THE LINE OF LOVE

 BY

 JAMES BRANCH CABELL

 1921

TO

ROBERT GAMBLE CABELL I

"He loved chivalrye, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. And of his port as meek as is a mayde, He never yet no vileinye ne saydeIn al his lyf, unto no maner wight. He was a verray parfit gentil knyght. "

_Introduction_

The Cabell case belongs to comedy in the grand manner. For fifteen yearsor more the man wrote and wrote--good stuff, sound stuff, extremelyoriginal stuff, often superbly fine stuff--and yet no one in the whole ofthis vast and incomparable Republic arose to his merit--no one, that is, save a few encapsulated enthusiasts, chiefly somewhat dubious. It wouldbe difficult to imagine a first-rate artist cloaked in greater obscurity, even in the remotest lands of Ghengis Khan. The newspapers, reviewinghim, dismissed him with a sort of inspired ill-nature; the critics of amore austere kidney--the Paul Elmer Mores, Brander Matthewses, HamiltonWright Mabies, and other such brummagem dons--were utterly unaware ofhim. Then, of a sudden, the imbeciles who operate the Comstock Societyraided and suppressed his "Jurgen, " and at once he was a made man. Oldbook-shops began to be ransacked for his romances and extravaganzas--manyof them stored, I daresay, as "picture-books, " and under the name of theartist who illustrated them, Howard Pyle. And simultaneously, a greatgabble about him set up in the newspapers, and then in the literaryweeklies, and finally even in the learned reviews. An Englishman, HughWalpole, magnified the excitement with some startling _hochs_; a single_hoch_ from the Motherland brings down the professors like firemensliding down a pole. To-day every literate American has heard of Cabell, including even those presidents of women's clubs who lately confessedthat they had never heard of Lizette Woodworth Reese. More of his booksare sold in a week than used to be sold in a year. Every flapper in theland has read "Jurgen" behind the door; two-thirds of the grandmotherseast of the Mississippi have tried to borrow it from me. Solemn _PrivatDozenten_ lecture upon the author; he is invited to take to thechautauqua himself; if the donkeys who manage the National Institute ofArts and Letters were not afraid of his reply he would be offered itsgilt-edged ribbon, vice Sylvanus Cobb, deceased. And all because a fewpornographic old fellows thrust their ever-hopeful snouts into the man'stenth (or was it eleventh or twelfth?) book!

Certainly, the farce must appeal to Cabell himself--a sardonic mocker, not incapable of making himself a character in his own _revues_. But Idoubt that he enjoys the actual pawing that he has been getting--any morethan he resented the neglect that he got for so long. Very lately, in themidst of the carnival, he announced his own literary death and burial, and even preached a burlesque funeral sermon upon his life and times. Such an artist, by the very nature of his endeavors, must needs standabove all public-clapper-clawing, pro or con. He writes, not to pleasehis customers in general, nor even to please his partisans in particular, but to please himself. He is his own criterion, his own audience, his ownjudge and hangman. When he does bad work, he suffers for it as no holyclerk ever suffered from a gnawing conscience or Freudian suppressions;when he does good work he gets his pay in a form of joy that only artistsknow. One could no more think of him exposing himself to the stealthy, uneasy admiration of a women's club--he is a man of agreeable exterior, with handsome manners and an eye for this and that--than one couldimagine him taking to the stump for some political mountebank or gettingconverted at a camp-meeting. What moves such a man to write is theobscure, inner necessity that Joseph Conrad has told us of, and whatrewards him when he has done is his own searching and accurate judgment, his own pride and delight in a beautiful piece of work. 

At once, I suppose, you visualize a somewhat smug fellow, loftilycomplacent and superior--in brief, the bogus artist of Greenwich Village, posturing in a pot-hat before a cellar full of visiting schoolmarms, alldreaming of being betrayed. If so, you see a ghost. It is the curse ofthe true artist that his work never stands before him in all its imaginedcompleteness--that he can never look at it without feeling an impulse toadd to it here or take away from it there--that the beautiful, to him, isnot a state of being, but an eternal becoming. Satisfaction, like thepraise of dolts, is the compensation of the aesthetic cheese-monger--thepopular novelist, the Broadway dramatist, the Massenet and Kipling, theMaeterlinck and Augustus Thomas. Cabell, in fact, is forever fussing overhis books, trying to make them one degree better. He rewrites almost aspertinaciously as Joseph Conrad, Henry James, or Brahms. Compare "Domnei"in its present state to "The Soul of Melicent, " its first state, circa1913. The obvious change is the change in title, but of far moreimportance are a multitude of little changes--a phrase made more musical, a word moved from one place to another, some small banality tracked downand excised, a brilliant adjective inserted, the plan altered in smallways, the rhythm of it made more delicate and agreeable. Here, in "TheLine of Love, " there is another curious example of his high capacity forrevision. It is not only that the book, once standing isolated, has beenbrought into the Cabellian canon, and so related to "Jurgen" and "Figuresof Earth" at one end, and to the tales of latter-day Virginia at theother; it is that the whole texture has been worked over, and the colorsmade more harmonious, and the inner life of the thing given a freshenergy. Once a flavor of the rococo hung about it; now it breathes andmoves. For Cabell knows a good deal more than he knew in 1905. He is anartist whose work shows constant progress toward the goals he aimsat--principally the goal of a perfect style. Content, with him, is alwayssecondary. He has ideas, and they are often of much charm andplausibility, but his main concern is with the manner of stating them. Itis surely not ideas that make "Jurgen" stand out so saliently from thedreadful prairie of modern American literature; it is the magnificentwriting that is visible on every page of it--writing apparently simpleand spontaneous, and yet extraordinarily cunning and painstaking. Thecurrent notoriety of "Jurgen" will pass. The Comstocks will turn to newimbecilities, and the followers of literary parades to new marvels. Butit will remain an author's book for many a year. 

By author, of course, I mean artist--not mere artisan. It was certainlynot surprising to hear that Maurice Hewlett found "Jurgen" exasperating. So, too, there is exasperation in Richard Strauss for ploddingmusic-masters. Hewlett is simply a British Civil Servant turned author, which is not unsuggestive of an American Congressman turned philosopher. He has a pretty eye for color, and all the gusto that goes withbeefiness, but like all the men of his class and race and time he canthink only within the range of a few elemental ideas, chiefly of asentimental variety, and when he finds those ideas flouted he ishorrified. The bray, in fact, revealed the ass. It is Cabell'sskepticism that saves him from an Americanism as crushing as Hewlett'sBriticism, and so sets him free as an artist. Unhampered by a mission, happily ignorant of what is commended by all good men, disdainful of thepetty certainties of pedagogues and green-grocers, not caring a damnwhat becomes of the Republic, or the Family, or even snivelizationitself, he is at liberty to disport himself pleasantly with his nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, prepositions and pronouns, arranging them with the same free hand, the same innocent joy, the samesuperb skill and discretion with which the late Jahveh arranged carbon, nitrogen, sulphur, hydrogen, oxygen and phosphorus in the sublime formof the human carcass. He, too, has his jokes. He knows the arch effectof a strange touch; his elaborate pedantries correspond almost exactlyto the hook noses, cock eyes, outstanding ears and undulating Adam'sapples which give so sinister and Rabelaisian a touch to the humanscene. But in the main he sticks to more seemly materials and designs. His achievement, in fact, consists precisely in the success with whichhe gives those materials a striking newness, and gets a novel vitalityinto those designs. He takes the ancient and mouldy parts of speech--theliver and lights of harangues by Dr. Harding, of editorials in the NewYork _Times_, of "Science and Health, with a Key to the Scriptures, " ofdepartment-store advertisements, of college yells, of chautauqualoratory, of smoke-room anecdote--and arranges them in mosaics thatglitter with an almost fabulous light. He knows where a red noun shouldgo, and where a peacock-blue verb, and where an adjective as darklypurple as a grape. He is an imagist in prose. You may like his story andyou may not like it, but if you don't like the way he tells it thenthere is something the matter with your ears. As for me, his experimentswith words caress me as I am caressed by the tunes of old JohannesBrahms. How simple it seems to manage them--and how infernally difficultit actually is!

H. L. MENCKEN. 

_Baltimore, October 1st, 1921_. 

_Contents_

CHAPTER

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY

 I THE EPISODE CALLED THE WEDDING JEST

 II THE EPISODE CALLED ADHELMAR AT PUYSANGE

 III THE EPISODE CALLED LOVE-LETTERS OF FALSTAFF

 IV THE EPISODE CALLED "SWEET ADELAIS"

 V THE EPISODE CALLED IN NECESSITY'S MORTAR

 VI THE EPISODE CALLED THE CONSPIRACY OF ARNAYE

 VII THE EPISODE CALLED THE CASTLE OF CONTENT

 VIII THE EPISODE CALLED IN URSULA'S GARDEN

 IX THE EPISODE CALLED PORCELAIN CUPS

 X THE ENVOI CALLED SEMPER IDEM

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY

_"In elect utteraunce to make memoriall, To thee for souccour, to thee for helpe I call, Mine homely rudeness and dryghness to expellWith the freshe waters of Elyconys well. "_

MY DEAR MRS. GRUNDY: You may have observed that nowadays we rank thelove-story among the comfits of literature; and we do this for theexcellent reason that man is a thinking animal by courtesy ratherthan usage. 

Rightly considered, the most trivial love-affair is of staggering import. Who are we to question this, when nine-tenths of us owe our existence toa summer flirtation? And while our graver economic and social and psychic"problems" (to settle some one of which is nowadays the object of allponderable fiction) are doubtless worthy of most serious consideration, you will find, my dear madam, that frivolous love-affairs, little andbig, were shaping history and playing spillikins with sceptres longbefore any of these delectable matters were thought of. 

Yes, even the most talked-about "questions of the day" are sometimesworthy of consideration; but were it not for the kisses of remote yearsand the high gropings of hearts no longer animate, there would be none toaccord them this same consideration, and a void world would teeter aboutthe sun, silent and naked as an orange. Love is an illusion, if youwill; but always through this illusion, alone, has the next generationbeen rendered possible, and all endearing human idiocies, including"questions of the day, " have been maintained. 

Love, then, is no trifle. And literature, mimicking life at arespectful distance, may very reasonably be permitted an occasionalreference to the corner-stone of all that exists. For in life "atrivial little love-story" is a matter more frequently aspersed thanfound. Viewed in the light of its consequences, any love-affair is ofgigantic signification, inasmuch as the most trivial is a part ofNature's unending and, some say, her only labor, toward the peopling ofthe worlds. 

She is uninventive, if you will, this Nature, but she is tireless. Generation by generation she brings it about that for a period weak menmay stalk as demigods, while to every woman is granted at least one hourwherein to spurn the earth, a warm, breathing angel. Generation bygeneration does Nature thus betrick humanity, that humanity may endure. 

Here for a little--with the gracious connivance of Mr. R. E. Townsend, to whom all lyrics hereinafter should be accredited--I have followedNature, the arch-trickster. Through her monstrous tapestry I have tracedout for you the windings of a single thread. It is parti-colored, thisthread--now black for a mourning sign, and now scarlet where blood hasstained it, and now brilliancy itself--for the tinsel of young love(if, as wise men tell us, it be but tinsel), at least makes aprodigiously fine appearance until time tarnish it. I entreat you, dearlady, to accept this traced-out thread with assurances of my mostdistinguished regard. 

The gift is not great. Hereinafter is recorded nothing more weighty thanthe follies of young persons, perpetrated in a lost world which whencompared with your ladyship's present planet seems rather callow. Hereinafter are only love-stories, and nowadays nobody takes love-makingvery seriously. . . . 

And truly, my dear madam, I dare say the Pompeiians did not take Vesuviusvery seriously; it was merely an eligible spot for a _fête champêtre_. And when gaunt fishermen first preached Christ about the highways, dependupon it, that was not taken very seriously, either. _Credat Judaeus_; butall sensible folk--such as you and I, my dear madam--passed on with atolerant shrug, knowing "their doctrine could be held of no sane man. "

 * * * * *

APRIL 30, 1293--MAY 1, 1323

"_Pus vezem de novelh florir pratz, e vergiers reverdezir rius e fontanasesclarzir, ben deu quascus lo joy jauzir don es jauzens_. "

It would in ordinary circumstances be my endeavor to tell you, first ofall, just whom the following tale concerns. Yet to do this is notexpedient, since any such attempt could not but revive the question as towhose son was Florian de Puysange?

No gain is to be had by resuscitating the mouldy scandal: and, indeed, it does not matter a button, nowadays, that in Poictesme, toward the endof the thirteenth century, there were elderly persons who considered theyoung Vicomte de Puysange to exhibit an indiscreet resemblance to Jurgenthe pawnbroker. In the wild youth of Jurgen, when Jurgen was apractising poet (declared these persons), Jurgen had been very intimatewith the former Vicomte de Puysange, now dead, for the two men had muchin common. Oh, a great deal more in common, said these gossips, than thepoor vicomte ever suspected, as you can see for yourself. That was theextent of the scandal, now happily forgotten, which we must at outsetagree to ignore. 

All this was in Poictesme, whither the young vicomte had come a-wooingthe oldest daughter of the Comte de la Forêt. The whispering and thenods did not much trouble Messire Jurgen, who merely observed that hewas used to the buffets of a censorious world; young Florian never heardof this furtive chatter; and certainly what people said in Poictesme didnot at all perturb the vicomte's mother, that elderly and pious lady, Madame Félise de Puysange, at her remote home in Normandy. Theprincipals taking the affair thus quietly, we may with profit emulatethem. So I let lapse this delicate matter of young Florian's paternity, and begin with his wedding. _

CHAPTER I

_The Episode Called The Wedding Jest_

1. _Concerning Several Compacts_

It is a tale which they narrate in Poictesme, telling how love beganbetween Florian de Puysange and Adelaide de la Forêt. They tell also howyoung Florian had earlier fancied other women for one reason or another;but that this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and a love whichwould endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. 

And the tale tells how the Comte de la Forêt stroked a gray beard, andsaid, "Well, after all, Puysange is a good fief--"

"As if that mattered!" cried his daughter, indignantly. "My father, youare a deplorably sordid person. "

"My dear, " replied the old gentleman, "it does matter. Fiefs last. "

So he gave his consent to the match, and the two young people weremarried on Walburga's Eve, on the day that ends April. 

And they narrate how Florian de Puysange was vexed by a thought that wasin his mind. He did not know what this thought was. But something he hadoverlooked; something there was he had meant to do, and had not done: anda troubling consciousness of this lurked at the back of his mind like asmall formless cloud. All day, while bustling about other matters, he hadgroped toward this unapprehended thought. 

Now he had it: Tiburce. 

The young Vicomte de Puysange stood in the doorway, looking back into thebright hall where they of Storisende were dancing at his marriage feast. His wife, for a whole half-hour his wife, was dancing with handsomeEtienne de Nérac. Her glance met Florian's, and Adelaide flashed him anespecial smile. Her hand went out as though to touch him, for all thatthe width of the hall severed them. 

Florian remembered presently to smile back at her. Then he went out ofthe castle into a starless night that was as quiet as an unvoiced menace. A small and hard and gnarled-looking moon ruled over the dusk's secrecy. The moon this night, afloat in a luminous gray void, somehow remindedFlorian of a glistening and unripe huge apple. 

The foliage about him moved at most as a sleeper breathes, while Floriandescended eastward through walled gardens, and so came to the graveyard. White mists were rising, such mists as the witches of Amnerannotoriously evoked in these parts on each Walburga's Eve to purchaserecreations which squeamishness leaves undescribed. 

For five years now Tiburce d'Arnaye had lain there. Florian thought ofhis dead comrade and of the love which had been between them--a love moreperfect and deeper and higher than commonly exists between men--and thethought came to Florian, and was petulantly thrust away, that Adelaideloved ignorantly where Tiburce d'Arnaye had loved with comprehension. Yes, he had known almost the worst of Florian de Puysange, this dear ladwho, none the less, had flung himself between Black Torrismond's swordand the breast of Florian de Puysange. And it seemed to Florian unfairthat all should prosper with him, and Tiburce lie there imprisoned indirt which shut away the color and variousness of things and thedrollness of things, wherein Tiburce d'Arnaye had taken such joy. AndTiburce, it seemed to Florian--for this was a strange night--wasstruggling futilely under all that dirt, which shut out movement, andclogged the mouth of Tiburce, and would not let him speak; and wasstruggling to voice a desire which was unsatisfied and hopeless. 

"O comrade dear, " said Florian, "you who loved merriment, there is afeast afoot on this strange night, and my heart is sad that you are nothere to share in the feasting. Come, come, Tiburce, a right trustyfriend you were to me; and, living or dead, you should not fail to makemerry at my wedding. "

Thus he spoke. White mists were rising, and it was Walburga's Eve. 

So a queer thing happened, and it was that the earth upon the gravebegan to heave and to break in fissures, as when a mole passes throughthe ground. And other queer things happened after that, and presentlyTiburce d'Arnaye was standing there, gray and vague in the moonlight ashe stood there brushing the mold from his brows, and as he stood thereblinking bright wild eyes. And he was not greatly changed, it seemed toFlorian; only the brows and nose of Tiburce cast no shadows upon hisface, nor did his moving hand cast any shadow there, either, though themoon was naked overhead. 

"You had forgotten the promise that was between us, " said Tiburce; andhis voice had not changed much, though it was smaller. 

"It is true. I had forgotten. I remember now. " And Florian shivered alittle, not with fear, but with distaste. 

"A man prefers to forget these things when he marries. It is naturalenough. But are you not afraid of me who come from yonder?"

"Why should I be afraid of you, Tiburce, who gave your life for mine?"

"I do not say. But we change yonder. "

"And does love change, Tiburce? For surely love is immortal. "

"Living or dead, love changes. I do not say love dies in us who may hopeto gain nothing more from love. Still, lying alone in the dark clay, there is nothing to do, as yet, save to think of what life was, and ofwhat sunlight was, and of what we sang and whispered in dark places whenwe had lips; and of how young grass and murmuring waters and the highstars beget fine follies even now; and to think of how merry our lovedones still contrive to be, even now, with their new playfellows. Suchreflections are not always conducive to philanthropy. "

"Tell me, " said Florian then, "and is there no way in which we who arestill alive may aid you to be happier yonder?"

"Oh, but assuredly, " replied Tiburce d'Arnaye, and he discoursed ofcurious matters; and as he talked, the mists about the graveyardthickened. "And so, " Tiburce said, in concluding his tale, "it is notpermitted that I make merry at your wedding after the fashion of thosewho are still in the warm flesh. But now that you recall our ancientcompact, it is permitted I have my peculiar share in the merriment, and Imay drink with you to the bride's welfare. "

"I drink, " said Florian, as he took the proffered cup, "to the welfare ofmy beloved Adelaide, whom alone of women I have really loved, and whom Ishall love always. "

"I perceive, " replied the other, "that you must still be having yourjoke. "

Then Florian drank, and after him Tiburce. And Florian said, "But it is astrange drink, Tiburce, and now that you have tasted it you are changed. "

"You have not changed, at least, " Tiburce answered; and for the firsttime he smiled, a little perturbingly by reason of the change in him. 

"Tell me, " said Florian, "of how you fare yonder. "

So Tiburce told him of yet more curious matters. Now the augmenting mistshad shut off all the rest of the world. Florian could see only vaguerolling graynesses and a gray and changed Tiburce sitting there, withbright wild eyes, and discoursing in a small chill voice. The appearanceof a woman came, and sat beside him on the right. She, too, was gray, asbecame Eve's senior: and she made a sign which Florian remembered, and ittroubled him. 

Tiburce said then, "And now, young Florian, you who were once so dear tome, it is to your welfare I drink. "

"I drink to yours, Tiburce. "

Tiburce drank first: and Florian, having drunk in turn, cried out, "Youhave changed beyond recognition!"

"You have not changed, " Tiburce d'Arnaye replied again. "Now let me tellyou of our pastimes yonder. "

With that he talked of exceedingly curious matters. And Florian began togrow dissatisfied, for Tiburce was no longer recognizable, and Tiburcewhispered things uncomfortable to believe; and other eyes, as wild ashis, but lit with red flarings from behind, like a beast's eyes, showedin the mists to this side and to that side, for unhappy beings werepassing through the mists upon secret errands which they dischargedunwillingly. Then, too, the appearance of a gray man now sat to the leftof that which had been Tiburce d'Arnaye, and this newcomer was marked sothat all might know who he was: and Florian's heart was troubled to notehow handsome and how admirable was that desecrated face even now. 

"But I must go, " said Florian, "lest they miss me at Storisende, andAdelaide be worried. "

"Surely it will not take long to toss off a third cup. Nay, comrade, whowere once so dear, let us two now drink our last toast together. Then go, in Sclaug's name, and celebrate your marriage. But before that let usdrink to the continuance of human mirth-making everywhere. "

Florian drank first. Then Tiburce took his turn, looking at Florian asTiburce drank slowly. As he drank, Tiburce d'Arnaye was changed evenmore, and the shape of him altered, and the shape of him trickled asthough Tiburce were builded of sliding fine white sand. So Tiburced'Arnaye returned to his own place. The appearances that had sat to hisleft and to his right were no longer there to trouble Florian withmemories. And Florian saw that the mists of Walburga's Eve had departed, and that the sun was rising, and that the graveyard was all overgrownwith nettles and tall grass. 

He had not remembered the place being thus, and it seemed to him thenight had passed with unnatural quickness. But he thought more of thefact that he had been beguiled into spending his wedding-night in agraveyard, in such questionable company, and of what explanation he couldmake to Adelaide. 

2. _Of Young Persons in May_

The tale tells how Florian de Puysange came in the dawn through floweringgardens, and heard young people from afar, already about their maying. Two by two he saw them from afar as they went with romping and laughterinto the tall woods behind Storisende to fetch back the May-pole withdubious old rites. And as they went they sang, as was customary, thatsong which Raimbaut de Vaqueiras made in the ancient time in honor ofMay's ageless triumph. 

Sang they:

"_May shows with godlike showingTo-day for each that seesMay's magic overthrowingAll musty memoriesIn him whom May decreesTo be love's own. He saith, 'I wear love's liveriesUntil released by death_. '

"_Thus all we laud May's sowing, Nor heed how harvests pleaseWhen nowhere grain worth growingGreets autumn's questing breeze, And garnerers garner these--Vain words and wasted breathAnd spilth and tasteless lees--Until released by death. 

"Unwillingly foreknowingThat love with May-time flees, We take this day's bestowing, And feed on fantasiesSuch as love lends for easeWhere none but travaileth, With lean infrequent fees, Until released by death_. "

And Florian shook his sleek black head. "A very foolish and pessimisticalold song, a superfluous song, and a song that is particularly out ofplace in the loveliest spot in the loveliest of all possible worlds. "

Yet Florian took no inventory of the gardens. There was but a happy senseof green and gold, with blue topping all; of twinkling, fluent, tossingleaves and of the gray under side of elongated, straining leaves; a senseof pert bird noises, and of a longer shadow than usual slanting beforehim, and a sense of youth and well-being everywhere. Certainly it wasnot a morning wherein pessimism might hope to flourish. 

Instead, it was of Adelaide that Florian thought: of the tall, impulsive, and yet timid, fair girl who was both shrewd and innocent, and of hertenderly colored loveliness, and of his abysmally unmerited felicity inhaving won her. Why, but what, he reflected, grimacing--what if he hadtoo hastily married somebody else? For he had earlier fancied other womenfor one reason or another: but this, he knew, was the great love of hislife, and a love which would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. 

3. _What Comes of Marrying Happily_

The tale tells how Florian de Puysange found Adelaide in the company oftwo ladies who were unknown to him. One of these was very old, the otheran imposing matron in middle life. The three were pleasantly shaded byyoung oak-trees; beyond was a tall hedge of clipped yew. The older womenwere at chess, while Adelaide bent her meek golden head to some of thatfine needlework in which the girl delighted. And beside them rippled asmall sunlit stream, which babbled and gurgled with silver flashes. Florian hastily noted these things as he ran laughing to his wife. 

"Heart's dearest--!" he cried. And he saw, perplexed, that Adelaide hadrisen with a faint wordless cry, and was gazing at him as though shewere puzzled and alarmed a very little. 

"Such an adventure as I have to tell you of!" says Florian then. 

"But, hey, young man, who are you that would seem to know my daughter sowell?" demands the lady in middle life, and she rose majestically fromher chess-game. 

Florian stared, as he well might. "Your daughter, madame! But certainlyyou are not Dame Melicent. "

At this the old, old woman raised her nodding head. "Dame Melicent? Andwas it I you were seeking, sir?"

Now Florian looked from one to the other of these incomprehensiblestrangers, bewildered: and his eyes came back to his lovely wife, and hislips smiled irresolutely. "Is this some jest to punish me, my dear?"

But then a new and graver trouble kindled in his face, and his eyesnarrowed, for there was something odd about his wife also. 

"I have been drinking in queer company, " he said. "It must be that myhead is not yet clear. Now certainly it seems to me that you are Adelaidede la Forêt, and certainly it seems to me that you are not Adelaide. "

The girl replied, "Why, no, messire; I am Sylvie de Nointel. "

"Come, come, " says the middle-aged lady, briskly, "let us make an end tothis play-acting, and, young fellow, let us have a sniff at you. No, youare not tipsy, after all. Well, I am glad of that. So let us get to thebottom of this business. What do they call you when you are at home?"

"Florian de Puysange, " he answered, speaking meekly enough. This capablelarge person was to the young man rather intimidating. 

"La!" said she. She looked at him very hard. She nodded gravely two orthree times, so that her double chin opened and shut. "Yes, and you favorhim. How old are you?"

He told her twenty-four. 

She said, inconsequently: "So I was a fool, after all. Well, young man, you will never be as good-looking as your father, but I trust you have anhonester nature. However, bygones are bygones. Is the old rascal stillliving? and was it he that had the impudence to send you to me?"

