for this poor devil, who had been dangling in the air for a few minutes which must have seemed to him as long as eternity, and whose anguish and agony were excruciating. Leaning over the tree trunk, he said to La Râpée:

— ‘You rogue, swear on your life in the next world, for your life here belongs to me, to relinquish the fight and I’ll unfasten you from the gallows from which you hang like the wicked thief you are.’

— ‘I swear,’ rasped the exhausted La Râpée in a hollow voice: ‘but hurry, please, I’m failing.’

With Herculean strength, Herod seized the villain’s arm and, thanks to his prodigious grip, pulled the man onto the tree where he placed him as if on horseback in front of him, handling him with as much ease as a rag doll.

Although La Râpée was no weakling subject to faints, he was almost swooning when the actor pulled him from the abyss, into which, without that mighty arm supporting him, he would have fallen, an inert mass.

— ‘I have no smelling-salts to rouse you, nor feathers to burn beneath your nose,’ the Tyrant told him, searching his pockets; ‘but here is a cordial that will restore you; it is pure brandy from Hendaye (in the Basque country, on the right bank of the River Bidasoa, marking the Franco-Spanish border), and the quintessence of sunlight.’ And he applied the neck of the bottle to the lips of the failing swordsman.

— ‘Come, suck on this milk; two or three more mouthfuls and you’ll be as lively as a merlin when unhooded.’ The warming liquor soon had an effect on the swordsman, who thanked Herod with a gesture of his hand, and waved his numb arm about to restore its flexibility.

— ‘Move!’ Herod added, turning La Râpée about so that he was seated astride the trunk, but facing in the opposite direction.

La Râpée, slid forward, and the Tyrant followed. Arriving at the foot of the tree, with Herod behind him, the swordsman saw a group on sentry duty, at the edge of the moat, composed of Agostin, Azolan and Basque. ‘Friend!’ La Râpée called to them in a loud voice and, turning his head, said in a low voice to the actor: ‘Don’t say a word, and stay at my heels.’

Once they were on firm ground, he approached Azolan and whispered the password in his ear. Then he added: ‘This comrade and I are injured, and we are going to withdraw to one side to wash our wounds and bandage them.’

Azolan nodded. Nothing could be more natural than this tale. La Râpée and the Tyrant moved away. When they were under the cover of the trees which, though leafless, were sufficient to hide them, aided by the darkness of night, the swordsman said to Herod: ‘You have, most generously, granted me my life. I’ve saved you from death, for these three fellows would have overcome you. I’ve paid my debt, but don’t consider myself quits; if you ever need me, you’ll find me. Now go about your business. Go that way, I’ll go this.’

Herod, left alone, continued to follow the path, glancing through the trees at the accursed castle which, to his great regret, he had been unable to enter. No light shone from the windows, except on the side of the assault, and the rest of the manor was buried in shadow and silence. However, on the opposite facade, the rising moon was beginning to cast a soft glow, glazing the violet slates of the roof with silver. The nascent light allowed him to make out a man on sentry duty, his shadow falling across a small esplanade at the edge of the moat. It was Labriche, who was guarding the boat in which Mérindol, La Râpée, Azolan, and Agostin had crossed the water.

This sight gave Herod thought. ‘What the devil can the fellow be doing all alone in this deserted place while his comrades are wielding their knives? No doubt for fear of surprise, or to ensure their retreat, he’s guarding some secret passage, some hidden postern through which, perhaps, after stunning him with a blow to the head with my club, I’ll be able to penetrate this wretched castle and show Sigognac I’ve not forgotten him.’

Reasoning in this manner, Herod, paused his steps, then, making no more noise than if his soles had been made of felt, approached the sentry with that quiet, feline slowness with which large men are often endowed. When he was within range, he struck him a blow on the head sufficient to incapacitate, but not to kill, the recipient. As we have seen, Herod was not a cruel man, in general, and had no wish to slay the sinner.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - Herod…approached the sentry…

‘Herod…approached the sentry…’

Labriche, as surprised as if lightning had struck him on a clear day, fell with his limbs in the air, then ceased to move, as the force of the blow had stunned him, and made him swoon. Herod advanced to the parapet of the moat and saw that where a narrow gap in the railing appeared a diagonal staircase ended, cut into the wall of the moat, and leading to the bottom, or at least to the level of the water lapping its last steps. The Tyrant descended cautiously and, on feeling his foot enter the water, stopped, trying to pierce the darkness with his gaze. He soon made out the shape of the boat moored in the shadow of the wall, and drew it towards him by means of the chain that tied it to the foot of the steps. Freeing it from the chain was a trivial exercise for the robust tragedian, and he entered the boat, which his weight set rocking. When the oscillations had subsided, and his balance was restored, Herod gently worked the single oar at the stern that served both as means of propulsion and a rudder. The boat, yielding to the impulse, soon emerged from the area in shadow to enter an arc of light, where moonlight trembled in icy scales on the oily water. The pale light revealed to Herod, a small staircase, at the foot of the château, beneath a brick arcade. He landed, and climbing the vaulted steps, arrived without hindrance at the inner courtyard, which was completely deserted at that time.

— ‘So here I am at the heart of the castle,’ Herod said to himself, rubbing his hands together; ‘my courage enjoys a firmer footing on these wide, well-cemented slabs, than on that leafy parrot’s perch from which I descended. Now, let me but find my bearings, and join my comrades.’

He noted the steps guarded by the pair of stone sphinxes and judged, wisely, that this architectural entrance led to the richest rooms of the mansion, where Vallombreuse had doubtless imprisoned the young actress and where the battle in defence of that lady was to be fought, a Helen without a Menelaus, but with more virtue than usual, especially in Paris. The sphinxes made no attempt to raise their claws to stop him as he passed by.

Victory seemed to rest with the assailants. Bringuenarilles, Tordgueule, and Piedgris lay on the floor like calves on straw. Malartic, the leader of the band, had been disarmed. But in reality, the victors were captives. The door of the room, locked on the outside, stood between them and the object of their mission, and this door, made of thick oak, adorned with elegant polished steel fittings, seemed an insurmountable obstacle to people who possessed neither axes nor pliers to break it down. Sigognac, Lampourde, and Scapin, leaning their shoulders against the panels, tried to force it, but it held firm, and their combined strength proved insufficient.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - Victory seemed to rest with the assailants.

‘Victory seemed to rest with the assailants.’

— ‘We could set fire to it,’ said Sigognac, in despair, ‘there are burning logs in the hearth.’

— ‘It would take too long,’ replied Lampourde, ‘oak burns slowly; let us rather lift this chest and employ it as a sort of battering ram capable of shattering this over-bearing obstruction.’

His idea was put into effect, and the curious piece of furniture, worked with delicate carvings, seized roughly and swung with force, struck the solid panels, but without success other than to scratch the polish, and shear off a pretty, and charmingly carved, head of an angel or cupid which formed one of its corners. The Baron was furious, brooding over the fact that Vallombreuse had left, taking Isabella with him, despite the young girl’s desperate resistance.

Suddenly, a loud noise was heard. The branches that had blocked the window vanished, and the tree fell into the waters of the moat with a crash, mingled with human cries, those of the troupe’s porter who had been stopped in his tracks, the trunk he was on no longer offering him passage. Azolan, Agostin, and Basque had had the brilliant idea of pushing the tree into the water in order to cut off the besiegers’ retreat.

— ‘If we can’t demolish this door,’ said Lampourde, ‘we'll be caught like rats in a trap. Damn the carpenters of old who worked so thoroughly! I’ll try and chisel out the wood round the lock with my dagger to release it, since it’s shut so tightly. We must get free of here at all costs; we no longer have the resource of clinging to that tree-trunk like the bears to theirs, in the moat (the bear-pit, the Bärengraben), in Berne.’

Lampourde was about to set to work on the lock, when a slight creaking sound, like that of a key turning, sounded, and the door, which they had attacked in vain, opened of its own accord.

— ‘Who is the good angel,’ cried Sigognac, ‘who comes to our aid in this way? And by what miracle does the door give way of itself, after having resisted so long?’

— ‘Neither angel nor miracle,’ answered Chiquita,’ emerging from behind the door, and fixing her calm and mysterious gaze on the Baron.

— ‘Where is Isabella?’ cried Sigognac, scanning the room dimly lit by the flickering glow of a small lamp. He could not see her at first. The Duke of Vallombreuse, surprised by the sudden opening of the door, had backed into a corner, placing the young actress, half-fainting with terror and fatigue, behind him; she had collapsed to her knees, her head resting against the wall, her hair unbound and floating about her face, her clothes in disorder, the press-studs of her bodice broken, so desperately had she writhed in the arms of her captor, who, feeling his prey about to escape him, had tried, in vain, to steal a few lascivious kisses, like a faun pursued, dragging a young nymph into the depths of the woods.

— ‘She is here,’ said Chiquita, ‘in that corner, behind Vallombreuse; but to rescue the woman, you must first kill the man.’

— ‘Have no fear, he shall die,’ cried Sigognac, advancing, sword levelled, straight towards the young duke, who had already taken up a defensive stance.

— ‘That remains to be seen, Captain Fracasse, champion of the gypsies,’ replied the young duke with an air of perfect disdain.

Their blades engaged, and followed each other, turning about one another with that cautious slowness which skilled fencers bring to the deadliest fights. Vallombreuse was not unequal in strength to Sigognac; but he had, as befitted a man of his quality, spent many hours in the academies, wet more than one shirt in the fencing-halls, and learned from the finest fencing-masters. His sword was therefore not held like a broom, as Lampourde disdainfully said of the clumsy blades-men who, according to him, dishonoured the profession. Knowing how formidable his adversary was, the young duke was on the defensive, parrying blows and delivering none. He hoped to exhaust Sigognac, already tired by the attack on the castle and his duel with Malartic, the Duke having heard the clash of swords behind the door. However, while eluding the Baron’s sword, his left hand searched at his chest for a small silver whistle suspended by a chain. When he found it, he raised it to his lips and drew forth a high-pitched and prolonged sound. This movement looked to cost him dearly; the Baron’s sword almost nailed his hand to his mouth; but the point, raised in a somewhat late riposte, only grazed the thumb. Vallombreuse resumed his guard. He cast wild glances like those of a jettatore (a caster of the evil eye), or a basilisk, which possess the power to slay; the corners of his mouth were twisted in a smile of diabolical wickedness, he radiated self-assured ferocity, and without leaving himself unguarded he advanced on Sigognac, thrusting at him, though his moves were always parried.

Malartic, Lampourde, and Scapin watched, with keen interest and admiration this contest on which the fate of the whole battle depended, the leaders of the two opposing parties now fighting hand to hand. Scapin had even brought torches from the other room so that the rivals could see more clearly. A touching display of thoughtfulness!

— ‘The little duke is not doing so badly,’ said Lampourde, as an impartial assessor of merit. ‘I would not have believed him capable of such a defence; but if he lunges, he is lost. Captain Fracasse has a longer arm than he. Ah! The Devil, that demi-cercle parry was not tight enough. What did I tell you? His enemy’s sword has passed through the opening. Vallombreuse is hit; no, he made a most opportune retreat.’

At the same instant a tumultuous noise of approaching footsteps was heard. A panel in the wainscoting was thrown open with a crash, and five or six armed footmen rushed impetuously into the room.

— ‘Take the woman away,’ Vallombreuse shouted to them, ‘and attack these rascals. I’ll take care of the captain,’ and he ran at the latter with raised sword.

The irruption of these marauders surprised Sigognac. He relaxed his guard a little; for he was following with his eyes the completely unconscious Isabella, whom two footmen, protected by the duke, were dragging towards the staircase, and in consequence Vallombreuse’s sword grazed his wrist. Brought back to the seriousness of the situation by this graze, he drove at the duke with a full-bore thrust which struck the duke above the collarbone and saw him stagger.

Meanwhile, Lampourde and Scapin received the lackeys in fine style; Lampourde speared them with his long rapier, like rats, and Scapin hammered their heads with the butt of a pistol he had retrieved. Seeing their master wounded and leaning against the wall, resting on the hilt of his sword, his face covered with a pale pallor, those wretched scoundrels, weak in spirit and courage, abandoned the fight, and took to flight. It is true that Vallombreuse was unloved by his servants, to whom he behaved like a tyrant rather than a master, and whom he brutalised with mad ferocity.

— ‘To me, you scoundrels! To me,’ he sighed in a feeble voice. ‘Will you leave your duke thus, without help or succour?’

While these incidents were taking place, Herod, as we have said, was ascending, with as brisk a step as his corpulence would allow, the grand staircase, lit, since Vallombreuse’s arrival at the castle, by a large, and highly ornate lantern suspended from a cable of twined silk. He reached the landing of the first floor, at the very moment when Isabella, dishevelled, pale, and inert, was being carried off like a corpse, by the footmen. He believed that due to her virtuous resistance the young duke had killed her, or had her killed, and, exasperated to a fury by this idea, he fell with great blows of his sword on the marauders, who, surprised by this sudden aggression against which they could not defend themselves, and having their hands restrained, dropped their prey and scampered off as if the devil had been on their tail. Herod, bending down, raised Isabella, rested her head on his knee, laid his hand on her heart and made sure it was still beating. He saw that she appeared to have no injury, and was beginning to sigh weakly, like a person whose consciousness is gradually returning.

In this posture, he was soon joined by Sigognac, who had dispatched Vallombreuse, with that furious thrust so admired by Lampourde. The Baron knelt beside his friend, took her hands and in a voice that Isabella heard vaguely as if from the depths of a dream, he said to her: ‘Gather yourself, dear soul, and fear no more. You are in the arms of your friends; no one can harm you now.’

Although she had not yet opened her eyes, a languid smile appeared on Isabella’s discoloured lips, and her pale fingers, damp with the cold sweat of her swoon, imperceptibly clasped Sigognac’s hand. Lampourde looked with a tender air at this touching group, for displays of gallantry interested him, and he claimed to greater knowledge than others where matters of the heart were concerned.

Suddenly, an imperious horn-blast shattered the silence that had succeeded the tumult of battle. After a few moments it was repeated, with strident and prolonged fury. It was the call of a master who must be obeyed. A rattling of chains was heard. A dull thud indicated the lowering of the drawbridge; a whirl of wheels thundered beneath the vaulted entrance, and suddenly, through the windows of the staircase, blazed the red glow of torches scattered throughout the courtyard. The door of the vestibule turned noisily upon its hinges, and hurried footsteps sounded in the echoing stairwell.

Soon four footmen in full livery appeared, carrying lighted wax candles with that impassive air and silent eagerness possessed by valets of a great house. Behind them rode a man of noble appearance, dressed from head to toe in black velvet trimmed with jet. An order, one of those reserved for kings and princes, or bestowed only upon the most illustrious of personages, shone on his chest, against the dark background fabric. Arriving at the landing, the footmen lined up like statues, against the wall, holding torches in their hands, without a single flutter of their eyelids, without a single twitch of their muscles, indicating, in any way, that they saw the rather singular spectacle before their eyes. Their master had not yet spoken; they therefore could have no opinion as regards the scene.

The black-clad lord stopped on the landing. Although age had wrinkled his forehead and cheeks, yellowed his complexion, and whitened his hair, he could still be recognised as the original of the portrait that had caught Isabella’s eye, in her distress, and whom she had implored as seemingly a friendly figure. It was the prince, the father of Vallombreuse. The son held a duchy, while waiting for the natural order of succession to appoint him in turn head of the family.

At the sight of Isabella, who was being supported by Herod and Sigognac, and whose bloodless pallor gave her a deathly appearance, the prince raised his arms to heaven with a sigh. ‘I have arrived too late,’ he said, ‘despite my diligence,’ and he bent down towards the young actress, taking her inert hand.

On the ring-finger of this hand, which was as white as if sculpted in alabaster, shone a ring, the bezel of which was a large amethyst. The old lord seemed strangely troubled at the sight. He took the ring from Isabella’s finger with a convulsive trembling, signalled to one of the torch-bearing footmen to approach, and by the brighter light of the wax candle deciphered the coat of arms engraved on the stone, holding the ring close to the light and then moving it away to better grasp the details with his weak eyesight.

Sigognac, Herod and Lampourde anxiously followed the prince’s wild gestures and change of countenance at the sight of this jewel, which he seemed to know well, and which he turned over and over in his hands, as if unable to bring himself to accept a painful idea.

— ‘Where is Vallombreuse,’ he called, finally, in a thunderous voice, ‘where is that monster unworthy of my name?’

He had recognised the ring, beyond any doubt, the ring adorned with a fanciful coat of arms with which he had formerly sealed the notes he wrote to Cornelia, Isabella’s mother. ‘How did this ring come to be on the finger of this young actress carried off by Vallombreuse, and from whom did she obtain it? Could she be Cornelia’s daughter,’ the prince said to himself, ‘and mine? The profession of actress that she practices, her age, her face, which reveals some of her mother’s features softened, everything concurs to make me believe it. Then it is his own sister that this damned libertine was pursuing, his love is incestuous. Oh! I am cruelly punished for my previous error.’

Isabella finally opened her eyes, and her first glance fell upon the prince holding the ring he had taken from her finger. It seemed to her that she had seen his face before, but young as yet, lacking white hair and this grey beard. He looked like an aged copy of the portrait hanging above the fireplace. A feeling of deep veneration invaded Isabella’s heart. She also saw beside her the brave Sigognac, and the good Herod, both safe and sound, and the nightmare of the struggle replaced by the security of deliverance. She had nothing more to fear for her friends, or for herself. Half-rising, she bowed her head before the prince, who contemplated her with passionate attention, and seemed to seek in the young girl’s features a resemblance to a face once beloved.

— ‘From whom, mademoiselle, did you obtain this ring which recalls certain memories? Have you had it in your possession for long?’ said the old lord in a moved voice.

— ‘Since I was a child, and it is the only inheritance I received from my mother,’ Isabella replied.

— ‘And who was your mother? What rank had she?’ said the prince with renewed interest.

— ‘Her name was Cornelia,’ Isabella replied, quietly, ‘and she was a poor provincial actress who played tragic queens and princesses in the troupe I still belong to.’

— ‘Cornelia! No doubt then,’ said the troubled prince, ‘yes, it is indeed she’; but, controlling his emotion, he resumed a calm and majestic air, and said to Isabella: ‘Allow me to retain this ring. I will return it to you when needed.’

— ‘It is fine for it to rest in your Lordship’s hands,’ replied the young actress, in whom, amidst the hazy memories of childhood, there was a glimpse of a figure that, when very small, she had seen leaning towards her cradle.

— ‘Gentlemen,’ said the prince, fixing his firm and clear gaze on Sigognac and his companions, ‘in any other circumstance I might find your armed presence in my castle strange; but I know the motive that made you invade this hitherto sacred dwelling. Violence calls for violence, and justifies it. I will close my eyes to what has just occurred. But where is the Duke of Vallombreuse, that degenerate son who dishonours my old age?’

At that very moment, as if he had responded to his father’s call, Vallombreuse appeared, on the threshold of the room, supported by Malartic; he was deathly pale, and his clenched hand clutched a handkerchief to his chest. He was walking, but as ghosts walk however, without raising his feet. A fierce determination, the effort of which granted his features the immobility of a marble mask, and the voice of his father whom, depraved as he himself had become, he still feared, were the only things that held him upright. He had hoped to hide his wound from his father. He bit his lips to keep from crying out, and swallowed the bloody foam that rose at the corners of his mouth; he even doffed his hat to the prince, despite the excruciating pain caused by raising his arm, and remained thus bare-headed and silent.

— ‘Sir,’ said the prince, ‘your escapades are beyond bounds, and your behaviour such that I shall be forced to implore the king on your behalf, for the favour of either a dungeon or perpetual exile. Abduction, sequestration, rape are no longer gallantry, and if I could forgive you the errors of licentious youth, I can never excuse coldly meditated crime. Do you know, monster,’ he continued, approaching Vallombreuse and speaking in his ear so as to be heard by no other, ‘do you know who this young girl is, this Isabella, whom you have abducted in spite of her virtuous resistance? She is — your sister!’

