The Baron De Taverney.
ALTHOUGH IN some degree forewarned by Gilbert of the poverty of the Baron de Taverney, the person who had caused himself to be announced as the Baron Joseph Balsamo could not help being surprised at the miserable appearance of the abode called by Gilbert, with emphasis, a chateau.
The house was built in the form of an oblong square of one story in height, with a square tower at each corner. Its irregular appearance had, however, something pleasing and picturesque, seen by the pale light of the moon, shining out from between the huge masses of the clouds left by the storm. There were six windows in the low building, and two in each tower — that is, one window in each of its stories. A broad flight of steps led up to the hall-door, but they were so broken and rugged that they seemed rather a sort of precipice than a staircase.
Such was the dwelling, on the threshold of which the stranger was received by the Baron de Taverney, in his dressing-gown, and holding a candlestick in his hand. The baron was a little old man of from sixty to sixty-five years of age, with a keen eye and a high retreating forehead. He wore an old wig, which from frequent accidents with the’ candles on the mantelpiece had lost all the curls which the rats, which frequented his wardrobe, had left it. He held in his hand a napkin of very dubious whiteness, which indicated that he had been disturbed when going to sit down to supper.
In his malicious countenance, which slightly resembled that of Voltaire, two expressions struggled for mastery — politeness required a smile for his guest, but vexation turned it to a rather decided atrabilious sneer. And thus lighted as he was by the candle in his hand, the flickering of which disturbed his features, the Baron de Taverney could not well be called anything but a very ugly nobleman.
“Sir,” said he, “may I know to what fortunate circumstance I owe the pleasure of seeing you?”
“Simply, sir, to the storm, which frightened my horses and caused them very nearly to destroy my carriage; one of ray postilions was thrown from his horse, the other galloped off with his, and I know not what I should have done, had I not met a young man who conducted me to your chateau, assuring me that your hospitality was well known.”
The baron raised his light to endeavor to discover the unlucky wight who had, by this piece of information, been the cause of the unwelcome visit. Balsamo also looked around for his guide, but he had retired.
“And do you know the name of the young man who pointed out my chateau?” asked the Baron de Taverney, as if he ‘wanted to return him thanks.
“Gilbert, I think, is his name.”
“Ha! Gilbert! I scarcely thought him fit even for that — an idle dog! — a philosopher, you must know, sir!”
The threatening tone in which these epithets were uttered showed that there was little sympathy between the lord and his vassal.
“However, sir,” said the baron, after a moment’s silence, as expressive as his words, “will you be good enough to enter?”
“Allow me first, sir, to see after my carriage, which contains some very valuable articles.”
“La Brie!” cried the baron, “La Brie! get some assistance, and put the gentleman’s carriage under the shed in the yard — there are still some laths of a roof there. I can’t answer for your horses, however, getting a good feed, but as they are not yours, but the postmaster’s, you need not care very much.”
“In truth, sir,” said the traveler, beginning to get impatient, “I fear that I am giving you quite too much trouble.”
“Not at all, sir — not at all — no trouble to me — but you will be rather poorly lodged, I warn you.”
“Sir, I assure you I feel exceedingly grateful.”
“Pray, do not deceive yourself as to what we can do for you,” said the baron, raising his candle, so as to throw its rays in the direction where Balsamo was assisting La Brie to wheel his carriage under the shed, and elevating his voice in proportion as his guest retreated—”Pray do not deceive yourself — Taverney is a dull abode, a wretched place!”
The traveler was too busy to reply; he chose the best covered part of the shed to shelter the carriage, and having pointed it out to La Brie, slipped a louis-d’or into his hand, and returned to the baron.
La Brie put the louis in his pocket, supposing it only a crown, and thanking Heaven for his good fortune.
“Heaven forbid I should think so ill of your chateau as you speak of it!” said Balsamo, bowing to the baron, who, as the only proof of the truth of his assertion, shook his head, and lead the guest through a wide, damp antechamber, grumbling as he proceeded—” Oh, all very good! but I know what I am saying — I know, unfortunately, my own means, and I assure you they are very limited.
If you are a Frenchman, sir — but your German accent shows you are not, and yet your name is Italian, but that is no matter — if you are a Frenchman. I repeat, the name of Taverney may recall some recollections of splendor — it was once called Taverney the rich!”