"My father, madame, was slain at the battle of Marchfeld--"

"Some fifty years ago! And you are twenty-four. Young man, yourparentage had unusual features, or else we are at cross-purposes. Let usstart at the beginning of this. You tell us you are called Florian dePuysange and that you have been drinking in queer company. Now let ushave the whole story. "

Florian told of last night's happenings, with no more omissions thanseemed desirable with feminine auditors. 

Then the old woman said: "I think this is a true tale, my daughter, forthe witches of Amneran contrive strange things, with mists to aid them, and with Lilith and Sclaug to abet. Yes, and this fate has fallen beforeto men that were over-friendly with the dead. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" said the stout lady. 

"But, no, my daughter. Thus seven persons slept at Ephesus, from the timeof Decius to the time of Theodosius--"

"Still, Mother--"

"--And the proof of it is that they were called Constantine and Dionysiusand John and Malchus and Marcian and Maximian and Serapion. They wereduly canonized. You cannot deny that this thing happened withoutasserting no less than seven blessed saints to have been unprincipledliars, and that would be a very horrible heresy--"

"Yet, Mother, you know as well as I do--"

"--And thus Epimenides, another excellently spoken-of saint, slept atAthens for fifty-seven years. Thus Charlemagne slept in the Untersberg, and will sleep until the ravens of Miramon Lluagor have left hismountains. Thus Rhyming Thomas in the Eildon Hills, thus Ogier in Avalon, thus Oisin--"

The old lady bade fair to go on interminably in her gentle resolutepiping old voice, but the other interrupted. 

"Well, Mother, do not excite yourself about it, for it only makes yourasthma worse, and does no especial good to anybody. Things may be as yousay. Certainly I intended nothing irreligious. Yet these extended naps, appropriate enough for saints and emperors, are out of place in one's ownfamily. So, if it is not stuff and nonsense, it ought to be. And that Istick to. "

"But we forget the boy, my dear, " said the old lady. "Now listen, Floriande Puysange. Thirty years ago last night, to the month and the day, itwas that you vanished from our knowledge, leaving my daughter a forsakenbride. For I am what the years have made of Dame Melicent, and this is mydaughter Adelaide, and yonder is her daughter Sylvie de Nointel. "

"La, Mother, " observed the stout lady, "but are you certain it was thelast of April? I had been thinking it was some time in June. And Iprotest it could not have been all of thirty years. Let me see now, Sylvie, how old is your brother Richard? Twenty-eight, you say. Well, Mother, I always said you had a marvelous memory for things like that, and I often envy you. But how time does fly, to be sure!"

And Florian was perturbed. "For this is an awkward thing, and Tiburce hasplayed me an unworthy trick. He never did know when to leave off joking;but such posthumous frivolity is past endurance. For, see now, in what apickle it has landed me! I have outlived my friends, I may encounterdifficulty in regaining my fiefs, and certainly I have lost the fairestwife man ever had. Oh, can it be, madame, that you are indeed myAdelaide!"

"Yes, every pound of me, poor boy, and that says much. "

"--And that you have been untrue to the eternal fidelity which you vowedto me here by this very stream! Oh, but I cannot believe it was thirtyyears ago, for not a grass-blade or a pebble has been altered; and Iperfectly remember the lapping of water under those lichened rocks, andthat continuous file of ripples yonder, which are shaped likearrowheads. "

Adelaide rubbed her nose. "Did I promise eternal fidelity? I can hardlyremember that far back. But I remember I wept a great deal, and myparents assured me you were either dead or a rascal, so that tears couldnot help either way. Then Ralph de Nointel came along, good man, and mademe a fair husband, as husbands go--"

"As for that stream, " then said Dame Melicent, "it is often I havethought of that stream, sitting here with my grandchildren where I oncesat with gay young men whom nobody remembers now save me. Yes, it isstrange to think that instantly, and within the speaking of any simpleword, no drop of water retains the place it had before the word wasspoken: and yet the stream remains unchanged, and stays as it was when Isat here with those young men who are gone. Yes, that is a strangethought, and it is a sad thought, too, for those of us who are old. "

"But, Mother, of course the stream remains unchanged, " agreed DameAdelaide. "Streams always do except after heavy rains. Everybody knowsthat, and I can see nothing very remarkable about it. As for you, Florian, if you stickle for love's being an immortal affair, " she added, with a large twinkle, "I would have you know I have been a widow forthree years. So the matter could be arranged. "

Florian looked at her sadly. To him the situation was incongruous withthe terrible archness of a fat woman. "But, madame, you are no longer thesame person. "

She patted him upon the shoulder. "Come, Florian, there is some sense inyou, after all. Console yourself, lad, with the reflection that if youhad stuck manfully by your wife instead of mooning about graveyards, Iwould still be just as I am to-day, and you would be tied to me. Yourfriend probably knew what he was about when he drank to our welfare, forwe would never have suited each other, as you can see for yourself. Well, Mother, many things fall out queerly in this world, but with age we learnto accept what happens without flustering too much over it. What are weto do with this resurrected old lover of mine?"

It was horrible to Florian to see how prosaically these women dealt withhis unusual misadventure. Here was a miracle occurring virtually beforetheir eyes, and these women accepted it with maddening tranquillity as anaffair for which they were not responsible. Florian began to reflect thatelderly persons were always more or less unsympathetic and inadequate. 

"First of all, " says Dame Melicent, "I would give him some breakfast. Hemust be hungry after all these years. And you could put him inAdhelmar's room--"

"But, " Florian said wildly, to Dame Adelaide, "you have committed thecrime of bigamy, and you are, after all, my wife!"

She replied, herself not untroubled: "Yes, but, Mother, both the cook andthe butler are somewhere in the bushes yonder, up to some nonsense that Iprefer to know nothing about. You know how servants are, particularly onholidays. I could scramble him some eggs, though, with a rasher. AndAdhelmar's room it had better be, I suppose, though I had meant to haveit turned out. But as for bigamy and being your wife, " she concluded morecheerfully, "it seems to me the least said the soonest mended. It is tonobody's interest to rake up those foolish bygones, so far as I can see. "

"Adelaide, you profane equally love, which is divine, and marriage, whichis a holy sacrament. "

"Florian, do you really love Adelaide de Nointel?" asked this terriblewoman. "And now that I am free to listen to your proposals, do you wishto marry me?"

"Well, no, " said Florian: "for, as I have just said; you are no longerthe same person. "

"Why, then, you see for yourself. So do you quit talking nonsense aboutimmortality and sacraments. "

"But, still, " cried Florian, "love is immortal. Yes, I repeat to you, precisely as I told Tiburce, love is immortal. "

Then says Dame Melicent, nodding her shriveled old head: "When I wasyoung, and was served by nimbler senses and desires, and was housed inbrightly colored flesh, there were a host of men to love me. Minstrelsyet tell of the men that loved me, and of how many tall men were slainbecause of their love for me, and of how in the end it was Perion who wonme. For the noblest and the most faithful of all my lovers was Perion ofthe Forest, and through tempestuous years he sought me with a love thatconquered time and chance: and so he won me. Thereafter he made me a fairhusband, as husbands go. But I might not stay the girl he had loved, normight he remain the lad that Melicent had dreamed of, with dreamsbe-drugging the long years in which Demetrios held Melicent a prisoner, and youth went away from her. No, Perion and I could not do that, anymore than might two drops of water there retain their place in thestream's flowing. So Perion and I grew old together, friendly enough;and our senses and desires began to serve us more drowsily, so that wedid not greatly mind the falling away of youth, nor greatly mind to notewhat shriveled hands now moved before us, performing common tasks; and wewere content enough. But of the high passion that had wedded us there wasno trace, and of little senseless human bickerings there were a greatmany. For one thing"--and the old lady's voice was changed--"for onething, he was foolishly particular about what he would eat and what hewould not eat, and that upset my housekeeping, and I had never anypatience with such nonsense. "

"Well, none the less, " said Florian, "it is not quite nice of you toacknowledge it. "

Then said Dame Adelaide: "That is a true word, Mother. All men getfinicky about their food, and think they are the only persons to beconsidered, and there is no end to it if once you begin to humor them. Sothere has to be a stand made. Well, and indeed my poor Ralph, too, wasall for kissing and pretty talk at first, and I accepted it willinglyenough. You know how girls are. They like to be made much of, and it isperfectly natural. But that leads to children. And when the childrenbegan to come, I had not much time to bother with him: and Ralph had hisfarming and his warfaring to keep him busy. A man with a growing familycannot afford to neglect his affairs. And certainly, being no fool, hebegan to notice that girls here and there had brighter eyes and trimmerwaists than I. I do not know what such observations may have led to whenhe was away from me: I never inquired into it, because in such mattersall men are fools. But I put up with no nonsense at home, and he made mea fair husband, as husbands go. That much I will say for him gladly: andif any widow says more than that, Florian, do you beware of her, for sheis an untruthful woman. "

"Be that as it may, " replied Florian, "it is not quite becoming to speakthus of your dead husband. No doubt you speak the truth: there is notelling what sort of person you may have married in what still seems tome unseemly haste to provide me with a successor: but even so, a littlecharitable prevarication would be far more edifying. "

He spoke with such earnestness that there fell a silence. The womenseemed to pity him. And in the silence Florian heard from afar youngpersons returning from the woods behind Storisende, and bringing withthem the May-pole. They were still singing. 

Sang they:

"_Unwillingly foreknowingThat love with May-time flees, We take this day's bestowing, And feed on fantasies_--"

4. _Youth Solves It_

The tale tells how lightly and sweetly, and compassionately, too, thenspoke young Sylvie de Nointel. 

"Ah, but, assuredly, Messire Florian, you do not argue with my petsquite seriously! Old people always have some such queer notions. Ofcourse love all depends upon what sort of person you are. Now, as I seeit, Mama and Grandmama are not the sort of persons who have reallove-affairs. Devoted as I am to both of them, I cannot but perceive theyare lacking in real depth of sentiment. They simply do not understand orcare about such matters. They are fine, straightforward, practicalpersons, poor dears, and always have been, of course, for in things likethat one does not change, as I have often noticed. And Father, andGrandfather Perion, too, as I remember him, was kind-hearted andadmirable and all that, but nobody could ever have expected him to be asatisfactory lover. Why, he was bald as an egg, the poor pet!"

And Sylvie laughed again at the preposterous notions of old people. Sheflashed an especial smile at Florian. Her hand went out as though totouch him, in an unforgotten gesture. "Old people do not understand, "said Sylvie de Nointel, in tones which took this handsome young fellowineffably into confidence. 

"Mademoiselle, " said Florian, with a sigh that was part relief and allapproval, "it is you who speak the truth, and your elders have fallenvictims to the cynicism of a crassly material age. Love is immortal whenit is really love and when one is the right sort of person. There is thelove--known to how few, alas! and a passion of which I regret to findyour mother incapable--that endures unchanged until the end of life. "

"I am so glad you think so, Messire Florian, " she answered demurely. 

"And do you not think so, mademoiselle?"

"How should I know, " she asked him, "as yet?" He noted she had incrediblylong lashes. 

"Thrice happy is he that convinces you!" says Florian. And about them, who were young in the world's recaptured youth, spring triumphed with anageless rural pageant, and birds cried to their mates. He noted the redbrevity of her lips and their probable softness. 

Meanwhile the elder women regarded each other. 

"It is the season of May. They are young and they are together. Poorchildren!" said Dame Melicent. "Youth cries to youth for the toys ofyouth, and saying, 'Lo, I cry with the voice of a great god!'"

"Still, " said Madame Adelaide, "Puysange is a good fief--"

But Florian heeded neither of them as he stood there by the sunlitstream, in which no drop of water retained its place for a moment, andwhich yet did not alter in appearance at all. He did not heed his eldersfor the excellent reason that Sylvie de Nointel was about to speak, andhe preferred to listen to her. For this girl, he knew, was lovelier thanany other person had ever been since Eve first raised just such admiring, innocent, and venturesome eyes to inspect what must have seemed to herthe quaintest of all animals, called man. So it was with a shrug thatFlorian remembered how he had earlier fancied other women for one reasonor another; since this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and alove which would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. 

 * * * * *

APRIL 14, 1355--OCTOBER 23, 1356

"_D'aquest segle flac, plen de marrimen, S'amor s'en vai, son jot teinh mensongier_. "

_So Florian married Sylvie, and made her, they relate, a fair husband, as husbands go. And children came to them, and then old age, and, lastly, that which comes to all. 

Which reminds me that it was an uncomfortable number of years ago, in anout-of-the-way corner of the library at Allonby Shaw, that I first cameupon_ Les Aventures d'Adhelmar de Nointel. _This manuscript dates fromthe early part of the fifteenth century and is attributed--though on novery conclusive evidence, says Hinsauf, --to the facile pen of Nicolas deCaen (circa 1450), until lately better known as a lyric poet andsatirist. 

The story, told in decasyllabic couplets, interspersed after a ratherunusual fashion with innumerable lyrics, seems in the main authentic. SirAdhelmar de Nointel, born about 1332, was once a real and stalwartpersonage, a younger brother to that Henri de Nointel, the fightingBishop of Mantes, whose unsavory part in the murder of Jacques vanArteveldt history has recorded at length; and it is with the exploits ofthis Adhelmar that the romance deals, not, it may be, withoutexaggeration. 

In any event, the following is, with certain compressions and omissionsthat have seemed desirable, the last episode of the_ Aventures. _The taleconcerns the children of Florian and Sylvie: and for it I may claim, atleast, the same merit that old Nicolas does at the very outset; since ashe veraciously declares--yet with a smack of pride:

Cette bonne ystoire n'est pas usée, Ni guère de lieux jadis trouvée, Ni ècrite par clercz ne fut encore. _

CHAPTER II

_The Episode Called Adhelmar at Puysange_

I. _April-magic_

When Adhelmar had ended the tale of Dame Venus and the love which shebore the knight Tannhäuser (here one overtakes Nicolas midcourse innarrative), Adhelmar put away the book and sighed. The Demoiselle Mélitelaughed a little--her laughter, as I have told you, was high anddelicate, with the resonance of thin glass--and demanded the reason ofhis sudden grief. 

"I sigh, " he answered, "for sorrow that this Dame Venus is dead. "

"Surely, " said she, wondering at his glum face, "that is no greatmatter. "

"By Saint Vulfran, yes!" Adhelmar protested; "for the same Lady Venus wasthe fairest of women, as all learned clerks avow; and she is dead thesemany years, and now there is no woman left alive so beautiful asshe--saving one alone, and she will have none of me. And therefore, " headded, very slowly, "I sigh for desire of Dame Venus and for envy of theknight Tannhäuser. "

Again Mélite laughed, but she forbore--discreetly enough--to question himconcerning the lady who was of equal beauty with Dame Venus. 

It was an April morning, and they set in the hedged garden of Puysange. Adhelmar read to her of divers ancient queens and of the love-businesswherein each took part, relating the histories of the Lady Heleine and ofher sweethearting with Duke Paris, the Emperor of Troy's son, and of theLady Melior that loved Parthénopex of Blois, and of the Lady Aude, forlove of whom Sieur Roland slew the pagan Angoulaffre, and of the LadyCresseide that betrayed love, and of the Lady Morgaine la Fée, whoseDanish lover should yet come from Avalon to save France in her black hourof need. All these he read aloud, suavely, with bland modulations, for hewas a man of letters, as letters went in those days. Originally, he hadbeen bred for the Church; but this vocation he had happily forsaken longsince, protesting with some show of reason that France at this particulartime had a greater need of spears than of aves. 

For the rest, Sir Adhelmar de Nointel was known as a valiant knight, whohad won glory in the wars with the English. He had lodged for a fortnightat Puysange, of which castle the master, Sire Reinault (son to the lateVicomte Florian) was Adhelmar's cousin: and on the next day Adhelmarproposed to set forth for Paris, where the French King--Jehan theLuckless--was gathering his lieges about him to withstand his kinsman, Edward of England. 

Now, as I have said, Adhelmar was cousin to Reinault, and, inconsequence, to Reinault's sister, the Demoiselle Mélite; and the latterAdhelmar loved, at least, as much as a cousin should. That was wellknown; and Reinault de Puysange had sworn very heartily that this was agreat pity when he affianced her to Hugues d'Arques. Both Hugues andAdhelmar had loved Mélite since boyhood, --so far their claims ranequally. But while Adhelmar had busied himself in the acquisition of somescant fame and a vast number of scars, Hugues had sensibly inherited thefief of Arques, a snug property with fertile lands and a stout fortress. How, then, should Reinault hesitate between them?

He did not. For the Château d'Arques, you must understand, was builded inLower Normandy, on the fringe of the hill-country, just where thepeninsula of Cotentin juts out into the sea; Puysange stood not farnorth, among the level lands of Upper Normandy: and these two being thestrongest castles in those parts, what more natural and desirable thanthat the families should be united by marriage? Reinault informed hissister of his decision; she wept a little, but did not refuse to comply. 

So Adhelmar, come again to Puysange after five years' absence, foundMélite troth-plighted, fast and safe, to Hugues. Reinault told him. Adhelmar grumbled and bit his nails in a corner, for a time; thenlaughed shortly. 

"I have loved Mélite, " he said. "It may be that I love her still. Hah, Saint Vulfran! why should I not? Why should a man not love his cousin?"

Adhelmar grinned, while the vicomte twitched his beard and wishedAdhelmar at the devil. 

But the young knight stuck fast at Puysange, for all that, and he andMélite were much together. Daily they made parties to dance, and to huntthe deer, and to fish, but most often to rehearse songs. For Adhelmarmade good songs. 

[Footnote: Nicolas indeed declares of Adhelmar, earlier in the tale, insuch high terms as are not uncommon to this chronicle:

Hardi estait et fier comme lions, Et si faisait balades et chançons, Rondeaulx et laiz, très bans et pleins de grâce, Comme Orpheus, cet menestrier de Thrace. ]

To-day, the summer already stirring in the womb of the year, they sat, asI have said, in the hedged garden; and about them the birds piped andwrangled over their nest-building, and daffodils danced in spring's honorwith lively saltations, and overhead the sky was colored like a robin'segg. It was very perilous weather for young folk. By reason of this, whenhe had ended his reading about the lady of the hollow hill, Sir Adhelmarsighed again, and stared at his companion with hungry eyes, whereindesire strained like a hound at the leash. 

Said Mélite, "Was this Lady Venus, then, exceedingly beautiful?"

Adhelmar swore an oath of sufficient magnitude that she was. 

Whereupon Mélite, twisting her fingers idly and evincing a suddeninterest in her own feet, demanded if this Venus were more beautiful thanthe Lady Ermengarde of Arnaye or the Lady Ysabeau of Brieuc. 

"Holy Ouen!" scoffed Adhelmar; "these ladies, while well enough, I grantyou, would seem to be callow howlets blinking about that Arabian Phoenixwhich Plinius tells of, in comparison with this Lady Venus that is dead!"

"But how, " asked Mélite, "was this lady fashioned that you commend sohighly?--and how can you know of her beauty who have never seen her?"

Said Adhelmar: "I have read of her fairness in the chronicles of MessireStace of Thebes, and of Dares, who was her husband's bishop. And she wasvery comely, neither too little nor too big; she was fairer and whiterand more lovely than any flower of the lily or snow upon the branch, buther eyebrows had the mischance of meeting. She had wide-open, beautifuleyes, and her wit was quick and ready. She was graceful and of demurecountenance. She was well-beloved, and could herself love well, but herheart was changeable--"

"Cousin Adhelmar, " declared Mélite, flushing somewhat, for the portraitwas like enough, "I think that you tell of a woman, not of a goddess ofheathenry. "

"Her eyes, " said Adhelmar, and his voice shook, and his hands, lifting alittle, trembled, --"her eyes were large and very bright and of a colorlike that of the June sunlight falling upon deep waters. Her hairwas of a curious gold color like the Fleece that the knight Jason sought, and it curled marvellously about her temples. For mouth she had but asmall red wound; and her throat was a tower builded of ivory. "

But now, still staring at her feet and glowing with the even complexionof a rose, (though not ill-pleased), the Demoiselle Mélite bade himdesist and make her a song. Moreover, she added, beauty was but afleeting thing, and she considered it of little importance; and then shelaughed again. 

Adhelmar took up the lute that lay beside them and fingered it for amoment, as though wondering of what he would rhyme. Afterward he sang forher as they sat in the gardens. 

Sang Adhelmar:

_"It is in vain I mirror forth the praiseIn pondered virelaisOf her that is the lady of my love;Far-sought and curious phrases fail to tellThe tender miracleOf her white body and the grace thereof. 

"Thus many and many an artful-artless strainIs fashioned all in vain:Sound proves unsound; and even her name, that isTo me more glorious than the glow of fireOr dawn or love's desireOr opals interlinked with turquoises, Mocks utterance. 

"So, lacking skill to praiseThat perfect bodily beauty which is hers, Even as those worshippersWho bore rude offerings of honey and maize, Their all, into the gold-paved ministersOf Aphrodite, I have given her theseMy faltering melodies, That are Love's lean and ragged messengers. "_

When he had ended, Adhelmar cast aside the lute, and caught up both ofMélite's hands, and strained them to his lips. There needed no wizard toread the message in his eyes. 

Mélite sat silent for a moment. Presently, "Ah, cousin, cousin!" shesighed, "I cannot love you as you would have me love. God alone knowswhy, true heart, for I revere you as a strong man and a proven knight anda faithful lover; but I do not love you. There are many women who wouldlove you, Adhelmar, for the world praises you, and you have done bravedeeds and made good songs and have served your King potently; andyet"--she drew her hands away and laughed a little wearily--"yet I, poormaid, must needs love Hugues, who has done nothing. This love is astrange, unreasoning thing, my cousin. "

"But do you in truth love Hugues?" asked Adhelmar, in a harsh voice. 

"Yes, " said Mélite, very softly, and afterward flushed and wondereddimly if she had spoken the truth. Then, somehow, her arms clasped aboutAdhelmar's neck, and she kissed him, from pure pity, as she toldherself; for Mélite's heart was tender, and she could not endure theanguish in his face. 

This was all very well. But Hugues d'Arques, coming suddenly out of apleached walk, at this juncture, stumbled upon them and found theirpostures distasteful. He bent black brows upon the two. 

"Adhelmar, " said he, at length, "this world is a small place. "

Adhelmar rose. "Indeed, " he assented, with a wried smile, "I think thereis scarce room in it for both of us, Hugues. "

"That was my meaning, " said the Sieur d'Arques. 

"Only, " Adhelmar pursued, somewhat wistfully, "my sword just now, Hugues, is vowed to my King's quarrel. There are some of us who hope to saveFrance yet, if our blood may avail. In a year, God willing, I shall comeagain to Puysange; and till then you must wait. "

Hugues conceded that, perforce, he must wait, since a vow was sacred;and Adhelmar, who suspected Hugues' natural appetite for battle to belamentably squeamish, grinned. After that, in a sick rage, Adhelmarstruck Hugues in the face, and turned about. 

The Sieur d'Arques rubbed his cheek ruefully. Then he and Mélite stoodsilent for a moment, and heard Adhelmar in the court-yard calling his mento ride forth; and Mélite laughed; and Hugues scowled. 

2. _Nicolas as Chorus_

The year passed, and Adhelmar did not return; and there was much fightingduring that interval, and Hugues began to think the knight was slain andwould never return to fight with him. The reflection was borne withequanimity. 

So Adhelmar was half-forgot, and the Sieur d'Arques turned his mind toother matters. He was still a bachelor, for Reinault considered theburden of the times in ill-accord with the chinking of marriage-bells. They were grim times for Frenchmen: right and left the English pillagedand killed and sacked and guzzled and drank, as if they would never havedone; and Edward of England began, to subscribe himself _Rex Franciae_with some show of excuse. 

In Normandy men acted according to their natures. Reinault swore lustilyand looked to his defences; Hugues, seeing the English everywheretriumphant, drew a long face and doubted, when the will of God was madethus apparent, were it the part of a Christian to withstand it? Then hebegan to write letters, but to whom no man at either Arques or Puysangeknew, saving One-eyed Peire, who carried them. 

3. _Treats of Huckstering_

It was in the dusk of a rain-sodden October day that Adhelmar rode to thegates of Puysange, with some score men-at-arms behind him. They came fromPoictiers, where again the English had conquered, and Adhelmar rode withdifficulty, for in that disastrous business in the field of Maupertuis hehad been run through the chest, and his wound was scarce healed. Nevertheless, he came to finish his debate with the Sieur d'Arques, woundor no wound. 

But at Puysange he heard a strange tale of Hugues. Reinault, whomAdhelmar found in a fine rage, told the story as they sat overtheir supper. 

It had happened, somehow, (Reinault said), that the Marshal Arnoldd'Andreghen--newly escaped from prison and with his dispositionunameliorated by Lord Audley's gaolership, --had heard of these lettersthat Hugues wrote so constantly; and the Marshal, being no scholar, hadfrowned at such doings, and waited presently, with a company of horse, onthe road to Arques. Into their midst, on the day before Adhelmar came, rode Peire, the one-eyed messenger; and it was not an unconscionablewhile before Peire was bound hand and foot, and d'Andreghen was readingthe letter they had found in Peire's jerkin. "Hang the carrier on thatoak, " said d'Andreghen, when he had ended, "but leave that largest branchyonder for the writer. For by the Blood of Christ, our common salvation!I will hang him there on Monday!"

So Peire swung in the air ere long and stuck out a black tongue at thecrows, who cawed and waited for supper; and presently they feasted whiled'Andreghen rode to Arques, carrying a rope for Hugues. 

For the Marshal, you must understand, was a man of sudden action. Onlytwo months ago, he had taken the Comte de Harcourt with other gentlemenfrom the Dauphin's own table to behead them that afternoon in a fieldbehind Rouen. It was true they had planned to resist the _gabelle_, theKing's immemorial right to impose a tax on salt; but Harcourt was Hugues'cousin, and the Sieur d'Arques, being somewhat of an epicureandisposition, esteemed the dessert accorded his kinsman unpalatable. 