— ‘Then, may she replace the son you are about to lose!’ replied Vallombreuse, overcome by a faintness that brought the sweat of agony to light on his livid face. ‘But I am not as guilty as you believe. Isabella is pure, I attest it in the name of the God before whom I am about to appear. Those on the point of death are not wont to lie, and one should accept the word of a dying gentleman.’

This sentence was spoken in a voice loud enough to be heard by all. Isabella turned her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, towards Sigognac, and saw on the face of that perfect lover that he had not needed this attestation in extremis of Vallombreuse, to believe in the virtue of the one he loved.

— ‘But what ails you?’ said the prince, extending his hand towards the young duke, who was tottering despite Malartic’s support.

— ‘Nothing, father,’ Vallombreuse replied in a barely articulate voice, ‘nothing... I am dying,’ and he fell, on his back, on the flagstones of the landing, without Malartic being able to prevent it.

— ‘He has not fallen on his face,’ said Jacquemin Lampourde sententiously. ‘It’s merely a swoon; he may yet recover. We swordsmen know more about these things than surgeons and apothecaries.’

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …He fell, on his back, on the flagstones of the landing…

‘…He fell, on his back, on the flagstones of the landing…’

— ‘A doctor! A doctor!’ cried the prince at the sight of his son, forgetting his anger. ‘Perhaps there is still some hope. A fortune to he who saves him, the last scion of a noble race! Come! What are you doing here? Run, hasten!’

Two of the impassive footmen, whose torches lit the scene, detached themselves, in the blink of an eye, from the wall, and sped away to carry out their master’s orders. Other servants, lifted Vallombreuse, with every imaginable precaution, and, on his father’s orders, carried him to his apartment, where they laid him on his bed.

The old lord followed this lamentable procession with a look in which pain had already quenched criticism. He saw his race ended in this son, simultaneously loved and hated, whose vices he forgot at this moment, recalling only his brilliant qualities. A profound melancholy invaded him, and he remained awhile plunged in a silence that all respected.

Isabella, completely recovered from her faint, stood, eyes lowered, near to Sigognac and Herod, while modestly adjusting the disorder of her clothes. Lampourde and Scapin, a little behind, faded into the background like statues, and, in the doorway, could be glimpsed the faces, full of curiosity, of the swordsmen who had taken part in the fight, anxious about their fate since they feared being sent to the galleys, or the gallows, for having helped Vallombreuse in his evil ventures.

Finally, the prince broke this embarrassed silence, and said: ‘Leave the château at once, all you who have placed your swords at the service of my son’s evil passions. I am too much of a gentleman to act as judge and executioner. Fly, vanish, return to your lairs. Justice will know how to find you there.’

Their dismissal was less than gracious; but it would have been out of place to show too fierce a resentment. The swordsmen, whom Lampourde had set free at the beginning of this scene, withdrew, without asking for what they were owed, along with Malartic their leader.

When they had withdrawn, Vallombreuse’s father took Isabella by the hand, and drawing her forth from the group in which she had sheltered, made her stand near him, saying: ‘Stay here, mademoiselle; your place is now at my side. A daughter, at least, is restored to me, though his actions have lost me a son,’ and he wiped away the tear which, in spite of himself, had overspilled his eyelid. Then, turning towards Sigognac with a gesture of incomparable nobility, he added: ‘Sir, you may leave with your companions. Isabella has nothing to fear from her father, and this castle will be her home henceforth. Now that her lineage is known, it is not appropriate for my daughter to return to Paris. It seems I have paid dearly enough for this revelation. I thank you, sir, even though it has cost me all hope of the male line being perpetuated, for having prevented my son performing a shameful action, nay, perpetrating an abominable crime! I would rather my coat of arms was stained with blood, and not mud. Since Vallombreuse’s actions proved infamous, you did well to kill him; You behaved as a true gentleman, and I am assured that you are such, in protecting weakness, innocence, and virtue. It was your right. The honour of a daughter saved redeems the death of her brother. That is what reason tells me; but my paternal heart murmurs against it, and unjust ideas of revenge could seize me which I might prove unable to control. Disappear, I will order no pursuit, and will seek to forget that it was your blade that rigorous necessity directed to my son’s breast!’

— ‘My lord,’ replied Sigognac in a tone of the deepest respect, ‘I acknowledge the father’s grief to the extent that I would, without saying a word, accept the vilest, most bitter condemnation on his part, though in this fatal conflict my loyalty deserves no reproach. I will not seek to justify myself in your eyes, since that would be to accuse the unfortunate Duke of Vallombreuse; but know that I did not seek him out, that he threw himself in my path and that I did everything, in more than one encounter, to spare him. Here, it was his blind fury that drove him onto my blade. I leave in your hands Isabella, who is dearer to me than life, and I withdraw, forever desolate over this melancholy victory, a defeat, in truth, for me, since it destroys my happiness. Ah! How much better it would have been if I had been killed, a victim instead of a murderer!’

Thereupon, Sigognac bowed to the prince, and, giving Isabella a long look full of love and regret, descended the stairs, followed by Scapin and Lampourde, not without turning his head more than once, to view again the young girl leaning against the railing for fear of fainting, raising her handkerchief to her tearful eyes. Was it the death of her brother or the departure of Sigognac that she wept over? I imagine it was due to Sigognac’s departure, the aversion that Vallombreuse had inspired in her not having changed to tenderness, as yet, at the sudden revelation of kinship. At least the Baron, modest though he was, judged it so, and, the human heart being a strange thing, he went away consoled by the tears of the one he loved.

Sigognac and his troop crossed the drawbridge, and while skirting the moat on their way to retrieve their horses from the small wood where they had left them, they heard a plaintive voice rising from the moat at the very spot where the fallen tree lay. It was the theatre porter, who had been unable to free himself from the tangle of branches, and was crying piteously for help, his head alone above the water, and he at risk of swallowing that insipid liquid which he hated more than the bitterest medicine, every time he opened his mouth to call for help. Scapin, who being the most agile and lithe of body, ventured out onto the tree trunk and soon fished the porter out, who was dripping with water and aquatic weed. The horses had not moved from cover, and soon mounted by their riders, happily took the road back to Paris.

— ‘What think you of all these events, Monsieur le Baron?’ Herod asked Sigognac, who was riding close beside him. ‘It seemed like the ending to a tragicomedy. Who could have expected, in the midst of the fight, the entrance of the noble father preceded by torches, arriving to put a stop to the excessive antics of his son? And his recognition of Isabella by means of the ring, an emblazoned seal? Have we not seen it before on the stage? After all, since the theatre is an image of life, life must resemble it as the original does its portrait. I had always heard it said in the troupe that Isabella was of noble birth. Blazius and Leonarda even remembered having seen the prince before, when still only a duke, at the time he was paying court to Cornelia. Leonarda more than once urged the young girl to seek out her father; but she, gentle and modest by nature, did nothing of the sort, not wishing to impose herself on a family that might well have rejected her, and remained content with her modest lot.’

— ‘Yes, I was aware of that,’ replied Sigognac. ‘Without attaching undue importance to her illustrious origin, Isabella told me her mother’s story, and spoke of the ring. One might surmise, moreover, from the delicacy of feeling professed by that amiable girl, that there was noble blood in her veins. I would have guessed it even if she hadn't told me. Her fine, chaste and pure beauty revealed her lineage. Thus, my love for her has always been mixed with timidity and respect, though actresses are customarily open to gallantry. But the fatality of that damned Vallombreuse turning out to be none other than her brother! There is now the shadow of a corpse between she and I, a stream of blood separates us, and yet I could only save her honour by this death. Unhappy man that I am! I myself have created the obstacle on which my love must be shattered, and killed my own hope with the sword that defended my treasure. To preserve what I love, I have lost it forever. How dare I present myself, hands red with blood, to an Isabella dressed in mourning? Alas, the blood, I shed for her own defence, was her own brother’s! Even if she were to forgive me, and view me without horror, the prince who now has rights over her as a father, will deny and curse the murderer of his son. Oh! I was born under a malevolent star.’

— ‘All this is doubtless most lamentable,’ replied Herod, ‘yet the affairs of El Cid and Chimène were even more tangled, as we may see in the play by Pierre de Corneille, and still, after many struggles twixt love and duty, those same affairs were settled amicably, in the end, though not without some antitheses and agudezas (moments of intensity) which may seem a little forced, being in the Spanish style, but produce a good effect on the stage. Vallombreuse was only Isabella’s half-brother. They were not born of the same mother, and only for a few brief moments knew each other to be related, which must greatly diminish any feelings of resentment. And besides, our young friend hated, like the plague, that madman, who pursued her with violent and scandalous intent. The prince himself was scarcely pleased with a son as ferocious as Nero, as dissolute as Elagabalus, as perverse as Satan, and who would have been marked for the gallows twenty times, were it not for his status as a duke. So, despair not. Things may turn out better than you think.’

— ‘God willing, my good Herod,’ replied Sigognac, ‘but in the nature of things I foresee unhappiness. Ill luck dogs me; some evil faery presided over my birth. It would have been better had I been killed, since, given her father’s presence, Isabella’s virtue would have been preserved without the death of Vallombreuse, and then, if I must confess all, I know not what secret horror penetrated, icy cold, to the marrow of my bones, on seeing that handsome young man so full of life, fire and passion, suddenly fall, stiff, cold and pale, at my feet. Herod, the death of a human being is a most serious thing, and though I have no remorse, having committed no crime, I still see Vallombreuse lying there, his hair flowing over the marble staircase, and that red stain on his chest.’

— ‘That is but a bad dream,’ said Herod, ‘you did nothing wrong in slaying him. Your conscience may rest easy. A short gallop will dispel these scruples that are due to feverish action, and the chill of night. What we must consider is the need to leave Paris promptly, and reach some retreat while the affair is forgotten. The death of Vallombreuse will cause a stir at court, and in the city, however much care is taken to conceal it. And, even if he was scarcely loved, someone may challenge you. Now, without further discussion, let us spur our mounts and devour the ribbon of road that stretches before us, tiresome and greyish, between twin rows of trees like broomsticks under the cold light of this moon.’

The horses, urged on, adopted a livelier pace; but while the two comrades are journeying, let us return to the castle, as quiet now as it was noisy a while ago, and enter the room where the servants had left Vallombreuse. A branched candlestick, placed on a pedestal table, lit the chamber, its rays falling upon the bed of the young duke, motionless as a corpse, and seeming even paler against the crimson background of the curtains, and the reddish gleam of the silk coverlet. Ebony panelling, inlaid with copper, rose to the height of a man, and served as a base for a high-warp tapestry representing the story of Medea and Jason, filled with scenes of murder and sinister magic. Here, Medea was seen cutting Pelias into pieces, under the pretext of rejuvenating him, like Aeson. There, a jealous woman and unnatural mother, she was displayed slaughtering her children. On another panel, she was fleeing, intoxicated with vengeance, in her chariot drawn by fire-spouting dragons. Certainly, the tapestry was rich and beautiful, and from the hand of a craftsman; but these ferocious scenes from mythology had something lugubrious and cruel about them, betraying a fierce nature in the one who had chosen them. At the foot of the bed, the raised curtains revealed Jason fighting the monstrous brazen bulls, defenders of the golden fleece, and one might have thought Vallombreuse, lying inanimate beneath them, one of their victims.

Clothes of the most sumptuous elegance, tried on, and then disdained, were scattered here and there on the chairs, and in a large Japanese vase, adorned with blue and red designs, set on a table, of ebony like all the furniture in the room, a magnificent bouquet of the rarest flowers bowed, designed to replace the one Isabella had refused, but which had not reached its destination due to the unexpected attack on the castle. These superb flowers in full bloom, still fresh, and testimony to a gallant intent, contrasted strangely with the body stretched motionless, such that a moralist would have found there enough matter to philosophise to their heart’s content.

The prince, seated in an armchair beside the bed, gazed dully at this face as white as the lace pillow into which it had sunk. Its very pallor rendered the features purer and even more delicate. All that life can imprint of vulgarity on a human face had disappeared leaving a marble-like serenity, and never had Vallombreuse been more beautiful. No breath seemed to escape from the half-open lips, whose pomegranate hue had given way to the violet of death. Contemplating this handsome form that would soon dissolve, the prince forgot that a demonic soul had recently departed it, and thought sadly of the noble name that the past centuries had bequeathed to them, and which future centuries would not know. It was more than the death of his son that he deplored, it was the death of his House: a grief unknown to the bourgeoisie and to commoners. He held Vallombreuse’s icy hand between his own, and feeling a little warmth, thought it not his own, and yielded to illusory hope.

Isabella stood at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped, praying to God with all the fervour of her soul for this brother whose death she had caused, in all innocence, and who was paying with his life for the crime of having loved too much, a crime that women readily forgive, especially when they themselves are its object.

— ‘And the doctor is not yet here!’ said the prince impatiently. ‘Perhaps there is still some remedy.’

As he said these words, the door opened and the surgeon appeared, accompanied by a student carrying the instruments of the profession. After a slight bow, and without saying a word, the former went straight to the bed where the young duke lay, felt his pulse, placed his hand on the chest, and gave a sign of discouragement. However, to render his judgment scientifically certain, he took a small polished steel mirror from his pocket, and held it up to Vallombreuse’s lips, then examined the mirror carefully; a light mist had formed on the surface of the metal and was tarnishing it. The doctor, astonished, repeated his experiment. The steel was again misted. Isabella and the prince anxiously followed the actions of the surgeon, whose face had somewhat brightened.

— ‘Life is not completely extinguished,’ he said at last, turning to the prince, and wiping the mirror; ‘the wounded man still breathes, and as long as death has not laid its finger on a man, there is hope. But, nevertheless, do not give yourself over to a premature joy which would later render your grief more bitter. I have said that Monsieur le Duc de Vallombreuse has not breathed his last; that is all. From there to restoring him to health, is a great distance. Now I will examine his wound, which perhaps is not mortal since it did not immediately kill him.’

— ‘You need not stay, Isabella,’ said the father. ‘Such sights are too tragic and distressing for a young girl. You will be informed of the doctor’s verdict when he has completed his examination.’

The young girl withdrew, preceded by a footman who led her to another apartment, the one she occupied still being in disorder, having been ransacked during the struggle which had taken place there.

With the help of his student, the surgeon undid Vallombreuse’s doublet, tore off the shirt, and revealed a chest as white as ivory, in which a narrow, triangular wound, studded with a few drops of blood, was visible. The wound had bled little. The effusion had been internal. The servant of Aesculapius (the ancient Greek god of medicine) opened the edges of the wound and probed it. A slight shudder contracted the face of the patient, whose eyes remained closed, and who moved no more than a statue on a tomb in the family chapel.

— ‘Good,’ said the surgeon, observing this painful contraction; ‘he is suffering therefore he is alive. This sensitivity is a favourable omen.’

— ‘Will he recover?’ said the prince. ‘If you save him, I will make you rich, I will grant all your wishes; whatever you ask for, you shall have.’

— ‘Ah! Let us not speculate so,’ said the doctor. ‘I cannot answer for anything as yet; the blade passed through the top of the right lung. The case is serious, very serious. However, as the subject is young, healthy, vigorous, built, if not for this cursed wound, to live a hundred years, it is possible that he will survive, barring any unforeseen complications: there are examples of recovery in such situations. Nature grants the young great resources! The sap of life, still mounting, quickly repairs losses, and amends the damage! With suction cups and a little surgery, I will try to clear the chest of all the blood that has accumulated internally, and would have ended up suffocating Monsieur le Duc, if he had not fortunately fallen into the hands of a man of science, a rare occurrence in these villages and castles far from Paris. Come, you scoundrel,’ he continued, addressing his pupil, ‘instead of gazing at me like a clock face with those big round eyes, roll up the bandages, and fold the compresses, so I can attend to the first dressing.’

When the operation was over, the surgeon said to the prince: ‘My lord, please order camp beds to be set up for us in a corner of this room, and a light snack for us, as my student and I will take turns watching over the Duke of Vallombreuse. It is important that I am here, attending to each symptom, combating it if it is unfavourable, aiding it if it proves the opposite. Have confidence in me, my lord, and believe that all that human science can attempt in order to deny death, will be done, with the correct balance of boldness and prudence. Return to your apartments. I will answer for the life of your son... until tomorrow.’

Somewhat calmed by this assurance, the prince withdrew to his chambers, where every hour a footman appeared bringing him news of the young duke’s condition.

In the new lodgings assigned to her, Isabella found the same chambermaid, previously gloomy and fierce, waiting to undress her; only the expression of her countenance had changed completely. Her eyes shone with a singular brilliance, and the radiance of hatred satisfied illuminated her pale face. Vengeance, having arrived at last for some unknown outrage, silently nursed in cold impotent rage, had transformed the mute spectre into a living woman. She arranged Isabella’s beautiful hair with ill-disguised pleasure, helped the young girl’s arms into the sleeves of her nightgown complacently, knelt to take off her shoes, and appeared as thoughtful as she had been surly. Her lips, so well-sealed until recently, brimmed with questions. But Isabella, preoccupied with the tumultuous events of the evening, paid her scant attention, nor did she note the twitching of the maid’s eyebrows and air of irritation when a servant appeared, to say that all hope was not lost for the duke. At this news, the joy disappeared from her dark face, illuminated for a moment, and she resumed her gloomy attitude until the moment when her mistress dismissed her with a kind gesture.

Lying in a soft bed, well-made to serve as an altar to Morpheus, and yet which sleep was in no hurry to visit, Isabella tried to understand the feelings inspired in her by this sudden reversal of destiny. Only yesterday she had been merely a poor actress, with no other name than that by which the posters at the corners of crossroads designated her. Today, a nobleman recognised her as his daughter, a humble flower on one of the grafts to that powerful genealogical tree whose roots plunged so far into the past, and which bore on each branch an illustrious man, a hero! The prince so venerable, and whose only superiors were crowned heads, was her father. The dread Duke of Vallombreuse, so handsome despite his perversity, from admirer was become brother, and if he survived, his passion would doubtless fade to a pure and calm friendship. This castle, formerly her prison, had become her dwelling; she was at home there, and the servants obeyed her with a respect that was no longer constrained or simulated. All the dreams that the wildest ambition could have nurtured, fate had taken it upon itself to accomplish for her, and almost without her participation. From what seemed to be her ruin, her fortunes had emerged radiant, improbable, beyond all expectation.

Filled, thus, with happiness, Isabella was surprised not to feel greater joy; her soul needed to accustom itself to this new order of ideas. Perhaps, even without fully realising it, she regretted her life on the stage; but what dominated everything was the idea of Sigognac. Did this change in her position distance her, or bring her closer to, that lover so perfect, so devoted, so courageous? Poor, she had refused him as a husband for fear of hindering his fortune; rich, it would be her dearest duty to offer him her hand. The acknowledged daughter of a prince could well become the Baronne de Sigognac. Yet the Baron had, most likely, ended Vallombreuse’s life. Their hands could not join over a grave. If the young duke failed to succumb, perhaps he would retain from his wound, and above all his defeat, for his pride was more sensitive than his flesh, a long-lasting resentment. The prince, for his part, was capable, however good and generous he was, of looking unfavourably on the man who had almost deprived him of a son; he might well desire another alliance for Isabella; yet, inwardly, the young girl promised herself that she would be faithful to that love born when she was merely an actress, and to enter a religious order, rather than accept a duke, a marquis, a count, her suitor being as handsome as the day, and as gifted as a prince in fairy tales.

Satisfied with this resolution, she was about to fall asleep, when a slight noise made her open her eyes again, and she saw Chiquita, standing at the foot of the bed, gazing at her in silence with a meditative air.