Balsamo expected a sigh at this conclusion, but there was none. “Philosophy!” thought he.
“This way, this way!” cried the baron, opening the dining-room door. “Hola! M. la Brie! wait at supper, now, as if you were yourself a hundred footmen in one!”
La Brie bustled about in obedience to this command.
“I have no servant but this, sir,” said Taverney; “he is a very bad one, but I have not the means of getting a better. The fool has been with me twenty years without getting a penny of wages. I feed him about as well as he waits on me. He is an ass, you see!”
Balsamo continued to study this character. “No heart,” thought he; “yet perhaps all this was merely affectation.”
The baron shut the door of the dining-room, and then, as he held his light high above his head, the traveler saw distinctly its size and its furniture.
It was a large, low hall, which had formerly been the principal apartment of a small farm-house, raised by its owner to the rank of a chateau. It was so scantily furnished, that, at the first glance, it appeared empty. Straw chairs, with carved backs, some engravings from the battlepieces of Lebrun, framed in black varnished wood, and a large oak cupboard, dark with age and smoke, were all its ornaments. In the middle stood a little round table on which was a dish of partridges and cabbage. The wine was in a stone jar, and the plate, unpolished, worn, and battered, consisted of three covers, one tankard and one saltcellar — but this last article was very massive, exquisitely chased, and looked like a diamond among worthless pebbles.
“There, sir, there!” said the baron, offering a seat to his guest, whose scrutinizing look on all around did not escape him. “Oh, you are looking at my saltcellar. You admire it. Good taste — and very polite, too, for you fix on the only tiling here worth looking at. I assure you, sir, I am particularly obliged. But, no, I forgot — I have one other valuable commodity — my daughter!’
“Mademoiselle Andree?” said Balsamo.
“Faith, yes! Mademoiselle Andree!” said the host, surprised that his guest was so well informed. “I shall present you to her. Andree! Andree! come hither, child — don’t be afraid.”
“I am not afraid, father,” answered a sweet and clear voice, and a tall and beautiful girl entered the room, in a manner perfectly unembarrassed, and yet quite free from forwardness.
Joseph Balsamo, though, as we have seen, perfectly master of himself, could not prevent an involuntary bow at sight of all-powerful beauty like hers. Andree de Taverney seemed indeed sent to adorn and brighten all around her. She had dark auburn hair, of a rather lighter shade at her temples and neck, black eyes — clear, with dilated pupils-and a steady and majesty look, like that of an eagle, yet the mildness of that look was inexpressible. Her small mouth, formed like Apollo’s bow, was brilliant as coral; her tapering hands were antique in form, as were her arms, and dazzlingly fair. Her figure, flexible and firm, was like that of the statue of some pagan goddess to which a miracle had given life. Her foot might bear a comparison with that of the huntress Diana, and it seemed only by a miracle that it could support the weight of her body. Her dress was of the simplest fashion, yet suited her so well, that it seemed as if one from the wardrobe of a queen would not have been so elegant or so rich.
All these details were perceived by Balsamo in the first glance, as the young lady passed from the door to the table. On his side, the baron had not lost a single impression produced on the mind of his guest by the rare union of perfections in his daughter.
“You were right,” whispered Balsamo, turning to his host, “Mademoiselle Andree is perfection.”
“Do not flatter poor Andree, sir,” said the baron, carelessly; “she has just returned home from her convent, and she will believe all you say — not that I am afraid of her coquetry — on the contrary, the dear child is not enough of a coquette, but, like a good father, I am cultivating in her that first and most important quality for a woman.”
Andree looked down and blushed; although she tried to avoid listening, she could not but overhear her father’s words.
“Did they tell mademoiselle that at the convent?” asked Joseph Balsamo, laughing; “and was that precept part of the instructions of the nuns?”
“Sir,” replied the baron, “I have my own way of thinking on particular subjects, as you may see.”
This was so self-evident that Balsamo merely bowed in assent.
“No,” continued he, “I do not imitate those fathers who say to their daughters, ‘Be prudes, be rigid, be blind — think of nothing but honor, delicacy, devotion.’ Fools! It is as if the fathers of the knights of old had sent those champions into the lists — after having taken off all their armor — to fight an adversary armed cap-a-pie. Pardieu! That is not the way I shall bring up my daughter Andree, though she be brought up in this miserable den.”