There was no cause for great surprise to d'Andreghen, then, to find thatthe letter Hugues had written was meant for Edward, the Black Prince ofEngland, now at Bordeaux, where he held the French King, whom the Princehad captured at Poictiers, as a prisoner; for this prince, though he hadno particular love for a rogue, yet knew how to make use of one whenkingcraft demanded it, --and, as he afterward made use of Pedro theCastilian, he was now prepared to make use of Hugues, who hung like aripe pear ready to drop into Prince Edward's mouth. "For, " as the Sieurd'Arques pointed out in his letter, "I am by nature inclined to favor youbrave English, and so, beyond doubt, is the good God. And I will deliverArques to you; and thus and thus you may take Normandy and the majorportion of France; and thus and thus will I do, and thus and thus mustyou reward me. "

Said d'Andreghen, "I will hang him at dawn; and thus and thus may thedevil do with his soul!"

Then with his company d'Andreghen rode to Arques. A herald declared tothe men of that place how the matter stood, and bade Hugues come forthand dance upon nothing. The Sieur d'Arques spat curses, like a cat driveninto a corner, and wished to fight, but the greater part of his garrisonwere not willing to do so in such a cause: and so d'Andreghen took himand carried him off. 

In anger having sworn by the Blood of Christ to hang Hugues d'Arques to acertain tree, d'Andreghen had no choice in calm but to abide by his oath. This day being the Sabbath, he deferred the matter; but the Marshalpromised to see to it that when morning broke the Sieur d'Arques shoulddangle side by side with his messenger. 

Thus far the Vicomte de Puysange. He concluded his narrative with a drychuckle. "And I think we are very well rid of him, Adhelmar. Holy Maclou!that I should have taken the traitor for a true man, though! He wouldsell France, you observe, --chaffered, they tell me, like a pedlar overthe price of Normandy. Heh, the huckster, the triple-damned Jew!"

"And Mélite?" asked Adhelmar, after a little. 

Again Reinault shrugged. "In the White Turret, " he said; then, with ashort laugh: "Oy Dieus, yes! The girl has been caterwauling for thisshabby rogue all day. She would have me--me, the King's man, lookyou!--save Hugues at the peril of my seignory! And I protest to you, bythe most high and pious Saint Nicolas the Confessor, " Reinault swore, "that sooner than see this huckster go unpunished, I would lock Hell'sgate on him with my own hands!"

For a moment Adhelmar stood with his jaws puffed out, as if in thought, and then he laughed like a wolf. Afterward he went to the White Turret, leaving Reinault smiling over his wine. 

4. _Folly Diversely Attested_

He found Mélite alone. She had robed herself in black, and had gatheredher gold hair about her face like a heavy veil, and sat weeping into itfor the plight of Hugues d'Arques. 

"Mélite!" cried Adhelmar; "Mélite!" The Demoiselle de Puysange rose witha start, and, seeing him standing in the doorway, ran to him, incompetentlittle hands fluttering before her like frightened doves. She was verytired, by that day-long arguing with her brother's notions about honorand knightly faith and such foolish matters, and to her wearinessAdhelmar seemed strength incarnate; surely he, if any one, could aidHugues and bring him safe out of the grim marshal's claws. For themoment, perhaps, she had forgotten the feud which existed betweenAdhelmar and the Sieur d'Arques; but in any event, I am convinced, sheknew that Adhelmar could refuse her nothing. So she ran toward him, hercheeks flushing arbutus-like, and she was smiling through her tears. 

Oh, thought Adhelmar, were it not very easy to leave Hugues to the dog'sdeath he merits and to take this woman for my own? For I know that sheloves me a little. And thinking of this, he kissed her, quietly, as onemight comfort a sobbing child; afterward he held her in his arms for amoment, wondering vaguely at the pliant thickness of her hair and thesweet scent of it. Then he put her from him gently, and swore in his soulthat Hugues must die, so that this woman might be Adhelmar's. 

"You will save him?" Mélite asked, and raised her face to his. There wasthat in her eyes which caused Adhelmar to muse for a little on the natureof women's love, and, subsequently, to laugh harshly and make vehementutterance. 

"Yes!" said Adhelmar. 

He demanded how many of Hugues' men were about. Some twenty of them hadcome to Puysange, Mélite said, in the hope that Reinault might aid themto save their master. She protested that her brother was a coward for notdoing so; but Adhelmar, having his own opinion on this subject, andthinking in his heart that Hugues' skin might easily be ripped off himwithout spilling a pint of honest blood, said, simply: "Twenty and twentyis two-score. It is not a large armament, but it may serve. "

He told her his plan was to fall suddenly upon d'Andreghen and his menthat night, and in the tumult to steal Hugues away; whereafter, asAdhelmar pointed out, Hugues might readily take ship for England, andleave the marshal to blaspheme Fortune in Normandy, and the French Kingto gnaw at his chains in Bordeaux, while Hugues toasts his shins incomfort at London. Adhelmar admitted that the plan was a mad one, butadded, reasonably enough, that needs must when the devil drives. And sofirm was his confidence, so cheery his laugh--he managed to laughsomehow, though it was a stiff piece of work, --that Mélite began to becomforted somewhat, and bade him go and Godspeed. 

So then Adhelmar left her. In the main hall he found the vicomte stillsitting over his wine of Anjou. 

"Cousin, " said Adhelmar, "I must ride hence to-night. "

Reinault stared at him: a mastering wonder woke in Reinault's face. "Ta, ta, ta!" he clicked his tongue, very softly. Afterward he sprangto his feet and clutched Adhelmar by both arms. "No, no!" Reinaultcried. "No, Adhelmar, you must not try that! It is death, lad, --suredeath! It means hanging, boy!" the vicomte pleaded, for, hard man thathe was, he loved Adhelmar. 

"That is likely enough, " Adhelmar conceded. 

"They will hang you, "' Reinault said again: "d'Andreghen and the CountDauphin of Vienna will hang you as blithely as they would Iscariot. "

"That, too, " said Adhelmar, "is likely enough, if I remain in France. "

"Oy Dieus! will you flee to England, then?" the vicomte scoffed, bitterly. "Has King Edward not sworn to hang you these eight years past?Was it not you, then, cousin, who took Almerigo di Pavia, that Lombardknave whom he made governor of Calais, --was it not you, then, whodelivered Edward's loved Almerigo to Geoffrey de Chargny, who had himbroken on the wheel? Eh, holy Maclou! but you will get hearty welcome anda chaplain and a rope in England. "

Adhelmar admitted that this was true. "Still, " said he, "I must ridehence to-night. "

"For her?" Reinault asked, and jerked his thumb upward. 

"Yes, " said Adhelmar, --"for her. "

Reinault stared in his face for a while. "You are a fool, Adhelmar, " saidhe, at last, "but you are a brave man, and you love as becomes achevalier. It is a great pity that a flibbertigibbet wench with atow-head should be the death of you. For my part, I am the King's vassal;I shall not break faith with him; but you are my guest and my kinsman. For that reason I am going to bed, and I shall sleep very soundly. It islikely I shall hear nothing of the night's doings, --ohimé, no! not if youmurder d'Andreghen in the court-yard!" Reinault ended, and smiled, somewhat sadly. 

Afterward he took Adhelmar's hand and said: "Farewell, lord Adhelmar! Otrue knight, sturdy and bold! terrible and merciless toward your enemies, gentle and simple toward your friends, farewell!"

He kissed Adhelmar on either cheek and left him. In those days menencountered death with very little ado. 

Then Adhelmar rode off in the rain with thirty-four armed followers. Riding thus, he reflected upon the nature of women and upon his lovefor the Demoiselle de Puysange; and, to himself, he swore gloomily thatif she had a mind to Hugues she must have Hugues, come what might. Having reached this conclusion, Adhelmar wheeled upon his men, andcursed them for tavern-idlers and laggards and flea-hearted snails, andbade them spur. 

Mélite, at her window, heard them depart, and heard the noise of theirgoing lapse into the bland monotony of the rain's noise. This dank nightnow divulged no more, and she turned back into the room. Adhelmar'sglove, which he had forgotten in his haste, lay upon the floor, andMélite lifted it and twisted it idly. 

"I wonder--?" said she. 

She lighted four wax candles and set them before a mirror that was in theroom. Mélite stood among them and looked into the mirror. She seemed verytall and very slender, and her loosened hair hung heavily about herbeautiful shallow face and fell like a cloak around her black-robed body, showing against the black gown like melting gold; and about her were thetall, white candles tipped with still flames of gold. Mélite laughed--herlaughter was high and delicate, with the resonance of thin glass, --andraised her arms above her, head, stretching tensely like a cat before afire, and laughed yet again. 

"After all, " said she, "I do not wonder. "

Mélite sat before the mirror, and braided her hair, and sang to herselfin a sweet, low voice, brooding with unfathomable eyes upon her image inthe glass, while the October rain beat about Puysange, and Adhelmar rodeforth to save Hugues that must else be hanged. 

Sang Mélite:

"_Rustling leaves of the willow-treePeering downward at you and me, And no man else in the world to see, "Only the birds, whose dusty coatsShow dark in the green, --whose throbbing throatsTurn joy to music and love to notes_. 

"Lean your body against the tree, Lifting your red lips up to me, Mélite, and kiss, with no man to see!

"And let us laugh for a little:--Yea, Let love and laughter herald the dayWhen laughter and love will be put away. 

"Then you will remember the willow-treeAnd this very hour, and remember me, Mélite, --whose face you will no more see!

"So swift, so swift the glad time goes, And Eld and Death with their countless woesDraw near, and the end thereof no man knows, "Lean your body against the tree, Lifting your red lips up to me, Mélite, and kiss, with no man to see!"_

Mélite smiled as she sang; for this was a song that Adhelmar had made forher upon a May morning at Nointel, before he was a knight, when both werevery young. So now she smiled to remember the making of the verses whichshe sang while the October rain was beating about Puysange. 

5. _Night-work_

It was not long before they came upon d'Andreghen and his men campedabout a great oak, with One-eyed Peire a-swing over their heads for alamentable banner. A shrill sentinel, somewhere in the dark, demanded thenewcomers' business, but without receiving any adequate answer, for atthat moment Adhelmar gave the word to charge. 

Then it was as if all the devils in Pandemonium had chosen Normandy fortheir playground; and what took place in the night no man saw for thedarkness, so that I cannot tell you of it. Let it suffice that Adhelmarrode away before d'Andreghen had rubbed sleep well out of his eyes; andwith Adhelmar were Hugues d'Arques and some half of Adhelmar's men. Therest were dead, and Adhelmar was badly hurt, for he had burst open hisold wound and it was bleeding under his armor. Of this he said nothing. 

"Hugues, " said he, "do you and these fellows ride to the coast; thencetake ship for England. "

He would have none of Hugues' thanks; instead, he turned and left Huguesto whimper out his gratitude to the skies, which spat a warm, gusty rainat him. Adhelmar rode again to Puysange, and as he went he sang. 

Sang Adhelmar:

"D'Andreghen in NormandyWent forth to slay mine enemy;But as he wentLord God for me wrought marvellously;

"Wherefore, I may call and cryThat am now about to die, 'I am content!'

"Domine! Domine!Gratias accipe!Et meum animumRecipe in coelum_!"

6. They Kiss at Parting

When he had come to Puysange, Adhelmar climbed the stairs of the WhiteTurret, --slowly, for he was growing very feeble now, --and so came againto Mélite crouching among the burned-out candles in the slate-coloredtwilight which heralded dawn. 

"He is safe, " said Adhelmar. He told Mélite how Hugues was rescued andshipped to England, and how, if she would, she might straightway followhim in a fishing-boat. "For there is likely to be ugly work at Puysange, "Adhelmar said, "when the marshal comes. And he will come. "

"But what will you do now, my cousin?" asked Mélite. 

"Holy Ouen!" said Adhelmar; "since I needs must die, I will die inFrance, not in the cold land of England. "

"Die!" cried Mélite. "Are you hurt so sorely, then?"

He grinned like a death's-head. "My injuries are not incurable, " saidhe, "yet must I die very quickly, for all that. The English King willhang me if I go thither, as he has sworn to do these eight years, becauseof that matter of Almerigo di Pavia: and if I stay in France, I must hangbecause of this night's work. "

Mélite wept. "O God! O God!" she quavered, two or three times, like onehurt in the throat. "And you have done this for me! Is there no way tosave you, Adhelmar?" she pleaded, with wide, frightened eyes that werelike a child's. 

"None, " said Adhelmar. He took both her hands in his, very tenderly. "Ah, my sweet, " said he, "must I, whose grave is already digged, waste breathupon this idle talk of kingdoms and the squabbling men who rule them? Ihave but a brief while to live, and I wish to forget that there is aughtelse in the world save you, and that I love you. Do not weep, Mélite! Ina little time you will forget me and be happy with this Hugues whom youlove; and I?--ah, my sweet, I think that even in my grave I shall dreamof you and of your great beauty and of the exceeding love that I bore youin the old days. "

"Ah, no, I shall not ever forget, O true and faithful lover! And, indeed, indeed, Adhelmar, I would give my life right willingly that yours mightbe saved!"

She had almost forgotten Hugues. Her heart was sad as she thought ofAdhelmar, who must die a shameful death for her sake, and of the lovewhich she had cast away. Beside it, the Sieur d'Arques' affection showedsomewhat tawdry, and Mélite began to reflect that, after all, she hadliked Adhelmar almost as well. 

"Sweet, " said Adhelmar, "do I not know you to the marrow? You will forgetme utterly, for your heart is very changeable. Ah, Mother of God!"Adhelmar cried, with a quick lift of speech; "I am afraid to die, for theharsh dust will shut out the glory of your face, and you will forget!"

"No; ah, no!" Mélite whispered, and drew near to him. Adhelmar smiled, alittle wistfully, for he did not believe that she spoke the truth; but itwas good to feel her body close to his, even though he was dying, and hewas content. 

But by this time the dawn had come completely, flooding the room with itsfirst thin radiance, and Mélite saw the pallor of his face and so knewthat he was wounded. 

"Indeed, yes, " said Adhelmar, when she had questioned him, "for my breastis quite cloven through. " And when she disarmed him, Mélite found a greatcut in his chest which had bled so much that it was apparent he must die, whether d'Andreghen and Edward of England would or no. 

Mélite wept again, and cried, "Why had you not told me of this?"

"To have you heal me, perchance?" said Adhelmar. "Ah, love, is hanging, then, so sweet a death that I should choose it, rather than to die verypeacefully in your arms? Indeed, I would not live if I might; for I haveproven traitor to my King, and it is right that traitors should die; and, chief of all, I know that life can bring me naught more desirable than Ihave known this night. What need, then, have I to live?"

Mélite bent over him; for as he spoke he had lain back in a tall carvenchair by the east window. She was past speech. But now, for a moment, herlips clung to his, and her warm tears fell upon his face. What betterdeath for a lover? thought Adhelmar. 

Yet he murmured somewhat. "Pity, always pity!" he said, wearily. "I shallnever win aught else of you, Mélite. For before this you have kissed me, pitying me because you could not love me. And you have kissed me now, pitying me because I may not live. "

But Mélite, clasping her arms about his neck, whispered into his ear themeaning of this last kiss, and at the honeyed sound of her whisperinghis strength came back for a moment, and he strove to rise. The levelsunlight through the open window smote full upon his face, which wasvery glad. Mélite was conscious of her nobility in causing him suchdelight at the last. 

"God, God!" cried Adhelmar, and he spread out his arms toward the dear, familiar world that was slowly taking form beneath them, --a world nowinfinitely dear to him; "all, my God, have pity and let me live alittle longer!"

As Mélite, half frightened, drew back from him, he crept out of hischair and fell prone at her feet. Afterward his hands stretched forwardtoward her, clutching, and then trembled and were still. 

Mélite stood looking downward, wondering vaguely when she would nextknow either joy or sorrow again. She was now conscious of no emotionwhatever. It seemed to her she ought to be more greatly moved. So thenew day found them. 

 * * * * *

MARCH 2, 1414

"_Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldesthim for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg_?"

_In the chapel at Puysange you may still see the tomb of Adhelmar; butMélite's bones lie otherwhere. "Her heart was changeable, " as old Nicolassays, justly enough; and so in due time it was comforted. 

For Hugues d'Arques--or Hugh Darke, as his name was Anglicized--presentlystood high in the favor of King Edward. A fief was granted to MessireDarke, in Norfolk, where Hugues shortly built for himself a residence atYaxham, and began to look about for a wife: it was not long before hefound one. 

This befell at Brétigny when, in 1360, the Great Peace was signedbetween France and England, and Hugues, as one of the English embassy, came face to face with Reinault and Mélite. History does not detail themeeting; but, inasmuch as the Sieur d'Arques and Mélite de Puysange weremarried at Rouen the following October, doubtless it passed offpleasantly enough. 

The couple had sufficient in common to have qualified them for severaldecades of mutual toleration. But by ill luck, Mélite died in child-birththree years after her marriage. She had borne, in 1361, twin daughters, of whom Adelais died a spinster; the other daughter, Sylvia, circa 1378, figured in an unfortunate love-affair with one of Sir Thomas Mowbray'sattendants, but subsequently married Robert Vernon of Winstead. Méliteleft also a son, Hugh, born in 1363, who succeeded to his father's estateof Yaxham in 1387, in which year Hugues fell at the battle of RadcotBridge, fighting in behalf of the ill-fated Richard of Bordeaux. 

Now we turn to certain happenings in Eastcheap, at the Boar's HeadTavern. _

CHAPTER III

_The Episode Called Love-Letters of Falstaff_

I. "_That Gray Iniquity_"

There was a sound of scuffling within as Sir John Falstaff--muchbroken since his loss of the King's favor, and now equally decayed inwit and health and reputation--stood fumbling at the door of the Angelroom. He was particularly shaky this morning after a night ofparticularly hard drinking. 

But he came into the apartment singing, and, whatever the scuffling hadmeant, found Bardolph in one corner employed in sorting garments from aclothes-chest, while at the extreme end of the room Mistress Quicklydemurely stirred the fire; which winked at the old knight ratherknowingly. 

"_Then came the bold Sir Caradoc_, " carolled Sir John. "Ah, mistress, what news?--_And eke Sir Pellinore_. --Did I rage last night, Bardolph?Was I a Bedlamite?"

"As mine own bruises can testify, " Bardolph assented. "Had each one ofthem a tongue, they would raise a clamor beside which Babel were as anheir weeping for his rich uncle's death; their testimony would qualifyyou for any mad-house in England. And if their evidence go against thedoctor's stomach, the watchman at the corner hath three teeth--or, rather, hath them no longer, since you knocked them out last night--thatwill, right willingly, aid him to digest it. "

"Three, say you?" asked the knight, rather stiffly lowering his greatbody into his great chair set ready for him beside the fire. "I wouldhave my valor in all men's mouths, but not in this fashion, for it is toobiting a jest. Three, say you? Well, I am glad it was no worse; I have atender conscience, and that mad fellow of the north, Hotspur, sitsheavily upon it, so that thus this Percy, being slain by my valor, is_per se_ avenged, a plague on him! Three, say you? I would to God my namewere not so terrible to the enemy as it is; I would I had 'bated mynatural inclination somewhat, and had slain less tall fellows by somethreescore. I doubt Agamemnon slept not well o' nights. Three, say you?Give the fellow a crown apiece for his mouldy teeth, if thou hast them;if thou hast them not, bid him eschew this vice of drunkenness, wherebyhis misfortune hath befallen him, and thus win him heavenly crowns. "

"Indeed, sir, " began Bardolph, "I doubt--"

"Doubt not, sirrah!" cried Sir John, testily; and continued, in avirtuous manner: "Was not the apostle reproved for that same sin? Thouart a Didymus, Bardolph;--an incredulous paynim, a most unspeculativerogue! Have I carracks trading in the Indies? Have I robbed the exchequerof late? Have I the Golden Fleece for a cloak? Nay, it is paltry gimlet, and that augurs badly. Why, does this knavish watchman take me for araven to feed him in the wilderness? Tell him there are no such ravenshereabout; else had I ravenously limed the house-tops and set springes inthe gutters. Inform him that my purse is no better lined than his ownbroken skull: it is void as a beggar's protestations, or a butcher'sstall in Lent; light as a famished gnat, or the sighing of a new-madewidower; more empty than a last year's bird-nest, than a madman's eye, or, in fine, than the friendship of a king. "

"But you have wealthy friends, Sir John, " suggested the hostess of theBoar's Head Tavern, whose impatience had but very hardly waited for thisopportunity to join in the talk. "Yes, I warrant you, Sir John. Sir John, you have a many wealthy friends; you cannot deny that, Sir John. "

"Friends, dame?" asked the knight, and cowered closer to the fire, asthough he were a little cold. "I have no friends since Hal is King. Ihad, I grant you, a few score of acquaintances whom I taught to play atdice; paltry young blades of the City, very unfledged juvenals! Settingmy knighthood and my valor aside, if I did swear friendship with these, I did swear to a lie. But this is a censorious and muddy-minded world, sothat, look you, even these sprouting aldermen, these foul bacon-fedrogues, have fled my friendship of late, and my reputation hath grownsomewhat more murky than Erebus. No matter! I walk alone, as one thathath the pestilence. No matter! But I grow old; I am not in the vaward ofmy youth, mistress. "

He nodded his head with extreme gravity; then reached for a cup of sackthat Bardolph held at the knight's elbow. 

"Indeed, I know not what your worship will do, " said Mistress Quickly, rather sadly. 

"Faith!" answered Sir John, finishing the sack and grinning in a somewhatghastly fashion; "unless the Providence that watches over the fall of asparrow hath an eye to the career of Sir John Falstaff, Knight, and socomes to my aid shortly, I must needs convert my last doublet into amask, and turn highwayman in my shirt. I can take purses yet, ye Uzzitecomforters, as gaily as I did at Gadshill, where that scurvy Poins, andhe that is now King, and some twoscore other knaves did afterward assaultme in the dark; yet I peppered some of them, I warrant you!"

"You must be rid of me, then, master, " Bardolph interpolated. "I for onehave no need of a hempen collar. "

"Ah, well!" said the knight, stretching himself in his chair as thewarmth of the liquor coursed through his inert blood; "I, too, would beloth to break the gallows' back! For fear of halters, we must alter ourway of living; we must live close, Bardolph, till the wars make usCroesuses or food for crows. And if Hal but hold to his bias, there willbe wars: I will eat a piece of my sword, if he have not need of itshortly. Ah, go thy ways, tall Jack; there live not three good menunhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old. We must liveclose, Bardolph; we must forswear drinking and wenching! But there islime in this sack, you rogue; give me another cup. "

The old knight drained this second cup, and unctuously sucked at andlicked his lips. Thereafter, "I pray you, hostess, " he continued, "remember that Doll Tearsheet supswith me to-night; have a capon of the best, and be not sparing of thewine. I will repay you, upon honor, when we young fellows return fromFrance, all laden with rings and brooches and such trumperies like yourNorfolkshire pedlars at Christmas-tide. We will sack a town for you, andbring you back the Lord Mayor's beard to stuff you a cushion; the Dauphinshall be your tapster yet; we will walk on lilies, I warrant you, to thetune of _Hey, then up go we!"_

"Indeed, sir, " said Mistress Quickly, in perfect earnest, "your worshipis as welcome to my pantry as the mice--a pox on 'em!--think themselves;you are heartily welcome. Ah, well, old Puss is dead; I had her ofGoodman Quickly these ten years since;--but I had thought you looked forthe lady who was here but now;--she was a roaring lion among the mice. "

"What lady?" cried Sir John, with great animation. "Was it Flint themercer's wife, think you? Ah, she hath a liberal disposition, and will, without the aid of Prince Houssain's carpet or the horse of Cambuscan, transfer the golden shining pieces from her husband's coffers to mine. "

"No mercer's wife, I think, " Mistress Quickly answered, afterconsideration. "She came with two patched footmen, and smacked ofgentility;--Master Dumbleton's father was a mercer; but he had redhair;--she is old;--and I could never abide red hair. "

"No matter!" cried the knight. "I can love this lady, be she a very Witchof Endor. Observe, what a thing it is to be a proper man, Bardolph! Shehath marked me;--in public, perhaps; on the street, it may be;--and then, I warrant you, made such eyes! and sighed such sighs! and lain awake o'nights, thinking of a pleasing portly gentleman, whom, were I notmodesty's self, I might name;--and I, all this while, not knowing! Fetchme my Book of Riddles and my Sonnets, that I may speak smoothly. Why wasmy beard not combed this morning? No matter, it will serve. Have I nobetter cloak than this?" Sir John was in a tremendous bustle, all a-beamwith pleasurable anticipation. 

But Mistress Quickly, who had been looking out of the window, said, "Come, but your worship must begin with unwashed hands, for old MadamWish-for't and her two country louts are even now at the door. "

"Avaunt, minions!" cried the knight. "Avaunt! Conduct the lady hither, hostess; Bardolph, another cup of sack. We will ruffle it, lad, and go toFrance all gold, like Midas! Are mine eyes too red? I must look sad, youknow, and sigh very pitifully. Ah, we will ruffle it! Another cup ofsack, Bardolph;--I am a rogue if I have drunk to-day. And avaunt! vanish!for the lady comes. "

He threw himself into a gallant attitude, suggestive of one suddenlypalsied, and with the mien of a turkey-cock strutted toward the door togreet his unknown visitor. 

2. _"Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a Boy"_

The woman who entered was not the jolly City dame one looked for: and, atfirst sight, you estimated her age as a trifle upon the staider side ofsixty. But to this woman the years had shown unwonted kindliness, asthough time touched her less with intent to mar than to caress; her formwas still unbent, and her countenance, bloodless and deep-furrowed, borethe traces of great beauty; and, whatever the nature of her errand, thewoman who stood in the doorway was unquestionably a person of breeding. 

Sir John advanced toward her with as much elegance as he might muster;for gout when coupled with such excessive bulk does not beget anoverpowering amount of grace. 

"_See, from the glowing East, Aurora comes_, " he chirped. "Madam, permitme to welcome you to my poor apartments; they are not worthy--"

"I would see Sir John Falstaff, sir, " declared the lady, courteously, but with some reserve of manner, and looking him full in the face as shesaid this. 