— ‘What do you want, dear child?’ Isabella said to her in her sweetest voice. ‘You haven’t departed with the others? If you wish to stay near me, I will retain you, for you have done me much service.’

— ‘I love you greatly,’ replied Chiquita, ‘but I cannot stay, as long as Agostin lives. The blades of Albacete say: ‘Soy de un dueño,’ which means: ‘I have only one master,’ a beautiful saying worthy of loyal steel. Yet I have one wish. If you think that I’ve repaid you for the pearl necklace, kiss me. I have never been kissed. It must feel fine!’

— ‘Oh, with all my heart!’ said Isabella, taking the child’s head in her hands, and kissing her brown cheeks, which blushed with emotion.

— ‘Now, farewell!’ said Chiquita, who had regained her usual calm.

She was about to leave as she had entered, when she noticed on the table that knife, the use of which she had taught the young actress so that she might defend herself against Vallombreuse’s assaults, and said to Isabella: ‘Return my knife to me, you won’t need it anymore.’ Then she disappeared.

Chapter XVIII: En Famille

The surgeon had given his assurance that Vallombreuse would live till the following day. His promise had been kept. That morning, upon entering the disordered room, where bloody linen lay scattered on the tables, he found his young patient still breathing. His eyelids were half-open, revealing a dull, glassy gaze full of the vague terror of annihilation. Through the mist of his swoons, the gaunt mask of death had appeared to him, and at times, his eyes, resting on a fixed point, seemed to discern some terrifying object invisible to others. To escape this hallucination, he would lower his long eyelashes, whose black fringes brought out the pallor of his cheeks, which were invaded by waxen tones, and would hold them stubbornly closed. Then the vision would vanish, and his face would take on a less alarmed expression, and on opening them he was once more able to see about him. Slowly his soul returned from limbo, and his heart, to the doctor’s attentive ear, began to murmur again with faint beats, weak pulsations, muffled testimonies of life, which only science could hear. The half-open lips revealed the whiteness of the teeth and simulated a languid smile, sadder than the contractions of suffering, for it was the one that the approach of eternal rest brings to human mouths: however, some light crimson nuances mingled with the violet tints and showed that the blood was gradually resuming its course.

Standing at the bedside of the wounded man, Master Laurent the surgeon observed these symptoms, so difficult to interpret, with a deep and perceptive attention. Master Laurent was an educated man who, to be as well-known as he deserved to be, had only lacked the right connections until now. His talent had only been exercised in anima vili (on some humble creature), and he had cured peasants, petty bourgeois, soldiers, clerks, prosecutors and other more minor officers of justice, whose life or death won him scant applause or blame. He therefore attached enormous importance to the cure of the young duke. His self-esteem and his ambition were equally at stake in this duel that he was maintaining against death. To preserve the glory of his triumph intact, he had told the prince, who wished to summon the most famous doctors from Paris, that he alone would suffice for the task, and that nothing was more serious than a sudden change of treatment where such a wound was concerned.

— ‘No, he will not die,’ he said to himself, while examining the young duke, ‘he lacks the ‘Hippocratic face’ (the facial expression associated with approaching death, first described by Hippocrates), his limbs retain their suppleness, and he has borne well that dawn anguish which intensifies illness and signifies a fatal crisis. Besides, he must live, his salvation is my fortune. I will tear him from the bony clasp of the grim reaper, this handsome young man, heir to a noble race! The sculptors will have to wait a long time before carving his marble tomb. It is he who will drag me away from this village where I vegetate. Let us first try, at the risk of causing a fever, to restore a little strength to him with an energy-granting cordial.’

Opening his own medicine box, since his famulus (assistant), who had watched for part of the night, was sleeping on an improvised camp-bed, he brought forth several small bottles containing variously-coloured essences some red as rubies, others green as emeralds, some golden yellow, others of a diamantine translucency. Abbreviated Latin labels, cabalistic formulae as far as the uninformed were concerned, were stuck to the crystalline bottles. Master Laurent, though self-assured, re-read the titles of the vials he had set aside, several times; held up their contents to the light, taking advantage of the rays of the rising sun which filtered through the curtains; weighed the quantities he took from each bottle in a silver test tube whose capacity he knew; and composed of the whole a potion, according to a recipe, the secret of which was his alone.

The mixture prepared, he woke his famulus and ordered him to raise Vallombreuse’s head a little, then he parted the patient’s teeth, by means of a thin spatula, and managed to introduce between their double row of pearls the thin neck of the bottle. A few drops of the liquid reached the young duke’s palate, and their acrid and powerful flavour made his motionless features contract slightly. A mouthful descended into the chest, soon followed by another, and the entire dose, to the great satisfaction of the doctor, was absorbed without too much difficulty. As Vallombreuse drank, an imperceptible flush rose to his cheekbones; a warm glow shone in his eyes, and his inert hand, stretched out on the sheet, attempted to move. He heaved a sigh and looked around him, like someone waking from a dream, with a gaze to which intelligence was returning.

— ‘The stakes were high,’ Master Laurent said to himself. ‘This medicine is a potion that may kill or restore. It has restored. Aesculapius, Hygieia (goddess of health and daughter to Aesculapius/Asclepius god of medicine), and Hippocrates (c460-c375 BC, the Greek physician and philosopher) be blessed!"

At that moment, a cautious hand drew back the tapestry covering the doorway, and beneath the raised fold appeared the venerable head of the prince, tired and aged more by the anguish of that terrible night than by ten years of painful life. ‘Well, Master Laurent?’ he murmured in an anxious voice. The surgeon placed his finger on his lips, and with the other hand pointed to Vallombreuse, slightly raised on the pillow, and no longer possessing the aspect of a cadaver; for the potion had warmed and revived him with its heat.

Master Laurent, with that light step customary to those who care for the sick, approached the prince, at the threshold of the door, and, taking him a little aside, said to him: ’You see, my lord, that the condition of your son, far from having worsened, is noticeably improved. Without doubt, he is not yet saved; but, unless there is an unforeseen complication, which I am doing my best to prevent, I think that he will survive and will be able to continue his glorious destiny as if he had never been injured.’

A lively feeling of paternal joy lit up the prince’s face, but, as he advanced towards the room to embrace his son, Master Laurent respectfully placed his hand on his sleeve, and stopped him: ‘Allow me, prince, to oppose the fulfilment of this very natural desire; doctors are often irritating, but medicine has its rigors like no other. Please, do not enter the duke’s room. Your beloved and feared presence could, in the weakened state in which he finds himself, provoke a dangerous crisis. Any emotion would be fatal to him, and would be capable of breaking the very fragile thread, by which he is attached to life through my efforts. In a few days, his wound being on the way to healing, and his strength returning little by little, you may, at your ease and without risk to him, enjoy the pleasure of a visit.’

The prince, reassured, yielding to the surgeon’s rational plea, withdrew to his apartment, where he occupied himself with reading, piously, until the stroke of noon, at which time the major-domo came to inform him ‘that Monseigneur’s dinner was served.’

— ‘Please ask the Countess Isabella de Lineuil, my daughter — for such is the title she will bear henceforth — to descend to dinner,’ said the prince to the butler, who hastened to obey his order.

Isabella crossed the antechamber containing the suits of armour, which had been the cause of nocturnal terror previously, and found the room not at all gloomy during the day. Clear light fell from the high windows, no longer darkened by closed shutters. The atmosphere within had been refreshed. Bundles of juniper and sweet-smelling wood, burning brightly in the fireplace, had dispelled the stench of mould. Due to its master’s presence, life had returned to this dead chamber.

The dining room no longer looked the same. The table, which the day before had seemed set for a spectral feast, was now covered by a rich tablecloth, the creased folds of which formed symmetrical squares, and looked perfectly fresh, with its old shallow-bottomed chased tableware, emblazoned with coats of arms, its Bohemian crystal-ware speckled with gold, its spiral-footed Venetian glasses, and its spice-jars and dishes from which rose fragrant fumes.

Huge logs set on andirons consisting of large, stacked globes of polished metal, spilled broad swirls of flame, mingled with cheerful crackling sparks, over a plaque bearing the prince’s coat of arms, spreading a gentle warmth throughout the vast room. The metalwork of the dressers, the gilded and silvered varnish of the Cordoban leather hangings, gave back reflections, and reddish gleams from the hearth, despite the brightness of the day.

When Isabella entered, the prince was already in his chair, the high back of which formed a sort of canopy. Behind him stood two footmen in full livery. The young girl addressed her father with a modest curtsy that had no suggestion of the stage, and of which any great lady would have approved. A servant brought a seat forward for her, and, without too much embarrassment, she took the place opposite the prince which he indicated with his hand.

The soup served, the squire carved on a buffet table the various meats brought to him from the table, and which the servants then returned after dissection.

A footman poured Isabella a glass of wine, though she, being the reserved and sober person she was, only drank once it had been mixed with water. Overwhelmed by the events of the previous day and night, dazed and troubled by the sudden change in her fortunes, concerned for her brother who had been so grievously wounded, and perplexed about the fate of her beloved Sigognac, she only touched minute portions of the food placed before her.

— ‘You scarcely eat or drink, Countess,’ the prince said to her, ‘so please accept this partridge wing.’

At this title of countess, pronounced in a friendly yet serious voice, Isabella turned her beautiful, astonished blue eyes towards the prince with a timidly questioning look.

— ‘Yes, Comtesse de Lineuil; it is the title of an estate that I give you, because the name Isabella, charming as it is, is not suited to my daughter without some accompaniment.’

Isabella, yielding to the impetuous impulse of her heart, rose, passed to the other side of the table, and kneeling beside the prince, took his hand and kissed it in recognition of this attention.

— ‘Rise, my daughter,’ the prince continued with a tender air, ‘and resume your place. What I am doing is but right. Destiny alone prevented me from effecting it sooner, and this dreadful encounter which has brought us all together, has something about it which suggests the hand of heaven. Your virtue prevented a great crime from being committed, and I love you for that, even if it should cost me my son’s life. But God will save him, so that he may repent of having assaulted a person of the purest innocence. Master Laurent gave me hope, and at the threshold from which I contemplated him in his bed, Vallombreuse did not appear to me to have on his brow the seal of death that we warriors well know how to recognise.’

Water was brought, in a magnificent silver-gilt ewer, and the prince, after casting away his towel, entered the drawing-room, into which, at his sign, Isabella followed. The old lord sat beside the fireplace, a sculptured feature that rose to the ceiling, while she seated herself beside him on a folding chair. As the footmen had withdrawn, the prince took Isabella’s hand in his own, and contemplated for some time and in silence, this daughter so strangely rediscovered. His eyes expressed joy mingled with sadness. For, despite the doctor’s assurances, Vallombreuse’s life still hung by a thread. Happy on one account, he was unhappy on the other; but Isabella’s charming face soon dissipated this painful feeling, and the prince spoke to the new countess as follows:

— ‘Doubtless, dear daughter, amidst these events, which have brought us together in a strange, romantic and almost supernatural manner, you must have wondered why, during all the length of time which has elapsed since your childhood till this day, I have not sought you out, and why it has been left to chance alone to restore the lost child to the neglectful father. That would be to misunderstand my depth of feeling, and you have such a virtuous soul, that surely the answer must have soon occurred to you. Your mother Cornelia, as you are aware, was of an arrogant and proud character; she treated everything with extraordinary passion, and when high propriety, I would almost say reasons of state, forced me to separate from her, much against my will, so as to marry at the command of one whose orders none resist, she, outraged, full of anger and resentment, obstinately refused everything which could ameliorate her situation, and ensure your future. Land, mansions, a generous annuity, money, jewels, she rejected all with massive disdain. This disinterestedness, which indeed I admired, found me no less stubborn, and I deposited the monies and securities she refused with a trustworthy person, so that she could receive them again...in the event that her views changed. But she persisted in her refusal, and, changing her name, joined another troupe with whom she toured the provinces, avoiding Paris, and the places where I resided. I soon lost track of her, especially since the king, my master, entrusted me with embassies and delicate missions that kept me abroad for a long time. When I returned, through confidants as reliable as they were intelligent, who had questioned actors from the various theatres and heard gossip, I learned that Cornelia had died several months earlier. As for the child, no one had heard of her, and no one knew what had become of her. The perpetual travel of these comedy troupes, and the noms-de-guerre adopted by the actors who comprise them, which they often change out of necessity or whim, rendered such a search intensely difficult for one who could not execute it himself. The faint clues that might guide an interested party often go unrecognised by agents motivated only by greed. I was indeed informed of a few little girls amidst these troupes; but the details of their birth did not correspond to yours. Sometimes candidates were offered by mothers who were not greatly concerned about retaining their own children, and I had to be on my guard against such tricks. The sum I had deposited had not been touched. Obviously, the spiteful Cornelia had wished to conceal her daughter from me, and so take here revenge. I might have indeed believed you dead, yet a secret instinct told me that you lived. I remembered how sweet and charming you were in your cradle, and how with your little pink fingers you pulled at my moustache, black then, when I bent to kiss you. The birth of my son had revived this memory instead of extinguishing it. I thought, on seeing him, raised in the bosom of luxury, covered in ribbons and lace like a royal child, possessing jewels for rattles that would have represented a fortune to many an honest family, that perhaps, at that moment, you, my daughter, scantily clad in faded theatrical finery, were suffering from cold and hunger aboard some wagon, or in some barn open to all the winds. If she yet lives, I told myself, some manager of a theatrical troupe is doubtless mistreating her, and beating her. Suspended from a wire, she plays the role, half-dead with fear, of a cupid or little sprite, borne aloft in mechanised flight. Her barely-restrained tears flow, furrowing the coarse rouge with which someone has smeared her pale cheeks, or else, trembling with emotion, she stammers, amidst the smoke of the footlight candles, a few lines from a childish role, her errors in reciting which have already earned her many a slap. And I repented of not having, from the day of her birth, taken the child from the mother; but then I believed maternal love to bind eternally. Later, I was tormented in other ways. In that wandering and dissolute life, how many assaults must the modesty of one as beautiful as she promised to be, not have to suffer, from the likes of these libertines who are drawn to actresses like moths to the flame, and my face flushed at the thought that my blood, which runs in your veins, might be subjected to such outrage. Many a time, affecting more taste than I had for comedy, I attended the theatre, trying to discover amidst the ingenues some young person of the age you would be and with the beauty I supposed you to have. But I saw only armoured and painted faces, and the effrontery of the courtesan behind the grimaces of some ‘innocent’. None of them could be you.

I had therefore, sadly, relinquished the hope of finding this girl again whose presence would have brightened my old age; the princess my wife, who died after three years of marriage, had given me no other child than Vallombreuse, who, by his unbridled character, caused me much pain. A few days ago, being at Saint-Germain with the king, attending to the duties of my office, I heard some courtiers speak favourably of Herod’s troupe, and what they said of it gave rise to a desire in me to attend a performance of these actors, the finest who had come from the provinces to Paris for a long time. A certain Isabella was especially praised for her correct, demure, yet natural acting, full of a naive grace. This role of ingenue that she rendered so well in the theatre, she maintained, it was said, in the city, and the most spiteful tongues were silent regarding her virtue. Agitated by a secret presentiment, I went to the room in which the actors were reciting, and saw you act to general applause. Your air of an honest young person, your timid and modest manner, the sound of your voice so fresh and silvery, all this troubled my soul in a strange way. It is impossible, even for the eye of a father, to recognise in a beautiful girl of twenty a child he has not seen since the cradle, and especially by candlelight, amidst the glare of the theatre; but it seemed to me that if some whim of fortune had thrust a girl of quality onto the stage, she would possess that reserved and discreet air of keeping the other actors at a distance, that air of distinction which makes all say: ‘How comes she here?’ In the same play there appeared a Pedant whose drunken face was not unknown to me. The years had in no way altered his grotesque features, and I remembered that he had already played the part of Pantalone and of other ridiculous old men in the company in which Cornelia had acted. I know not why my imagination conceived a connection between you and this Pedant, once your mother’s comrade. Reason insisted in vain that this actor could well have taken employment in this particular troupe, without it meaning that you were present; yet it seemed to me that he held in his hands the end of the mysterious thread by which I might be guided through the dark maze of past events. So, I resolved to question him, and would have done so if, when I sent to the inn on the rue Dauphine, I had not been told that Herod’s troupe had left to give a performance in a château on the outskirts of Paris. I would have waited until the actors returned, if a courageous servant had not come to warn me, fearing some unpleasant encounter, that the Duke of Vallombreuse, madly in love with an actress named Isabella, who resisted virtuously and determinedly, had planned to kidnap her during this proposed theatrical engagement, having employed a squad of hired swordsmen, a scheme certain to involve undue violence, and easily capable of ending badly, the young girl being accompanied by friends who were not themselves unarmed. The suspicion I had concerning your birth caused in me, given this warning, a disturbance of mind strange to conceive. I shuddered at the idea of a criminal passion which would be transformed into a monstrous and incestuous one, if my presentiment did not deceive me, since you were, if all proved true, Vallombreuse’s own sister. I learned that the kidnappers were to transport you to this castle, and travelled here, with all speed. You had already been freed, without your honour having suffered, and the amethyst ring confirmed what my inner voice told me at first sight of you.’

— ‘Believe me, my lord and father,’ replied Isabella, ‘when I say that I have never condemned your actions. Accustomed from childhood to the itinerant life of an actress, I accepted my fate readily, knowing and dreaming of no other. The little I knew of the world gave me to understand that it would be ungracious to wish to enter an illustrious family, when for doubtless powerful reasons I had been abandoned to obscurity and oblivion. Vague memories of my mother inspired pride in me, on occasions, and I said to myself, noting the disdainful air that great ladies adopt towards actresses: ‘I too am of noble race!’ But these momentary thoughts soon dissipated, and I retained only an invincible respect for myself. For nothing in the world would I have sullied the pure blood that flowed in my veins. The licence of the wings, and the unwelcome attentions to which actresses are subjected, even those who are less than beautiful, inspired only disgust. I lived in the world of theatre almost as in a convent, for one can be virtuous anywhere, if one desires to be so. The Pedant acted like a father towards me, and certainly Herod would have broken the bones of anyone who had dared to touch me with his finger, or even spoken too freely to me. Although they may only be actors, they are fine people, and I commend them to you if they should ever find themselves in need. It is in large part owing to them, that I am able to present my brow to your lips without blushing, and call myself your daughter. My only regret is having been the innocent cause of the misfortune that has happened to the duke, your son, and I would have wished to enter your family under better auspices.’

— ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for, my dear daughter, you could not have anticipated these events which occurred suddenly, due to a combination of circumstances, and which one would might find romantic if one encountered them in literature, while my joy at seeing you again, a daughter as worthy of our name as if you had not lived a hazardous and wandering life in a profession less orderly than normal, soothes the pain which the unfortunate injury of my son has brought me. Whether he survives or succumbs, I cannot cast blame on you. Besides, your virtue saved him from a crime. So, let us speak of that no more. But who was that bold young man among your liberators, who seemed to lead the attack, and who wounded Vallombreuse? An actor, no doubt, though he seemed to me to possess a noble air, and much courage.’

— ‘Yes, father,’ replied Isabella, her cheeks displaying a faint and modest blush, ‘he is an actor. But if I may be permitted to betray a secret, which is no longer unknown to Monsieur le Duc, I tell you that Captain Fracasse, so-called, for such is his role in the troupe, hides behind his mask a noble face, and beneath his stage name that of an illustrious House.’

— ‘Indeed,’ replied the prince, ‘I believe I have heard something to that effect. It would have been astonishing to me if some mere actor had attempted, so recklessly, to thwart a Duke of Vallombreuse, and enter into a duel with him. It takes noble blood to show such audacity. I consider that only a gentleman can defeat a gentleman, just as a diamond can only be scored by another diamond.’

