In Which a New Personage Makes His Appearance.
FROM THE TOP of the hill which the lady’s carriage was ascending, the village of Lachaussee might be seen; it was there she was to change horses and stop to dine. It was a lovely little village, with its thatched cottages scattered here and there at the caprice of the owners; some in the very middle of the road, some half hidden under the shade of a little grove which bordered the highway, and some following the course of the little river which we have mentioned, over which the inhabitants had placed temporary and rustic bridges to reach their dwellings.
At that moment, however, the most remarkable feature in the village was a man, who, looking down the brook, was standing right in the middle of the road, as if he had been ordered to keep watch there. Sometimes he looked up, sometimes down the road; then he turned a longing eye toward a beautiful gray horse with long inane and tail, which was fastened to the window-shutter of a cabin, which he shook in his impatient tossing of his head — an impatience which was the more excusable, as, from the fact of his being saddled, it might be presumed he was waiting for his master, who was inside.
From time to time the stranger ventured to approach the horse to pat his side, or pass his hand down his slender legs; and then, when he luckily escaped the kick which was always vouchsafed him at each attempt, he returned to his occupation of watching the road. Wearied at last by his fruitless watching, he knocked on the window shutter.
“Hallo! In there!” he shouted.
“Who is there?” replied a man’s voice — and the shutter was opened.
“Sir,” said the stranger, “if your horse is to be sold, the buyer is here at hand.”
“You can see he has no wisp at his tail,” answered the other, who appeared to be a countryman; and he shut the window.
This answer did not appear to satisfy the stranger, so he knocked again. He was a tall, stout man, with a ruddy complexion, a black beard, and large sinewy hands peeping out from fine lace ruffles. He wore a hat edged with gold lace, and set on crosswise, like those officers of the provinces who try to look fierce in the eyes of the poor Parisians. He knocked a third time — but no answer. He got impatient.
“Do you know, my honest fellow,” cried he, “you are not very polite? and if you don’t open your shutter, I’ll break it in!”
At this threat the shutter opened, and the same face as before appeared.
“But when you were told the horse is not for sale,” replied the peasant, for the second time, “what the devil — is not that enough?”
“But when I tell you that I want a fast animal!”
“Well, if you want one, can you not go to the post-house? there are sixty of the king’s there; you surely can choose from among them. But leave a man who has only one that one!”
“I tell you this is the very one I want!”
“A nice proposal, indeed! An Arabian —
“That is the reason I want it.”
“Very possibly — but it is not for sale.”
“Whose is it?”
“You are very curious!”
“And you mighty discreet!”
“Well, it belongs to a person asleep in the house.”
“A man or a woman?”
“A woman.”
“Tell the woman, then, that I will give her five hundred pistoles for her horse.”
“Oh! ho!” said the peasant, staring; “five hundred pistoles! That is a sum!”
“Tell her it is the king who wants her horse.”
“The king?”
“Yes, in person!”
“Oh, come! you are not the king, are you?”
“No — but I represent him.”
“You represent him?” said the peasant, taking off his hat.
“Come, come! make haste! The king is in a hurry!” and the burly stranger cast another impatient glance toward the highway.
“Well, when the lady awakes I will tell her.”
“Yes, but I can’t wait till she wakes.”
“What is to be done then?”
“Parbleu! awaken her!”
“Awaken her? certainly not.”
“Well, I shall do it myself!”
But just as the stranger who pretended to be the representative of his majesty advanced to knock at the window of the upper story with the handle of his long whip, he caught a glimpse of a carriage coming along at the utmost speed of the worn-out horses. His quick eye recognized it instantly, and he sprang forward to meet it — it was that in which were Gilbert and his guardian angel. On seeing this man, who made signs to him to stop, the postilion gladly obeyed, for he scarcely knew whether the horses could take him to the post-house.
“Chon! my dear Chon! is it you at last?”
“It is, Jean,” replied the lady addressed by this singular name. “And what are you doing here?”
“Pardieu, a pretty question! I am waiting for you.”