"Indeed, madam, " suggested Sir John, "if those bright eyes--whose glanceshave already cut my poor heart into as many pieces as the man in thefront of the almanac--will but desist for a moment from such butcher'swork and do their proper duty, you will have little trouble in findingthe bluff soldier you seek. "

"Are you Sir John?" asked the lady, as though suspecting a jest. "The sonof old Sir Edward Falstaff, of Norfolk?"

"His wife hath frequently assured me so, " Sir John protested, verygravely; "and to confirm her evidence I have about me a certainvillainous thirst that did plague Sir Edward sorely in his lifetime, andcame to me with his other chattels. The property I have expended longsince; but no Jew will advance me a maravedi on the Falstaff thirst. Itis a priceless commodity, not to be bought or sold; you might as soonquench it. "

"I would not have known you, " said the lady, wonderingly; "but, " sheadded, "I have not seen you these forty years. "

"Faith, madam, " grinned the knight, "the great pilferer Time hath sincethen taken away a little from my hair, and added somewhat (saving yourpresence) to my belly; and my face hath not been improved by being thegrindstone for some hundred swords. But I do not know you. "

"I am Sylvia Vernon, " said the lady. "And once, a long while ago, I wasSylvia Darke. "

"I remember, " said the knight. His voice was altered. Bardolph wouldhardly have known it; nor, perhaps, would he have recognized his master'smanner as he handed Dame Sylvia to the best chair. 

"A long while ago, " she repeated, sadly, after a pause during whichthe crackling of the fire was very audible. "Time hath dealt harshlywith us both, John;--the name hath a sweet savor. I am an old womannow. And you--"

"I would not have known you, " said Sir John; then asked, almostresentfully, "What do you here?"

"My son goes to the wars, " she answered, "and I am come to bid himfarewell; yet I should not tarry in London, for my lord is feeble andhath constant need of me. But I, an old woman, am yet vain enough tosteal these few moments from him who needs me, to see for the last time, mayhap, him who was once my very dear friend. "

"I was never your friend, Sylvia, " said Sir John. 

"Ah, the old wrangle!" said the lady, and smiled a little wistfully. "Mydear and very honored lover, then; and I am come to see him here. "

"Ay!" interrupted Sir John, rather hastily; and he proceeded, glowingwith benevolence: "A quiet, orderly place, where I bestow my patronage;the woman of the house had once a husband in my company. God rest hissoul! he bore a good pike. He retired in his old age and 'stablished thistavern, where he passed his declining years, till death called him gentlyaway from this naughty world. God rest his soul, say I!"

This was a somewhat euphemistic version of the taking-off of GoodmanQuickly, who had been knocked over the head with a joint-stool whilerifling the pockets of a drunken guest; but perhaps Sir John wished tospeak well of the dead, even at the price of conferring upon the presenthome of Sir John an idyllic atmosphere denied it by the Londonconstabulary. 

"And you for old memories' sake yet aid his widow?" the lady murmured. "That is like you, John. "

There was another silence, and the fire crackled more loudly than ever. 

"And are you sorry that I come again, in a worse body, John, strange andtime-ruined?"

"Sorry?" echoed Sir John; and, ungallant as it was, he hesitated amoment before replying: "No, faith! But there are some ghosts that willnot easily bear raising, and you have raised one. "

"We have summoned up no very fearful spectre, I think, " replied the lady;"at most, no worse than a pallid, gentle spirit that speaks--to me, atleast--of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very happy agreat while ago. "

"Are you come hither to seek that boy?" asked the knight, and chuckled, though not merrily. "The boy that went mad and rhymed of you in thosefar-off dusty years? He is quite dead, my lady; he was drowned, mayhap, in a cup of wine. Or he was slain, perchance, by a few light women. Iknow not how he died. But he is quite dead, my lady, and I had not beenhaunted by his ghost until to-day. "

He stared at the floor as he ended; then choked, and broke into a fit ofcoughing which unromantic chance brought on just now, of all times. 

"He was a dear boy, " she said, presently; "a boy who loved a young maidvery truly; a boy that found the maid's father too strong and shrewd fordesperate young lovers--Eh, how long ago it seems, and what a flood oftears the poor maid shed at being parted from that dear boy!"

"Faith!" admitted Sir John, "the rogue had his good points. "

"Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know, " the lady said, looking upinto his face, "and, you will believe me that I am very heartily sorryfor the pain I brought into your life?"

"My wounds heal easily, " said Sir John. 

"For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was forthe best that I should not accept your love, believe me, John, I alwaysknew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any womanmust prize. "

"Dear lady, " the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, "the world isnot altogether of your opinion. "

"I know not of the world, " she said; "for we live away from it. But wehave heard of you ever and anon; I have your life quite letter-perfectfor these forty years or more. "

"You have heard of me?" asked Sir John; and, for a seasoned knave, helooked rather uncomfortable. 

"As a gallant and brave soldier, " she answered; "of how you fought at seawith Mowbray that was afterward Duke of Norfolk; of your knighthood byKing Richard; of how you slew the Percy at Shrewsbury; and capturedColeville o' late in Yorkshire; and how the Prince, that now is King, didlove you above all men; and, in fine, of many splendid doings in thegreat world. "

Sir John raised a protesting hand. He said, with commendable modesty: "Ihave fought somewhat. But we are not Bevis of Southampton; we have slainno giants. Heard you naught else?"

"Little else of note, " replied the lady; and went on, very quietly: "Butwe are proud of you at home in Norfolk. And such tales as I have heard Ihave woven together in one story; and I have told it many times to mychildren as we sat on the old Chapel steps at evening, and the shadowslengthened across the lawn, and I bid them emulate this, the most perfectknight and gallant gentleman that I have known. And they love you, Ithink, though but by repute. "

Once more silence fell between them; and the fire grinned wickedly at themimic fire reflected by the old chest, as though it knew of a mostentertaining secret. 

"Do you yet live at Winstead?" asked Sir John, half idly. 

"Yes, " she answered; "in the old house. It is little changed, but thereare many changes about. "

"Is Moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?"

"Married to Hodge, the tanner, " the lady said; "and dead long since. "

"And all our merry company?" Sir John demanded. "Marian? And Tom andlittle Osric? And Phyllis? And Adelais? Zounds, it is like a breath ofcountry air to speak their names once more. "

"All dead, " she answered, in a hushed voice, "save Adelais, and even tome poor Adelais seems old and strange. Walter was slain in the Frenchwars, and she hath never married. "

"All dead, " Sir John informed the fire, as if confidentially; then helaughed, though his bloodshot eyes were not merry. "This same Death hatha wide maw! It is not long before you and I, my lady, will be at supperwith the worms. But you, at least, have had a happy life. "

"I have been content enough, " she said, "but all that seems run by; for, John, I think that at our age we are not any longer very happy nor verymiserable. "

"Faith!" agreed Sir John, "we are both old; and I had not known it, mylady, until to-day. "

Again there was silence; and again the fire leapt with delight at thejest. 

Sylvia Vernon arose suddenly and cried, "I would I had not come!"

Then said Sir John: "Nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have wakened. For, madam--you whom I loved once!--you are in the right. Our blood runsthinner than of yore; and we may no longer, I think, either sorrow orrejoice very deeply. "

"It is true, " she said; "but I must go; and, indeed, I would to God I hadnot come!"

Sir John was silent; he bowed his head, in acquiescence perhaps, inmeditation it may have been; but he stayed silent. 

"Yet, " said she, "there is something here which I must keep no longer:for here are all the letters you ever writ me. "

Whereupon she handed Sir John a little packet of very old and very fadedpapers. He turned them awkwardly in his hand once or twice; then staredat them; then at the lady. 

"You have kept them--always?" he cried. 

"Yes, " she responded, wistfully; "but I must not be guilty of continuingsuch follies. It is a villainous example to my grandchildren, " DameSylvia told him, and smiled. "Farewell. "

Sir John drew close to her and took her hands in his. He looked into hereyes for an instant, holding himself very erect, --and it was a rare eventwhen Sir John looked any one squarely in the eyes, --and he said, wonderingly, "How I loved you!"

"I know, " she murmured. Sylvia Vernon gazed up into his bloated old facewith a proud tenderness that was half-regretful. A quavering came intoher gentle voice. "And I thank you for your gift, my lover, --O brave truelover, whose love I was not ever ashamed to own! Farewell, my dear; yet alittle while, and I go to seek the boy and girl we know of. "

"I shall not be long, madam, " said Sir John. "Speak a kind word for me inHeaven; for I shall have sore need of it. "

She had reached the door by this. "You are not sorry that I came?"

Sir John answered, very sadly: "There are many wrinkles now in your dearface, my lady; the great eyes are a little dimmed, and the sweetlaughter is a little cracked; but I am not sorry to have seen you thus. For I have loved no woman truly save you alone; and I am not sorry. Farewell. " And for a moment he bowed his unreverend gray head over hershrivelled fingers. 

3. "_This Pitch, as Ancient Writers do Report, doth Defile_"

"Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to the vice of lying!"chuckled Sir John, and leaned back rheumatically in his chair andmumbled over the jest. 

"Yet it was not all a lie, " he confided, as if in perplexity, to thefire; "but what a coil over a youthful green-sickness 'twixt a lad and awench more than forty years syne!

"I might have had money of her for the asking, " he presently went on;"yet I am glad I did not; which is a parlous sign and smacks of dotage. "

He nodded very gravely over this new and alarming phase of his character. 

"Were it not a quaint conceit, a merry tickle-brain of Fate, " he asked ofthe leaping flames, after a still longer pause, "that this mountain ofmalmsey were once a delicate stripling with apple cheeks and a cleanbreath, smelling of civet, and as mad for love, I warrant you, as anyAmadis of them all? For, if a man were to speak truly, I did love her. 

"I had the special marks of the pestilence, " he assured a particularlyincredulous--and obstinate-looking coal, --a grim, black fellow that, lurking in a corner, scowled forbiddingly and seemed to defy both theflames and Sir John. "Not all the flagons and apples in the universemight have comforted me; I was wont to sigh like a leaky bellows; to weeplike a wench that hath lost her grandam; to lard my speech with thefag-ends of ballads like a man milliner; and did, indeed, indite sonnets, canzonets, and what not of mine own elaboration. 

"And Moll did carry them, " he continued; "plump brown-eyed Moll, thathath married Hodge the tanner, and reared her tannerkins, and diedlong since. "

But the coal remained incredulous, and the flames crackled merrily. 

"Lord, Lord, what did I not write?" said Sir John, drawing out a paperfrom the packet, and deciphering by the firelight the faded writing. 

Read Sir John:

"_Have pity, Sylvia? Cringing at thy doorEntreats with dolorous cry and clamoring, That mendicant who quits thee nevermore;Now winter chills the world, and no birds singIn any woods, yet as in wanton SpringHe follows thee; and never will have done, Though nakedly he die, from followingWhither thou leadest. 

"Canst thou look uponHis woes, and laugh to see a goddess' sonOf wide dominion, and in strategy

"More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon, Inept to combat thy severity?Have pity, Sylvia! And let Love be oneAmong the folk that bear thee company_. "

"Is it not the very puling speech of your true lover?" he chuckled; andthe flames spluttered assent. "_Among the folk that bear thee company_, "he repeated, and afterward looked about him with a smack of gravity. "Faith, Adam Cupid hath forsworn my fellowship long since; he hath noscore chalked up against him at the Boar's Head Tavern; or, if he have, Idoubt not the next street-beggar might discharge it. "

"And she hath commended me to her children as a very gallant gentlemanand a true knight, " Sir John went on, reflectively. He cast his eyestoward the ceiling, and grinned at invisible deities. "Jove that sees allhath a goodly commodity of mirth; I doubt not his sides ache at times, asif they had conceived another wine-god. "

"Yet, by my honor, " he insisted to the fire; then added, apologetically, --"if I had any, which, to speak plain, I have not, --I amglad; it is a brave jest; and I did love her once. "

Then the time-battered, bloat rogue picked out another paper, and read:

"'_My dear lady, --That I am not with thee to-night is, indeed, no faultof mine; for Sir Thomas Mowbray hath need of me, he saith. Yet theservice that I have rendered him thus far is but to cool my heels in hisantechamber and dream of two great eyes and of that net of golden hairwherewith Lord Love hath lately snared my poor heart. For it comfortsme_--' And so on, and so on, the pen trailing most juvenal sugar, like afly newly crept out of the honey-pot. And ending with a posy, filched, Iwarrant you, from some ring. 

"I remember when I did write her this, " he explained to the fire. "Lord, Lord, if the fire of grace were not quite out of me, now should I bemoved. For I did write it; and it was sent with a sonnet, all of Hell, and Heaven, and your pagan gods, and other tricks of speech. It should besomewhere. "

He fumbled with uncertain fingers among the papers. "Ah, here it is, " hesaid at last, and he again began to read aloud. 

Read Sir John:

"_Cupid invaded Hell, and boldly droveBefore him all the hosts of Erebus, Till he had conquered: and grim CerberusSang madrigals, the Furies rhymed of love, Old Charon sighed, and sonnets rang aboveThe gloomy Styx; and even as TantalusWas Proserpine discrowned in Tartarus, And Cupid regnant in the place thereof_. 

"_Thus Love is monarch throughout Hell to-day;In Heaven we know his power was always great;And Earth acclaimed Love's mastery straightwayWhen Sylvia came to gladden Earth's estate:--Thus Hell and Heaven and Earth his rule obey, And Sylvia's heart alone is obdurate_. 

"Well, well, " sighed Sir John, "it was a goodly rogue that writ it, though the verse runs but lamely! A goodly rogue!

"He might, " Sir John suggested, tentatively, "have lived cleanly, andforsworn sack; he might have been a gallant gentleman, and begottengrandchildren, and had a quiet nook at the ingleside to rest his oldbones: but he is dead long since. He might have writ himself _armigero_in many a bill, or obligation, or quittance, or what not; he might haveleft something behind him save unpaid tavern bills; he might have heardcases, harried poachers, and quoted old saws; and slept in his own familychapel through sermons yet unwrit, beneath his presentment, done instone, and a comforting bit of Latin: but he is dead long since. "

Sir John sat meditating for a while; it had grown quite dark in the roomas he muttered to himself. He rose now, rather cumbrously anduncertainly, but with a fine rousing snort of indignation. 

"Zooks!" he said, "I prate like a death's-head. A thing done hath an end, God have mercy on us all! And I will read no more of the rubbish. "

He cast the packet into the heart of the fire; the yellow papers curledat the edges, rustled a little, and blazed; he watched them burn to thelast spark. 

"A cup of sack to purge the brain!" cried Sir John, and filled one to thebrim. "And I will go sup with Doll Tearsheet. "

 * * * * *

SEPTEMBER 29, 1422

"_Anoon her herte hath pitee of his wo, And with that pitee, love com in also;Thus is this quene in pleasaunce and in loye_. "

_Meanwhile had old Dome Sylvia returned contentedly to the helpmate whomshe had accepted under compulsion, and who had made her a fair husband, as husbands go. It is duly recorded, indeed, on their shared tomb, thattheir forty years of married life were of continuous felicity, and set apattern to all Norfolk. The more prosaic verbal tradition is that LadyVernon retained Sir Robert well in hand by pointing out, at judiciousintervals, that she had only herself to blame for having married such aselfish person in preference to a hero of the age and an ornament of theloftiest circles. 

I find, on consultation of the Allonby records, that Sylvia Vernon diedof a quinsy, in 1419, surviving Sir Robert by some three months. She hadborne him four sons and four daughters: of these there remained atWinstead in 1422 only Sir Hugh Vernon, the oldest son, knighted by HenryV at Agincourt, where Vernon had fought with distinction; and AdelaisVernon, the youngest daughter, with whom the following has to do. _

CHAPTER IV

_The Episode Called "Sweet Adelais"_

1. _Gruntings at Aeaea_

It was on a clear September day that the Marquis of Falmouth set out forFrance. John of Bedford had summoned him posthaste when Henry V wasstricken at Senlis with what bid fair to prove a mortal distemper; forthe marquis was Bedford's comrade-in-arms, veteran of Shrewsbury, Agincourt and other martial disputations, and the Duke-Regent suspectedthat, to hold France in case of the King's death, he would presently needall the help he could muster. 

"And I, too, look for warm work, " the marquis conceded to MistressAdelais Vernon, at parting. "But, God willing, my sweet, we shall be wedat Christmas for all that. The Channel is not very wide. At a pinch Imight swim it, I think, to come to you. "

He kissed her and rode away with his men. Adelais stared after them, striving to picture her betrothed rivalling Leander in this fashion, andsubsequently laughed. The marquis was a great lord and a brave captain, but long past his first youth; his actions went somewhat too deliberatelyever to be roused to the high lunacies of the Sestian amorist. So Adelaislaughed, but a moment later, recollecting the man's cold desire of her, his iron fervors, Adelais shuddered. 

This was in the court-yard at Winstead. Roger Darke of Yaxham, the girl'scousin, standing beside her, noted the gesture, and snarled. 

"Think twice of it, Adelais, " said he. 

Whereupon Mistress Vernon flushed like a peony. "I honor him, " she said, with some irrelevance, "and he loves me. "

Roger scoffed. "Love, love! O you piece of ice! You gray-stone saint!What do you know of love?" Master Darke caught both her hands in his. "Now, by Almighty God, our Saviour and Redeemer, Jesus Christ!" he said, between his teeth, his eyes flaming; "I, Roger Darke, have offered youundefiled love and you have mocked at it. Ha, Tears of Mary! how I loveyou! And you mean to marry this man for his title! Do you not believethat I love you, Adelais?" he whimpered. 

Gently she disengaged herself. This was of a pattern with Roger'sbehavior any time during the past two years. "I suppose you do, " Adelaisconceded, with the tiniest possible shrug. "Perhaps that is why I findyou so insufferable. "

Afterward Mistress Vernon turned on her heel and left Master Darke. Inhis fluent invocation of Mahound and Termagaunt and other overseers ofthe damned he presently touched upon eloquence. 

2. _Comes One with Moly_

Adelais came into the walled garden of Winstead, aflame now with autumnalscarlet and gold. She seated herself upon a semicircular marble bench, and laughed for no apparent reason, and contentedly waited what Dame Luckmight send. 

She was a comely maid, past argument or (as her lovers habituallycomplained) any adequate description. Circe, Colchian Medea, Viviane duLac, were their favorite analogues; and what old romancers had fabledconcerning these ladies they took to be the shadow of which AdelaisVernon was the substance. At times these rhapsodists might have supportedtheir contention with a certain speciousness, such as was apparentto-day, for example, when against the garden's hurly-burly of color, theprodigal blazes of scarlet and saffron and wine-yellow, the girl's greengown glowed like an emerald, and her eyes, too, seemed emeralds, vivid, inscrutable, of a clear verdancy that was quite untinged with either blueor gray. Very black lashes shaded them. The long oval of her face (youmight have objected), was of an absolute pallor, rarely quickening to aflush; but her petulant lips burned crimson, and her hair mimicked thedwindling radiance of the autumn sunlight and shamed it. All in all, theaspect of Adelais Vernon was, beyond any questioning, spiced with asorcerous tang; say, the look of a young witch shrewd at love-potions, but ignorant of their flavor; yet before this the girl's comeliness hadstirred men's hearts to madness, and the county boasted of it. 

Presently Adelais lifted her small imperious head, and then again shesmiled, for out of the depths of the garden, with an embellishment ofdivers trills and roulades, came a man's voice that carolled blithely. 

Sang the voice:

_"Had you lived when earth was newWhat had bards of old to doSave to sing in praise of you?

"Had you lived in ancient days, Adelais, sweet Adelais, You had all the ancients' praise, --You whose beauty would have wonCanticles of Solomon, Had the sage Judean kingGazed upon this goodliest thingEarth of Heaven's grace hath got. 

"Had you gladdened Greece, were notAll the nymphs of Greece forgot?

"Had you trod Sicilian ways, Adelais, sweet Adelais_, "You had pilfered all their praise:Bion and TheocritusHad transmitted unto usHoneyed harmonies to tellOf your beauty's miracle, Delicate, desirable, And their singing skill were bentYou-ward tenderly, --content, While the world slipped by, to gazeOn the grace of you, and praiseSweet Adelais_. "

Here the song ended, and a man, wheeling about the hedge, paused toregard her with adoring eyes. Adelais looked up at him, incrediblysurprised by his coming. 

This was the young Sieur d'Arnaye, Hugh Vernon's prisoner, taken atAgincourt seven years earlier and held since then, by the King's command, without ransom; for it was Henry's policy to release none of theimportant French prisoners. Even on his death-bed he found time toadmonish his brother, John of Bedford, that four of these, --Charlesd'Orleans and Jehan de Bourbon and Arthur de Rougemont and Fulked'Arnaye, --should never be set at liberty. "Lest, " as the King said, witha savor of prophecy, "more fire be kindled in one day than all yourendeavors can quench in three. "

Presently the Sieur d'Arnaye sighed, rather ostentatiously; and Adelaislaughed, and demanded the cause of his grief. 

"Mademoiselle, " he said, --his English had but a trace of accent, --"I amafflicted with a very grave malady. "

"What is the name of this malady?" said she. 

"They call it love, mademoiselle. "

Adelais laughed yet again and doubted if the disease were incurable. ButFulke d'Arnaye seated himself beside her and demonstrated that, in hiscase, it might not ever be healed. 

"For it is true, " he observed, "that the ancient Scythians, who livedbefore the moon was made, were wont to cure this distemper byblood-letting under the ears; but your brother, mademoiselle, denies meaccess to all knives. And the leech Aelian avers that it may be cured bythe herb agnea; but your brother, mademoiselle, will not permit that I gointo the fields in search of this herb. And in Greece--he, mademoiselle, I might easily be healed of my malady in Greece! For in Greece is therock, Leucata Petra, from which a lover may leap and be cured; and thewell of the Cyziceni, from which a lover may drink and be cured; and theriver Selemnus, in which a lover may bathe and be cured: but your brotherwill not permit that I go to Greece. You have a very cruel brother, mademoiselle; seven long years, no less, he has penned me here like astarling in a cage. "

And Fulke d'Arnaye shook his head at her reproachfully. 

Afterward he laughed. Always this Frenchman found something at which tolaugh; Adelais could not remember in all the seven years a time when shehad seen him downcast. But while his lips jested of his imprisonment, hiseyes stared at her mirthlessly, like a dog at his master, and her gazefell before the candor of the passion she saw in them. 

"My lord, " said Adelais, "why will you not give your parole? Then youwould be free to come and go as you elected. " A little she bent towardhim, a covert red showing in her cheeks. "To-night at Halvergate the Earlof Brudenel holds the feast of Saint Michael. Give your parole, my lord, and come with us. There will be in our company fair ladies who mayperhaps heal your malady. "

But the Sieur d'Arnaye only laughed. "I cannot give my parole, " he said, "since I mean to escape for all your brother's care. " Then he fell topacing up and down before her. "Now, by Monseigneur Saint Médard and theEagle that sheltered him!" he cried, in half-humorous self-mockery;"however thickly troubles rain upon me, I think that I shall never giveup hoping!" After a pause, "Listen, mademoiselle, " he went on, moregravely, and gave a nervous gesture toward the east, "yonder is France, sacked, pillaged, ruinous, prostrate, naked to her enemy. But atVincennes, men say, the butcher of Agincourt is dying. With him dies theEnglish power in France. Can his son hold that dear realm? Are those tinyhands with which this child may not yet feed himself capable to wield asceptre? Can he who is yet beholden to nurses for milk distributesustenance to the law and justice of a nation? He, I think not, mademoiselle! France will have need of me shortly. Therefore, I cannotgive my parole. "

"Then must my brother still lose his sleep, lord, for always yoursafe-keeping is in his mind. To-day at cock-crow he set out for the coastto examine those Frenchmen who landed yesterday. "

At this he wheeled about. "Frenchmen!"

"Only Norman fishermen, lord, whom the storm drove to seek shelter inEngland. But he feared they had come to rescue you. "

Fulke d'Arnaye shrugged his shoulders. "That was my thought, too, " headmitted, with a laugh. "Always I dream of escape, mademoiselle. Have acare of me, sweet enemy! I shall escape yet, it may be. "

"But I will not have you escape, " said Adelais. She tossed her glitteringlittle head. "Winstead would not be Winstead without you. Why, I was buta child, my lord, when you came. Have you forgotten, then, the lank, awkward child who used to stare at you so gravely?"

"Mademoiselle, " he returned, and now his voice trembled and still thehunger in his eyes grew more great, "I think that in all these years Ihave forgotten nothing--not even the most trivial happening, mademoiselle, --wherein you had a part. You were a very beautiful child. Look you, I remember as if it were yesterday that you never wept whenyour good lady mother--whose soul may Christ have in his keeping!--wasforced to punish you for some little misdeed. No, you never wept; butyour eyes would grow wistful, and you would come to me here in thegarden, and sit with me for a long time in silence. 'Fulke, ' you wouldsay, quite suddenly, 'I love you better than my mother. ' And I told youthat it was wrong to make such observations, did I not, mademoiselle? Myfaith, yes! but I may confess now that I liked it, " Fulke d'Arnaye ended, with a faint chuckle. 

Adelais sat motionless. Certainly it was strange, she thought, how thesound of this man's voice had power to move her. Certainly, too, this manwas very foolish. 

"And now the child is a woman, --a woman who will presently be Marchionessof Falmouth. Look you, when I get free of my prison--and I shall getfree, never fear, mademoiselle, --I shall often think of that great lady. For only God can curb a man's dreams, and God is compassionate. So I hopeto dream nightly of a gracious lady whose hair is gold and whose eyes arecolored like the summer sea and whose voice is clear and low and verywonderfully sweet. Nightly, I think, the vision of that dear enemy willhearten me to fight for France by day. In effect, mademoiselle, yourtraitor beauty will yet aid me to destroy your country. "

The Sieur d'Arnaye laughed, somewhat cheerlessly, as he lifted her handto his lips. 