The prince’s aristocratic vanity was consoled by knowing that his son had not been hurt by someone of low rank. Things were thus returning to the social norm. The combat became a duel between people of equal status, and the motive was clear; propriety was not offended by the encounter.

— ‘And what is the name of this valiant champion,’ the prince continued, ‘this brave knight and defender of innocence?’

— ‘The Baron de Sigognac,’ replied Isabella, her voice trembling slightly, ‘I fearlessly offer his name to your generosity. You are too just to pursue him on account of an unfortunate victory he deplores.’

— ‘Sigognac,’ said the prince, ‘I thought the line was extinct. Is the family not from Gascony?’

— ‘Yes, father, his château is located near Dax’.

— ‘That is so. The Sigognacs have a ‘speaking’ coat-of-arms; they bear three golden storks on an azure field, ordered two above and one below (‘stork’, in French, is ‘cigogne’; in a ‘speaking’ coat-of-arms the emblem reveals the name of the House). Their nobility is very ancient. Palamedes de Sigognac figured gloriously in the first crusade. One Raimbaud de Sigognac, doubtless the father of your Sigognac, was a great friend and companion of Henri IV in his youth, but he did not follow him to court; for his affairs, it is said, were tangled, and then, one gained little more than blows by following the Béarnais (Henri IV, also King of Navarre, was born in Pau, in the Béarne region).’

— ‘So tangled, that our troupe, forced one rainy night to seek shelter, found the son in a ruined turret fit only for owls to dwell in, where his youth was wasting away, and we tore him from his Castle of Misery, fearing that he would die there of hunger, pride and melancholy; I have never seen misfortune more valiantly borne.’

— ‘Poverty is no crime,’ said the prince, ‘and any noble house that has not failed in honour may rise again. Why, in his situation, did the Baron de Sigognac not turn to one of his father’s old comrades-in-arms, or even to the king, the natural protector of all true gentlemen?’

— ‘Misfortune makes one timid, however brave one may be,’ replied Isabella, ‘and self-esteem constrains even the boldest. By joining us, the Baron hoped to meet with a favourable opportunity in Paris, which has not occurred. In order not to be a burden to us, he has replaced one of our comrades who died on our travels, and as the role is played hidden by a mask, he did not consider it compromised his dignity.’

— ‘Beneath your theatrical disguises, without being a sorcerer, I can well surmise something of a love affair,’ said the prince, smiling with a knowing kindness: ‘but that is none of my business; I know your virtue well enough, and am not alarmed at a few discreet sighs uttered for your benefit. Besides, I have not been your father long enough to allow myself to lecture you.’

While he spoke thus, Isabella fixed on the prince her large blue eyes, in which shone the purest innocence and the most perfect loyalty. The pink tint with which the name of Sigognac had coloured her lovely face had dissipated; her countenance offered no sign of shame or embarrassment. The gaze of a father, the gaze of heaven itself, would have found nothing reprehensible in her heart.

The conversation had reached this point when Master Laurent’s assistant was announced; he brought a favourable report on Vallombreuse’s health. The wounded man’s condition was as satisfactory as could be; after the potion a crisis had occurred, the outcome of which was a happy one, and the doctor now answered for the young duke’s life. His recovery was simply a matter of time.

A few days later, Vallombreuse, propped up in his bed by a few pillows, and wearing a shirt with a Venetian lace collar, his hair parted and tidy, received a visit from his faithful friend the Chevalier de Vidalinc, whom he had not till then been allowed to see. The prince was seated beside his son, gazing with profound paternal joy at his pale and emaciated face, which no longer displayed any alarming symptoms. Colour had returned to his lips, and the spark of life was bright in his eyes. Isabella was standing by the bedside. The young duke held her hand between his slender fingers, bluish-white like those of invalids who have been hidden from sunlight and the open air for some time. As he was forbidden to speak except in monosyllables, he showed his sympathy thus to one who had been the involuntary cause of his injury, and made her understand how wholeheartedly he regretted the fact. The brother had replaced the lover, and the illness, in quenching his ardour, had contributed not a little to that challenging transition. Isabella was now to him the Comtesse de Lineuil, and no longer the actress of Herod’s troupe. He acknowledged Vidalinc in a friendly manner, and for a moment removed his hand from his sister’s, so as to offer it to him. This was all the doctor allowed at that time.

After two or three weeks, Vallombreuse, strengthened by a light diet, was able to spend a few hours on a chaise-longue and enjoy the air from an open window, through which a balsamic breath of spring entered. Isabella often kept him company and read to him, a function for which her former profession as an actress made her marvellously suited, due to her ability to sustain her voice and vary her intonation appropriately.

One day, having finished one chapter, she was about to begin another, whose heading she had already read, when the Duke of Vallombreuse signed to her to set down the book, and said:

— ‘Dear sister, these adventures are the most entertaining in the world, and the author can be counted among the wittiest people at Court, and his works are the talk of the city, but I confess I prefer your charming conversation to being read to. I would not have believed I could gain so much despite losing all hope. The brother is in a better relation to you than the lover; rigorous as you were to the one, and gentle as you are to the other. I find in these tranquil sentiments a charm of which I had no suspicion. You reveal to me a whole unknown side of womankind. Carried away by ardent passion, pursuing the pleasure that beauty promised, exalting and irritating myself with the obstacles presented, I was like that ferocious hunter of legend whom nothing could halt; I saw only my prey in the beloved object. The idea of her resistance seemed impossible to me. The word virtue made me shrug, and I can say without conceit, to the only one who refused to yield to me, that I had many reasons for disbelieving its existence. My mother died when I was only three years old; you were not here, and I was ignorant of all that is pure, tender, and delicate in the female soul. I saw you; an irresistible empathy, in which the unknown tie of family doubtless played a part, drew me towards you; and for the first time a feeling of esteem mingled in my heart with love. Your character, while driving me to despair, pleased me. I approved of the modest and polite firmness with which you rejected my homage. The more you rejected me, the more I found you worthy. Anger and admiration followed one another within me, and sometimes reigned together. Even in my most violent fury, I always respected you. I sensed the angel in the woman, and felt the ascendancy of a celestial purity. Now I am happy, for I have from you precisely what I desired from you without knowing it, an affection free from earthly alloy, unalterable, eternal; I finally possess a kindred soul.’

— ‘Yes, dear brother,’ replied Isabella, ‘you do possess it, and it gives me great joy to be able to tell you so. You have in me a devoted sister who will love you doubly for the time we have lost, especially if, as you promised, you moderate those passions which alarm our father, and only allow what is excellent in you to appear.’

— ‘Behold the lovely preacher,’ said Vallombreuse, smiling, ‘it is true that I am a very great monster, but I will amend myself, if not for the love of virtue, at least so as not to see my older sister assume a severe air at some new escapade of mine. Yet I fear that I shall always represent wildness, as you will forever represent reason.’

— ‘If you compliment me so,’ said Isabella with an air of menace, ‘I shall take up my book again, and you will have to listen to the whole story the Barbary corsair is going to relate, in the cabin of his galley, to the incomparable Princess Amenaïde, his captive, who is seated on gold brocaded pillows.’

— ‘I do not deserve such harsh punishment. Even if I seem merely talkative, I desire to talk. That cursed doctor has placed a seal of silence on my lips for so long he has made me look like a statue of Harpocrates! (The ancient Egyptian deity ‘Horus the Child’, depicted as a young boy with a finger to his lips)

— ‘But are you not afraid of tiring yourself? Your wound has barely healed. Master Laurent recommended that I read to you so that while listening you can spare your chest.’

— ‘Master Laurent knows nothing, and merely wishes to emphasise his continuing importance. My lungs operate with the same ease as before. I feel perfectly well, and I have the urge to ride a horse, and go for a gallop in the woods.’

— ‘It would be better to make conversation; the danger would surely be less.’

— ‘I shall soon be back on my feet, my sister, and I will present you to the world to which your rank summons you, and in which your perfect beauty will not fail to bring many admirers to your feet, from among whom the Comtesse de Lineuil may choose a husband.’

— ‘I have no desire to wed, and believe me, these are not the words of some young girl who would be sorry to be taken at her word. I have given my hand in marriage enough times, in the last acts of various plays, not to be in any great hurry to do so in real life. I dream of no sweeter existence than to remain near the prince and you.’

— ‘A father and a brother do not always suffice, even for the most unattached person in the world. Such tender relations do not occupy the whole heart.’

— ‘They will mine, however, and if they should fail me someday, I will enter some religious order.’

— ‘That would be taking self-denial to the extreme. Does not the Chevalier de Vidalinc seem to you to have all that is required to render him the perfect husband?’

— ‘No doubt he does. The woman he marries will truly be able to call herself happy; but however charming your friend may be, my dear Vallombreuse, I will never be that woman.’

— ‘The Chevalier de Vidalinc is red-haired, and perhaps like our King Louis XIII, you dislike that colour, which is much-prized by painters, however. But let us not speak of Vidalinc anymore. What do you think of the Marquis de l’Estang, who visited the other day to inquire after me, and did not take his eyes off you for the duration of his visit? He was so amazed by your grace, so dazzled by your peerless beauty, that he entangled himself in compliments and did nothing but stammer. His timidity aside, which should find an excuse in your eyes since you were the cause of it, he is an accomplished cavalier. He is handsome, young, of noble birth and great fortune. He would suit you very well.’

— ‘Since I now have the honour of belonging to your illustrious family,’ replied Isabella, ‘a little impatient with his banter, ‘too much humility would not become me. I will not say, therefore, that I regard myself as unworthy of such a union; but should the Marquis de l’Estang ask my father for my hand, I would refuse. I have already told you, brother, I do not wish to marry, and you know it well, you who torment me in this way.’

— ‘Oh! What a wild virginal temper you display, my sister! Diana was no wilder in the forests and valleys of Haemus (northern Thrace). Yet, if we are to believe the mythological tales, Endymion found favour in her eyes (Diana in her role of moon-goddess therefore equated here to Selene). You are angry because I propose, while chattering away, some suitable matches for you; if these displease you, we will discover others.’

— ‘I am not angry, brother; but you are definitely talking far too much for an invalid, and I shall have Master Laurent scold you. You shan’t have your chicken wing for supper.’

— ‘So be it; I’ll remain silent,’ said Vallombreuse with an air of submission, ‘but believe me, you will only be married by my hand.’

To avenge her brother’s stubborn mockery, Isabella began the story of the Barbary corsair in a high, vibrant voice that drowned out Vallombreuse’s.

— ‘My father, the Duke of Fossombrone, was walking with my mother, one of the most beautiful women, if not the most beautiful, in the Duchy of Genoa, on the shore of the Mediterranean, to which the staircase belonging to a superb villa he occupied during the summer descended, when the pirates of Algiers, concealed behind some rocks, rushed upon him; triumphed by sheer numbers over his desperate resistance; left him for dead; and bore the Duchess, then pregnant with myself despite her cries, to their boat, which sped away driven by vigorous strokes of the oars, and reached their captain’s galley sheltered in a cove. Presented to the Bey, my mother pleased him and became his favourite...’

Vallombreuse, to thwart Isabella’s intent, closed his eyes and, during this passage full of interest, pretended to fall asleep. This slumber which Vallombreuse had at first feigned soon became real, and the young girl, seeing her brother asleep, withdrew on tiptoe.

Their conversation, which had seemed to indicate a hostile plan on the part of the duke, troubled Isabella despite herself. Did Vallombreuse, perhaps, retain a secret grudge against Sigognac though he had not yet spoken his name since the attack on the castle, seeking to create, by urging her to marry elsewhere, an insurmountable obstacle between the Baron and his sister? Or did he simply wish to know if the feelings of the actress, transformed into the countess, had changed, and not merely her fortune? Isabella could answer neither of these two questions that her reverie alternately posed. Since she was Vallombreuse’s sister, the rivalry between Sigognac and the young duke should have ceased of itself; yet, on the other hand, it was difficult to suppose that the latter, so haughty, so proud and so vindictive, had forgotten the shame of a first defeat, and especially that of the second. Although the situation had altered, Vallombreuse, in his heart, must always hate Sigognac. Even if he had enough greatness of soul to forgive him, generosity did not demand that he love him or admit him into his family. It was necessary to renounce the hope of a reconciliation. The prince, moreover, would never view with pleasure one who had endangered his son’s life. These reflections brought about, in Isabella’s mind, a melancholy that she tried in vain to rid herself of. As long as she had considered herself, a mere actress, an obstacle to Sigognac’s fortune, she had rejected all idea of union with him; but now that an unexpected stroke of fate had granted her all the standing one could wish for, she would have liked to reward, with the gift of her hand, the one who had sought it when she was despised and poor. She found it somewhat base not to share her prosperity with the companion of her former poverty. But she could do no more than maintain an unalterable loyalty to him, for she dared not speak in his favour either to the prince or to Vallombreuse.

Soon the young duke was well enough to be able to dine at table with his father and sister; at these meals he displayed a respectful deference towards the prince, and a thoughtful and delicate tenderness towards Isabella, and thereby showed that he had, despite his apparent frivolity, a more refined mind than one would have supposed in a young man given to pursuing women, duelling, and indulging in every manner of dissipation. Isabella joined, modestly in these conversations, and the little she said was so just, subtle and timely, that the prince was amazed, all the more so because the young girl, with perfect tact, avoided preciosity and pedantry.

Vallombreuse, now fully recovered, suggested a horse-ride in the park, to his sister, and the two young people rode along a stretch of path, whose hundred-year-old trees arched to form a vault, an impenetrable obstacle to the sun’s rays. The duke had regained all his beauty, Isabella was charming, and never had a more graceful couple ridden side by side. Except that the young man’s face expressed gaiety, and the young girl’s melancholy. Sometimes Vallombreuse’s sallies drew a vague, weak smile from her, then she fell back into a languid reverie; but her brother seemed not to notice her sadness, and redoubled his enthusiasm. ‘Oh! How good it is to be alive’, he cried. ‘One has no idea of the pleasure there is in the simple act of breathing! Never have the trees seemed so green to me, the sky so blue, the flowers so fragrant! It is as if I were born but yesterday, and am viewing Nature for the very first time. When I think that I could be lying in a marble tomb, and yet am riding beside my dear sister, I feel at ease! My wound no longer causes me pain, and I think we can risk a little gallop to return to the castle where the prince is doubtless bored with waiting for us.’

Despite Isabella’s ever-cautious warnings, Vallombreuse spurred the flanks of his mount, and the two horses set off at a fairly brisk pace. At the foot of the steps, as he lifted his sister from the saddle, the young duke said to her: ‘Now I am well, I shall obtain permission to depart for a while.’

— ‘What! So, you wish to leave us, the moment you are healed, you wicked fellow?’

— ‘Yes, indeed, for I need to go on a visit for a few days,’ Vallombreuse replied casually.

In fact, the very next morning he rode out, after taking leave of the prince who did not oppose the venture, saying to Isabella in a strange, enigmatic tone: ‘Farewell, little sister, I think you will be pleased with me!’

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …The two horses set off at a fairly brisk pace.

‘…The two horses set off at a fairly brisk pace.’

Chapter XIX: Nettles and Spiders’ Webs

Sigognac had resolved to follow Herod’s advice, which seemed sensible, and, since nothing now attached him deeply to the troupe, Isabella having been transformed from an actress to a great lady, he chose to vanish for a while, and plunge again into oblivion, until the resentment against him caused by the likely death of Vallombreuse had subsided. So after having said, and not without emotion, his farewells to the brave actors who had proven to be such good comrades, Sigognac left Paris, mounted on a sturdy horse and with his pockets suitably lined with pistoles, his share of the takings. By stages, he made his way to his own, dilapidated, manor house; for, after the storm, the bird always returns to its nest, even if it is only formed of sticks and old straw. It was the only place in which he could take refuge, and in his despair, he felt a sort of pleasure in returning to the poverty-stricken estate of his ancestors, which, he thought, he might perhaps have done better not to leave. Indeed, his fortune had hardly improved, and this latest adventure could only harm him. ‘Come now,’ he said to himself as he rode, ‘I was predestined to die of hunger and boredom between those ruined walls, under that roof that lets in the rain like a sieve. No one escapes their fate and I will fulfil mine: I shall be the last of the Sigognacs.’

There is little point in describing his journey in detail, which occupied about twenty days, and was not brightened by any interesting encounters. Suffice it to say that, one fine evening, Sigognac saw from afar the turrets of his castle, illuminated by the setting sun, highlighted clearly against the violet background of the horizon. A trick of the light made them appear closer than they really were, and in one of the few panes of the facade, a ray of sunlight produced a reddish scintillation of the most vivid brilliance. It looked like a monstrous garnet.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …One fine evening, Sigognac saw from afar the turrets of his castle…

‘…One fine evening, Sigognac saw from afar the turrets of his castle…’

The sight caused the Baron a strange emotion; certainly, he had suffered greatly in that ruined castle, and yet upon returning to it he felt the emotions that rise on meeting again with an old friend whose absence has made one forget his many faults. Poor, obscure, solitary, he had spent his days there, but not without some private moments of sweetness; for youth can never be entirely unhappy. The most discouraged of us still possess their dreams and hopes. Habitual melancholy ends up revealing a charm of its own, and one regrets certain times of sadness more than those of certain joy.

Sigognac spurred his horse to quicken its pace, and so arrive before nightfall. The sun having almost set, with only a thin segment of its indented disk visible above the brown line traced by the moor on the horizon, the window’s red glow had faded, and the manor house was now nothing more than a grey patch almost merging with the shadows; but Sigognac knew the road well, and he turned onto the track, once frequented, now deserted, which led to the château. Branches of overgrown hedgerow whipped his boots, and his horse’s feet scattered fallen autumn apples lying amidst the dew-drenched grass; the faint, distant sound of a lone dog, barking as if to relieve its boredom, could be heard in the deep silence of the countryside. Sigognac halted his mount to listen better. He thought he recognised Miraut’s hoarse voice. Soon the barking grew louder, and changed into a repeated and joyful yelp, interrupted by a panting run; Miraut had scented his master, and was running with all the speed his old paws could deliver. The Baron whistled in a certain way, and after a few minutes, the brave and obedient dog burst impetuously through a gap in the hedge, howling, sobbing, uttering almost human cries. Though out of breath and panting, he leapt at the horse’s face, tried to climb the saddle to reach his master, and gave the most extravagant displays of canine joy that any animal of his species has ever shown. Argus himself recognising Ulysses, who was accompanied by Eumaeus the swineherd (see Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ XVII, 290), was no more moved than Miraut. Sigognac bent down and stroked his head to calm this excess of devotion.

Satisfied with this welcome, and wishing to bring the good news to the inhabitants of the castle, that is to say to Pierre, Bayard and Beelzebub, Miraut set off like a shot, and began to bark in such a way in front of the old servant sitting in the kitchen, that the latter understood that something extraordinary was happening.

— ‘Has the young master returned?’ said Pierre, rising and following Miraut, who was pulling him along by the hem of his coat. As night had fallen, Pierre lit a piece of resinous wood in place of a candle, at the hearth over which his frugal supper was cooking, the reddish smoke and sparks from which, soon illuminated Sigognac and his horse at the entrance to the path.

— ‘It is you, Monsieur le Baron,’ cried Pierre joyfully at the sight of his master. ‘Honest Miraut has already told me so, in his own canine tongue; for we are so alone here that animals and people speaking only among themselves end up understanding one another. However, not having been informed of your return, I feared I was mistaken. Expected or not, welcome to your domain; we will try to celebrate your arrival as best we may.’

— ‘Yes, it is I myself, my good Pierre, and Miraut told you no lie; myself, indeed, and if not richer, at least safe and sound; come, walk ahead, with your burning torch, and let us go in.’