And he leaped on the step of the carriage, and putting in his long arms, seized her and covered her with kisses.
“Ha!” said he, all at once observing Gilbert, who looked on with surprise at these strange proceedings. “What the deuce have you here?”
“Oh, a little philosopher, and very amusing,” replied Mademoiselle Chon, little caring whether she hurt or nattered the pride of her new acquaintance.
“And where did you pick him up?”
“On the road; but that is not the question.”
“True,” said the person who was called Jean. “What about our old countess de Bearn?”
“All settled!”
“What! settled?”
“Yes, she will come.”
“But what did you say to her?”
“That I was her lawyer’s daughter — that I was passing through Verdun, and that my father desired me to tell her her lawsuit was coming on. I merely added that her presence in Paris had now become indispensable for its success.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She opened her little gray eyes — took a long pinch of snuff — said that Monsieur Flageot was the cleverest man in the world, and — gave orders for her departure!”
“Admirable, Chon! I shall make you my ambassador extraordinary. And now, shall we breakfast?”
“With all my heart! for this poor child is dying of hunger. But we must be quick, for she will soon overtake us.”
“Who? the old countess? Nonsense.”
“No — the dauphiness.”
“Bah! The dauphiness is scarcely at Nancy yet.”
“She is at Vitry! three leagues off!”
“Peste! That alters the case! Drive on! drive on! postilion!”
“Where, sir?”
“To the post-house.”
The carriage drove off, with the stranger still standing on the step, and soon drew up before the inn door.
“Quick! quick!” said Chon. “Let us have some cutlets — a fowl — some eggs — and a bottle of Burgundy. We must see out again instantly.”
“Excuse me, madame,” said the innkeeper, stepping forward, “but in that case it must be with your own horses.”
“How!” said Jean, leaping heavily down from the step of the carriage. “With our own horses?”
“Certainly; or at least with those that brought you.”
“Impossible!” said the postilion; “they have already done a double stage. See what a state they are in!”
“In good earnest,” said Chon, “it would be utterly impossible to proceed farther with them.”
“But what prevents your giving us fresh horses?” asked Jean.
“Merely that I have none.”
“What the devil! you know the regulations — it is your duty to have horses.”
“By the regulations, sir, I ought to have fifteen horses; now, I have eighteen.”
“Why, all we want is three.”
“Yes, but they are all out.”
“What! all the eighteen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damnation!” thundered the traveler.
“Oh, viscount! viscount!” cried Chon.
“Yes, yes, Chon — don’t be afraid — I will keep calm. And when will your miserable hacks be in?” continued the viscount, turning to the host.
“Faith, sir, I don’t know — it all depends on the postilions. Perhaps in an hour — perhaps in two hours.”
“Now, my good fellow,” said Viscount Jean, placing his hat on one side, and setting out his right leg. “I wish you just to understand this — I never jest!”
“I am sorry for it, sir. I should like you much better if you did.”
“Now, take ray advice! Let the horses be harnessed before I get angry!”
“Go into the stable yourself, sir; and if you find a horse there, you shall have it for nothing.”
“Indeed! — and what if I should find sixty?”
“It would be just the same as if there were none; for these sixty horses are the king’s.”
“Well, what then?”
“What then! — they are not to be hired out!”
“What the devil are they here for, then?”
“For the use of her royal highness the dauphiness!”
“Mon Dieu! sixty horses, and we cannot get one.”
“But you know, sir—”
“I know one thing, and that is, that I am in a hurry —
“It is a pity.”
“And,” continued the viscount, without heeding the postmaster’s interruption, “as the dauphiness will not be here before the evening —
“What do you say?” exclaimed the host, all alarmed.
“I say that the horses will be back before she arrives!”
“Can it be possible you would propose? —
“Parbleu!” said the viscount, going into the stable, “I will have three horses; I don’t want eight, like royal personages, although I have a right to them — by alliance at least.”
“But I say you shall not have one!” said the host, throwing himself, in desperation, between the stranger and his horses.
“Scoundrel!” cried the viscount, turning pale with anger, “do you know who I am?”