And certainly also (she concluded her reflections) it was absurd how thisman's touch seemed an alarm to her pulses. Adelais drew away from him. 

"No!" she said: "remember, lord, I, too, am not free. "

"Indeed, we tread on dangerous ground, " the Frenchman assented, with asad little smile. "Pardon me, mademoiselle. Even were you free of yourtrothplight--even were I free of my prison, most beautiful lady, I havenaught to offer you yonder in that fair land of France. They tell me thatthe owl and the wolf hunt undisturbed where Arnaye once stood. My châteauis carpeted with furze and roofed with God's Heaven. That gives me alarge estate--does it not?--but I may not reasonably ask a woman to shareit. So I pray you pardon me for my nonsense, mademoiselle, and I praythat the Marchioness of Falmouth may be very happy. "

And with that he vanished into the autumn-fired recesses of the garden, singing, his head borne stiff. Oh, the brave man who esteemed misfortuneso slightly! thought Adelais. She remembered that the Marquis of Falmouthrarely smiled; and once only--at a bull-baiting--had she heard him laugh. It needed bloodshed, then, to amuse him, Adelais deduced, with thatself-certainty in logic which is proper to youth; and the girl shuddered. 

But through the scarlet coppices of the garden, growing fainter and yetmore faint, rang the singing of Fulke d'Arnaye. 

Sang the Frenchman:

"Had you lived in Roman timesNo Catullus in his rhymesHad lamented Lesbia's sparrow:He had praised your forehead, narrowAs the newly-crescent moon, White as apple-trees in June;He had made some amorous tuneOf the laughing light ErosSnared as Psyche-ward he goesBy your beauty, --by your slim, White, perfect beauty. 

"After himHorace, finding in your eyesHorace limned in lustrous wise, Would have made you melodiesFittingly to hymn your praise, Sweet Adelais. "

3. Roger is Explicit

Into the midst of the Michaelmas festivities at Halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of Sir Hugh Vernon. Roger Darkebrought him to the knight. The fellow then related that he came fromSimeon de Beck, the master of Castle Rising, with tidings that a strangeboat, French-rigged, was hovering about the north coast. Let Sir Hughhave a care of his prisoner. 

Vernon swore roundly. "I must look into this, " he said. "But what shall Ido with Adelais?"

"Will you not trust her to me?" Roger asked. "If so, cousin, I will verygladly be her escort to Winstead. Let the girl dance her fill while shemay, Hugh. She will have little heart for dancing after a month or so ofFalmouth's company. "

"That is true, " Vernon assented; "but the match is a good one, and she isbent upon it. "

So presently he rode with his men to the north coast. An hour later RogerDarke and Adelais set out for Winstead, in spite of all Lady Brudenel'sprotestations that Mistress Vernon had best lie with her that night atHalvergate. 

It was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fineSeptember weather. About them the air was heavy with the damp odors ofdecaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumnwoods, that now arched the way with sere foliage, rustling and whirringand thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashesof moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled about in the wind vortices. Adelais, elate with dancing, chattered of this and that as her gray mareambled homeward, but Roger was moody. 

Past Upton the road branched in three directions; here Master Darkecaught the gray mare's bridle and turned both horses to the left. 

"Why, of whatever are you thinking!" the girl derided him. "Roger, thisis not the road to Winstead!"

He grinned evilly over his shoulder. "It is the road to Yaxham, Adelais, where my chaplain expects us. "

In a flash she saw it all as her eyes swept these desolate woods. "Youwill not dare!"

"Will I not?" said Roger. "Faith, for my part, I think you have mocked mefor the last time, Adelais, since it is the wife's duty, as Paul veryjustly says, to obey. "

Swiftly she slipped from the mare. But he followed her. "Oh, infamy!" thegirl cried. "You have planned this, you coward!"

"Yes, I planned it, " said Roger Darke. "Yet I take no great credittherefor, for it was simple enough. I had but to send a feigned messageto your block-head brother. Ha, yes, I planned it, Adelais, and I plannedit well. But I deal honorably. To-morrow you will be Mistress Darke, never fear. "

He grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. The garment fell, leavingthe girl momentarily free, her festival jewels shimmering in themoonlight, her bared shoulders glistening like silver. Darke, staring ather, giggled horribly. An instant later Adelais fell upon her knees. 

"Sweet Christ, have pity upon Thy handmaiden! Do not forsake me, sweetChrist, in my extremity! Save me from this man!" she prayed, withentire faith. 

"My lady wife, " said Darke, and his hot, wet hand sank heavily upon hershoulder, "you had best finish your prayer before my chaplain, I think, since by ordinary Holy Church is skilled to comfort the sorrowing. "

"A miracle, dear lord Christ!" the girl wailed. "O sweet Christ, amiracle!"

"Faith of God!" said Roger, in a flattish tone; "what was that?"

For faintly there came the sound of one singing. 

Sang the distant voice:

_"Had your father's household beenGuelfic-born or Ghibelline, Beatrice were unknownOn her star-encompassed throne. 

"For, had Dante viewed your grace, Adelais, sweet Adelais, You had reigned in Bice's place, --Had for candles, Hyades, Rastaben, and Betelguese, --And had heard ZacharielChaunt of you, and, chaunting, tellAll the grace of you, and praiseSweet Adelais. "_

4. _Honor Brings a Padlock_

Adelais sprang to her feet. "A miracle!" she cried, her voice shaking. "Fulke, Fulke! to me, Fulke!"

Master Darke hurried her struggling toward his horse. Darke was mutteringcurses, for there was now a beat of hoofs in the road yonder that led toWinstead. "Fulke, Fulke!" the girl shrieked. 

Then presently, as Roger put foot to stirrup, two horsemen wheeled aboutthe bend in the road, and one of them leapt to the ground. 

"Mademoiselle, " said Fulke d'Arnaye, "am I, indeed, so fortunate as to beof any service to you?"

"Ho!" cried Roger, with a gulp of relief, "it is only the Frenchdancing-master taking French leave of poor cousin Hugh! Man, but youstartled me!"

Now Adelais ran to the Frenchman, clinging to him the while that she toldof Roger's tricks. And d'Arnaye's face set mask-like. 

"Monsieur, " he said, when she had ended, "you have wronged a sweet andinnocent lady. As God lives, you shall answer to me for this. "

"Look you, " Roger pointed out, "this is none of your affair, MonsieurJackanapes. You are bound for the coast, I take it. Very well, --ka me, and I ka thee. Do you go your way in peace, and let us do the same. "

Fulke d'Arnaye put the girl aside and spoke rapidly in French to hiscompanion. Then with mincing agility he stepped toward Master Darke. 

Roger blustered. "You hop-toad! you jumping-jack!" said he, "what doyou mean?"

"Chastisement!" said the Frenchman, and struck him in the face. 

"Very well!" said Master Darke, strangely quiet. And with that theyboth drew. 

The Frenchman laughed, high and shrill, as they closed, and afterwardhe began to pour forth a voluble flow of discourse. Battle was wineto the man. 

"Not since Agincourt, Master Coward--he, no!--have I held sword in hand. It is a good sword, this, --a sharp sword, is it not? Ah, the poorarm--but see, your blood is quite black-looking in this moonlight, and Ihad thought cowards yielded a paler blood than brave men possess. We liveand learn, is it not? Observe, I play with you like a child, --as I playedwith your tall King at Agincourt when I cut away the coronet from hishelmet. I did not kill him--no!--but I wounded him, you conceive?Presently, I shall wound you, too. My compliments--you have grazed myhand. But I shall not kill you, because you are the kinsman of thefairest lady earth may boast, and I would not willingly shed the leastdrop of any blood that is partly hers. Ohé, no! Yet since I needs must dothis ungallant thing--why, see, monsieur, how easy it is!"

Thereupon he cut Roger down at a blow and composedly set to wiping hissword on the grass. The Englishman lay like a log where he had fallen. 

"Lord, " Adelais quavered, "lord, have you killed him?"

Fulke d'Arnaye sighed. "Hélas, no!" said he, "since I knew that youdid not wish it. See, mademoiselle, --I have but made a healthful andblood-letting small hole in him here. He will return himself tosurvive to it long time--Fie, but my English fails me, after these somany years--"

D'Arnaye stood for a moment as if in thought, concluding hismeditations with a grimace. After that he began again to speak inFrench to his companion. The debate seemed vital. The strangergesticulated, pleaded, swore, implored, summoned all inventions betweenthe starry spheres and the mud of Cocytus to judge of the affair; butFulke d'Arnaye was resolute. 

"Behold, mademoiselle, " he said, at length, "how my poor Olivier exciteshimself over a little matter. Olivier is my brother, most beautiful lady, but he speaks no English, so that I cannot present him to you. He came torescue me, this poor Olivier, you conceive. Those Norman fishermen ofwhom you spoke to-day--but you English are blinded, I think, by the fogsof your cold island. Eight of the bravest gentlemen in France, mademoiselle, were those same fishermen, come to bribe my gaoler, --theincorruptible Tompkins, no less. Hé, yes, they came to tell me that Henryof Monmouth, by the wrath of God King of France, is dead at Vincennesyonder, mademoiselle, and that France will soon be free of you English. France rises in her might--" His nostrils dilated, he seemed taller; thenhe shrugged. "And poor Olivier grieves that I may not strike a blow forher, --grieves that I must go back to Winstead. "

D'Arnaye laughed as he caught the bridle of the gray mare and turned herso that Adelais might mount. But the girl, with a faint, wondering cry, drew away from him. 

"You will go back! You have escaped, lord, and you will go back!"

"Why, look you, " said the Frenchman, "what else may I conceivably do? Weare some miles from your home, most beautiful lady, --can you ride thosefour long miles alone? in this night so dangerous? Can I leave you herealone in this so tall forest? Hé, surely not. I am desolated, mademoiselle, but I needs must burden you with my company homeward. "

Adelais drew a choking breath. He had fretted out seven years ofcaptivity. Now he was free; and lest she be harmed or her name besmutched, however faintly, he would go back to his prison, jesting. "No, no!" she cried aloud. 

But he raised a deprecating hand. "You cannot go alone. Olivier herewould go with you gladly. Not one of those brave gentlemen who await meat the coast yonder but would go with you very, very gladly, for theylove France, these brave gentlemen, and they think that I can serve herbetter than most other men. That is very flattering, is it not? But allthe world conspires to flatter me, mademoiselle. Your good brother, byexample, prizes my company so highly that he would infallibly hang thegentleman who rode back with you. So, you conceive, I cannot avail myselfof their services. But with me it is different, hein? Ah, yes, Sir Hughwill merely lock me up again and for the future guard me more vigilantly. Will you not mount, mademoiselle?"

His voice was quiet, and his smile never failed him. It was this steadysmile which set her heart to aching. Adelais knew that no natural powercould dissuade him; he would go back with her; but she knew howconstantly he had hoped for liberty, with what fortitude he had awaitedhis chance of liberty; and that he should return to captivity, smiling, thrilled her to impotent, heart-shaking rage. It maddened her that hedared love her thus infinitely. 

"But, mademoiselle, " Fulke d'Arnaye went on, when she had mounted, "letus proceed, if it so please you, by way of Filby. For then we may ride alittle distance with this rogue Olivier. I may not hope to see Olivieragain in this life, you comprehend, and Olivier is, I think, the oneperson who loves me in all this great wide world. Me, I am not verypopular, you conceive. But you do not object, mademoiselle?"

"No!" she said, in a stifled voice. 

Afterward they rode on the way to Filby, leaving Roger Darke to regain atdiscretion the mastership of his faculties. The two Frenchmen as theywent talked vehemently; and Adelais, following them, brooded on thepowerful Marquis of Falmouth and the great lady she would shortly be; buther eyes strained after Fulke d'Arnaye. 

Presently he fell a-singing; and still his singing praised her in adesirous song, yearning but very sweet, as they rode through the autumnwoods; and his voice quickened her pulses as always it had the power toquicken them, and in her soul an interminable battling dragged on. 

Sang Fulke d'Arnaye:

_"Had you lived when earth was newWhat had bards of old to doSave to sing in praise of you?

"They had sung of you always, Adelais, sweet Adelais, As worthiest of all men's praise;Nor had undying melodies, Wailed soft as love may sing of theseDream-hallowed names, --of Héloïse, Ysoude, Salomê, Semelê, Morgaine, Lucrece, Antiopê, Brunhilda, Helen, Mélusine, Penelope, and Magdalene:--But you alone had all men's praise, Sweet Adelais"_

5. _"Thalatta!"_

When they had crossed the Bure, they had come into the open country, --agreat plain, gray in the moonlight, that descended, hillock by hillock, toward the shores of the North Sea. On the right the dimpling lustre oftumbling waters stretched to a dubious sky-line, unbroken save for thesail of the French boat, moored near the ruins of the old Romanstation, Garianonum, and showing white against the unresting sea, likea naked arm; to the left the lights of Filby flashed their unblinking, cordial radiance. 

Here the brothers parted. Vainly Olivier wept and stormed beforeFulke's unwavering smile; the Sieur d'Arnaye was adamantean: andpresently the younger man kissed him on both cheeks and rode slowlyaway toward the sea. 

D'Arnaye stared after him. "Ah, the brave lad!" said Fulke d'Arnaye. "Andyet how foolish! Look you, mademoiselle, that rogue is worth ten of me, and he does not even suspect it. "

His composure stung her to madness. 

"Now, by the passion of our Lord and Saviour!" Adelais cried, wringingher hands in impotence; "I conjure you to hear me, Fulke! You must not dothis thing. Oh, you are cruel, cruel! Listen, my lord, " she went on withmore restraint, when she had reined up her horse by the side of his, "yonder in France the world lies at your feet. Our great King is dead. France rises now, and France needs a brave captain. You, you! it is youthat she needs. She has sent for you, my lord, that mother France whomyou love. And you will go back to sleep in the sun at Winstead whenFrance has need of you. Oh, it is foul!"

But he shook his head. "France is very dear to me, " he said, "yet thereare other men who can serve France. And there is no man save me who mayto-night serve you, most beautiful lady. "

"You shame me!" she cried, in a gust of passion. "You shame myworthlessness with this mad honor of yours that drags you jesting to yourdeath! For you must die a prisoner now, without any hope. You and Orleansand Bourbon are England's only hold on France, and Bedford dare not letyou go. Fetters, chains, dungeons, death, torture perhaps--that is whatyou must look for now. And you will no longer be held at Winstead, but inthe strong Tower at London. "

"Hélas, you speak more truly than an oracle, " he gayly assented. 

And hers was the ageless thought of women. "This man is rather foolishand peculiarly dear to me. What shall I do with him? and how much must Ihumor him in his foolishness?"

D'Arnaye stayed motionless: but still his eyes strained after Olivier. 

Well, she would humor him. There was no alternative save that of perhapsnever seeing Fulke again. 

Adelais laid her hand upon his arm. "You love me. God knows, I am notworthy of it, but you love me. Ever since I was a child you have lovedme, --always, always it was you who indulged me, shielded me, protected mewith this fond constancy that I have not merited. Very well, "--shepaused, for a single heartbeat, --"go! and take me with you. "

The hand he raised shook as though palsied. "O most beautiful!" theFrenchman cried, in an extreme of adoration; "you would do that! Youwould do that in pity to save me--unworthy me! And it is I whom you callbrave--me, who annoy you with my woes so petty!" Fulke d'Arnaye slippedfrom his horse, and presently stood beside the gray mare, holding asmall, slim hand in his. "I thank you, " he said, simply. "You know thatit is impossible. But yes, I have loved you these long years. Andnow--Ah, my heart shakes, my words tumble, I cannot speak! You know thatI may not--may not let you do this thing. Why, but even if, of yourprodigal graciousness, mademoiselle, you were so foolish as to waste alittle liking upon my so many demerits--" He gave a hopeless gesture. "Why, there is always our brave marquis to be considered, who will sosoon make you a powerful, rich lady. And I?--I have nothing. "

But Adelais had rested either hand upon a stalwart shoulder, bending downto him till her hair brushed his. Yes, this man was peculiarly dear toher: she could not bear to have him murdered when in equity he deservedonly to have his jaws boxed for his toplofty nonsense about her; and, after all, she did not much mind humoring him in his foolishness. 

"Do you not understand?" she whispered. "Ah, my paladin, do you think Ispeak in pity? I wished to be a great lady, --yes. Yet always, I think, Iloved you, Fulke, but until to-night I had believed that love was onlythe man's folly, the woman's diversion. See, here is Falmouth's ring. "She drew it from her finger, and flung it awkwardly, as every womanthrows. Through the moonlight it fell glistening. "Yes, I hungered forFalmouth's power, but you have shown me that which is above any temporalpower. Ever I must crave the highest, Fulke--Ah, fair sweet friend, donot deny me!" Adelais cried, piteously. "Take me with you, Fulke! I willride with you to the wars, my lord, as your page; I will be your wife, your slave, your scullion. I will do anything save leave you. Lord, it isnot the maid's part to plead thus!"

Fulke d'Arnaye drew her warm, yielding body toward him and stood insilence. Then he raised his eyes to heaven. "Dear Lord God, " he cried, ina great voice, "I entreat of Thee that if through my fault this womanever know regret or sorrow I be cast into the nethermost pit of Hell forall eternity!" Afterward he kissed her. 

And presently Adelais lifted her head, with a mocking little laugh. "Sorrow!" she echoed. "I think there is no sorrow in all the world. Mount, my lord, mount! See where brother Olivier waits for us yonder. "

 * * * * *

JUNE 5, 1455--AUGUST 4, 1462

_"Fortune fuz par clercs jadis nominée, Qui toi, François, crie et nommemeurtrière. "_

_So it came about that Adelais went into France with the great-grandsonof Tiburce d'Arnaye: and Fulke, they say, made her a very fair husband. But he had not, of course, much time for love-making. 

For in France there was sterner work awaiting Fulke d'Arnaye, and he setabout it: through seven dreary years he and Rougemont and Dunois managed, somehow, to bolster up the cause of the fat-witted King of Bourges (asthe English then called him), who afterward became King Charles VII ofFrance. But in the February of 1429--four days before the Maid of Domremyset forth from her voice-haunted Bois Chenu to bring about a certaincoronation in Rheims Church and in Rouen Square a flamy martyrdom--fourdays before the coming of the good Lorrainer, Fulke d'Arnaye was slain atRouvray-en-Beausse in that encounter between the French and the Englishwhich history has commemorated as the Battle of the Herrings. 

Adelais was wooed by, and betrothed to, the powerful old Comte deVaudremont; but died just before the date set for this second marriage, in October, 1429. She left two sons: Noël, born in 1425, and Raymond, born in 1426; who were reared by their uncle, Olivier d'Arnaye. It wassaid of them that Noel was the handsomest man of his times, and Raymondthe most shrewd; concerning that you will judge hereafter. Both of thesed'Arnayes, on reaching manhood, were identified with the Dauphin's partyin the unending squabbles between Charles VII and the future Louis XI. 

Now you may learn how Noël d'Arnaye came to be immortalized by a legacyof two hundred and twenty blows from an osierwhip--since (as the testatorpiously affirms), "chastoy est une belle aulmosne. "_

CHAPTER V

_The Episode Called In Necessity's Mortar_

1. "Bon Bec de Paris"

There went about the Rue Saint Jacques a notable shaking of heads on theday that Catherine de Vaucelles was betrothed to François de Montcorbier. 

"Holy Virgin!" said the Rue Saint Jacques; "the girl is a fool. Why hasshe not taken Noël d'Arnaye, --Noël the Handsome? I grant you Noël is anass, but, then, look you, he is of the nobility. He has the Dauphin'sfavor. Noël will be a great man when our exiled Dauphin comes back fromGeneppe to be King of France. Then, too, she might have had PhilippeSermaise. Sermaise is a priest, of course, and one may not marry apriest, but Sermaise has money, and Sermaise is mad for love of her. Shemight have done worse. But François! Ho, death of my life, what isFrançois? Perhaps--he, he!--perhaps Ysabeau de Montigny might inform us, you say? Doubtless Ysabeau knows more of him than she would care toconfess, but I measure the lad by other standards. François isinoffensive enough, I dare assert, but what does Catherine see in him? Heis a scholar?--well, the College of Navarre has furnished food for thegallows before this. A poet?--rhyming will not fill the pot. Rhymes are athin diet for two lusty young folk like these. And who knows if Guillaumede Villon, his foster-father, has one sou to rub against another? He iscanon at Saint Benôit-le-Bétourné yonder, but canons are not Midases. Thegirl will have a hard life of it, neighbor, a hard life, I tell you, if--but, yes!--if Ysabeau de Montigny does not knife her some day. Oh, beyond doubt, Catherine has played the fool. "

Thus far the Rue Saint Jacques. 

This was on the day of the Fête-Dieu. It was on this day that Noëld'Arnaye blasphemed for a matter of a half-hour and then went to theCrowned Ox, where he drank himself into a contented insensibility; thatYsabeau de Montigny, having wept a little, sent for Gilles Raguyer, apriest and aforetime a rival of François de Montcorbier for her favors;and that Philippe Sermaise grinned and said nothing. But afterwardSermaise gnawed at his under lip like a madman as he went about seekingfor François de Montcorbier. 

2. "_Deux estions, et n'avions qu'ung Cueur_"

It verged upon nine in the evening--a late hour in those days--whenFrançois climbed the wall of Jehan de Vaucelles' garden. 

A wall!--and what is a wall to your true lover? What bones, pray, did theSieur Pyramus, that ill-starred Babylonish knight, make of a wall? didnot his protestations slip through a chink, mocking at implacable graniteand more implacable fathers? Most assuredly they did; and Pyramus was apattern to all lovers. Thus ran the meditations of Master François as heleapt down into the garden. 

He had not, you must understand, seen Catherine for three hours. Threehours! three eternities rather, and each one of them spent in Malebolge. Coming to a patch of moonlight, François paused there and cut an agilecaper, as he thought of that approaching time when he might see Catherineevery day. 

"Madame François de Montcorbier, " he said, tasting each syllable withgusto. "Catherine de Montcorbier. Was there ever a sweeter juxtapositionof sounds? It is a name for an angel. And an angel shall bear it, --eh, yes, an angel, no less. O saints in Paradise, envy me! Envy me, " hecried, with a heroical gesture toward the stars, "for François wouldchange places with none of you. "

He crept through ordered rows of chestnuts and acacias to a windowwherein burned a dim light. He unslung a lute from his shoulder andbegan to sing, secure in the knowledge that deaf old Jehan de Vaucelleswas not likely to be disturbed by sound of any nature till that timewhen it should please high God that the last trump be noised about thetumbling heavens. 

It was good to breathe the mingled odor of roses and mignonette that wasthick about him. It was good to sing to her a wailing song of unrequitedlove and know that she loved him. François dallied with his bliss, parodied his bliss, and--as he complacently reflected, --lamented in themoonlight with as tuneful a dolor as Messire Orpheus may have evincedwhen he carolled in Hades. 

Sang François:

_"O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone!O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me!O Love of her, the bit that guides me onTo sorrow and to grievous misery!O felon Charms, my poor heart's enemy!O furtive murderous Pride! O pitiless, greatCold Eyes of her! have done with cruelty!Have pity upon me ere it be too late!

"Happier for me if elsewhere I had goneFor pity--ah, far happier for me, Since never of her may any grace be won, And lest dishonor slay me, I must flee. 'Haro!' I cry, (and cry how uselessly!)'Haro!' I cry to folk of all estate, "For I must die unless it chance that sheHave pity upon me ere it be too late. 

"M'amye, that day in whose disastrous sunYour beauty's flower must fade and wane and beNo longer beautiful, draws near, --whereonI will nor plead nor mock;--not I, for weShall both be old and vigorless! M'amye, Drink deep of love, drink deep, nor hesitateUntil the spring run dry, but speedilyHave pity upon me--ere it be too late!

"Lord Love, that all love's lordship hast in fee, Lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure's weight, For all true hearts should, of Christ's charity, Have pity upon me ere it be too late. "_

Then from above a delicate and cool voice was audible. "You have mistakenthe window, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Ysabeau de Montigny dwells in theRue du Fouarre. "

"Ah, cruel!" sighed François. "Will you never let that kite hang uponthe wall?"

"It is all very well to groan like a bellows. Guillemette Moreau did notsup here for nothing. I know of the verses you made her, --and the glovesyou gave her at Candlemas, too. Saint Anne!" observed the voice, somewhatsharply; "she needed gloves. Her hands are so much raw beef. And thehead-dress at Easter, --she looks like the steeple of Saint Benoit in it. But every man to his taste, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Good-night, Monsieurde Montcorbier. " But, for all that, the window did not close. 

"Catherine--!" he pleaded; and under his breath he expressed uncharitableaspirations as to the future of Guillemette Moreau. 

"You have made me very unhappy, " said the voice, with a little sniff. 

"It was before I knew you, Catherine. The stars are beautiful, m'amye, and a man may reasonably admire them; but the stars vanish and areforgotten when the sun appears. "

"Ysabeau is not a star, " the voice pointed out; "she is simply a lank, good-for-nothing, slovenly trollop. "

"Ah, Catherine--!"

"You are still in love with her. "

"Catherine--!"

"Otherwise, you will promise me for the future to avoid her as you wouldthe Black Death. "

"Catherine, her brother is my friend--!"

"René de Montigny is, to the knowledge of the entire Rue Saint Jacques, agambler and a drunkard and, in all likelihood, a thief. But you prefer, it appears, the Montignys to me. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. Veryheartily do I wish you joy of them. You will not promise? Good-night, then, Monsieur de Montcorbier. "

"Mother of God! I promise, Catherine. "

From above Mademoiselle de Vaucelles gave a luxurious sigh. "DearFrançois!" said she. 

"You are a tyrant, " he complained. "Madame Penthesilea was not morecruel. Madame Herodias was less implacable, I think. And I think thatneither was so beautiful. "

"I love you, " said Mademoiselle de Vaucelles, promptly. 