Pierre, pushed back the old door, though not without effort, and Baron de Sigognac passed beneath the portal, fantastically lit by the torch. In its light, the three storks sculpted on the coat of arms on the vault seemed to come to life and flutter their wings as if they wished to greet the return of the last offspring of the family they had symbolised for so many centuries. A prolonged neighing like a bugle was heard. It was Bayard, who from the depths of his stable had sensed his master and brought forth from his old asthmatic lungs, and aged throat, this resounding fanfare!

— ‘Well, well, I hear you, my poor Bayard,’ said Sigognac, dismounting and throwing the reins to Pierre; ‘I am about to greet you.’ And he was heading towards the stable when he almost fell: a blackish mass was tangled between his legs, mewing, purring, and arching its back. It was Beelzebub expressing his joy with all the means that nature has given to the feline race; Sigognac took him in his arms, and raised him to the height of his face. The tomcat was at the height of happiness; his round eyes lit with phosphoric gleams; nervous tremors made him open and close his paws, advancing and retracting his nails. He almost choked from purring so hard, and with desperate passion thrust his nose, black and grainy as a truffle, against Sigognac’s moustache. After having stroked him awhile, for he did not disdain these testimonies of affection from humble friends, the Baron gently put Beelzebub down, and it was Bayard’s turn, whom he caressed, several times, patting his neck and rump with the flat of his hand. The good creature rested his head on his master’s shoulder, pawed the ground with his hoof, and even attempted a frisky curvet. He politely accepted the presence of the saddle-horse nearby, feeling sure of Sigognac’s affection, and perhaps satisfied to enter into a relationship with one of his own species, something that had not happened for a long time.

— ‘Now I’ve responded to this welcome from the animals,’ said Sigognac to Pierre, ‘it might not be a bad idea to visit the kitchen and see what your pantry contains. I ate a poor breakfast this morning, and have had no dinner at all, wishing to reach the end of my journey before nightfall. In Paris, I have somewhat lost my sober habits, and will not be sorry to have supper, even if it is only a scrap.’

— ‘Master, there’s some leftover pancake (miasson), a little bacon, and some goat’s cheese; coarse, rustic delicacies that you might not find edible now you’ve tasted haute cuisine. If they don’t flatter the palate, they will at least prevent you from dying of hunger.’

— ‘That’s all a man can ask of his food,’ replied Sigognac, ‘and I am not scornful, as you might think, of the simple foods that sustained my youth and rendered me healthy, alert, and vigorous; serve your pancake, your bacon, and your cheese with the pride of a butler serving a peacock, complete with spread tail, on a gold platter.’

Reassured, Pierre hastily covered the table, where Sigognac usually took his meagre meal, with a plain but clean cloth; he placed the cup and the stoneware pot full of acidic pomace, symmetrically, on either side of the slice of pancake, and stood behind his master like a butler serving a prince. According to the ancient ceremonial, Miraut, seated himself on the right, behind him, while Beelzebub, crouching on the left, gazed with ecstasy at the Baron de Sigognac, and followed the journeys that his hand made from the dish to his mouth, and from his mouth to the dish, in the expectation of the morsels that he threw to them, impartially.

This strange scene was lit by shards of resinous wood that Pierre planted on iron pins inside the fireplace, so that the smoke would not spread into the room. It was so exact a repetition of the scene described at the beginning of this story, that the Baron, struck by the resemblance, imagined he had dreamt meanwhile, and had never left the castle.

Time, which in Paris had flowed so swiftly, and eventfully, seemed to have stopped at the Château de Sigognac. The slumbering hours had not bothered to turn their dusty sandglass. All was in its place. The spiders still hung in the corners of the windows, in their greyish hammocks, waiting for the improbable arrival of a fly. Some had even become discouraged, and failed to mend their webs, no longer having enough sustenance to draw thread from their bellies; on the white ashes of the hearth, a coal that seemingly had failed to burn away since the Baron’s departure gave off a thin wisp of smoke, like that of a pipe about to fail; but the nettles and hemlocks in the courtyard had grown, while the grass that framed the paving stones was taller, and a tree branch, formerly reaching only as far as the kitchen window, now pushed a leafy spray through the remains of a broken pane. That was all that seemed different.

In spite of himself, Sigognac felt himself yielding to the atmosphere of the old castle. His old thoughts came flooding back to him; and he lost himself in silent reverie, a fact which Pierre respected, and that Miraut and Beelzebub dared not disturb by seeking untimely caresses. All that had happened now seemed to him nothing more than some tale he had read in a book, the vague memory of which remained in his mind. Captain Fracasse, already half-erased, appeared to him, as if in the far distance, as nothing more than a pale ghost, that had once emanated, and was now forever detached, from himself. His duel with Vallombreuse he only recalled in the form of a strange event, to which his will had remained foreign. None of the actions accomplished during that time, seemed to him his own, and his return to the castle had broken the thread that connected him to that life. Only his love for Isabella had not vanished, and he found it still alive in his heart, yet more as an aspiration of the soul than a real passion, since the one who was its object could no longer belong to him. He understood that the wheels of his chariot, launched for a moment on another track, had fallen back into their fatal ruts, and he resigned himself to the situation with a calm dejection. Only, he blamed himself, for having harboured a few traces of hope and illusion. Why on earth do the ill-starred seek to be happy? What foolishness!

However, he managed to shake off this torpor, and seeing Pierre’s timid but questioning look told his worthy servant, briefly, the main facts of interest regarding his adventures. Listening to the account of his pupil’s two duels with Vallombreuse, the good fellow, proud to have trained such a disciple, beamed with joy, and simulated against the wall, using a stick, the blows that Sigognac described.

— ‘Alas, my brave Pierre!’ said the Baron with a sigh: ‘You showed me, all too well, those secrets of the art of fencing of which none have more knowledge than yourself. That victory has done for me, and returned me, for a long time, perhaps forever, to this poor and wretched manor. Such is my luck that a triumph ruins me, and worsens my affairs instead of furthering them. It would have been better if I’d been wounded, or even slain in that unfortunate encounter.’

— ‘The Sigognacs,’ said the old servant, sententiously, ‘are always undefeated. Whatever happens, master, I am glad you killed this Vallombreuse. It will have been done correctly, I am sure, and that is all that is necessary. What objection can a man have to dying from a fine sword blow, while on guard?’

— ‘None, certainly,’ replied Sigognac, who was amused by the old fencing master’s philosophy as regards summary justice, ‘but I feel a little tired. Light the lamp and show me to my room.’

Pierre obeyed. The Baron, preceded by his servant and followed by the dog and the cat, slowly climbed the old staircase with its worn and faded frescoes. The increasingly-pale, sheathed figures of Hercules were barely supporting the false cornice whose weight seemed to crush them. They desperately flexed their depleted muscles, and yet had been unable to prevent some plaster slabs from coming loose from the wall. The Roman emperors were hardly better, and though they affected in their niches the airs of victors and braggarts, they had lost here, a crown or a sceptre; there, the purple of their robes. The painted trellis on the vaulted ceiling had been penetrated in many places, and the winter rains, filtering through the cracks, had drawn new Americas, alongside the old continents and islands, previously depicted.

This decay, to which Sigognac, before leaving his manor house, had not been particularly sensitive, struck him forcibly, and induced in him, as he ascended, a deep melancholy. He saw in it the inevitable and fatal decline of his race, and said to himself: ‘If this vault could feel pity for the family it has sheltered until now, it would collapse, and crush me on the spot!’ Arriving at the door of his apartments, he took the lamp from Pierre, whom he thanked and dismissed, not wanting him to see his emotion.

Sigognac slowly crossed the first room where the actors had taken their supper a few months ago. The memory of that joyous scene rendered it even gloomier. Having been disturbed for a moment, the silence seemed to settle once more, ever sadder, deeper, and more formidable. In this tomb, a rat wearing down its incisors in gnawing the woodwork, produced strange echoes. Lit by the weak light of the lamp, the portraits, leaning from their faded gold frames as if from balconies, were disturbing. One would have said that they wanted to leave their shadowy backgrounds, and descend to greet this unfortunate scion. A spectral life animated those ancient effigies: their painted lips seemed to move, murmuring words that the soul heard, if not the ear; their eyes rose sadly to the ceiling and, on their varnished cheeks, the sweat of humidity condensed into large drops which the light illuminated like tears. The spirits of his ancestors wandered, surely, about their images, which represented the terrestrial forms they had once animated, and Sigognac felt their invisible presence in the secret depths of this dreadful half-darkness. All those figures in cuirasses, or farthingales, had a pitiful and desolate air. Only the last portrait, that of Sigognac’s mother, seemed to smile. The light fell precisely on its surface, and, whether the more recent date of its creation, and the hand of a finer artist, created the illusion, or whether in fact the soul of the dead woman chose, for a moment, to grant the image life, the portrait had an air of warm and confiding tenderness, which astonished Sigognac and which he took for a favourable omen, since the expression on her face had always seemed melancholy to him before.

Finally, Sigognac reached his room, and placed the lamp on the small table, beside the volume of Ronsard still lying there, which he had been reading when the actors came knocking at the door of the manor that night. The piece of paper, with the rough draft of his unfinished sonnet, riddled with erasures, was still in the same place. The bed, which had not been remade, still bore the imprint of the last person who had lain there. Isabella’s head had rested on that pillow, the confidant of many a dream!

At the thought, Sigognac felt his heart tortured, almost voluptuously, by a pleasing pain, if one can join together those two words, opposite in nature. His imagination presented, vividly, the charms of that adorable girl; while his reason spoke to him, in an importunate and sorrowful voice, saying that Isabella was forever lost to him, and yet it seemed to him that he saw, in a phantasmagoria of loving images, that pure and charming face between the folds of the half-open curtains, like that of a chaste wife awaiting the return of her husband.

To put an end to such visions, which eroded his courage, he undressed and lay down, kissing the place formerly occupied by Isabella; but, despite his fatigue, sleep was slow to arrive, and his eyes wandered for more than an hour about the dilapidated room, sometimes following some strange effect of moonlight on the frosted windows, sometimes gazing with unconscious fixity at the hunter of wild duck amidst his forest of blue and yellow trees, the subject of the ancient tapestry.

Though the master was awake, Beelzebub slept, curled up at Sigognac’s feet, snoring as in the tale of Muhammad’s cat (Muezza) asleep on the Prophet’s sleeve (He was said to have cut off the sleeve to avoid disturbing the cat, though the story is unsupported by any hadith). The creature’s profound tranquility finally influenced the man’s mind, and the young Baron entered the land of dreams.

When dawn came, Sigognac was struck, even more than he had been the day before, by the dilapidated state of the château. Daylight is pitiless where ancient ruins and other objects are concerned; it reveals their poverty-stricken appearance most cruelly, every wrinkle, stain, discoloration, every patch of dust or mould; amidst the darkness, Night, being more merciful, softens everything with her friendly shadows, as with the edge of her veil she wipes away the traces of tears. The castle’s rooms, that once seemed so vast, looked small to him now, and left him surprised at how large they had loomed in his memory; but he soon regained the measure of his manor, and returned to his former life, as if donning an old coat that one has removed in order to wear a new one for a while; he felt at ease in this worn garment, its folds formed by reason of his habits. His day was arranged thus. He would say a short prayer in the ruined chapel where his ancestors lay buried, clear the brambles from some broken tomb, hurry through a frugal meal, practice his fencing with Pierre, mount Bayard or the saddle-horse he had retained, and, after a long excursion, return to the house, silent and gloomy as before; then he would have supper between Beelzebub and Miraut and go to bed, leafing through, in order to help him fall asleep, one of the mismatched volumes, read a hundred times before, from the library ravaged by starving rats. As you can see, nothing survived of the brilliant Captain Fracasse, the bold rival of Vallombreuse; Sigognac had indeed become, once again, lord of the Castle of Misery.

One day he visited the garden which he had shown to the two young actresses. It was more uncultivated, disordered, and overgrown with weeds than ever; however, the briar-rose, which had provided a bloom for Isabella and a bud for Serafina, so that it could not be said that two ladies emerged from a flower garden without being in some way adorned, seemed on this occasion, as on the other, to bear itself with honour. On the same branch, two charming little roses were blooming, their fragile petals open to the morning, and still retaining at heart two or three pearls of dew.

The sight moved Sigognac particularly, given the memory it aroused in him. He remembered Isabella saying: ‘During that walk in the garden, when you pushed aside the brambles, you picked for me a small wild rose, the only gift you could give me; I let a tear fall on it before putting it in my bosom, and, silently, I gave you my soul in exchange.’

He took the rose, inhaled its scent, passionately, and touched his lips to the leaves, imagining that they were her lips, no less sweet, roseate, and fragrant. Since he had parted from Isabella, he had thought of nothing but her, and he understood how indispensable she was to his life. During the first days, the dizziness of all those accumulated adventures, the stupor of those reversals of fortune, and the forced distractions of the journey, had prevented him from realising the true state of his soul. But, having returned to a state of solitude, calm, and silence, he found Isabella again the subject of all his reveries. She filled his head and heart. Meanwhile, the very image of Yolande had faded like a light vapour. He did not even ask himself if he had ever loved that proud beauty: he no longer thought about her. ‘And yet Isabella loves me,’ he said to himself, after having recapitulated for the hundredth time all the obstacles which opposed his happiness.

Two or three months had passed in this manner, and Sigognac was in his room, one day, seeking the final rhyme for a sonnet in praise of his beloved, when Pierre came to announce that a gentleman was there who wished to speak to him.

— ‘A gentleman wishes to speak to me?’ said Sigognac. ‘Are you dreaming, or is he in error? No one in the world has anything to say to me; however, given the rarity of the event, introduce this singular mortal. What is his name, at least?’

— ‘He would not say, claiming that his name would tell you nothing,’ Pierre replied, opening the double doors.

On the threshold appeared a handsome young man, dressed in an elegant riding costume of hazelnut-coloured cloth, trimmed with green, wearing grey felt boots with silver spurs attached, and holding in his hand a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a long green feather, which allowed his proud, delicate, and charming head to be seen in full, the regular features of which, worthy of an antique statue, more than one woman might have envied.

This accomplished horseman did not seem to make a pleasant impression on Sigognac, for he turned slightly pale, and with a leap ran to his sword hanging at the head of the bed, drew it from its scabbard, and placed himself on guard.

— ‘In the Lord’s name, Monsieur le Duc, I thought I had killed you! Is it you, or your shade, that appears before me like this?’

— ‘It is I, Hannibal de Vallombreuse,’ replied the young duke, ‘I myself, in the flesh, and in no way deceased; but sheathe that rapier as swiftly as possible. We have already fought twice. That is surely enough. The proverb says that things when repeated are pleasing, but on the third occasion they become tiresome. I do not come here as your enemy. If I have a few minor peccadilloes to reproach myself with in regard to yourself, you have certainly had your revenge. Therefore, I think, we are both quits. To prove my good intention, here is a commission, signed by the king, which grants you a regiment. My father and I reminded His Majesty of the attachment of the Sigognacs to his royal ancestors. I wished to bring you the good news in person; and now, since I am your guest, have a suitable neck wrung, and set on the spit what you wish; but, for God’s sake, give me something to eat. The inns on this road are a disaster, and my carriage, stuck in the sand some distance from here, contains my provisions.’

— ‘I greatly fear, Monsieur le Duc, that my dinner will seem to you no better than a form of revenge,’ replied Sigognac with a courteous smile; ‘but do not attribute the poor fare you’ll experience to any spite on my part. Your frank and cordial conduct has touched my soul in its tenderest part, and you will have no more devoted a friend than I henceforth. Though you have little need of my services, they are entirely yours. Come, Pierre, find some chickens, eggs, and other meat, and try to feed, as best you can, this lord who is dying of hunger, and is not like us accustomed to it!’

Pierre pocketed some of the pistoles his master had sent to him, and which he had not yet touched, mounted the saddle-horse, and rode at full speed to the nearest village in search of provisions. He found a couple of chickens, a side of ham, a flask of old wine, and at the home of the local priest, whom he persuaded, not without some difficulty, to hand it to him, a duck-liver pâté, a delicacy worthy of appearing on the table of a bishop or a prince.

After an hour he returned, entrusted the task of turning the spit to a tall, gaunt, ragged girl he had met on the way, and sent on to the castle, and set the table in the portrait room, choosing from the earthenware in the sideboards those that had only a chip or a star, since there was no silverware to consider the last piece having been melted down long ago. This done, he came to announce to his master that ‘the gentlemen are served.’

Vallombreuse and Sigognac sat opposite each other on the least lame pair of the six chairs, and the young duke, who was amused by his unusual situation, attacked the dishes, obtained and prepared by Pierre with some difficulty, with an amusing ferocity of appetite. After devouring a whole chicken, which, to be fair, seemed to have died of scabies, he sank his fine white teeth, joyfully, into a pink slice of the Bayonne ham, and left not a morsel behind, as they say. He proclaimed duck-liver a delightful, nay exquisite, and ambrosial food, and found that a little goat’s cheese, speckled and veined with green, was an excellent rouser of thirst. He praised the wine, too, which was old and of good vintage, and which blushed a beautiful purple in the old Venetian glasses. He was in such a good mood, that he almost burst out laughing at Pierre’s surprised and terrified expression, on hearing his master call this living man, reputed to be dead, ‘Monsieur le Duc de Vallombreuse.’ While holding his own as best he could with the young duke, Sigognac was still astonished to find him in his home, leaning familiarly on the table; this elegant and proud lord, once his rival in love, whom he had twice held at the end of his sword, and who had tried several times to have him dispatched by his men.

The Duke of Vallombreuse understood the Baron’s thoughts without the latter expressing them, and when the old servant had withdrawn, after placing on the table a generous flask of wine and two glasses smaller than the rest, with which to taste the precious liqueur, the duke ran the tip of his fine moustache between his fingers, and said to the Baron with amiable frankness:

— ‘I can see, my dear Sigognac, despite all your politeness, that my visit seems somewhat strange and sudden to you. You are doubtless saying to yourself: “How is it that this Vallombreuse, so haughty, so arrogant, so imperious, has turned from being the tiger that he was to a lamb, that a shepherdess might lead at the end of a ribbon?

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - The Duke of Vallombreuse understood the Baron's thoughts…

‘The Duke of Vallombreuse understood the Baron's thoughts…’

Well, during the six weeks that I remained nailed to my bed, I reflected in a manner that the bravest may allow themselves in the face of eternity; for death is nothing to we gentlemen, who lose our lives with an elegance that the bourgeoisie will never imitate. I felt the frivolity of many things, and promised myself, if I survived, to behave differently. The love that Isabella inspired in me had changed to a pure and sacred friendship, and I no longer had reason to hate you. You were no longer my rival. A brother cannot be jealous as regards his sister. I felt grateful to you for the respectful tenderness that you unfailingly showed towards her when she was still in a situation that encourages licentiousness. You were the first to guess the charming soul beneath the actress’s disguise. A poor man, you offered a despised woman the greatest wealth that a nobleman can possess, the name of his ancestors. She therefore belongs to you, now that she is illustrious and rich. Isabella’s lover must be the husband of the Comtesse de Lineuil.’

— ‘But, replied Sigognac, she always stubbornly refused me even when, being poor, she could do naught but believe in my absolute disinterestedness.’

— ‘With supreme delicacy, angelic sensitivity, and in a spirit of pure self-sacrifice, because she feared to hinder your fate, and harm your fortune; but this recognition of her true rank has reversed the situation.’

— ‘Yes, for I am now the one who would be a hindrance to her high position. Do I have the right to prove less devoted than she?’

— ‘Do you still love my sister?’ said the Duke of Vallombreuse in a serious tone. ‘As her brother, I have the right to ask that question, I think.’

— ‘With all my soul, with all my heart, with my very life,’ replied Sigognac, ‘as much and more than ever a man has loved a woman on this earth, where nothing is perfect, except Isabella.’