Although Balsamo perfectly agreed with the baron as to the propriety of this last epithet, yet he deemed it polite to contradict it.
“Oh, all very well,” resumed the old man, “but I know the place, I tell you. Yet, though now so far from the sun of Versailles, my daughter shall know the world which I formerly knew so well myself; and if she enter it, it shall be with an arsenal of weapons forged by my experience and my recollections. But I must confess, sir, the convent has ruined all my plans. As if that was what I wanted, my daughter was the first boarder who really practiced the precepts there taught, and followed the letter of the Gospel. C’orbleu! was not that being prettily served?”
“Mademoiselle is an angel,” replied Balsamo, “and in truth, sir, what you say does not surprise me.”
Andree bowed her thanks for this compliment, and sat down in obedience to a look from her father.
“Be seated, baron,” said the host, “and if you are hungry, eat. “What a horrible ragout that fool La Brie has given us!”
“Partridges! Do you call that horrible?” said the guest, smiling. “You slander your supper. Partridges in May! Are they from your own estate?”
“My estates! it is long since I had one. My respectable father left me some land indeed, but it was eaten and digested long enough ago. Oh, Heaven be praised! I have not an inch of ground. That good-for-nothing Gilbert, who can only read and dream, must have stolen a gun, powder, and shot, from some one or other, and he kills birds, poaching on the estates of my neighbors. He will be caught and sent to the galleys some day, and certainly I shall not interfere, it will be a good riddance; but Andree likes game, so I am obliged to overlook Monsieur Gilbert’s freaks.”
Balsamo watched Andree’s lovely fare as this was said, but not a change, not the slightest blush, disturbed it.
He was seated at table between her and the baron, and she helped him, without appearing in the least annoyed at the scantiness of the repast, to a portion of the dish procured by Gilbert and cooked by La Brie, and so heartily abused by the baron. During this time poor La Brie, who heard all the eulogiums passed on himself and Gilbert, handed the plates with a deprecating air, which became quite triumphant at each word of praise the guest bestowed on his cookery.
“He has not even salted his abominable ragout!” cried the baron, after he had devoured two wings of a partridge, which his daughter had placed before him on a tempting layer of cabbage. “Andree, pass the saltcellar to the Baron Balsamo.”
Andree obeyed, extending her arm with exquisite grace.
“Ah, you are admiring the saltcellar again!” said the host.
“No, sir, you are wrong this time,” replied Balsamo; “I was admiring mademoiselle’s hand.”
“Ah! very good indeed — a perfect Richelieu! But since you have the saltcellar in your own hand, examine it; it was made for the regent “by the goldsmith Lucas. It represents the loves of the satyrs and “bacchantes — a little free, but pretty.”
Balsamo saw that the little figures so admirably executed were something worse than free, and he could not but admire the unconsciousness with which Andree had offered him the saltcellar.
But as if the baron had determined to put to the proof that innocence which carries with it such a charm, he began to point out in detail the beauties of his favorite piece of plate, in spite of all Balsamo’s efforts to change the conversation.
“Come, eat, baron,” said Taverney, “for I warn you there is no other dish. Perhaps you are expecting the roast and other removes; if so, great will be your disappointment.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Andree, in her usual calm manner, “but if Nicole has rightly understood me, we shall have another dish. I have given her the receipt for one.”
“The receipt! you have given a receipt to your maid! the femme-de-chambre turned cook! It only requires one step more — turn cook yourself, I beg you! Did the Duchesse de Chateauroux or the Marchioness de Pompadour ever cook for the king? On the contrary, it was he who dressed omelets for them. Jour de Dieu! have I lived to see women cooking in my house? Baron, excuse my daughter, I beseech you.”
“But, father, “we must eat,” said Andree quietly. “Well, Legay,” added she in a louder tone, “is it done?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the maid, bringing in a dish of a very tempting odor.
“I know one at least who will not eat of that dish!” said the baron, furious, and breaking his plate as he spoke.
“Perhaps you will eat some, sir?” said Andree coldly. Then, turning to her father, “You know, sir, we have now only seven plates of that set which my mother left me;” and, so saying, she proceeded to carve the smoking viands which Mademoiselle Legay, the pretty waiting-maid, had just placed on the table.