"But there was never any one so many fathoms deep in love as I. Lovebandies me from the postern to the frying-pan, from hot to cold. Ah, Catherine, Catherine, have pity upon my folly! Bid me fetch you PresterJohn's beard, and I will do it; bid me believe the sky is made ofcalf-skin, that morning is evening, that a fat sow is a windmill, and Iwill do it. Only love me a little, dear. "

"My king, my king of lads!" she murmured. 

"My queen, my tyrant of unreason! Ah, yes, you are all that is ruthlessand abominable, but then what eyes you have! Oh, very pitiless, large, lovely eyes--huge sapphires that in the old days might have ransomedevery monarch in Tamerlane's stable! Even in the night I see them, Catherine. "

"Yet Ysabeau's eyes are brown. "

"Then are her eyes the gutter's color. But Catherine's eyes are twinfirmaments. "

And about them the acacias rustled lazily, and the air was sweetwith the odors of growing things, and the world, drenched inmoonlight, slumbered. Without was Paris, but old Jehan's garden-wallcloistered Paradise. 

"Has the world, think you, known lovers, long dead now, that were once ashappy as we?"

"Love was not known till we discovered it. "

"I am so happy, François, that I fear death. "

"We have our day. Let us drink deep of love, not waiting until the springrun dry. Catherine, death comes to all, and yonder in the church-yard thepoor dead lie together, huggermugger, and a man may not tell anarchbishop from a rag-picker. Yet they have exulted in their youth, andhave laughed in the sun with some lass or another lass. We have our day, Catherine. "

"Our day wherein I love you!"

"And wherein I love you precisely seven times as much!"

So they prattled in the moonlight. Their discourse was no moreoverburdened with wisdom than has been the ordinary communing of loverssince Adam first awakened ribless. Yet they were content, who, were youngin the world's recaptured youth. 

Fate grinned and went on with her weaving. 

3. "Et Ysabeau, Qui Dit: Enné!"

Somewhat later François came down the deserted street, treading on air. It was a bland summer night, windless, moon-washed, odorous withgarden-scents; the moon, nearing its full, was a silver egg set onend--("Leda-hatched, " he termed it; "one may look for the advent of QueenHeleine ere dawn"); and the sky he likened to blue velvet studded withthe gilt nail-heads of a seraphic upholsterer. François was a poet, but acivic poet; then, as always, he pilfered his similes from shop-windows. 

But the heart of François was pure magnanimity, the heels of Françoiswere mercury, as he tripped past the church of Saint Benoit-le-Bétourné, stark snow and ink in the moonlight. Then with a jerk François paused. 

On a stone bench before the church sat Ysabeau de Montigny and GillesRaguyer. The priest was fuddled, hiccuping in his amorous dithyrambics ashe paddled with the girl's hand. "You tempt me to murder, " he was saying. "It is a deadly sin, my soul, and I have no mind to fry in Hell while mybody swings on the Saint Denis road, a crow's dinner. Let François live, my soul! My soul, he would stick little Gilles like a pig. "

Raguyer began to blubber at the thought. 

"Holy Macaire!" said François; "here is a pretty plot a-brewing. " Yetbecause his heart was filled just now with loving-kindness, he forgavethe girl. _"Tantaene irae?"_ said François; and aloud, "Ysabeau, it istime you were abed. "

She wheeled upon him in apprehension; then, with recognition, her rageflamed. "Now, Gilles!" cried Ysabeau de Montigny; "now, coward! He isunarmed, Gilles. Look, Gilles! Kill for me this betrayer of women!"

Under his mantle Francois loosened the short sword he carried. But thepriest plainly had no mind to the business. He rose, tipsily fumbling aknife, and snarling like a cur at sight of a strange mastiff. "Vilerascal!" said Gilles Raguyer, as he strove to lash himself into a rage. "O coward! O parricide! O Tarquin!"

François began to laugh. "Let us have done with this farce, " said he. "Your man has no stomach for battle, Ysabeau. And you do me wrong, mylass, to call me a betrayer of women. Doubtless, that tale seemed themost apt to kindle in poor Gilles some homicidal virtue: but you and Iand God know that naught has passed between us save a few kisses and atrinket or so. It is no knifing matter. Yet for the sake of old time, come home, Ysabeau; your brother is my friend, and the hour is somewhatlate for honest women to be abroad. "

"Enné?" shrilled Ysabeau; "and yet, if I cannot strike a spark of couragefrom this clod here, there come those who may help me, François deMontcorbier. 'Ware Sermaise, Master François!"

François wheeled. Down the Rue Saint Jacques came Philippe Sermaise, likea questing hound, with drunken Jehan le Merdi at his heels. "HolyVirgin!" thought François; "this is likely to be a nasty affair. I wouldgive a deal for a glimpse of the patrol lanterns just now. "

He edged his way toward the cloister, to get a wall at his back. ButGilles Raguyer followed him, knife in hand. "O hideous Tarquin! OAbsalom!" growled Gilles; "have you, then, no respect for churchmen?"

With an oath, Sermaise ran up. "Now, may God die twice, " he panted, "if Ihave not found the skulker at last! There is a crow needs picking betweenus two, Montcorbier. "

Hemmed in by his enemies, François temporized. "Why do you accost me thusangrily, Master Philippe?" he babbled. "What harm have I done you? Whatis your will of me?"

But his fingers tore feverishly at the strap by which the lute was swungover his shoulder, and now the lute fell at their feet, leaving Françoisunhampered and his sword-arm free. 

This was fuel to the priest's wrath. "Sacred bones of Benoit!" hesnarled; "I could make a near guess as to what window you have beencaterwauling under. "

From beneath his gown he suddenly hauled out a rapier and struck at theboy while Francois was yet tugging at his sword. 

Full in the mouth Sermaise struck him, splitting the lower lip through. Francois felt the piercing cold of the steel, the tingling of it againsthis teeth, then the warm grateful spurt of blood; through a red mist, hesaw Gilles and Ysabeau run screaming down the Rue Saint Jacques. 

He drew and made at Sermaise, forgetful of le Merdi. It was shrewd work. Presently they were fighting in the moonlight, hammer-and-tongs, as thesaying is, and presently Sermaise was cursing like a madman, for Françoishad wounded him in the groin. Window after window rattled open as the RueSaint Jacques ran nightcapped to peer at the brawl. Then as Francoishurled back his sword to slash at the priest's shaven head--Frenchmen hadnot yet learned to thrust with the point in the Italian manner--Jehan leMerdi leapt from behind, nimble as a snake, and wrested away the boy'sweapon. Sermaise closed with a glad shout. 

"Heart of God!" cried Sermaise. "Pray, bridegroom, pray!"

But François jumped backward, tumbling over le Merdi, and with apishcelerity caught up a great stone and flung it full in the priest'scountenance. 

The rest was hideous. For a breathing space Sermaise kept his feet, hisoutspread arms making a tottering cross. It was curious to see him peerabout irresolutely now that he had no face. François, staring at theblack featureless horror before him, began to choke. Standing thus, withoutstretched arms, the priest first let fall his hands, so that they hunglimp from the wrists; his finger-nails gleamed in the moonlight. Hisrapier tinkled on the flagstones with the sound of shattering glass, andPhilippe Sermaise slid down, all a-jumble, crumpling like a broken toy. Afterward you might have heard a long, awed sibilance go about thewindows overhead as the watching Rue Saint Jacques breathed again. 

Francois de Montcorbier ran. He tore at his breast as he ran, stifling. He wept as he ran through the moon-washed Rue Saint Jacques, makinganimal-like and whistling noises. His split lip was a clammy dead thingthat napped against his chin as he ran. 

"François!" a man cried, meeting him; "ah, name of a name, François!"

It was René de Montigny, lurching from the Crowned Ox, half-tipsy. Hecaught the boy by the shoulder and hurried François, still sobbing, toFouquet the barber-surgeon's, where they sewed up his wound. Inaccordance with the police regulations, they first demanded an account ofhow he had received it. René lied up-hill and down-dale, while in acorner of the room François monotonously wept. 

Fate grinned and went on with her weaving. 

4. "_Necessité Faict Gens Mesprende_"

The Rue Saint Jacques had toothsome sauce for its breakfast. The quartersmacked stiff lips over the news, as it pictured François de Montcorbierdangling from Montfaucon. "Horrible!" said the Rue Saint Jacques, anddrew a moral of suitably pious flavor. 

Guillemette Moreau had told Catherine of the affair before the day wasaired. The girl's hurt vanity broke tether. 

"Sermaise!" said she. "Bah, what do I care for Sermaise! He killed him infair fight. But within an hour, Guillemette, --within a half-hour afterleaving me, he is junketing on church-porches with that trollop. Theywere not there for holy-water. Midnight, look you! And he swore tome--chaff, chaff! His honor is chaff, Guillemette, and his heart abran-bag. Oh, swine, filthy swine! Eh, well, let the swine stick to hissty. Send Noël d'Arnaye to me. "

The Sieur d'Arnaye came, his head tied in a napkin. 

"Foh!" said she; "another swine fresh from the gutter? No, this is abottle, a tun, a walking wine-barrel! Noël, I despise you. I will marryyou if you like. "

He fell to mumbling her hand. An hour later Catherine told Jehan deVaucelles she intended to marry Noël the Handsome when he should comeback from Geneppe with the exiled Dauphin. The old man, having wisdom, lifted his brows, and returned to his reading in _Le Pet au Diable_. 

The patrol had transported Sermaise to the prison of Saint Benoit, wherehe lay all night. That day he was carried to the hospital of the HôtelDieu. He died the following Saturday. 

Death exalted the man to some nobility. Before one of the apparitors ofthe Châtelet he exonerated Montcorbier, under oath, and asked that nosteps be taken against him. "I forgive him my death, " said Sermaise, manly enough at the last, "by reason of certain causes moving himthereunto. " Presently he demanded the peach-colored silk glove they wouldfind in the pocket of his gown. It was Catherine's glove. The priestkissed it, and then began to laugh. Shortly afterward he died, stillgnawing at the glove. 

François and René had vanished. "Good riddance, " said the Rue SaintJacques. But Montcorbier was summoned to answer before the court of theChâtelet for the death of Philippe Sermaise, and in default of hisappearance, was subsequently condemned to banishment from the kingdom. 

The two young men were at Saint Pourçain-en-Bourbonnais, where René hadkinsmen. Under the name of des Loges, François had there secured a placeas tutor, but when he heard that Sermaise in the article of death hadcleared him of all blame, François set about procuring a pardon. [Footnote: There is humor in his deposition that Gilles and Ysabeau andhe were loitering before Saint Benoît's in friendly discourse, --"pour soyesbatre. " Perhaps René prompted this; but in itself, it is characteristicof Montcorbier that he trenched on perjury, blithely, in order to screenYsabeau. ] It was January before he succeeded in obtaining it. 

Meanwhile he had learned a deal of René's way of living. "You are athief, " François observed to Montigny the day the pardon came, "but youhave played a kindly part by me. I think you are Dysmas, René, notGestas. Heh, I throw no stones. You have stolen, but I have killed. Letus go to Paris, lad, and start afresh. "

Montigny grinned. "I shall certainly go to Paris, " he said. "Friends waitfor me there, --Guy Tabary, Petit Jehan and Colin de Cayeux. We areplanning to visit Guillaume Coiffier, a fat priest with some six hundredcrowns in the cupboard. You will make one of the party, François. "

"René, René, " said the other, "my heart bleeds for you. "

Again Montigny grinned. "You think a great deal about blood nowadays, " hecommented. "People will be mistaking you for such a poet as was crownedNero, who, likewise, gave his time to ballad-making and to murderingfathers of the Church. Eh, dear Ahenabarbus, let us first see what theRue Saint Jacques has to say about your recent gambols. After that, Ithink you will make one of our party. "

5. "_Yeulx sans Pitié!_"

There was a light crackling frost under foot the day that François cameback to the Rue Saint Jacques. Upon this brisk, clear January day it wasgood to be home again, an excellent thing to be alive. 

"Eh, Guillemette, Guillemette, " he laughed. "Why, lass--!"

"Faugh!" said Guillemette Moreau, as she passed him, nose in air. "Amurderer, a priest-killer. "

Then the sun went black for François. Such welcoming was a bucket ofcold water, full in the face. He gasped, staring after her; and pursyThomas Tricot, on his way from mass, nudged Martin Blaru in the ribs. 

"Martin, " said he, "fruit must be cheap this year. Yonder in the gutteris an apple from the gallows-tree, and no one will pick it up. "

Blaru turned and spat out, "Cain! Judas!"

This was only a sample. Everywhere François found rigid faces, sniffs, and skirts drawn aside. A little girl in a red cap, Robin Troussecaille'sdaughter, flung a stone at François as he slunk into the cloister ofSaint Benoit-le-Bétourné. In those days a slain priest was God's servantslain, no less; and the Rue Saint Jacques was a respectable God-fearingquarter of Paris. 

"My father!" the boy cried, rapping upon the door of the Hôtel de laPorte-Rouge; "O my father, open to me, for I think that my heart isbreaking. "

Shortly his foster-father, Guillaume de Villon, came to the window. "Murderer!" said he. "Betrayer of women! Now, by the caldron of John! howdare you show your face here? I gave you my name and you soiled it. Backto your husks, rascal!"

"O God, O God!" François cried, one or two times, as he looked up intothe old man's implacable countenance. "You, too, my father!"

He burst into a fit of sobbing. 

"Go!" the priest stormed; "go, murderer!"

It was not good to hear François' laughter. "What a world we live in!"he giggled. "You gave me your name and I soiled it? Eh, Master Priest, Master Pharisee, beware! _Villon_ is good French for _vagabond_, anexcellent name for an outcast. And as God lives, I will presently dragthat name through every muckheap in France. "

Yet he went to Jehan de Vaucelles' home. "I will afford God one morechance at my soul, " said François. 

In the garden he met Catherine and Noël d'Arnaye coming out of the house. They stopped short. Her face, half-muffled in the brown fur of her cloak, flushed to a wonderful rose of happiness, the great eyes glowed, andCatherine reached out her hands toward François with a glad cry. 

His heart was hot wax as he fell before her upon his knees. "O heart'sdearest, heart's dearest!" he sobbed; "forgive me that I doubted you!"

And then for an instant, the balance hung level. But after a while, "Ysabeau de Montigny dwells in the Rue du Fouarre, " said Catherine, in acrisp voice, --"having served your purpose, however, I perceive thatYsabeau, too, is to be cast aside as though she were an old glove. Monsieur d'Arnaye, thrash for me this betrayer of women. "

Noël was a big, handsome man, like an obtuse demi-god, a foot tallerthan François. Noel lifted the boy by his collar, caught up a stick andset to work. Catherine watched them, her eyes gemlike and cruel. 

François did not move a muscle. God had chosen. 

After a little, though, the Sieur d'Arnaye flung François upon theground, where he lay quite still for a moment. Then slowly he roseto his feet. He never looked at Noël. For a long time Francoisstared at Catherine de Vaucelles, frost-flushed, defiant, incrediblybeautiful. Afterward the boy went out of the garden, staggering likea drunken person. 

He found Montigny at the Crowned Ox. "René, " said François, "there is nocharity on earth, there is no God in Heaven. But in Hell there is mostassuredly a devil, and I think that he must laugh a great deal. What wasthat you were telling me about the priest with six hundred crowns in hiscupboard?"

René slapped him on the shoulder. "Now, " said he, "you talk like a man. "He opened the door at the back and cried: "Colin, you and Petit Jehan andthat pig Tabary may come out. I have the honor, messieurs, to offer you anew Companion of the Cockleshell--Master François de Montcorbier. "

But the recruit raised a protesting hand. "No, " said he, --"FrançoisVillon. The name is triply indisputable, since it has been put upon menot by one priest but by three. "

6. _"Volia l'Estat Divers d'entre Eulx"_

When the Dauphin came from Geneppe to be crowned King of France, thererode with him Noël d'Arnaye and Noël's brother Raymond. And thelongawaited news that Charles the Well-Served was at last servitor toDeath, brought the exiled Louis post-haste to Paris, where the Rue SaintJacques turned out full force to witness his triumphal entry. Theyexpected, in those days, Saturnian doings of Louis XI, a recrudescence ofthe Golden Age; and when the new king began his reign by granting Noël asnug fief in Picardy, the Rue Saint Jacques applauded. 

"Noël has followed the King's fortunes these ten years, " said the RueSaint Jacques; "it is only just. And now, neighbor, we may look to seeNoel the Handsome and Catherine de Vaucelles make a match of it. Thegirl has a tidy dowry, they say; old Jehan proved wealthier than thequarter suspected. But death of my life, yes! You may see his tomb inthe Innocents' yonder, with weeping seraphim and a yard of Latin on it. I warrant you that rascal Montcorbier has lain awake in half the prisonsin France thinking of what he flung away. Seven years, no less, since heand Montigny showed their thieves' faces here. La, the world wags, neighbor, and they say there will be a new tax on salt if we go to warwith the English. "

Not quite thus, perhaps, ran the meditations of Catherine de Vaucellesone still August night as she sat at her window, overlooking the acaciasand chestnuts of her garden. Noël, conspicuously prosperous in blue andsilver, had but now gone down the Rue Saint Jacques, singing, clinkingthe fat purse whose plumpness was still a novelty. That evening she hadgiven her promise to marry him at Michaelmas. 

This was a black night, moonless, windless. There were a scant half-dozenstars overhead, and the thick scent of roses and mignonette came up toher in languid waves. Below, the tree-tops conferred, stealthily, and thefountain plashed its eternal remonstrance against the conspiracy theylisped of. 

After a while Catherine rose and stood contemplative before a long mirrorthat was in her room. Catherine de Vaucelles was now, at twenty-three, inthe full flower of her comeliness. Blue eyes the mirror showedher, --luminous and tranquil eyes, set very far apart; honey-colored hairmassed heavily about her face, a mouth all curves, the hue of astrawberry, tender but rather fretful, and beneath it a firm chin; onlyher nose left something to be desired, --for that feature, thoughwell-formed, was diminutive and bent toward the left, by perhaps thethickness of a cobweb. She might reasonably have smiled at what themirror showed her, but, for all that, she sighed. 

"O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone, " said Catherine, wistfully. "Ah, God in Heaven, forgive me for my folly! Sweet Christ, intercede for mewho have paid dearly for my folly!"

Fate grinned in her weaving. Through the open window came the sound of avoice singing. 

Sang the voice:

_"O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone!O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me!O Love of her, the bit that guides me onTo sorrow and to grievous misery!O felon Charms, my poor heart's enemy--"_

and the singing broke off in a fit of coughing. 

Catherine had remained motionless for a matter of two minutes, her headpoised alertly. She went to the gong and struck it seven or eight times. 

"Macée, there is a man in the garden. Bring him to me, Macée, --ah, loveof God, Macée, make haste!"

Blinking, he stood upon the threshold. Then, without words, their lipsmet. 

"My king!" said Catherine; "heart's emperor!"

"O rose of all the world!" he cried. 

There was at first no need of speech. 

But after a moment she drew away and stared at him. François, though hewas but thirty, seemed an old man. His bald head shone in thecandle-light. His face was a mesh of tiny wrinkles, wax-white, and hislower lip, puckered by the scar of his wound, protruded in an eternalgrimace. As Catherine steadfastly regarded him, the faded eyes, half-covered with a bluish film, shifted, and with a jerk he glanced overhis shoulder. The movement started a cough tearing at his throat. 

"Holy Macaire!" said he. "I thought that somebody, if not Henri Cousin, the executioner, was at my heels. Why do you stare so, lass? Have youanything to eat? I am famished. "

In silence she brought him meat and wine, and he fell upon it. He atehastily, chewing with his front teeth, like a sheep. 

When he had ended, Catherine came to him and took both his hands in hersand lifted them to her lips. "The years have changed you, François, " shesaid, curiously meek. 

François put her away. Then he strode to the mirror and regarded itintently. With a snarl, he turned about. "The years!" said he. "You aremodest. It was you who killed François de Montcorbier, as surely asMontcorbier killed Sermaise. Eh, Sovereign Virgin! that is scant causefor grief. You made François Villon. What do you think of him, lass?"

She echoed the name. It was in many ways a seasoned name, butunaccustomed to mean nothing. Accordingly François sneered. 

"Now, by all the fourteen joys and sorrows of Our Lady! I believe thatyou have never heard of François Villon! The Rue Saint Jacques has notheard of François Villon! The pigs, the gross pigs, that dare not peepout of their sty! Why, I have capped verses with the Duke of Orleans. Thevery street-boys know my Ballad of the Women of Paris. Not a drunkard inthe realm but has ranted my jolly Orison for Master Cotard's Soul whenthe bottle passed. The King himself hauled me out of Meung gaol lastSeptember, swearing that in all France there was not my equal at aballad. And you have never heard of me!"

Once more a fit of coughing choked him mid-course in his indignantchattering. 

She gave him a woman's answer: "I do not care if you are the greatestlord in the kingdom or the most sunken knave that steals ducks from ParisMoat. I only know that I love you, François. "

For a long time he kept silence, blinking, peering quizzically at herlifted face. She did love him; no questioning that. But presently heagain put her aside, and went toward the open window. This was a matterfor consideration. 

The night was black as a pocket. Staring into it, François threw back hishead and drew a deep, tremulous breath. The rising odor of roses andmignonette, keen and intolerably sweet, had roused unforgotten pulses inhis blood, had set shame and joy adrum in his breast. 

The woman loved him! Through these years, with a woman's unreasoningfidelity, she had loved him. He knew well enough how matters stoodbetween her and Noel d'Arnaye; the host of the Crowned Ox had beengarrulous that evening. But it was François whom she loved. She waswell-to-do. Here for the asking was a competence, love, an ingleside ofhis own. The deuce of it was that Francois feared to ask. 

"--Because I am still past reason in all that touches this ignorant, hot-headed, Pharisaical, rather stupid wench! That is droll. But love isa resistless tyrant, and, Mother of God! has there been in my life a day, an hour, a moment when I have not loved her! To see her once was all thatI had craved, --as a lost soul might covet, ere the Pit take him, onesplendid glimpse of Heaven and the Nine Blessed Orders at their fiddling. And I find that she loves me--me! Fate must have her jest, I perceive, though the firmament crack for it. She would have been content enoughwith Noel, thinking me dead. And with me?" Contemplatively he spat out ofthe window. "Eh, if I dared hope that this last flicker of life left inmy crazy carcass might burn clear! I have but a little while to live; ifI dared hope to live that little cleanly! But the next cup of wine, thenext light woman?--I have answered more difficult riddles. Choose, then, François Villon, --choose between the squalid, foul life yonder and herwell-being. It is true that starvation is unpleasant and that hanging isreported to be even less agreeable. But just now these considerations areirrelevant. "

Staring into the darkness he fought the battle out. Squarely he faced theissue; for that instant he saw François Villon as the last seven yearshad made him, saw the wine-sodden soul of François Villon, rotten andweak and honeycombed with vice. Moments of nobility it had; momentarily, as now, it might be roused to finer issues; but François knew that nopower existent could hearten it daily to curb the brutish passions. Itwas no longer possible for François Villon to live cleanly. "For what amI?--a hog with a voice. And shall I hazard her life's happiness to get mea more comfortable sty? Ah, but the deuce of it is that I so badly needthat sty!"

He turned with a quick gesture. 

"Listen, " François said. "Yonder is Paris, --laughing, tragic Paris, whoonce had need of a singer to proclaim her splendor and all her misery. Fate made the man; in necessity's mortar she pounded his soul into theshape Fate needed. To king's courts she lifted him; to thieves' hovelsshe thrust him down; and past Lutetia's palaces and abbeys and tavernsand lupanars and gutters and prisons and its very gallows--past each inturn the man was dragged, that he might make the Song of Paris. He couldnot have made it here in the smug Rue Saint Jacques. Well! the song ismade, Catherine. So long as Paris endures, François Villon will beremembered. Villon the singer Fate fashioned as was needful: and, in thisfashioning, Villon the man was damned in body and soul. And by God! thesong was worth it!"

She gave a startled cry and came to him, her hands fluttering toward hisbreast. "François!" she breathed. 

It would not be good to kill the love in her face. 

"You loved François de Montcorbier. François de Montcorbier is dead. ThePharisees of the Rue Saint Jacques killed him seven years ago, and thatday François Villon was born. That was the name I swore to drag throughevery muckheap in France. And I have done it, Catherine. The Companionsof the Cockleshell--eh, well, the world knows us. We robbed GuillammeCoiffier, we robbed the College of Navarre, we robbed the Church of SaintMaturin, --I abridge the list of our gambols. Now we harvest. René deMontigny's bones swing in the wind yonder at Montfaucon. Colin de Cayeuxthey broke on the wheel. The rest--in effect, I am the only one thatjustice spared, --because I had diverting gifts at rhyming, they said. Pah! if they only knew! I am immortal, lass. _Exegi monumentum_. Villon'sglory and Villon's shame will never die. "

He flung back his bald head and laughed now, tittering over thatcalamitous, shabby secret between all-seeing God and François Villon. Shehad drawn a little away from him. This well-reared girl saw him exultantin infamy, steeped to the eyes in infamy. But still the nearness of her, the faint perfume of her, shook in his veins, and still he must play themiserable comedy to the end, since the prize he played for was to himpeculiarly desirable. 

"A thief--a common thief!" But again her hands fluttered back. "I droveyou to it. Mine is the shame. "

"Holy Macaire! what is a theft or two? Hunger that causes the wolf tosally from the wood, may well make a man do worse than steal. I couldtell you--For example, you might ask in Hell of one Thevenin Pensete, whoknifed him in the cemetery of Saint John. "

He hinted a lie, for it was Montigny who killed Thevenin Pensete. Villonplayed without scruple now. 

Catherine's face was white. "Stop, " she pleaded; "no more, François, --ah, Holy Virgin! do not tell me any more. "

But after a little she came to him, touching him almost as if withunwillingness. "Mine is the shame. It was my jealousy, my vanity, François, that thrust you back into temptation. And we are told by thosein holy orders that the compassion of God is infinite. If you still carefor me, I will be your wife. "

Yet she shuddered. 