— ‘In that case, sir, as Captain of Musketeers, soon to be Governor of the Province, have your horse saddled and ride with me to Vallombreuse, so that I can formally present you to the prince, my father, and to the Comtesse de Lineuil, my sister. Isabella has first refused to marry the Chevalier de Vidalinc, and then the Marquis de l’Estang, two very handsome young men, I must say; but I believe that, without being pressed unduly, she may well accept the Baron de Sigognac.’

Next day, the Duke and the Baron riding side by side took the road to Paris.

Chapter XX: Chiquita’s Declaration of Love

A dense crowd filled the Place de Grève (The place of public execution, renamed the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville after 1802), despite the still quite early hour marked by the clock-face of the Hôtel de Ville. The great roofs of Dominico Boccador’s building (Dominico da Cortona; the Hôtel de Ville de Paris he designed was destroyed during the Commune of 24 May 1871) loomed, a purplish-grey against the milky white sky. Their cold shadows stretched to the middle of the square, enveloping a sinister wooden frame, one or two feet higher than the level of foreheads, and smeared with red bloodstains. A few heads appeared at the windows of the houses now and then, and immediately vanished, on seeing that the spectacle had not yet begun. An old woman even showed her wrinkled face at a skylight in the turret located at the corner of the square, from which, so tradition has it, Marguerite (Marguerite de Valois, wife of Henri IV) contemplated the torture of Joseph de La Môle and Annibal de Coconas (executed following the failure of the Malcontents Conspiracy, or Vincennes Plot, of 1574): she having changed, disastrously, in the eyes of the public, from a beautiful queen to an ugly witch! A child, hoisting himself up with great difficulty, had suspended himself from the stone cross planted at the edge of the slope leading down to the river, holding on, with his arms looped over the crosspiece and his knees and legs clasping the shaft, in a pose as painful as that of the unrepentant thief (at the Crucifixion), but which he would not have abandoned for a pastry, or an apple tart. From there, he could view interesting details of the scaffold, the wheel for the condemned, the ropes to tie the wretch, and the iron bar to break his bones; all things worthy of examination.

However, if any among the spectators had taken it into their heads to study this child, perched on high, with a more attentive eye, they would have detected in the expression of the face a feeling other than that of vulgar curiosity. It was not the savage lure of witnessing an execution that had attracted this young being, a creature of swarthy complexion, large eyes ringed with brown, gleaming teeth and long black hair, whose tanned hands gripped the stone crosspiece. The delicacy of the features even seemed to indicate a sex other than that revealed by the clothes, but none looked in that direction, for all eyes turned, instinctively, towards the scaffold, or the platform onto which the condemned man would emerge.

Among the crowd appeared a few familiar faces; a red nose in the centre of a pale face designated Malartic, and enough of the hooked profile of Jacquemin Lampourde was visible, above the collar of a coat thrown over his shoulder in the Spanish style, for there to be no doubt as to his identity. Though he wore his hat pulled down to his eyebrows, in order to hide the absence of the ear severed by Piedgris’ bullet, it was easy to identify Bringuenarilles as that great rascal seated on a boundary stone, and smoking a long Dutch pipe to pass the time. Piedgris was chatting with Tordgueule, and, on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, several regulars of the Crowned Radish strolled, in peripatetic fashion, talking about this and that. The Place de Grève, where, sooner or later, they were inevitably destined to end up themselves, exercised a singular fascination for murderers, swordsmen and thieves. That sinister place, instead of repelling them, attracted them. They circled about it, first tracing wide arcs, then narrower ones, until they fell into it; they liked to gaze at the gallows on which they would hang, avidly contemplated its dread configuration, and learned from the grimaces of the condemned to familiarise themselves with the manner of their death; a result quite contrary to the idea promulgated by justice, which was to deter villains from crime by the sight of the torment involved in the executions.

What further explains the influx of scoundrels on such days was that the protagonist of the tragedy was always a relative, an acquaintance, or, often, an accomplice. They came to see their cousin hanged, a close friend beaten to death, or the gallant man whose counterfeit money was being passed around boiled alive. To miss such an event would have seemed impolite. For a condemned man, it was pleasant to have an audience of folk well-known to him around his scaffold. It sustained him, and rekindled his energy. None wished to appear afraid, in front of appreciators of true merit, and pride came to the aid of suffering. Thus surrounded, by his friends, a man who might have displayed cowardice if he were terminated, incognito, in the depths of some cellar or other, died like a Roman.

Seven o’clock struck. The execution was not to take place until eight. So, Jacquemin Lampourde, hearing the clock chime, said to Malartic: ‘You see we would have had time to drink another bottle; but you are always impatient and restless. Why not return to the Crowned Radish? I’m bored hanging around, marking time. Is seeing a poor devil broken on the wheel worth such a long wait? The method of torture is insipid, bourgeois, commonplace. If it were a fine quartering tied to four horses, each mounted by an archer from the provost court, or pincers and red-hot iron tongs, or an application of boiling pitch or molten lead, something ingeniously contrived and savagely painful, doing honour to the judge’s imagination or the executioner’s skill; why then, I wouldn’t say a word. For the love of art, I would stay; but, for so little!’

— ‘You are wrong about the wheel,’ Malartic replied, sententiously, rubbing his nose, which was more crimson than ever, ‘the wheel has its finer points.’

— ‘One can’t argue against personal taste. Each to his own particular pleasure, as a very famous Roman author says, whose name I’ve forgotten, (see Cicero’s ‘Suum cuique pulchrum est’; ‘Tusculan Disputations’ Book V:23.63), my memory readily retaining only those of great captains. The wheel pleases you; I will not contradict you on the matter, and so keep you company till the end. Agree, however, that a beheading performed with a damascened blade, with a groove above filled with quicksilver to give it weight, requires clear sight, vigour, and dexterity, and presents a spectacle as noble as it is attractive.’

— ‘Yes, no doubt, but it goes by too quickly, it’s a mere lightning-flash; and besides, beheading is reserved for the gentry. Placing their heads on the block is one of their privileges. As far as common punishments go, the wheel seems to me to outweigh hanging, which is good for minor criminals at most. Agostin is more than a simple thief. He deserves something better than the rope, and justice has shown him the consideration he deserves.’

— ‘You've always had a soft spot for Agostin, probably because of Chiquita, whose oddity stirred your libertine’s eye; I fail to share your admiration for a bandit, more suited to working the roads and the mountain gorges, as a salteador (highwayman), than operating with requisite delicacy at the heart of a civilised city. He is ignorant of the refinements of our art. His manner is harsh, wild, provincial. At the slightest obstacle he draws a knife and kills carelessly, and savagely. Cutting the Gordian knot is scarcely untying it, whatever Alexander the Great may have thought (see Plutarch’s ‘Life of Alexander’ 18.3). Moreover, he fails to employ the sword; which lacks nobility.’

— ‘Agostin’s specialty is the navaja, the long-bladed weapon of his homeland; he has not, like us, rattled the boards in the fencing halls for years. But his style has a flavour of the unexpected, of boldness and originality. His poniard when launched combines the grace of ballistics with the discreet certainty of a bladed weapon. The subject is struck, at twenty paces, without a sound. I regret very much that his career has been interrupted so soon. He worked well, and with the courage of a lion.’

— ‘Well, I’ replied Jacquemin Lampourde, ‘am all for the academic method. Without formality, everything is lost. Before I attack, I tap my man on the shoulder, and give him time to present guard; he can then defend himself if he wishes. It is a duel, and no longer a murder. I am a swordsman, not an assassin. It is true that my profound knowledge of fencing grants me a greater chance, and my arm is well-nigh infallible; but knowledge of the art is not cheating. I claim his purse, watch, jewels, and the dead man’s coat; others would do it in my place. Since the trouble is mine, it is fitting that the profit is also. Whatever you assert, this work with the knife is repugnant to me; it is fine in the countryside, and with people of low rank.’

— ‘Ah! Jacquemin Lampourde, you are a stickler for principles; you will never budge; however, a little originality never goes amiss where art is concerned.’

— ‘I would accept a learned, complex, and pleasing originality; but this fierce and impulsive brutality irritates me. Besides, Agostin is intoxicated by blood, and, in his wild intoxication, he strikes at random. It is a weakness. When one drinks from the cup of murder that may cause dizziness, one must have a strong head. Thus, in that house he entered recently in order to steal cash, he killed the husband who had woken, but also the wife who was asleep; a superfluous murder, excessively cruel and ungallant. Women should only be killed if they scream, and it is far better simply to gag them, even then; for, if one is caught, such carnage arouses resentment in the judges, and the people, and one is viewed as a monster.’

— ‘You speak like Saint John Chrysostom, he of the golden tongue,’ replied Malartic, ‘in such a masterly and peremptory manner that I can find no answer; but what will become of poor Chiquita?’

Jacquemin Lampourde and Malartic were philosophising in this manner, when a carriage exiting the quayside appeared in the square, causing waves and eddies amidst the crowd. The horses stamped their hooves without being able to progress, sometimes striking people’s feet, leading to angry conversations, mixed with insults, between the crowd and the lackeys.

The pedestrians thus trampled upon would have attacked the carriage with a will if the ducal arms emblazoned on the door panels had not inspired a species of terror in them, though they were people who respected little. Soon the crowd was so dense that the carriage was forced to halt in the middle of the square, where from a distance the coachman, motionless on his seat, seemed to be perched on a sea of heads. To drive forward, and clear a path, would have necessitated crushing too many of the rabble, and this rabble, who were at home in the Place de Grève, would perhaps have resisted being pushed around.

— ‘These rascals are waiting for an execution, and will not leave the field clear till the condemned man is dispatched,’ said a handsome and magnificently dressed young man, to his friend, who was also very handsome, but wearing a more modest costume, seated next to him in the back of the carriage. ‘To the Devil with the idiot who is about to be broken on the wheel, at the very time when we are crossing the Place de Grève! Couldn’t he have delayed till tomorrow?’

— ‘Believe me;’ his friend replied, ‘he desires nothing more, since the incident will prove even more unfortunate for him than for us.’

— ‘The best we can do, my dear Sigognac, is to resign ourselves to turning our heads the other way, should the spectacle disgust us, a difficult thing to do, however, when something dreadful is happening nearby; witness Saint Augustine’s friend Alypius, who opened his eyes in the Circus to watch the gladiators, persuaded to do so by the roar of the crowd (see Saint Augustine’s ‘Confessions’, Book VI, viii), though he had promised himself to keep them closed.’

— ‘In any case, we shall not have long to wait,’ replied Sigognac, ‘look there, Vallombreuse; the crowd is parting in front of the condemned man’s cart.’

Indeed, a cart, drawn by a nag that one of the slaughterhouses at Montfaucon had long been awaiting, was now advancing, surrounded by a few mounted archers, to the sound of its old iron wheels and, passing through the groups of onlookers, headed towards the scaffold. On a plank between the sides sat Agostin, next to a white-bearded Capuchin who held up to the former’s lips a yellow copper crucifix, polished by the kisses of people about to die though still in good health. The bandit’s hair was wrapped in a kerchief, the knotted ends of which hung down behind his neck. A coarse linen shirt and old serge breeches comprised his entire costume. He was dressed for the scaffold; a brief journey. The executioner had already taken the condemned man’s clothes, as was his right, and had left him only these rags, quite sufficient to die in. A series of ropes, the ends of which were held by the executioner, placed at the back of the cart so that the patient could not see them, held Agostin, while allowing him apparent freedom. A servant to the executioner, sitting on a shaft of the cart at one side, held the reins, and whipped the bony nag with all his might.

— ‘Well,’ said Sigognac, eyeing the scene from the carriage, ‘if it is not the bandit who once stopped me on the highway, at the head of his troop of scarecrows. I told you that story as we passed the place where it happened.’

— ‘So, I recall,’ said Vallombreuse, ‘and I laughed heartily; but it seems that the rascal has indulged in more serious exploits since then. Ambition has ruined him; however, he puts a good face on it.’

Agostin, a little pale despite his naturally tanned complexion, was gazing around the crowd in a preoccupied manner, seeming to search for someone in particular. As he passed the stone cross, he saw the young child perched there, as described at the start of this chapter, having remained in place.

At this sight, a flash of joy shone in his eyes, a faint smile parted his lips, and he gave an imperceptible nod, both a farewell and a testament, and said in a low voice, ‘Chiquita!’

— ‘My son, what name did you just pronounce?’ said the Capuchin, waving his crucifix. ‘It sounded like a woman’s name: some gipsy, no doubt, or some girl intoxicated by the flesh. Think instead of your salvation; you have one foot on the threshold of eternity.’

— ‘Yes, father, and though I have black hair, you with your white hair will soon be younger than I. Every turn of the wheel towards that scaffold is ageing me ten years.’

— ‘For a brigand from the provinces, who ought to be intimidated by dying before a crowd Parisians,’ said Jacquemin Lampourde, who had approached the scaffold, by elbowing his way through the onlookers and idlers, ‘this Agostin is behaving rather well; he does not appear defeated, nor does he display, in anticipation, the cadaverous expression of the condemned. His head is not tossing about; he holds it high and straight; as a sign of courage, he stares fixedly at the fatal machinery. If my experience does not deceive me, he will meet a proper and decent end, without whining, without struggling, and without seeking to confess so as to gain time.’

— ‘Oh! There’s no danger of that,’ said Malartic, ‘he suffered himself to be tortured with eight wedges rather than open his mouth, and betray a comrade.’

The cart, during these brief exchanges, had arrived at the foot of the scaffold, whose steps Agostin slowly mounted, preceded by the attendant, supported by the Capuchin, and followed by the executioner. In less than a minute he was spreadeagled, and tied firmly to the wheel by the executioner’s assistants. The executioner, having thrown his crimson cloak, embroidered with a border of white braid, over his shoulder, had rolled up his sleeve, so that his arm was freer, and was bending down to pick up his deadly iron bar.

The supreme moment had arrived. An anxious curiosity oppressed the breasts of the spectators. Lampourde and Malartic had adopted serious expressions; Bringuenarilles no longer inhaled the smoke from his pipe, which he had removed from his lips. Tordgueule, feeling that a similar fate was approaching him, had adopted a melancholy and dreamy air. Suddenly, a certain quivering motion stirred amidst the crowd. The child clinging to the cross had let herself sink to the ground, and, slithering like a snake through the onlookers, had reached the scaffold, whose steps she climbed in two bounds, presenting to the astonished executioner, who was already raising his iron bar, a pale, gleaming, and sublime figure, alight with such resolution that he stopped in spite of himself, and held back the blow about to descend.

— ‘Away, child,’ cried the executioner, ‘or my bar will break your head.’

But Chiquita paid no attention. Careless of death, she bent over Agostin, kissed his forehead and whispered, ‘I love you.’ Then, with a movement quicker than lightning, she plunged the dagger she had reclaimed from Isabella deep into his heart. The blow was struck with so firm a hand that death was almost instantaneous, Agostin barely had time to breathe his word of thanks.

‘When the toothed viper bites home,

For its wound, there’s no remedy known’

the child murmured, with a burst of wild, mad laughter, as she fled from the scaffold, where the executioner, astonished by the event, and uncertain whether it was his role to shatter the bones of a corpse, was lowering his iron bar, now rendered useless.

Gustave Doré (1832-1883) - …Agostin barely had time to breathe his word of thanks.

‘…Agostin barely had time to breathe his word of thanks.’

— ‘Well done, Chiquita, well done!’ Malartic, who had recognised her in her boyish clothes, could not help shouting.

Lampourde, Bringuenarilles, Piedgris, Tordgueule, and the friends of the Crowned Radish, amazed by her action, arranged themselves in a dense hedge, so as to prevent the soldiers from pursuing the girl. The arguments, and the pushing and shoving, mingled with blows, which this feigned embarrassment gave rise to, gave Chiquita time to reach Vallombreuse’s carriage, which had halted at the corner of the square. She climbed onto the step, and, holding onto the door with both hands, having recognised Sigognac, said to him in a panting voice: ‘I saved Isabella, now save me.’

Vallombreuse, who was greatly interested in this strange scene, shouted to the coachman: ‘Drive hard, and, if needs be, over the backs of this rabble.’ But the coachman had no need to crush anyone. The crowd opened, eagerly, before the carriage, and closed again, at once, to obstruct the soldiers sluggish in pursuit.

A few minutes later, the carriage reached the Porte Saint-Antoine, and, as the rumour of such a recent event could not have travelled so far, Vallombreuse ordered the coachman to moderate his speed, since a carriage moving at such a pace would have seemed, quite rightly, suspicious. Once past the suburbs, he made Chiquita enter the carriage. She seated herself on a cushion, without saying a word, opposite Sigognac. Beneath the calmest of expressions, she was in the grip of extreme exaltation. Not a muscle in her face moved, but a flood of red had flushed her cheeks, ordinarily so pale, and granted her large, motionless eyes, which seemingly stared without seeing, a supernatural brightness. A sort of transfiguration had taken place in the girl. Her violent effort had broken the chrysalis of childhood in which the young girl had as yet lingered. In plunging her knife into Agostin’s heart, she had at the same time breached her own. Her love was born from Agostin’s death; the strange, almost asexual being, half-child, half-elf, that had existed till then, no longer did so. She was a woman now, and her passion, blossoming in a moment, was to be eternal. A kiss, a stab, such was indeed Chiquita’s love.

The carriage was still moving, and the great slate roofs of the castle could already be seen looming behind the trees. Vallombreuse said to Sigognac: ‘You shall come to my apartment, and adjust your toilette a little there, before I present you to my sister, who is unaware of my journey or your arrival. I have myself arranged this dramatic turn of events, which I hope will produce the best of effects. Lower the curtain on your side so you are not seen, and the surprise is complete. But what shall we do with this little demon?’

— ‘Command,’ said Chiquita, who, despite her deep reverie, had heard Vallombreuse’s words, ‘command that I be taken to Madame Isabella; let her be the arbiter of my fate.’

With curtains drawn, the carriage entered the courtyard of honour. Vallombreuse took Sigognac by the arm and led him to his apartment, after ordering a footman to take Chiquita to the Comtesse de Lineuil.

At the sight of Chiquita, Isabella put down the book, she was reading and looked at the young girl with a questioning expression.

Chiquita remained motionless and silent until the servant had withdrawn. Then, with a sort of singular solemnity, she advanced towards Isabella, took the latter’s hand and said:

— ‘The knife, I have left in Agostin’s heart. I no longer have a master, and yet I feel the need to devote myself to someone. Beside Agostin, who is now dead, it is you I love most in the world. You gave me the pearl necklace and you kissed me. Will you have me as a slave, a dog, a familiar? Give me but a black rag to wear, in mourning for my love; I will sleep across your threshold; I shall not bother you at all. When you want me, you can summon me like this’ —she gave a whistle — ‘and I will appear at once. Will you?’

Isabella, in response, drew Chiquita to her heart, touched her forehead with her lips, and simply accepted this soul that now gave itself to her.

Chapter XXI: Hymenaios, O Hymenaios!

Isabella, accustomed to Chiquita’s strange and enigmatic ways, had not questioned her, reserving the right to ask for an explanation when that strange girl was calmer. She saw some dreadful history in all this; but the poor child had rendered her such services that, in this clearly desperate situation, she was received without inquiry.