“Viscount, viscount, in Heaven’s name, no broils!” cried Chon.
“You are right, my good little Chon;” then, after a moment’s thought, he turned with his most charming smile to the host; “my good fellow, no more words, now for deeds! I shall take the responsibility off your shoulders.”
“How so?” asked the host, by no means satisfied even with the stranger’s now gracious visage.
“I shall help myself; these three horses suit me exactly.”
“And you call that freeing me from all responsibility?”
“Certainly; you have not given them to me — it was I who took them.”
“I tell you the thing is impossible!”
“We shall see that. Where is the harness?”
“Let no one stir, at his peril!” cried the host to two or three grooms loitering about.
“Scoundrels!” cried the viscount.
“Jean, my dear Jean!” exclaimed Chon, “you will only bring us into some disagreeable situation. When on a mission like this we must endure—”
“Everything except delay,” said Jean, with the utmost coolness; “and, since these rogues won’t help me, I shall do the business myself.” And Jean coolly took from the wall three sets of harness, and fitted them on three of the horses.
“Jean, Jean, I entreat you, do not be rash!” cried Chon, clasping her hands.
“Do you wish to arrive in Paris or not?” said the viscount, grinding his teeth.
“Of course I do. All is lost if we do not hasten on!”
“Well, then, leave me alone.” And, separating three horses — not the worst — from the others, he led them to the carriage.
“Take care, sir, take care!” cried the host; “it is high treason to steal those horses!”
“I am not going to steal them, you fool; I’m only going to borrow them. Come on, my little pets!”
The host sprang forward to catch the reins; but before he could touch them, he was rudely repulsed by the stranger.
“Brother, brother!” cried Mademoiselle Chon.
“Ah! he is her brother!” muttered Gilbert to himself, breathing more freely.
At this moment a window was opened on the opposite side of the way, and a lovely female face was seen. She appeared quite alarmed at the noise.
“Oh, it is you, madame?” cried Jean, who immediately perceived her.
“How, sir — me?” she replied, in bad French.
“Yes; you are awake now. Will you sell your horse?”
“My horse?”
“Yes, the gray Arabian, tied to the window-shutter there. You know I offered you five hundred crowns!”
“My horse is not for sale, sir,” said she, shutting the window.
“Well, I am not in luck to-day — people will neither sell nor hire; but, corbleu! I’ll take the Arabian if she won’t sell it; and I’ll drive these hacks to the devil, if they won’t hire them. Come, Patrice!”
The footman on his sister’s carriage jumped down.
“Harness them!” said Jean.
“Help! help!” shouted the host.
Two grooms ran forward.
“Jean! — viscount!” cried poor Chon, writhing in the carriage, and endeavoring in vain to open the door. “You are mad; — we shall all be slaughtered!”
“Slaughtered! It is we who shall slaughter them, I hope. We are three against three! Come out, my young philosopher!” thundered Jean, addressing Gilbert, who never stirred, so great was his astonishment; “come out, and do something — sticks, stones, or fists — anything will do! Morbleu! you look like a saint carved on stone!”
Gilbert gave an inquiring and supplicating glance at his protectress, but she held him by the arm. The host, in the meantime, bawled incessantly, dragging the horses to one side, while Jean pulled them to the other. But the struggle could not last forever. Jean, wearied and heated, dealt the defender of the horses such a blow with his clenched fist that the latter fell back into the horsepond, among his frightened ducks and geese, shouting, as he plunged in, “Help! murder! murder!”
The viscount, thus rid of his adversary, lost no time in harnessing the horses.
“Help, in the name of the king! Help!” cried the host, rising and endeavoring to rally his frightened grooms.
“Who calls for help in the name of the king?” cried a cavalier, riding at full speed into the yard of the post-house, and reining up his horse, bathed in sweat and foam, in the very midst of the actors in this tumultuous scene.
“The Chevalier Philip de Taverney!” muttered Gilbert to himself, sinking down in the carriage to escape observation.
Chon, who lost no opportunity of acquiring information, heard the young man’s name.