He saw it. His face, too, was paper, and François laughed horribly. 

"If I still love you! Go, ask of Denise, of Jacqueline, or of Pierrette, of Marion the Statue, of Jehanne of Brittany, of Blanche Slippermaker, ofFat Peg, --ask of any trollop in all Paris how François Villon loves. Youthought me faithful! You thought that I especially preferred you to anyother bed-fellow! Eh, I perceive that the credo of the Rue Saint Jacquesis somewhat narrow-minded. For my part I find one woman much the same asanother. " And his voice shook, for he saw how pretty she was, saw how shesuffered. But he managed a laugh. 

"I do not believe you, " Catherine said, in muffled tones. "François! Youloved me, François. Ah, boy, boy!" she cried, with a pitiable wail; "comeback to me, boy that I loved!"

It was a difficult business. But he grinned in her face. 

"He is dead. Let François de Montcorbier rest in his grave. Your voice isvery sweet, Catherine, and--and he could refuse you nothing, could he, lass? Ah, God, God, God!" he cried, in his agony; "why can you notbelieve me? I tell you Necessity pounds us in her mortar to what shapeshe will. I tell you that Montcorbier loved you, but François Villonprefers Fat Peg. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. " And with this, tranquillity fell upon his soul, for he knew that he had won. 

Her face told him that. Loathing was what he saw there. 

"I am sorry, " Catherine said, dully. "I am sorry. Oh, for high God'ssake! go, go! Do you want money? I will give you anything if you willonly go. Oh, beast! Oh, swine, swine, swine!"

He turned and went, staggering like a drunken person. 

Once in the garden he fell prone upon his face in the wet grass. Abouthim the mingled odor of roses and mignonette was sweet and heavy; thefountain plashed interminably in the night, and above him the chestnutsand acacias rustled and lisped as they had done seven years ago. Only hewas changed. 

"O Mother of God, " the thief prayed, "grant that Noël may be kind toher! Mother of God, grant that she may be happy! Mother of God, grantthat I may not live long!"

And straightway he perceived that triple invocation could be, ratherneatly, worked out in ballade form. Yes, with a separate prayer to eachverse. So, dismissing for the while his misery, he fell to considering, with undried cheeks, what rhymes he needed. 

 * * * * *

JULY 17, 1484

"_Et puis il se rencontre icy une avanture merveilleuse, c'est que lefils de Grand Turc ressemble à Cléonte, à peu de chose prés_. "

_Noël d'Arnaye and Catherine de Vaucelles were married in the Septemberof 1462, and afterward withdrew to Noël's fief in Picardy. There Noëlbuilt him a new Chateau d'Arnaye, and through the influence of NicoleBeaupertuys, the King's mistress, (who was rumored in court by-ways tohave a tenderness for the handsome Noël), obtained large grants for itsmaintenance. Madame d'Arnaye, also, it is gratifying to record, appearsto have lived in tolerable amity with Sieur Noël, and neither of thempried too closely into the other's friendships. 

Catherine died in 1470, and Noël outlived her but by three years. Of thesix acknowledged children surviving him, only one was legitimate--adaughter called Matthiette. The estate and title thus reverted to Raymondd'Arnaye, Noël's younger brother, from whom the present family of Arnayeis descended. 

Raymond was a far shrewder man than his predecessor. For ten years'space, while Louis XI, that royal fox of France, was destroying feudalismpiecemeal, --trimming its power day by day as you might pare anonion, --the new Sieur d'Arnaye steered his shifty course between Franceand Burgundy, always to the betterment of his chances in this worldhowever he may have modified them in the next. At Arras he fought beneaththe orifiamme; at Guinegate you could not have found a more staunchBurgundian: though he was no warrior, victory followed him like alap-dog. So that presently the Sieur d'Arnaye and the Vicomte dePuysange--with which family we have previously concerned ourselves--werethe great lords of Northern France. 

But after the old King's death came gusty times for Sieur Raymond. It iswith them we have here to do_. 

CHAPTER VI

_The Episode Called The Conspiracy of Arnaye_

1. _Policy Tempered with Singing_

"And so, " said the Sieur d'Arnaye, as he laid down the letter, "we maylook for the coming of Monsieur de Puysange to-morrow. "

The Demoiselle Matthiette contorted her features in an expression ofdisapproval. "So soon!" said she. "I had thought--"

"Ouais, my dear niece, Love rides by ordinary with a dripping spur, andis still as arbitrary as in the day when Mars was taken with a net andamorous Jove bellowed in Europa's kail-yard. My faith! if Love distemperthus the spectral ichor of the gods, is it remarkable that the warmerblood of man pulses rather vehemently at his bidding? It were the leastof Cupid's miracles that a lusty bridegroom of some twenty-and-odd shouldbe pricked to outstrip the dial by a scant week. For love--I might tellyou such tales--"

Sieur Raymond crossed his white, dimpled hands over a well-roundedpaunch and chuckled reminiscently; had he spoken doubtless he would haveleft Master Jehan de Troyes very little to reveal in his ScandalousChronicle: but now, as if now recalling with whom Sieur Raymondconversed, d'Arnaye's lean face assumed an expression of placid sanctity, and the somewhat unholy flame died out of his green eyes. He was like noother thing than a plethoric cat purring over the follies of kittenhood. You would have taken oath that a cultured taste for good living was thechief of his offences, and that this benevolent gentleman had some sixtywell-spent years to his credit. True, his late Majesty, King Louis XI, had sworn Pacque Dieu! that d'Arnaye loved underhanded work so heartilythat he conspired with his gardener concerning the planting of cabbages, and within a week after his death would be heading some treachery againstLucifer; but kings are not always infallible, as his Majesty himself hadproven at Peronne. 

"--For, " said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "man's flesh is frail, and the devil isvery cunning to avail himself of the weaknesses of lovers. "

"Love!" Matthiette cried. "Ah, do not mock me, my uncle! There can be nopretence of love between Monsieur de Puysange and me. A man that I havenever seen, that is to wed me of pure policy, may look for no Alcestis inhis wife. "

"You speak like a very sensible girl, " said Sieur Raymond, complacently. "However, so that he find her no Guinevere or Semiramis or otherloose-minded trollop of history, I dare say Monsieur de Puysange willhold to his bargain with indifferent content. Look you, niece, he, also, is buying--though the saying is somewhat rustic--a pig in a poke. "

Matthiette glanced quickly toward the mirror which hung in her apartment. The glass reflected features which went to make up a beauty alreadybe-sonneted in that part of France; and if her green gown was some monthsbehind the last Italian fashion, it undeniably clad one who needed fewadventitious aids. The Demoiselle Matthiette at seventeen was very tall, and was as yet too slender for perfection of form, but her honey-coloredhair hung heavily about the unblemished oval of a countenance whose nosealone left something to be desired; for this feature, though well shaped, was unduly diminutive. For the rest, her mouth curved in anirreproachable bow, her complexion was mingled milk and roses, her blueeyes brooded in a provoking calm; taking matters by and large, the smilethat followed her inspection of the mirror's depths was far fromunwarranted. Catherine de Vaucelles reanimate, you would have sworn; andat the abbey of Saint Maixent-en-Poitou there was a pot-belly monk, aBrother François, who would have demonstrated it to you, in anunanswerable ballad, that Catherine's daughter was in consequence allthat an empress should be and so rarely is. Harembourges and BerthaBroadfoot and white Queen Blanche would have been laughed to scorn, demolished and proven, in comparison (with a catalogue of very intimatepersonal detail), the squalidest sluts conceivable, by Brother François. 

But Sieur Raymond merely chuckled wheezily, as one discovering a fault inhis companion of which he disapproves in theory, but in practice findsflattering to his vanity. 

"I grant you, Monsieur de Puysange drives a good bargain, " said SieurRaymond. "Were Cleopatra thus featured, the Roman lost the world veryworthily. Yet, such is the fantastic disposition of man that I do notdoubt the vicomte looks forward to the joys of to-morrow no whit morecheerfully than you do: for the lad is young, and, as rumor says, hasbeen guilty of divers verses, --ay, he has bearded common-sense in thevext periods of many a wailing rhyme. I will wager a moderate amount, however, that the vicomte, like a sensible young man, keeps thesewhimsies of flames and dames laid away in lavender for festivals and thelike; they are somewhat too fine for everyday wear. "

Sieur Raymond sipped the sugared wine which stood beside him. "Likeany sensible young man, " he repeated, in a meditative fashion that washalf a query. 

Matthiette stirred uneasily. "Is love, then, nothing?" she murmured. 

"Love!" Sieur Raymond barked like a kicked mastiff. "It is verydiscreetly fabled that love was brought forth at Cythera by the oceanfogs. Thus, look you, even ballad-mongers admit it comes of ashort-lived family, that fade as time wears on. I may have a passion forcloud-tatters, and, doubtless, the morning mists are beautiful; but if Igive rein to my admiration, breakfast is likely to grow cold. I deducethat beauty, as represented by the sunrise, is less profitably consideredthan utility, as personified by the frying-pan. And love! A niece of mineprating of love!" The idea of such an occurrence, combined with a fit ofcoughing which now came upon him, drew tears to the Sieur d'Arnaye'seyes. "Pardon me, " said he, when he had recovered his breath, "if I speaksomewhat brutally to maiden ears. "

Matthiette sighed. "Indeed, " said she, "you have spoken very brutally!"She rose from her seat, and went to the Sieur d'Arnaye. "Dear uncle, "said she, with her arms about his neck, and with her soft cheek brushinghis withered countenance, "are you come to my apartments to-night to tellme that love is nothing--you who have shown me that even the roughest, most grizzled bear in all the world has a heart compact of love andtender as a woman's?"

The Sieur d'Arnaye snorted. "Her mother all over again!" he complained;and then, recovering himself, shook his head with a hint of sadness. 

He said: "I have sighed to every eyebrow at court, and I tell you thismoonshine is--moonshine pure and simple. Matthiette, I love you toodearly to deceive you in, at all events, this matter, and I have learnedby hard knocks that we of gentle quality may not lightly follow our owninclinations. Happiness is a luxury which the great can very rarelyafford. Granted that you have an aversion to this marriage. Yet considerthis: Arnaye and Puysange united may sit snug and let the world wag;otherwise, lying here between the Breton and the Austrian, we are so manynuts in a door-crack, at the next wind's mercy. And yonder in the South, Orléans and Dunois are raising every devil in Hell's register! Ah, no, mamie; I put it to you fairly is it of greater import that a girl have hercallow heart's desire than that a province go free of Monsieur War andMadame Rapine?"

"Yes, but--" said Matthiette. 

Sieur Raymond struck his hand upon the table with considerable heat. "Everywhere Death yawps at the frontier; will you, a d'Arnaye, bid himenter and surfeit? An alliance with Puysange alone may save us. Eheu, itis, doubtless, pitiful that a maid may not wait and wed her chosenpaladin, but our vassals demand these sacrifices. For example, do youthink I wedded my late wife in any fervor of adoration? I had never seenher before our marriage day; yet we lived much as most couples do forsome ten years afterward, thereby demonstrating--"

He smiled, evilly; Matthiette sighed. 

"--Well, thereby demonstrating nothing new, " said Sieur Raymond. "So doyou remember that Pierre must have his bread and cheese; that the cowsmust calve undisturbed; that the pigs--you have not seen the sow I hadto-day from Harfleur?--black as ebony and a snout like a rose-leaf!--mustbe stied in comfort: and that these things may not be, without analliance with Puysange. Besides, dear niece, it is something to be thewife of a great lord. "

A certain excitement awoke in Matthiette's eyes. "It must be verybeautiful at Court, " said she, softly. "Masques, fêtes, tourneys everyday;--and they say the new King is exceedingly gallant--"

Sieur Raymond caught her by the chin, and for a moment turned herface toward his. "I warn you, " said he, "you are a d'Arnaye; andKing or not--"

He paused here. Through the open window came the voice of one singing tothe demure accompaniment of a lute. 

"Hey?" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. 

Sang the voice:

"_When you are very old, and I am gone, Not to return, it may be you will say--Hearing my name and holding me as oneLong dead to you, --in some half-jesting wayOf speech, sweet as vague heraldings of MayRumored in woods when first the throstles sing--'He loved me once. ' And straightway murmuringMy half-forgotten rhymes, you will regretEvanished times when I was wont to singSo very lightly, 'Love runs into debt. '_"

"Now, may I never sit among the saints, " said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "ifthat is not the voice of Raoul de Prison, my new page. "

"Hush, " Matthiette whispered. "He woos my maid, Alys. He often singsunder the window, and I wink at it. "

Sang the voice:

_"I shall not heed you then. My course being runFor good or ill, I shall have gone my way, And know you, love, no longer, --nor the sun, Perchance, nor any light of earthly day, Nor any joy nor sorrow, --while at playThe world speeds merrily, nor reckoningOur coming or our going. Lips will cling, Forswear, and be forsaken, and men forgetWhere once our tombs were, and our children sing--So very lightly!--'Love runs into debt. '

"If in the grave love have dominionWill that wild cry not quicken the wise clay, And taunt with memories of fond deeds undone, --Some joy untasted, some lost holiday, --All death's large wisdom? Will that wisdom layThe ghost of any sweet familiar thingCome haggard from the Past, or ever bringForgetfulness of those two lovers metWhen all was April?--nor too wise to singSo very lightly, 'Love runs into debt. '

"Yet, Matthiette, though vain rememberingDraw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the springWe meet and kiss, whatever hour besetWherein all hours attain to harvesting, --So very lightly love runs into debt. "_

"Dear, dear!" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "You mentioned your maid'sname, I think?"

"Alys, " said Matthiette, with unwonted humbleness. 

Sieur Raymond spread out his hands in a gesture of commiseration. "Thisis very remarkable, " he said. "Beyond doubt, the gallant beneath has madesome unfortunate error. Captain Gotiard, " he called, loudly, "will youascertain who it is that warbles in the garden such queer aliases for ourgood Alys?"

2. _Age Glosses the Text of Youth_

Gotiard was not long in returning; he was followed by two men-at-arms, who held between them the discomfited minstrel. Envy alone could havedescribed the lutanist as ill-favored; his close-fitting garb, whereinthe brave reds of autumn were judiciously mingled, at once set off awell-knit form and enhanced the dark comeliness of features less Frenchthan Italian in cast. The young man now stood silent, his eyes mutelyquestioning the Sieur d'Arnaye. 

"Oh, la, la, la!" chirped Sieur Raymond. "Captain, I think you are atliberty to retire. " He sipped his wine meditatively, as the men filedout. "Monsieur de Frison, " d'Arnaye resumed, when the arras had fallen, "believe me, I grieve to interrupt your very moving and most excellentlyphrased ballad in this fashion. But the hour is somewhat late for melody, and the curiosity of old age is privileged. May one inquire, therefore, why you outsing my larks and linnets and other musical poultry that arenow all abed? and warble them to rest with this pleasing but--if I mayventure a suggestion--rather ill-timed madrigal?"

The young man hesitated for an instant before replying. "Sir, " said he, at length, "I confess that had I known of your whereabouts, the birds hadgone without their lullaby. But you so rarely come to this wing of thechateau, that your presence here to-night is naturally unforeseen. As itis, since chance has betrayed my secret to you, I must make bold toacknowledge it; and to confess that I love your niece. "

"Hey, no doubt you do, " Sieur Raymond assented, pleasantly. "Indeed, Ithink half the young men hereabout are in much the same predicament. But, my question, if I mistake not, related to your reason for chauntingcanzonets beneath her window. "

Raoul de Frison stared at him in amazement. "I love her, " he said. 

"You mentioned that before, " Sieur Raymond suggested. "And I agreed, as Iremember, that it was more than probable; for my niece here--though it beI that speak it--is by no means uncomely, has a commendable voice, thewalk of a Hebe, and sufficient wit to deceive her lover into happiness. My faith, young man, you show excellent taste! But, I submit, the purestaffection is an insufficient excuse for outbaying a whole kennel ofhounds beneath the adored one's casement. "

"Sir, " said Raoul, "I believe that lovers have rarely been remarkable forsanity; and it is an immemorial custom among them to praise the object oftheir desires with fitting rhymes. Conceive, sir, that in your youth, hadyou been accorded the love of so fair a lady, you yourself had scarcelydone otherwise. For I doubt if your blood runs so thin as yet that youhave quite forgot young Raymond d'Arnaye and the gracious ladies whom heloved, --I think that your heart must needs yet treasure the memories ofdivers moonlit nights, even such as this, when there was a great silencein the world, and the nested trees were astir with desire of the dawn, and your waking dreams were vext with the singular favor of some woman'sface. It is in the name of that young Raymond I now appeal to you. "

"H'm!" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "As I understand it, you appeal on theground that you were coerced by the moonlight and led astray by thebird-nests in my poplar-trees; and you desire me to punish youraccomplices rather than you. "

"Sir, --" said Raoul. 

Sieur Raymond snarled. "You young dog, you know that in the most prosaicbreast a minor poet survives his entombment, --and you endeavor to makecapital of the knowledge. You know that I have a most sincere affectionfor your father, and have even contracted since you came to Arnaye moreor less tolerance for you, --which emboldens you, my friend, to keep meout of a comfortable bed at this hour of the night with an idioticdiscourse of moonlight and dissatisfied shrubbery! As it happens, I amnot a lank wench in her first country dance. Remember that, Raoul deFrison, and praise the good God who gave me at birth a very placabledisposition! There is not a seigneur in all France, save me, but wouldhang you at the crack of that same dawn for which you report yourlackadaisical trees to be whining; but the quarrel will soon be Monsieurde Puysange's, and I prefer that he settle it at his own discretion. Icontent myself with advising you to pester my niece no more. "

Raoul spoke boldly. "She loves me, " said he, standing very erect. 

Sieur Raymond glanced at Matthiette, who sat with downcast head. "H'm!"said he. "She moderates her transports indifferently well. Though, again, why not? You are not an ill-looking lad. Indeed, Monsieur de Frison, I amquite ready to admit that my niece is breaking her heart for you. Thepoint on which I wish to dwell is that she weds Monsieur de Puysangeearly to-morrow morning. "

"Uncle, " Matthiette cried, as she started to her feet, "such a marriageis a crime! I love Raoul!"

"Undoubtedly, " purred Sieur Raymond, "you love the lad unboundedly, madly, distractedly! Now we come to the root of the matter. " He sank backin his chair and smiled. "Young people, " said he, "be seated, and hearkento the words of wisdom. Love is a divine insanity, in which the suffererfancies the world mad. And the world is made up of madmen who condemn andpunish one another. "

"But, " Matthiette dissented, "ours is no ordinary case!"

"Surely not, " Sieur Raymond readily agreed; "for there was never anordinary case in all the history of the universe. Oh, but I, too, haveknown this madness; I, too, have perceived how infinitely my ownskirmishes with the blind bow-god differed in every respect from all thathas been or will ever be. It is an infallible sign of this frenzy. Surely, I have said, the world will not willingly forget the vision ofChloris in her wedding garments, or the wonder of her last clinging kiss. Or, say Phyllis comes to-morrow: will an uninventive sun dare to rise inthe old, hackneyed fashion on such a day of days? Perish the thought!There will probably be six suns, and, I dare say, a meteor or two. "

"I perceive, sir, " Raoul said here, "that after all you have notforgotten the young Raymond of whom I spoke. "

"That was a long while ago, " snapped Sieur Raymond. "I know a deal moreof the world nowadays; and a level-headed world would be somewhatsurprised at such occurrences, and suggest that for the future Phyllisremain at home. For whether you--or I--or any one--be in love or no is toour fellow creatures an affair of astonishingly trivial import. Not sinceNoé that great admiral, repeopled the world by begetting three sons uponDame Noria has there been a love-business worthy of consideration; nor, if you come to that, not since sagacious Solomon went a-wenching has awise man wasted his wisdom on a lover. So love one another, my children, by all means: but do you, Matthiette, make ready to depart into Normandyas a true and faithful wife to Monsieur de Puysange; and do you, Raoul dePrison, remain at Arnaye, and attend to my falcons more carefully thanyou have done of late, --or, by the cross of Saint Lo! I will clap thewench in a convent and hang the lad as high as Haman!"

Whereon Sieur Raymond smiled pleasantly, and drained his wine-cup as oneconsidering the discussion ended. 

Raoul sat silent for a moment. Then he rose. "Monsieur d'Arnaye, you knowme to be a gentleman of unblemished descent, and as such entitled to ahearing. I forbid you before all-seeing Heaven to wed your niece to a manshe does not love! And I have the honor to request of you her hand inmarriage. "

"Which offer I decline, " said Sieur Raymond, grinning placidly, --"withevery imaginable civility. Niece, " he continued, "here is a gentleman whooffers you a heartful of love, six months of insanity, and forty yearsof boredom in a leaky, wind-swept château. He has dreamed dreamsconcerning you: allow me to present to you the reality. "

With some ceremony Sieur Raymond now grasped Matthiette's hand and ledher mirror-ward. "Permit me to present the wife of Monsieur de Puysange. Could he have made a worthier choice? Ah, happy lord, that shall so soonembrace such perfect loveliness! For, frankly, my niece, is not thatgolden hair of a shade that will set off a coronet extraordinarily well?Are those wondrous eyes not fashioned to surfeit themselves upon thehomage and respect accorded the wife of a great lord? Ouais, the thing isindisputable: and, therefore, I must differ from Monsieur de Frison here, who would condemn this perfection to bloom and bud unnoticed in a paltrycountry town. "

There was an interval, during which Matthiette gazed sadly into themirror. "And Arnaye--?" said she. 

"Undoubtedly, " said Sieur Raymond, --"Arnaye must perish unless Puysangeprove her friend. Therefore, my niece conquers her natural aversion to ayoung and wealthy husband, and a life of comfort and flattery and gayety;relinquishes you, Raoul; and, like a feminine Mettius Curtius, sacrificesherself to her country's welfare. Pierre may sleep undisturbed; and thepigs will have a new sty. My faith, it is quite affecting! And so, " SieurRaymond summed it up, "you two young fools may bid adieu, once for all, while I contemplate this tapestry. " He strolled to the end of the roomand turned his back. "Admirable!" said he; "really now, that leopard isastonishingly lifelike!"

Raoul came toward Matthiette. "Dear love, " said he, "you have chosenwisely, and I bow to your decision. Farewell, Matthiette, --O indomitableheart! O brave perfect woman that I have loved! Now at the last of all, Ipraise you for your charity to me, Love's mendicant, --ah, believe me, Matthiette, that atones for aught which follows now. Come what may, Ishall always remember that once in old days you loved me, and, remembering this, I shall always thank God with a contented heart. " Hebowed over her unresponsive hand. "Matthiette, " he whispered, "be happy!For I desire that very heartily, and I beseech of our Sovereign Lady--notcaring to hide at all how my voice shakes, nor how the loveliness of you, seen now for the last time, is making blind my eyes--that you may neverknow unhappiness. You have chosen wisely, Matthiette; yet, ah, my dear, do not forget me utterly, but keep always a little place in your heartfor your boy lover!"

Sieur Raymond concluded his inspection of the tapestry, and turned with apremonitory cough. "Thus ends the comedy, " said he, shrugging, "with muchfine, harmless talking about 'always, ' while the world triumphs. Invariably the world triumphs, my children. Eheu, we are as God made us, we men and women that cumber His stately earth!" He drew his arm throughRaoul's. "Farewell, niece, " said Sieur Raymond, smiling; "I rejoice thatyou are cured of your malady. Now in respect to gerfalcons--" said he. The arras fell behind them. 

3. _Obdurate Love_

Matthiette sat brooding in her room, as the night wore on. She waspitifully frightened, numb. There was in the room, she dimly noted, aheavy silence that sobs had no power to shatter. Dimly, too, she seemedaware of a multitude of wide, incurious eyes which watched her from everycorner, where panels snapped at times with sharp echoes. The night waswell-nigh done when she arose. 

"After all, " she said, wearily, "it is my manifest duty. " Matthiettecrept to the mirror and studied it. 

"Madame de Puysange, " said she, without any intonation; then threw herarms above her head, with a hard gesture of despair. "I love him!" shecried, in a frightened voice. 

Matthiette went to a great chest and fumbled among its contents. She drewout a dagger in a leather case, and unsheathed it. The light shone evillyscintillant upon the blade. She laughed, and hid it in the bosom of hergown, and fastened a cloak about her with impatient fingers. ThenMatthiette crept down the winding stair that led to the gardens, andunlocked the door at the foot of it. 

A sudden rush of night swept toward her, big with the secrecy of dawn. The sky, washed clean of stars, sprawled above, --a leaden, monotonousblank. Many trees whispered thickly over the chaos of earth; to the left, in an increasing dove-colored luminousness, a field of growing maizebristled like the chin of an unshaven Titan. 

Matthiette entered an expectant world. Once in the tree-chequeredgardens, it was as though she crept through the aisles of an unlitcathedral already garnished for its sacred pageant. Matthiette heard thequerulous birds call sleepily above; the margin of night was thick withtheir petulant complaints; behind her was the monstrous shadow of theChateau d'Arnaye, and past that was a sullen red, the red of contusedflesh, to herald dawn. Infinity waited a-tiptoe, tense for the comingmiracle, and against this vast repression, her grief dwindled intoirrelevancy: the leaves whispered comfort; each tree-bole hid chucklingfauns. Matthiette laughed. Content had flooded the universe all throughand through now that yonder, unseen as yet, the scarlet-faced sun wastoiling up the rim of the world, and matters, it somehow seemed, couldnot turn out so very ill, in the end. 

Matthiette came to a hut, from whose open window a faded golden glowspread out into obscurity like a tawdry fan. From without she peered intothe hut and saw Raoul. A lamp flickered upon the table. His shadowtwitched and wavered about the plastered walls, --a portentous mass ofhead upon a hemisphere of shoulders, --as Raoul bent over a chest, sortingthe contents, singing softly to himself, while Matthiette leaned upon thesill without, and the gardens of Arnaye took form and stirred in theheart of a chill, steady, sapphire-like radiance. 