After entrusting her to a chambermaid, she resumed her interrupted reading, though the book held little interest for her. After a few pages, her mind no longer following the lines, she placed the bookmark between the pages and set the volume back on the table amidst some needlework she had begun. Her head resting on her hand, her gaze lost in space, she yielded to the usual tenor of her reverie: ‘What has become of Sigognac’ she asked herself, ‘does he still think of me, does he still love me? No doubt he has returned to his wretched castle, and, believing my brother dead, dares show no sign of life. That imagined obstacle prevents him. Else, he would surely have tried to see me again; he would have written to me, at the very least. Perhaps the idea that I am now a wealthy candidate for marriage has stolen his courage. If he has forgot me! No! No! That’s impossible. I should have sent word to him that Vallombreuse was cured of his wound; but it is not becoming for a well-born young lady to prompt a distant lover to reappear in that manner: it offends all feminine delicacy. I often wonder if it would not have been better for me to remain the humble actress that I was. I would at least see him every day, and, sure of my virtue as well as of his respect, savour in peace the sweetness of being loved. Despite my father’s touching affection, I feel sad and lonely in this magnificent castle; if Vallombreuse were here, even his company might distract me; but his absence is a prolonged one, and I puzzle in vain over the meaning of that sentence he uttered with a smile on leaving: ‘Farewell, little sister, I think you will be pleased with me!’ Sometimes, I think I may understand, yet have no wish to dwell on the thought; the disappointment would be too painful. If it were true, ah, I would be wild with joy!’

The Comtesse de Lineuil, it being perhaps a little too bold to term Isabella the prince’s ‘legitimated’ daughter, had reached this point in her interior monologue when a senior attendant appeared and asked if the countess would receive the Duke of Vallombreuse, who had just arrived from a journey and wished to greet her.

— ‘Admit him at once,’ replied the countess, ‘his visit will give me the greatest pleasure.’

Five or six minutes had scarcely passed when the young duke entered the drawing-room, displaying a clear complexion, a lively eye, and a confident and light step, and with that glorious manner which he had possessed prior to being wounded; he threw his feathered hat onto an armchair, and took his sister’s hand, which he brought to his lips in a manner as respectful as it was tender.

— ‘Dear Isabella, I stayed away longer than I would have liked; it has proved a great deprivation not to see you, having become accustomed to your presence; yet I thought of you, in a brotherly manner, during my journey, and the hope of pleasing you compensated me, somewhat, for your absence.’

— ‘The greatest pleasure you could have given me,’ replied Isabella, ‘would have been to remain at the castle close to myself and your father, and not, with your wound barely healed, chase some whim or other.’

— ‘Was I wounded?’ said Vallombreuse, laughing. ‘Well, if it is remembered, it is scarcely so. I have never felt better, and the little excursion has done me a deal of good. The saddle is better for my health than a chaise longue. But you, good sister, I find you a little thin and pale; have you been plagued by ennui? The castle is hardly cheerful, and solitude is not suitable for young girls. Reading, and embroidery, prove melancholy pastimes in the end, and there are moments when the wisest person, tired of gazing out of the window at the green waters of the moat, would prefer to view the face of a handsome horseman.’

— ‘How annoyingly playful you are, my dear brother, and how you like to tease me, seeking to rid me of my sadness by talking nonsense! Did I not have the company of the prince, so kind and paternal, and full of instructive and wise words?’

— ‘Without doubt, our worthy father is the most accomplished of gentlemen, prudent in counsel, bold in action, a perfect courtier when with the king, a great lord in his own home, and learned and eloquent in all sorts of sciences; but the amusement he provides is of a grave sort, and I do not wish my dear sister to waste her youth in a solemn and gloomy manner. Since you had no wish to receive the Chevalier de Vidalinc or the Marquis de l’Estang, I set out in search of a suitor for you, and, in my travels, I have found just the thing for you: a charming, perfect, nay, ideal husband, whom you will adore, I am sure.’

— ‘It is cruel of you, Vallombreuse, to persecute me with these jests. You are not unaware, my wicked brother, that I have no wish to marry. I could not give my hand without my heart, and my heart is no longer mine.’

— ‘You will soon change your mind when I introduce the husband I have chosen for you.’

— ‘Never, never,’ replied Isabella, her voice altered by emotion, ‘I will be faithful to a most dear memory, for I do not think that your intention is to force my will.’

— ‘No! No! I am no tyrant. I only ask you not to reject my protégé before you have seen him.’

Without waiting for his sister’s consent, Vallombreuse rose and entered the room next door. He returned immediately, bringing Sigognac, whose heart was beating fast. The two young men, arm in arm, remained poised for a while on the threshold, hoping that Isabella would turn her eyes in their direction, but she lowered them modestly, while thinking of this friend of hers whom she did not suspect was so close to her.

Vallombreuse, finding she was paying no attention to them, and had resumed her reverie, advanced a few steps towards his sister, leading the Baron by the fingertips as one leads a lady to a dance, and made a ceremonious bow which Sigognac repeated. Except that Vallombreuse was smiling, and Sigognac pale. Brave in dealing with men, he was timid before women, like all generous hearts.

— ‘Comtesse de Lineuil,’ said Vallombreuse in a slightly emphatic tone, as if deliberately flouting etiquette, ‘allow me to introduce to you one of my good friends, whom I hope you will welcome: the Baron de Sigognac.’

At his utterance of the name, while taking this to be another of her brother’s jests, Isabella nevertheless shuddered, and cast a quick glance at the newcomer. Recognising that Vallombreuse had not deceived her, she felt an extraordinary emotion. At first, she turned completely white, the blood rushing to her heart; then, the reaction succeeding, a pleasing blush covered her forehead, cheeks, and what could be glimpsed of her breast under the pink cloud of her gorget. Without saying a word, she rose and threw herself on Vallombreuse’s neck, hiding her head against the young duke’s shoulder. Two or three sobs shook the graceful body of the young girl, and a few tears wet the velvet of the doublet where she rested her head. With this pretty movement, so modest and so feminine, Isabella showed all the delicacy of her soul. She thanked Vallombreuse, whose kind ingenuity she now understood, and, unable to embrace her lover, embraced her brother.

When he thought she was calm enough, Vallombreuse gently freed himself from Isabella’s embrace, and, pushing away the hands with which she veiled her face to hide her tears, he said to her: ‘Dear sister, let us see your charming face for a moment, or my protégé will believe that you have an insurmountable aversion to him.’

Isabella obeyed and turned towards Sigognac her beautiful eyes lit with a heavenly joy, despite the brilliant pearls that still trembled beneath her long eyelashes: she held out to him a lovely hand, on which the Baron, bowing, pressed the tenderest of kisses. The sensation well-nigh overwhelmed the heart of the young girl, who almost fainted; but one soon recovers from such rare emotion.

— ‘Well, was I not right,’ said Vallombreuse, ‘to claim that you would welcome the suitor of my choice? It is sometimes good to be stubborn in one’s whims. If I had not been as stubborn as you were resolute, dear Sigognac would have left for his manor house without having seen you, and that would have been a pity, you must admit.’

— ‘I agree, dear brother; you have shown in all this an adorable streak of kindness. You alone could, in these circumstances, effect a reconciliation, since you alone had suffered injury.’

— ‘Yes, indeed’ Sigognac responded, ‘the Duke of Vallombreuse has revealed his great and generous soul; he has put aside a cause for resentment that might have been thought legitimate, and has come to me with an open hand, and his heart on his sleeve. For the harm I have done him, he is taking noble revenge, by imposing on me a debt of eternal gratitude, a slight burden, which I will bear with joy until death.’

— ‘Don’t speak of that, my dear Baron,’ replied Vallombreuse, ‘you would have done as much in my place. Two valiant men always end up understanding each other; swords once joined bind souls, and sooner or later we were destined to be friends, like Theseus and Pirithous (see Plutarch’s ‘Life of Theseus’ et al), Nisus and Euryale (see Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’, Book IX), or Pythias and Damon (see Cicero, ‘De Officiis 3.43-46); but don’t concern yourself with me. Instead, tell my sister how much you missed her, and thought of her, in that castle of Sigognac, where I nonetheless had one of the best meals of my life, though you claim that the rule is to die of hunger there.’

— ‘I too dined well there,’ said Isabella, smiling, ‘and it has left a pleasant memory.’

— ‘It seems,’ replied Sigognac, ‘that all have attended Belshazzar’s feast in that house of famine; but I blush not at the poverty which happily has earned a measure of your interest, dear Isabella; I bless it; I owe it everything.’

— ‘I think,’ said Vallombreuse, ‘that I should go and greet my father, and inform him of your arrival, which he is little expecting, I admit. Oh, countess, is it quite certain that you accept the Baron de Sigognac as your husband? I would not wish to make a wrong move. You accept him? That is good. Then I can withdraw: engaged couples sometimes have to say most innocent things to each other, which a brother’s presence would hamper. I leave you to each other, certain that you will thank me, and besides, the profession of duenna is not my business. Farewell; I will soon return to lead Sigognac to the prince.’

After saying these words with a casual air, the young duke donned his hat and exited, leaving these immaculate lovers to themselves. However pleasant his company was, his absence was even more so.

Sigognac approached Isabella and took her hand, which she did not withdraw. For a few minutes the young couple looked at each other with rapt eyes. Such silences are more eloquent than words. Deprived for so long of the pleasure of seeing each other, Isabella and Sigognac were wholly absorbed; at last, the Baron said to his young mistress:

— ‘I hardly dare believe in such happiness. Oh, what a strange fate is mine! You loved me because I was poor and unhappy, and what was to mark my complete ruin proves the cause of my good fortune. A troupe of actors contained an angel of beauty and virtue; an armed attack has brought me a friend; and your kidnapping made you known to a father who had searched for you in vain; all this because a cart went astray on the moors one dark night.’

— ‘We were meant to love each other; it was written in the stars. Soulmates end by finding one another if they but wait. I felt, at the Château de Sigognac, that my destiny was about to be fulfilled; at the sight of you, my heart, which no gallant had been able to touch, was stirred. Your timidity achieved more than all their audacity, and from that moment I resolved to belong only to you, or to God.’

— ‘And yet, cruel one, you refused me your hand, when I asked for it on my knees: I know that it was out of generosity; but it was a harsh generosity.’

— ‘I will amend that as best I can, dear Baron, and here is that hand, and my heart, which you already possessed. The Comtesse de Lineuil is not obliged to display the same scruples as poor Isabella once did. I had only one fear, that you would no longer seek me, out of pride. But, in renouncing me, would you, truly, have remained unmarried? Would you have remained faithful to me, even without hope? Did thoughts of me occupy yours when Vallombreuse went to pluck you from your manor?’

— ‘Dear Isabella, during the day, I had not a single idea that did not involve you, and in the evening, laying my head on the pillow once brushed by your pure brow, I begged the deities that preside over dreams to show me your charming image in imagination’s mirror.’

— ‘And did those good deities grant your prayers often?’

— ‘They never once disappointed my expectations, and only morning caused you to vanish through the gate of ivory (that of false dreams, see Homer’s ‘Odyssey’, XIX, 560–569). Oh, the days seemed very long to me, and I would have liked to sleep forever!’

— ‘I have seen you many a night. Our loving souls met in the same dream. But God be praised, here we are, reunited for a long time, I hope forever. The prince, with whom Vallombreuse must be acting in concord, for my brother would not have lightly engaged you in this matter, will, doubtless, receive your request with favour. On several occasions, he has spoken of you, to me, in glowing terms, while giving me a singular look which troubled me extremely, and whose meaning I did not dare to understand at the time, Vallombreuse having not yet said that he renounced his hatred against you.’

At that moment the young duke returned and told Sigognac that the prince was awaiting him.

Sigognac rose, bowed to Isabella, and followed Vallombreuse through several apartments, at the far end of which lay the prince’s bedroom. The old lord, dressed in black, and decorated with his many orders, was seated near the window, in a large armchair, behind a table covered with a Turkish rug, and laden with papers and books. His pose, despite his affable air, was perfectly composed, like that of a man awaiting a formal visit. The light, gliding over his forehead in satiny gleams, made a few loose hairs shine like silver threads, amidst the curls the valet’s comb had arranged on his temples. His gaze was gentle, firm, and clear, and time that had left traces of its passage on this noble face had granted him in majesty what it had robbed him of in beauty. At the sight of the prince, even if he had not been dressed in the insignia of his rank, it was impossible not to feel a degree of veneration. The most uneducated and fiercest would have recognised in him a truly great lord. The prince rose from his chair to respond to Sigognac’s greeting and signalled that he should be seated.

— ‘Father,’ said Vallombreuse, ‘I present to you the Baron de Sigognac, once my rival, now my friend, and soon to be my relative if you consent. I owe it to him to espouse virtue, which is no small obligation. The Baron respectfully comes to make a request, which I would be very pleased to see you grant.’

The prince made a gesture of acquiescence as if to encourage Sigognac to speak.

Prompted in this manner, the Baron rose, bowed and said: ‘Prince, I ask you for the hand of Madame la Comtesse Isabella de Lineuil, your daughter.’

As if to give himself time to reflect, the old lord remained silent for a few moments, then he replied: ‘Baron de Sigognac, I accept your request, and consent to this marriage insofar as my paternal will is in accordance with the good pleasure of my daughter, whom I do not intend to compel in any way. I have no wish to play the tyrant, and it is, ultimately, for the Comtesse de Lineuil to decide the matter. She must be consulted. The fancies of young people are sometimes odd.’ The prince said these words with the sly wit and subtle smile of the courtier, as if he had not known for a long time that Isabella loved Sigognac but owed it to his dignity as a father to appear ignorant of the fact, while letting it be seen that he had no doubt whatsoever of the reality.

He continued after a pause: ‘Vallombreuse, go and find your sister, because without her, truly, I cannot grant the Baron de Sigognac an answer.’

Vallombreuse disappeared, and soon returned with Isabella, who felt more dead than alive. Despite her brother’s assurances, she could not yet believe in such happiness; her throbbing breasts heaved beneath her bodice, the colour had left her cheeks, and her knees felt as though they were giving way beneath her. The prince drew her close to him, and she was forced, so much was she trembling, to lean against the arm of the chair to keep from falling to the floor.’

— ‘My daughter,’ said the prince, ‘here is a gentleman who does you the honour of asking for your hand. I would welcome this union with joy; for he is of ancient race, of spotless reputation, and he seems to me to meet all the desirable conditions. He suits me; but would he please you? Blonde heads do not always judge in the same manner as grey heads. Search your heart, examine your soul, and say if you accept Monsieur le Baron de Sigognac as your husband. Take your time; in such a serious matter, there must be no haste.’

The prince’s kind and cordial smile made it clear that he was but jesting. So, Isabella, emboldened, put her arms around her father’s neck and said to him in an adorably coaxing voice: ‘There is no need for me to reflect for long. Since the Baron de Sigognac pleases you, my lord and father, I will confess with free and honest frankness that I have loved him ever since I saw him, and I have never desired another husband. To obey you will be my greatest happiness.’

— ‘Well, then, join hands and kiss as a sign of your engagement,’ said the Duke of Vallombreuse, cheerfully. ‘The story ends better than one might have expected, given its fraught beginning. When shall the wedding be?’

— ‘It will take the costumiers a good eight days for the tailors and seamstresses to cut and sew the fabrics, and the carriage-makers as long to prepare the carriages,’ said the prince, ‘Meanwhile, Isabella, here you will find the details of your dowry: the county of Lineuil, to which you are entitled, and which yields fifty thousand crowns a year, with its woods, meadows, ponds, and arable land (and he handed her a bundle of papers). As for you, Sigognac, here is the royal decree naming you provincial governor. No one is better suited to the position than yourself.’

Towards the end of this scene Vallombreuse disappeared, but soon reappeared followed by a footman carrying a box wrapped in a red velvet cloth.

— ‘My sister,’ he said to the young bride, ‘here is my wedding gift,’ and he presented her with the box. On the lid was written: ‘For Isabella.’ It was the jewel case he had once offered to the actress, and which she had virtuously refused. ‘You must accept it this time,’ he added with a charming smile, ‘so as to prevent these diamonds of magnificent water, and these pearls of perfect lustre, from meeting a sorry end. Thus, they will remain as pure as yourself!’

Isabella, smiling, took from it a necklace, which she placed about her neck, to show that she led no grudge against those beautiful gems. Then she arranged a triple row of pearls, around her white arm, and hung a pair of rich pendants from her ears.

What more is there to say? The eight days expired, the chaplain of Vallombreuse united Isabella and Sigognac, to whom the Marquis de Bruyères served as witness, in the chapel of the château, flowery with bouquets, and sparkling with candles. Musicians, commissioned by the young duke, sang, with voices that seemed to descend from heaven, and rise towards it, a Palestrina motet. Sigognac was radiant, Isabella adorable beneath her long white veil, and never, unless one knew it, would one have suspected that this lovely person, so noble and at the same time so modest, had appeared in comedy, only acting the princess, in the glare of the footlights. Sigognac, now superbly dressed, a provincial governor, and captain of musketeers, bore little relation to the unfortunate gentleman whose misery was described at the start of this tale.

After a splendid dinner attended by the Prince, Vallombreuse, the Marquis de Bruyères, the Chevalier de Vidalinc, the Count de l’Estang and a number of virtuous ladies who were friends of the family, the two newlyweds disappeared; but we must leave them on the threshold of the bridal chamber, murmuring in a low voice: ‘Hymenaios, O Hymenaios!’ in the ancient manner (Hymenaios was the ancient Greek god of marriage). The mysteries of happiness must be respected, and besides, Isabella was so modest that she would have died of shame if someone had indiscreetly removed a pin from her bodice.

Chapter XXII: Epilogue – The Castle of Happiness

It should not be thought that good Isabella, having become Baroness of Sigognac, had forgotten, in her grandeur, her brave comrades, those of Herod’s troupe. Unable to invite them to her wedding as their situation no longer matched her own, she had given them each a gift, offered with such charming grace that its value was doubled. Until the departure of the company, she often went to see them act, applauding them appropriately, as one who understood the business. For the new Baroness did not hide the fact that she had once been an actress, an excellent way of scotching the desire of evil tongues to gossip, as they would not have failed to do had she made a secret of the matter. Moreover, the illustrious line, from which she was born, imposed silence on all, and her modesty soon won the hearts of all, even those of the women, who concurred in finding her as great a lady as any at Court. King Louis XIII, having heard all about Isabella’s adventures, praised her highly for her wisdom, and showed particular esteem to Sigognac for his restraint, disapproving, as the chaste monarch he was, of bold and unruly young people. Vallombreuse had notoriously changed his ways, in the company of his brother-in-law, and the prince was overjoyed. The young couple thus led a charming life, ever more in love with each other, without experiencing that satiety of happiness which spoils the most beautiful of existences. However, for some time now, Isabella seemed animated by a mysterious burst of activity. She had secret conferences with her steward: an architect came to see her who submitted plans; sculptors and painters had received orders from her, and had left for an unknown destination. All this, in complicity with Vallombreuse who seemed to be aware of the answer to this riddle, was kept secret from Sigognac.

One fine morning, after several months had passed, doubtless those necessary for the accomplishment of her project, Isabella said to Sigognac, as if the sudden idea had crossed her mind: ‘My dear lord, do you never think of your poor Château de Sigognac, and do you not long to see again the cradle of our love?’

— ‘I am not so ungrateful, and indeed have thought of it more than once; but I did not dare to engage you on the journey, not knowing if it would be to your taste. I would not have allowed myself to tear you away from the delights of the Court of which you are now the ornament, to drag you off to a ruined castle, the abode of rats and owls, which I nevertheless prefer to the richest palaces, as being the age-old home of my ancestors, and the place where I saw you for the first time, a place forever sacred that I would gladly mark with an altar.’

— ‘As for me,’ Isabella continued, ‘I have often wondered if the briar-rose in the garden still bears its blooms.’

— ‘It does,’ said Sigognac, ‘I would swear to it; those rustic shrubs are perennial, and besides, having been touched by your hand, it must surely always produce flowers, even in solitude.’

— ‘Unlike ordinary husbands,’ the Baroness de Sigognac replied, laughing, ‘you are more gallant after marriage than before, and you utter compliments to your wife as if to a mistress. Since your desire accords with my whim, would you be happy to travel there this week? The season is fine, the intense heat has passed, and we will have a pleasant journey. Vallombreuse will accompany us, and I will take Chiquita, who will be pleased to see her native county again.’

Preparations were soon made. They departed. The journey was swift and delightful, Vallombreuse having arranged relays of horses in advance, and after a few days they arrived at the place where the path leading to the Sigognac manor branched from the main road. It may have been two in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly.

As the carriage turned so as to enter the drive, and the château suddenly came in sight, Sigognac seemed dazed; he no longer recognised his surroundings, altered from those familiar to his memory. The road now levelled was no longer full of ruts. The hedges now pruned allowed the traveller to pass by without scratching him with their thorns. The trees, artfully trimmed, cast a decent shade, and their arches framed a completely fresh view.

Instead of the sad and lamentable ruin whose description the reader will remember, there rose, beneath the cheerful rays of sunlight, a brand-new castle, resembling the old one only as a son resembles his father. Nothing had been changed with regard to its form. It still presented the same architectural layout; only, in a few months, it had become several centuries younger. The fallen stones had been reset. The slender, white turrets, topped with a pretty slate roof displayed their symmetry, standing proudly like feudal guardians, forming the four corners of the castle, and raising their gilded weathervanes into the azure sky. A roof decorated with an elegant metal crest had replaced the old part-collapsed roof of leprous, mossy tiles. At the windows, unobstructed by the old planking, shone new panes of glass framed in lead, forming circles and lozenges; and not a single crack yawned wide on the completely restored facade. A superb oak door, supported by rich ironwork, closed the porch that had been fronted by those two old, worm-eaten leaves, with their faded paint. On the keystone of the archway, amidst its mantling reshaped by a skilfully-wielded chisel, shone the coat of arms of the Sigognacs, three storks on an azure field, with their noble motto, once erased, now perfectly legible, in gold letters: Alta petunt (‘They seek the heights’).

Sigognac remained silent for a few minutes, contemplating the wondrous sight, then he turned to Isabella and said: ‘It is to you, gracious faery, that I owe this transformation of my home. You only had to touch it with your wand to restore its splendour, beauty, and youthfulness. I am infinitely grateful to you for this surprise; it is charming and delightful, like everything you instigate. Without my having said anything, you have guessed the secret wish of my soul.’

— ‘You should also thank a certain enchanter who helped me greatly in the matter,’ Isabella replied, pointing to Vallombreuse seated in a corner of the carriage. The Baron shook the young duke’s hand.

During this conversation, the vehicle had arrived at a formal court in front of the castle, whose red brick chimneys sent large swirls of white smoke into the sky, indicating that important guests were expected.

Pierre, in a fine new livery, stood on the threshold of the door, which he pushed open as the carriage approached and deposited the Baron, Baroness, and Duke at the base of the stairs. Eight or ten footmen, lined up in a row on the steps, bowed low to the new masters as yet unknown to them.

Skilled painters had restored the lost colours of the wall frescoes. The set of sheathed Hercules now supported the false cornice with an air of ease, due to their ostentatious musculature in the Florentine style. The Roman emperors basked in vivid purple. Infiltrations of rain no longer created geographical additions to the map covering the vault due to patches of damp, and the simulated trelliswork revealed a cloudless sky.

A like metamorphosis was evident everywhere. The woodwork and parquet floors had been redone. New furniture, of a similar shape, replaced the old. All that Sigognac remembered was rejuvenated, not rendered obsolete. The verdant Flanders tapestry with the duck-hunter still adorned his room, but a skilful cleaning had revived its hues. The bed was the same, except that a patient woodcarver had repaired the punctures due to woodworm, replaced the missing noses and fingers of the figures on the frieze, amended the gaps in the foliage, restored the rough ornamentation to its borders, and recovered the ancient item of furniture’s original integrity. A green and white brocatelle of the same design as its predecessor hung between the spirals of the twisted columns, which had been waxed and polished till they shone.

Isabella, out of delicacy, had not wished to indulge in inappropriate luxury, a thing always easy to do when one has wealth at one’s disposal; but she had thought of charming the soul of her tenderly-beloved husband, by renewing his childhood impressions, but stripped of misery and sadness. Everything seemed cheerful in this manor house, so melancholy before. Even the portraits of the ancestors, cleaned of their grime, brightened, and varnished, smiled, in their gilt frames, with a youthful air. The surly dowagers, the prudish canonesses, no longer pouted at Isabella, as they once had, she having been elevated from actress to baroness; they welcomed her as a member of the family.

In the courtyard, there was no longer a mass of nettles, hemlocks, and the other weeds that dampness, solitude, and neglect encourage. The paving stones, re-set with mortar, no longer had that mildewed border that indicates abandoned houses. Through their clear panes, the windows of various rooms, whose doors had once been boarded up, revealed curtains in rich fabrics, showing that they were ready to receive guests.

They descended to the garden by a flight of steps whose firm, moss-free slabs no longer swayed under overconfident feet. At the foot of the ramp and preciously preserved, the wild rosebush flourished that had offered its rose to the young actress, on that morning of Sigognac’s departure. It still bore one bloom, which Isabella picked and placed in her bosom, seeing in it a happy omen of enduring love. The gardener had been at work no less than the architect; thanks to his shears, order had been restored to this virgin forest. No longer did straggling branches block the paths, nor brushwood flourish its sharp thorns; one could pass through without parting with portions of one’s clothing. The trees had resumed their roles of providing bowers and arbours. The clipped boxwood hedges framed compartments filled with all the flowers that Flora’s basket held. At the end of the garden, Pomona, cured of leprosy, displayed her white, goddess-like nudity. A skillfully-attached marble nose had restored her Greek profile. In her basket could be seen sculpted fruit, not poisonous mushrooms. The lion’s muzzle now vomited abundant, clear water into its basin. Climbing plants, with swaying bell-shapes in every colour and hanging tendrils, which ascended a sturdy green-painted trellis, hid the boundary wall in picturesque manner, and gave a pleasantly rustic air to the rock-bound cave serving as a niche for the statue. Never, even in its heyday, had the château and its garden been furnished with such richness and taste. The splendour of the Château de Sigognac, so long eclipsed, now shone in all its glory!

Sigognac, astonished and delighted as if walking in a dream, pressed Isabella’s arm to his heart and allowed tender tears to flow, shamelessly, down his cheeks.

— ‘Now that we have seen everything here,’ said Isabella, ‘we must visit the estate that I have purchased secretly, in order to recreate the ancient barony of Sigognac as it was, or almost as it was. Allow me to go, and don my riding habit. I will not be long, since my first trade involved habitual and rapid changes of costume. Meanwhile, choose your mounts, and have them saddled.’

Vallombreuse led Sigognac to the stables, previously deserted, where ten fine horses, in separate oak stalls, were trampling the straw matting. Their firm, polished rumps shone with a satiny glow, and, on hearing visitors approaching, the noble beasts turned their intelligent eyes towards them. A sudden neigh burst forth; it was honest Bayard recognising his master, and greeting him in his own way; this old servant, whom Isabella had been careful not to part with, occupied the warmest and most comfortable place at the end of the row. His manger was full of ground oats, so that his worn teeth would not have the trouble of grinding them; while between his forelegs slept his comrade Miraut, who uncurled, and came to lick the Baron’s hand. As for Beelzebub, if he had not appeared previously, it was not his little loving cat’s heart that was to blame, but the prudent instinct of his species, having been frightened by all the commotion in a place that had formerly been so singularly quiet. Hidden in an attic, he had waited for night before rendering his dues to his beloved master.

The Baron, having patted Bayard, chose a fine chestnut, which was immediately taken out of the stable; the duke took a Spanish genet with a curving neck, worthy of carrying an infanta, and for the Baroness, a charming white palfrey with a silvery-looking coat, saddled in a rich green velvet.

Soon Isabella appeared, dressed in the most gallant Amazonian costume in the world, which showed her slim and shapely figure to advantage. Her blue velvet jacket was trimmed with buttons, frogging, and silver braid, its tails hanging over a long skirt of pearl-gray satin. Her headdress consisted of a man’s hat in white felt, adorned with a curly blue feather, extending to her neck behind. So that a gallop would fail to disturb her hair, the young woman’s blond tresses were held by an azure net with small silver pearls, to charming and coquettish effect.

Dressed so, Isabella was adorable, and before her, the haughtiest beauties of the court would have been forced to lower their flags. This cavalier’s riding-habit revealed, in the normally modest and gracious baroness, a proud side, that spoke of her illustrious origins. She was Isabella sill, but the daughter of a prince also, the sister of a duke, and the wife of a gentleman whose nobility dated back to before the Crusades. Vallombreuse noted this, and could not help but say: ‘Sister, how grand you look today! Hippolyte, Queen of the Amazons, was certainly no more superb or glorious!’

Isabella, her foot supported by Sigognac, sprang lightly into the saddle; the Duke and the Baron mounted their steeds, and the cavalcade emerged onto the courtyard square, where it joined the Marquis de Bruyères and a few gentlemen from the neighborhood, who had come to pay their compliment to the newlyweds. The hosts wished to return to the house, as politeness demanded, but the visitors insisted that they would not dare be so irritating as to interrupt a ride that had already commenced, and turned their horses to accompany the young couple and the Duc de Vallombreuse.

The party, swelled by five or six squires in gala dress, who had dressed as bravely as they could manage, took on a ceremonial and magnificent air. It was a truly regal procession. They progressed, following a newly-maintained path, through green meadows, fields which freshly-cultivated enjoyed renewed fertility, past farms once again in full production, and alongside skilfully-landscaped woodland. All this belonged to Sigognac. The moor, and its purple heather, seemed to have receded far from the castle.

As they passed through a grove of fir trees on the edge of the Baron’s estate, the barking of dogs was heard, and Yolande de Foix appeared, followed by her uncle the commander, and one or two gallants. The path was narrow and the two troops of riders brushed past each other in opposite directions, though each tried to make room for the other. Yolande, whose horse was pawing and rearing, brushed Isabella’s skirt with her own. Vexation flushed her cheeks and, angered, she sought for some insult, but Isabella had a soul above feminine vanity; the idea of avenging herself for the disdainful look that Yolande had once granted her accompanied by the slur: ‘gypsy,’ almost in this very same place, failed to even cross her mind; she thought that her triumph as a rival had wounded, if not the heart, at least the pride of Yolande, and with a dignified, modest and graceful air she greeted this Mademoiselle de Foix, who was obliged, though it annoyed her intensely, to respond with a slight inclination of the head. The Baron de Sigognac with a detached and calm air, granted her a perfectly respectful salute, while Yolande failed to stir in the eyes of her ex-adorer a single spark of the old flame. She whipped her horse, and set off at a gallop, at the head of her little troop.

— ‘By Venus and all the Cupids,’ Vallombreuse said gaily to the Marquis de Bruyères, beside whom he was riding, ‘that is a lovely girl, but she looks devilishly fierce and surly! What looks she hurled at my sister! They were like so many blows with a stiletto.’

— ‘When one has been the queen of a county,’ replied the Marquis, ‘one is not pleased to be dethroned, and victory definitely remains with Madame la Baronne de Sigognac.’

The cavalcade returned to the castle. A sumptuous meal, served in the room where the poor Baron had once made the actors dine on their own provisions, his pantry being bare, awaited the guests, who were charmed by its fine formal array. Rich silverware adorned with the Sigognac coat of arms sparkled on a damask tablecloth, which displayed, in its weave, amongst other decoration, the heraldic storks. The few pieces of the old dinner service that were not wholly unfit for purpose had been religiously polished, and mixed with the recent ones, so that its luxury might not appear too new, and so that the old House of Sigognac might contribute a little to the splendour of the new. They sat down to dine. Isabella’s place was the same one she had occupied on that famous night that had changed the Baron’s fate. The thought was in her mind, and in Sigognac’s too, for the couple exchanged lovers’ smiles, softened by memory, and bright with hope. Near the credenza on which the squire was carving the meat, stood a man of athletic height, with a broad pale face, bordered by a thick brown beard, dressed in black velvet and wearing a silver chain around his neck, who, from time to time, gave orders to the footmen with a majestic air. While near a sideboard laden with bottles, pot-bellied or slender, some wrapped in braided esparto-grass, according to their provenance, a pale face, sporting a Rabelaisian nose flowered with pimples, cheeks painted by vintage wine, and adorned with small odd-shaped eyes full of mischief and surmounted by circumflex eyebrows, bustled about with great activity, despite a few senile tremors. Sigognac, glancing in that direction by chance, recognised in the first of the pair the tragedian Herod, and in the second the grotesque form of Blazius. Isabella, observing that her husband had noted their presence, whispered to him that, in order to shelter these good people henceforth from the miseries of theatrical life, she had made one her steward and the other Sigognac’s sommelier, very light roles not requiring much in the way of effort; a move which the Baron agreed with, approving of his wife’s decisions.

The meal was proceeding at full speed, and the bottles, busily replaced by Blazius, were doing the rounds one after the other without interruption, when Sigognac felt a head resting on one of his knees, and sharp claws on the other plucking at him in a familiar way. Miraut and Beelzebub had taken advantage of a half-open door, slipped into the room and, despite the fear inspired in them by the splendid, and numerous, gathering, now came to claim a share of the feast from their master. Sigognac took care not to repel these humble friends of his misery, amidst his new-found wealth; he patted Miraut, scratched Beelzebub’s thinly-furred head, and gave them both an abundant portion of tasty morsels. The crumbs this time consisted of strips of bacon that had seasoned the pâté, leftover partridge, filleted fish, and other succulent dishes. Beelzebub was greedy, and, with his claws kept demanding some new scrap, without tiring the unfailing patience of Sigognac, whom this voracity amused. Finally, swollen like a wineskin, walking with bowed legs, barely able to purr, the old black cat withdrew to the room lined with Flanders tapestries, and curled up in his accustomed place, to digest the copious refection.

Vallombreuse chatted with the Marquis de Bruyères, while the squires never tired of toasting the couple with red wine, to which Sigognac, sober by nature and habit, responded by dipping his lips to his glass, which was always full, since he never emptied it. Finally, the squires, their heads reeling, rose unsteadily from the table, and with a little help from the servants, gained the apartments that had been prepared for them.

Isabella, on the pretext of being fatigued, had retired during the dessert course. Chiquita, promoted to the role of chambermaid, had dressed her for the night, with that silent activity which characterised her service. Chiquita was now a beautiful girl. Her complexion, no longer tanned by the inclemency of the seasons, had lightened, while retaining that vivacious and vibrant hue which painters greatly admire. Her hair, which had become acquainted with the comb, was tied back, neatly, by means of a red ribbon whose ends floated above the nape of her brown neck; at her throat, was still to be seen the string of pearls given to her by Isabella, and which, for this strange girl, was the visible sign of her voluntary servitude, one which only death could break. Her dress was black which she wore in mourning for her unique past love. Her mistress had not thwarted her in this whim. Chiquita, having nothing more to do in the room, withdrew, after kissing Isabella’s hand, as she never failed to do every evening.

When Sigognac returned to the room where he had spent so many sad and lonely nights, listening, while the minutes as long as hours passed by, to the wind moaning its lament behind the old tapestry, he saw, by the light of a Chinese lantern suspended from the ceiling, between the green and white brocatelle curtains, Isabella’s pretty head leaning towards him with a chaste and delightful smile. It was the complete realisation of his dream, when, having lost all hope, believing himself separated forever from Isabella, he had looked at the empty bed in profound melancholy. Decidedly, Fate organised things well!

Towards morning, Beelzebub, overcome by a strange agitation, left the armchair where he had spent the night, and climbed with difficulty onto the bed. Arriving there, he bumped his nose against the hand of his still sleeping master, and attempted a purr that greatly resembled a rattle. Sigognac awoke and saw Beelzebub looking at him as if he were imploring human help, his large, glazed green eyes, dilated beyond measure already half-extinguished. His fur had lost its glossy shine, and was sticking together as if wet with the sweat of agony; he trembled and made extreme efforts to stand on his paws. His whole attitude proclaimed the vision of something dreadful. Finally, he fell on his side, was shaken by some convulsive movements, uttered a sob like the cry of a man whose throat has been cut, and stiffened, as if invisible hands were stretching his limbs. He was dead. This funereal howl broke the young woman’s slumber.

— ‘Poor Beelzebub,’ she said, on seeing the cat’s dead body, ‘he has endured the Château de Sigognac’s misery, yet will not now experience its prosperity!’

Beelzebub, it should be admitted, died a victim of his intemperance. Over-eating had done away with him. His famished stomach was not accustomed to such rich food. His death affected Sigognac more than one can say. He had never thought of animals as mere machines, and attributed souls and minds to the creatures, of a nature more limited than those of human beings, but capable nevertheless of intelligence and feeling. This opinion, moreover, is shared by all who, having lived for a long time in solitude in the company of a dog, cat, or other animal, have had the leisure to observe their companion, and establish a close relationship. So, with a moist eye and a heart filled with sadness, he carefully wrapped poor Beelzebub in a scrap of cloth, to bury him that evening, an action which would perhaps have seemed ridiculous and sacrilegious to ordinary folk.

When night fell, Sigognac took a spade, a lantern, and Beelzebub’s corpse, stiff in its silk shroud. He descended to the garden and began to dig the earth at the foot of the briar-rose bush, by the light of the lantern, whose rays stirred the insects, and attracted the moths that came to beat on its pane of horn with their dusty wings. The weather was dark. Barely a sliver of moon could be seen through the gaps in layers of ink-black cloud, and the scene possessed more solemnity than a cat’s funeral seemed to deserve. Sigognac continued digging, for he wished to bury Beelzebub deep enough that no other creature would come and dig him up. Suddenly the blade of his spade struck something as hard as flint. The Baron thought it, indeed, a stone, and redoubled his efforts; but the blows sounded strangely, and failed to advance his labours. Sigognac brought the lantern closer, to illuminate the obstacle, and saw, not without some surprise, the lid of a kind of oak chest, bound with thick rusty iron but still quite solid; he freed the box by digging the earth from round it, and, using his spade as a lever, he managed to hoist the mysterious casket, despite its considerable weight, to the edge of the hole, and slide it onto the surface. He placed Beelzebub in the void left by the box, and filled the grave.

This task completed, he attempted to carry his find up to the castle, but the load was too heavy for one man, even a vigorous one, and Sigognac went to seek the faithful Pierre, to aid him. The servant and the master each took hold of an end of the chest, and bore it to the castle, bending under the burden.

Pierre broke the lock, with an axe, and the lid, springing open, revealed a considerable mass of gold coins: ounces, quadruples, sequins, genovinos, portugalesers, ducats, cruzades, angelots, and other coins of various denominations and countries, none of which were current. Ancient jewels enriched with precious stones were mingled with the gold. At the bottom of the chest, once emptied, Sigognac found a sealed parchment bearing the Sigognac coat of arms, though damp had erased the writing. The seal alone was barely visible still, and, letter by letter, the Baron deciphered these words: ‘Raymond de Sigognac.’ The name was that of one of his ancestors, who had departed to fight in a war from which he had never returned, leaving the mystery of his death or disappearance unexplained. He had but the one young son, and as he was about to embark on a dangerous expedition, had buried his treasure, confiding its secret only to some trustworthy individual, who was probably surprised by death before he could reveal the hiding place to the legitimate heir. From this Raymond, the decline of the house of Sigognac, once rich and powerful, began. Such, at least, was the tale that the Baron’s imagination conjured from such feeble clues; but what was not in question was that the treasure belonged to him. He summoned Isabella and showed her the display of all this gold.

— ‘Beelzebub has proven, without doubt,’ said the Baron, ‘to be the benevolent spirit of my Château de Sigognac. In dying, he leaves me wealthy, and departs now that my angel has arrived. He was, in truth, left with nothing more to do, for you yourself have brought me happiness.’

The End of Part IV and of Gautier’s ‘Le Capitaine Fracasse’

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