Sang Raoul:

_"Lord, I have worshipped thee ever, --Through all these yearsI have served thee, forsaking neverLight Love that veersAs a child between laughter and tears. Hast thou no more to afford, --Naught save laughter and tears, --Love, my lord?

"I have borne thy heaviest burden, Nor served thee amiss:Now thou hast given a guerdon;Lo, it was this--A sigh, a shudder, a kiss. Hast thou no more to accord!I would have more than this, Love, my lord. 

"I am wearied of love that is pastimeAnd gifts that it brings;I entreat of thee, lord, at this last time

"Inèffable things. Nay, have proud long-dead kingsStricken no subtler chord, Whereof the memory clings, Love, my lord?

"But for a little we live;Show me thine innermost hoard!Hast thou no more to give, Love, my lord?"_

4. _Raymond Psychopompos_

Matthiette went to the hut's door: her hands fell irresolutely upon therough surface of it and lay still for a moment. Then with the noise of ahoarse groan the door swung inward, and the light guttered in a swirl ofkeen morning air, casting convulsive shadows upon her lifted countenance, and was extinguished. She held out her arms in a gesture that was halfmaternal. "Raoul!" she murmured. 

He turned. A sudden bird plunged through the twilight without, with aglad cry that pierced like a knife through the stillness which had fallenin the little room. Raoul de Frison faced her, with clenched hands, silent. For that instant she saw him transfigured. 

But his silence frightened her. There came a piteous catch in her voice. "Fair friend, have you not bidden me--_be happy?_"

He sighed. "Mademoiselle, " he said, dully, "I may not avail myself ofyour tenderness of heart; that you have come to comfort me in my sorrowis a deed at which, I think, God's holy Angels must rejoice: but I cannotavail myself of it. "

"Raoul, Raoul, " she said, "do you think that I have come in--pity!"

"Matthiette, " he returned, "your uncle spoke the truth. I have dreameddreams concerning you, --dreams of a foolish, golden-hearted girl, whowould yield--yield gladly--all that the world may give, to be one fleshand soul with me. But I have wakened, dear, to the braver reality, --thatvalorous woman, strong enough to conquer even her own heart that herpeople may be freed from their peril. "

"Blind! blind!" she cried. 

Raoul smiled down upon her. "Mademoiselle, " said he, "I do not doubt thatyou love me. "

She went wearily toward the window. "I am not very wise, " Matthiettesaid, looking out upon the gardens, "and it appears that God has givenme an exceedingly tangled matter to unravel. Yet if I decide itwrongly I think the Eternal Father will understand it is because I amnot very wise. "

Matthiette for a moment was silent. Then with averted face she spokeagain. "My uncle commands me, with many astute saws and pithy sayings, towed Monsieur de Puysange. I have not skill to combat him. Many times hehas proven it my duty, but he is quick in argument and proves what hewill; and I do not think it is my duty. It appears to me a matter whereinman's wisdom is at variance with God's will as manifested to us throughthe holy Evangelists. Assuredly, if I do not wed Monsieur de Puysangethere may be war here in our Arnaye, and God has forbidden war; but I maynot insure peace in Arnaye without prostituting my body to a man I do notlove, and that, too, God has forbidden. I speak somewhat grossly for amaid, but you love me, I think, and will understand. And I, also, loveyou, Monsieur de Frison. Yet--ah, I am pitiably weak! Love tugs at myheart-strings, bidding me cling to you, and forget these other matters;but I cannot do that, either. I desire very heartily the comfort andsplendor and adulation which you cannot give me. I am pitiably weak, Raoul! I cannot come to you with an undivided heart, --but my heart, suchas it is, I have given you, and to-day I deliver my honor into your handsand my life's happiness, to preserve or to destroy. Mother of Christ, grant that I have chosen rightly, for I have chosen now, past retreat! Ihave chosen you, Raoul, and that love which you elect to give me, and ofwhich I must endeavor to be worthy. "

Matthiette turned from the window. Now, her bright audacity gone, herardors chilled, you saw how like a grave, straightforward boy she was, how illimitably tender, how inefficient. "It may be that I have decidedwrongly in this tangled matter, " she said now. "And yet I think that God, Who loves us infinitely, cannot be greatly vexed at anything His childrendo for love of one another. "

He came toward her. "I bid you go, " he said. "Matthiette, it is my dutyto bid you go, and it is your duty to obey. "

She smiled wistfully through unshed tears. "Man's wisdom!" saidMatthiette. "I think that it is not my duty. And so I disobey you, dear, --this once, and no more hereafter. "

"And yet last night--" Raoul began. 

"Last night, " said she, "I thought that I was strong. I know now it wasmy vanity that was strong, --vanity and pride and fear, Raoul, that for alittle mastered me. But in the dawn all things seem very trivial, savinglove alone. "

They looked out into the dew-washed gardens. The daylight was fullgrown, and already the clear-cut forms of men were passing beneath the swayingbranches. In the distance a trumpet snarled. 

"Dear love, " said Raoul, "do you not understand that you have broughtabout my death? For Monsieur de Puysange is at the gates of Arnaye; andeither he or Sieur Raymond will have me hanged ere noon. "

"I do not know, " she said, in a tired voice. "I think that Monsieur dePuysange has some cause to thank me; and my uncle loves me, and hisheart, for all his gruffness, is very tender. And--see, Raoul!" She drewthe dagger from her bosom. "I shall not survive you a long while, O manof all the world!"

Perplexed joy flushed through his countenance. "You will dothis--for me?" he cried, with a sort of sob. "Matthiette, Matthiette, you shame me!"

"But I love you, " said Matthiette. "How could it be possible, then, forme to live after you were dead?"

He bent to her. They kissed. 

Hand in hand they went forth into the daylight. The kindly, familiarplace seemed in Matthiette's eyes oppressed and transformed by theausterity of dawn. It was a clear Sunday morning, at the hightide ofsummer, and she found the world unutterably Sabbatical; only by avigorous effort could memory connect it with the normal life ofyesterday. The cool edges of the woods, vibrant now with multitudinousshrill pipings, the purple shadows shrinking eastward on the dimplinglawns, the intricate and broken traceries of the dial (where they had metso often), the blurred windings of their path, above which brooded thepeaked roofs and gables and slender clerestories of Arnaye, the broadriver yonder lapsing through deserted sunlit fields, --these things laybefore them scarce heeded, stript of all perspective, flat as an openscroll. To them all this was alien. She and Raoul were quite apart fromthese matters, quite alone, despite the men of Arnaye, hurrying towardthe courtyard, who stared at them curiously, but said nothing. A briskwind was abroad in the tree-tops, scattering stray leaves, already dead, over the lush grass. Tenderly Raoul brushed a little golden sycamore leaffrom the lovelier gold of Matthiette's hair. 

"I do not know how long I have to live, " he said. "Nobody knows that. ButI wish that I might live a great while to serve you worthily. "

She answered: "Neither in life nor death shall we be parted now. Thatonly matters, my husband. "

They came into the crowded court-yard just as the drawbridge fell. Atroop of horse clattered into Arnaye, and the leader, a young man offrank countenance, dismounted and looked about him inquiringly. Then hecame toward them. 

"Monseigneur, " said he, "you see that we ride early in honor of yournuptials. "

Behind them some one chuckled. "Love one another, young people, " saidSieur Raymond; "but do you, Matthiette, make ready to depart intoNormandy as a true and faithful wife to Monsieur de Puysange. "

She stared into Raoul's laughing face; there was a kind of anguish in herswift comprehension. Quickly the two men who loved her glanced at eachother, half in shame. 

But the Sieur d'Arnaye was not lightly dashed. "Oh, la, la, la!" chuckledthe Sieur d'Arnaye, "she would never have given you a second thought, monsieur le vicomte, had I not labelled you forbidden fruit. As it is, mylast conspiracy, while a little ruthless, I grant you, turns outadmirably. Jack has his Jill, and all ends merrily, like an old song. Iwill begin on those pig-sties the first thing to-morrow morning. "

 * * * * *

OCTOBER 6, 1519

_"Therefore, like as May month flowereth and flourisheth in manygardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart inthis world; first unto God, and next unto the joy of them that hepromiseth his faith unto. "_

_The quondam Raoul de Prison stood high in the graces of the Lady Regentof France, Anne de Beaujeu, who was, indeed, tolerably notorious for herpartiality to well-built young men. Courtiers whispered more than thereis any need here to rehearse. In any event, when in 1485 the daughter ofLouis XI fitted out an expedition to press the Earl of Richmond's claimto the English crown, de Puysange sailed from Havre as commander of theFrench fleet. He fought at Bosworth, not discreditably; and a yearafterward, when England had for the most part accepted Henry VII, Matthiette rejoined her husband. 

They never subsequently quitted England. During the long civil wars, dePuysange was known as a shrewd captain and a judicious counsellor to theKing, who rewarded his services as liberally as Tudorian parsimony wouldpermit. After the death of Henry VII, however, the vicomte took littlepart in public affairs, spending most of his time at Tiverton Manor, inDevon, where, surrounded by their numerous progeny, he and Matthiettegrew old together in peace and concord. 

Indeed, the vicomte so ordered all his cool love-affairs that, havingtaken a wife as a matter of expediency, he continued as a matter ofexpediency to make her a fair husband, as husbands go. It also seemed tohim, they relate, a matter of expediency to ignore the interpretationgiven by scandalous persons to the paternal friendship extended to Madamede Puysange by a high prince of the Church, during the last five years ofthe great Cardinal Morton's life, for the connection was useful. 

The following is from a manuscript of doubtful authenticity still to beseen at Allonby Shaw. It purports to contain the autobiography of WillSommers, the vicomte's jester, afterward court-fool to Henry VIII. _

CHAPTER VII

_The Episode Called The Castle of Content_

1. _I Glimpse the Castle_

"And so, dearie, " she ended, "you may seize the revenues of Allonby withunwashed hands. "

I said, "Why have you done this?" I was half-frightened by the suddenwhirl of Dame Fortune's wheel. 

"Dear cousin in motley, " grinned the beldame, "'twas for hatred of TomAllonby and all his accursed race that I have kept the secret thus long. Now comes a braver revenge: and I settle my score with the black spawn ofAllonby--euh, how entirely!--by setting you at their head. "

"Nay, I elect for a more flattering reason. I begin to suspect you, cousin, of some human compunction. "

"Well, Willie, well, I never hated you as much as I had reason to, " shegrumbled, and began to cough very lamentably. "So at the last I must makea marquis of you--ugh! Will you jest for them in counsel, Willie, andlead your henchman to battle with a bawdy song--ugh, ugh!"

Her voice crackled like burning timber, and sputtered in groans thatwould have been fanged curses had breath not failed her: for my auntElinor possessed a nimble tongue, whetted, as rumor had it, by theattendance of divers Sabbats, and the chaunting of such songs as honestmen may not hear and live, however highly the succubi and warlocks andwere-cats, and Satan's courtiers generally, commend them. 

I squinted down at one green leg, scratched the crimson fellow to it withmy bauble, and could not deny that, even so, the witch was dealinghandsomely with me to-night. 

'Twas a strange tale which my Aunt Elinor had ended, speaking swiftlylest the worms grow impatient and Charon weigh anchor ere she had done:and the proofs of the tale's verity, set forth in a fair clerklyhandwriting, rustled in my hand, --scratches of a long-rotted pen thattransferred me to the right side of the blanket, and transformed themotley of a fool into the ermine of a peer. 

All Devon knew I was son to Tom Allonby, who had been Marquis of Falmouthat his uncle's death, had not Tom Allonby, upon the very eve of thatevent, broken his neck in a fox-hunt; but Dan Gabriel, come post-hastefrom Heaven had with difficulty convinced the village idiot that HolyChurch had smiled upon Tom's union with a tanner's daughter, and thattheir son was lord of Allonby Shaw. I doubted it, even as I read theproof. Yet it was true, --true that I had precedence even of the greatMonsieur de Puysange, who had kept me to make him mirth on a shifty diet, first coins, then curses, these ten years past, --true that my father, rogue in all else, had yet dealt equitably with my mother ere hedied, --true that my aunt, less honorably used by him, had shared theirsecret with the priest who married them, maliciously preserving it tillthis, when her words fell before me as anciently Jove's shower before theArgive Danaë, coruscant and awful, pregnant with undreamed-of chanceswhich stirred as yet blindly in Time's womb. 

A sick anger woke in me, remembering the burden of ignoble years this haghad suffered me to bear; yet my so young gentility bade me avoid reproachof the dying peasant woman, who, when all was said, had been but ill-usedby our house. Death hath a strange potency: commanding as he doth, unquestioned and unchidden, the emperor to have done with slaying, thepoet to rise from his unfinished rhyme, the tender and gracious lady tocease from nice denying words (mixed though they be with pitiful sighsthat break their sequence like an amorous ditty heard through the strainsof a martial stave), and all men, gentle or base, to follow Death's gauntstandard into unmapped realms, something of majesty enshrines thepaltriest knave on whom the weight of Death's chill finger hath fallen. Idoubt not that Cain's children wept about his deathbed, and that thecenturions spake in whispers as they lowered Iscariot from theelder-tree: and in like manner the reproaches which stirred in my brainhad no power to move my lips. The frail carnal tenement, swept andcleansed of all mortality, was garnished for Death's coming; and I couldnot sorrow at his advent here: but I perforce must pity rather thanrevile the prey which Age and Poverty, those ravenous forerunning houndsof Death yet harried, at the door of the tomb. 

Running over these considerations in my mind, I said, "I forgive you. "

"You posturing lack-wit!" she returned, and her sunk jaws quiveredangrily. "D'ye play the condescending gentleman already! Dearie, yourmaster did not take the news so calmly. "

"You have told him?"

I had risen, for the wried, and yet sly, malice of my aunt's face wasrather that of Bellona, who, as clerks avow, ever bore carnage anddissension in her train, than that of a mortal, mutton-fed woman. ElinorSommers hated me--having God knows how just a cause--for the reason thatI was my father's son; and yet, for this same reason as I think, therewas in all our intercourse an odd, harsh, grudging sort of tenderness. 

She laughed now, --flat and shrill, like the laughter of the damned heardin Hell between the roaring of flames. "Were it not common kindness totell him, since this old sleek fellow's fine daughter is to wed thecuckoo that hath your nest? Yes, Willie, yes, your master hath knownsince morning. "

"And Adeliza?" I asked, in a voice that tricked me. 

"Heh, my Lady-High-and-Mighty hath, I think, heard nothing as yet. Shewill be hearing of new suitors soon enough, though, for her father, Monsieur Fine-Words, that silky, grinning thief, is very keen in amoney-chase, --keen as a terrier on a rat-track, may Satan twist his neck!Pshutt, dearie! here is a smiling knave who means to have the estate ofAllonby as it stands; what live-stock may go therewith, whethercrack-brained or not, is all one to him. He will not balk at a drachm ortwo of wit in his son-in-law. You have but to whistle, --but to whistle, Willie, and she'll come!"

I said, "Eh, woman, and have you no heart?"

"I gave it to your father for a few lying speeches, " she answered, "andTom Allonby taught me the worth of all such commerce. " There was a smileupon her lips, sister to that which Clytemnestra may have flaunted inwelcome of that old Emperor Agamemnon, come in gory opulence from thesack of Troy Town. "I gave it--" Her voice rose here to a despairingwail. "Ah, go, before I lay my curse upon you, son of Thomas Allonby!But do you kiss me first, for you have just his lying mouth. So, that isbetter! And now go, my lord marquis; it is not fitting that deathshould intrude into your lordship's presence. Go, fool, and let me diein peace!"

I no longer cast a cautious eye toward the whip (ah, familiar unkindlywhip!) that still hung beside the door of the hut; but, I confess, myaunt's looks were none too delectable, and ancient custom rendered herwrath yet terrible. If the farmers thereabouts were to be trusted, I knewOld Legion's bailiff would shortly be at hand, to distrain upon a soulescheat and forfeited to Dis by many years of cruel witchcrafts, closewiles, and nameless sorceries; and I could never abide unpared nails, even though they be red-hot. Therefore, I relinquished her to the villagegossips, who waited without, and I tucked my bauble under my arm. 

"Dear aunt, " said I, "farewell!"

"Good-bye, Willie!" said she; "I shall often laugh in Hell to think ofthe crack-brained marquis that I made on earth. It was my will to make abeggar of Tom's son, but at the last I play the fool and cannot do it. But do you play the fool, too, dearie, and"--she chuckled here--"and haveyour posture and your fine long words, whatever happens. "

"'Tis my vocation, " I answered, briefly; and so went forth intothe night. 

2. _At the Ladder's Foot_

I came to Tiverton Manor through a darkness black as the lining ofBaalzebub's oldest cloak. The storm had passed, but clouds yet hungheavy as feather-beds between mankind and the stars; as I crossed thebridge the swollen Exe was but dimly visible, though it roared beneathme, and shook the frail timbers hungrily. The bridge had long beenunsafe: Monsieur de Puysange had planned one stronger and less hazardousthan the former edifice, of which the arches yet remained, and this wasnow in the making, as divers piles of unhewn lumber and stone attested:meanwhile, the roadway was a makeshift of half-rotten wood that even inthis abating wind shook villainously. I stood for a moment and heard thewaters lapping and splashing and laughing, as though they would hold itrare and desirable mirth to swallow and spew forth a powerful marquis, and grind his body among the battered timber and tree-boles and deadsheep swept from the hills, and at last vomit him into the sea, that acorpse, wide-eyed and livid, might bob up and down the beach, in quest ofa quiet grave where the name of Allonby was scarcely known. Theimagination was so vivid that it frightened me as I picked my waycat-footed through the dark. 

The folk of Tiverton Manor were knotting on their nightcaps, by this; butthere was a light in the Lady Adeliza's window, faint as a sick glowworm. I rolled in the seeded grass and chuckled, as I thought of what a day ortwo might bring about, and I murmured to myself an old cradle-song ofDevon which she loved and often sang; and was, ere I knew it, carollingaloud, for pure wantonness and joy that Monsieur de Puysange was notlikely to have me whipped, now, however blatantly I might elect todiscourse. 

Sang I:

_"Through the mist of years does it gleam as yet--That fair and free extentOf moonlit turret and parapet, Which castled, once, Content?

"Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, With drowsy music drowning merrimentWhere Dreams and Visions held high carnival, And frolicking frail Loves made light of all, --Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!"_

As I ended, the casement was pushed open, and the Lady Adeliza came uponthe balcony, the light streaming from behind her in such fashion as madeher appear an angel peering out of Heaven at our mortal antics. Indeed, there was always something more than human in her loveliness, though, tobe frank, it savored less of chilling paradisial perfection than of avision of some great-eyed queen of faery, such as those whose feet glideunwetted over our fen-waters when they roam o' nights in search of unwarytravellers. Lady Adeliza was a fair beauty; that is, her eyes were of thecolor of opals, and her complexion as the first rose of spring, blushingat her haste to snare men's hearts with beauty; and her loosened hairrippled in such a burst of splendor that I have seen a pale brilliancy, like that of amber, reflected by her bared shoulders where the brightwaves fell heavily against the tender flesh, and ivory vied with gold inbeauty. She was somewhat proud, they said; and to others she may havebeen, but to me, never. Her voice was a low, sweet song, her look that ofthe chaste Roman, beneficent Saint Dorothy, as she is pictured in ourChapel here at Tiverton. Proud, they called her! to me her condescensionswere so manifold that I cannot set them down: indeed, in all she spokeand did there was an extreme kindliness that made a courteous word fromher of more worth than a purse from another. 

She said, "Is it you, Will Sommers?"

"Madonna, " I answered, "with whom else should the owls confer? It is avenerable saying that extremes meet. And here you may behold itexemplified, as in the conference of an epicure and an ostrich: though, for this once, Wisdom makes bold to sit above Folly. "

"Did you carol, then, to the owls of Tiverton?" she queried. 

"Hand upon heart, " said I, "my grim gossips care less for my melody thanfor the squeaking of a mouse; and I sang rather for joy that at last Imay enter into the Castle of Content. "

The Lady Adeliza replied, "But nobody enters there alone. "

"Madonna, " said I, "your apprehension is nimble. I am in hope that awoman's hand may lower the drawbridge. "

She said only "You--!" Then she desisted, incredulous laughter breakingthe soft flow of speech. 

"Now, by Paul and Peter, those eminent apostles! the prophet Jeremy neverspake more veraciously in Edom! The fool sighs for a fair woman, --whatelse should he do, being a fool? Ah, madonna, as in very remote timesthat notable jester, Love, popped out of Night's wind-egg, and by hissorcery fashioned from the primeval tangle the pleasant earth that sleepsabout us, --even thus, may he not frame the disorder of a fool's braininto the semblance of a lover's? Believe me, the change is not so greatas you might think. Yet if you will, laugh at me, madonna, for I love awoman far above me, --a woman who knows not of my love, or, at most, considers it but as the homage which grateful peasants accord theall-nurturing sun; so that, now chance hath woven me a ladder whereby tomount to her, I scarcely dare to set my foot upon the bottom rung. "

"A ladder?" she said, oddly: "and are you talking of a rope ladder?"

"I would describe it, rather, " said I, "as a golden ladder. "

There came a silence. About us the wind wailed among the gaunt, desertedchoir of the trees, and in the distance an owl hooted sardonically. 

The Lady Adeliza said: "Be bold. Be bold, and know that a woman lovesonce and forever, whether she will or no. Love is not sold in the shops, and the grave merchants that trade in the ultimate seas, and send forthargosies even to jewelled Ind, to fetch home rich pearls, and strangeoutlandish dyes, and spiceries, and the raiment of imperious queens ofthe old time, have bought and sold no love, for all their traffic. It isabove gold. I know"--here her voice faltered somewhat--"I know of a womanwhose birth is very near the throne, and whose beauty, such as it is, hath been commended, who loved a man the politic world would have noneof, for he was not rich nor famous, nor even very wise. And the worldbade her relinquish him; but within the chambers of her heart his voicerang more loudly than that of the world, and for his least word said shewould leave all and go with him whither he would. And--she waits only forthe speaking of that word. "

"Be bold?" said I. 

"Ay, " she returned; "that is the moral of my tale. Make me a song of itto-night, dear Will, --and tomorrow, perhaps, you may learn how thiswoman, too, entered into the Castle of Content. "

"Madonna--!" I cried. 

"It is late, " said she, "and I must go. "

"To-morrow--?" I said. My heart was racing now. 

"Ay, to-morrow, --the morrow that by this draws very near. Farewell!" Shewas gone, casting one swift glance backward, even as the ancientParthians are fabled to have shot their arrows as they fled; and, if theairier missile, also, left a wound, I, for one, would not willingly havequitted her invulnerate. 

3. _Night, and a Stormed Castle_

I went forth into the woods that stand thick about Tiverton Manor, whereI lay flat on my back among the fallen leaves, dreaming many dreams tomyself, --dreams that were frolic songs of happiness, to which the papersin my jerkin rustled a reassuring chorus. 

I have heard that night is own sister to death; now, as the ultimate torncloud passed seaward, and the new-washed harvest-moon broke forth in ared glory, and stars clustered about her like a swarm of golden bees, Ithought this night was rather the parent of a new life. But, indeed, there is a solemnity in night beyond all jesting: for night knits up thetangled yarn of our day's doings into a pattern either good or ill; itrenews the vigor of the living, and with the lapsing of the tide it drawsthe dying toward night's impenetrable depths, gently; and it honors thesecrecy of lovers as zealously as that of rogues. In the morning ourbodies rise to their allotted work; but our wits have had their season inthe night, or of kissing, or of junketing, or of high resolve; and thegreater part of such noble deeds as day witnesses have been planned inthe solitude of night. It is the sage counsellor, the potent physicianthat heals and comforts the sorrows of all the world: and night provedsuch to me, as I pondered on the proud race of Allonby, and knew that inthe general record of time my name must soon be set as a sonorous wordsignificant, as the cat might jump, for much good or for large evil. 

And Adeliza loved me, and had bidden me be bold! I may not write of whatmy thoughts were as I considered that stupendous miracle. 

But even the lark that daily soars into the naked presence of the sunmust seek his woven nest among the grass at twilight; and so, with manyyawns, I rose after an hour of dreams to look for sleep. Tiverton Manorwas a formless blot on the mild radiance of the heavens, but I must needspause for a while, gazing up at the Lady Adeliza's window, like a hendrinking water, and thinking of divers matters. 

It was then that something rustled among the leaves, and, turning, Istared into the countenance of Stephen Allonby, until to-day Marquis ofFalmouth, a slim, comely youth, and son to my father's younger brother. 

"Fool, " said he, "you walk late. "

"Faith!" said I, "instinct warned me that a fool might find fit companyhere, --dear cousin. " He frowned at the word, for he was never prone toadmit the relationship, being in disposition somewhat precise. 

"Eh?" said he; then paused for a while. "I have more kinsmen than I knewof, " he resumed, at length, "and to-day spawns them thick as herrings. Your greeting falls strangely pat with that of a brother of yours, alleged to be begot in lawful matrimony, who hath appeared to claim thetitle and estates, and hath even imposed upon the credulity of Monsieurde Puysange. "

I said, "And who is this new kinsman?" though his speaking had brought myheart into my mouth. "I have many brethren, if report speak truly as tohow little my poor father slept at night. "

"I do not know, " said he. "The vicomte had not told me more than half thetale when I called him a double-faced old rogue. Thereafter weparted--well, rather hastily!"

I was moved with a sort of pity, since it was plainer than a pike-staffthat Monsieur de Puysange had bundled this penniless young fellow out ofTiverton, with scant courtesy and a scantier explanation. Still, thewording of this sympathy was a ticklish business. I waved my hand upward. "The match, then, is broken off, between you and the Lady Adeliza?"

"Ay!" my cousin said, grimly. 

Again I was nonplussed. Since their betrothal was an affair of rankconveniency, my Cousin Stephen should, in reason, grieve at thismiscarriage temperately, and yet if by some awkward chance he, too, adored the delicate comeliness asleep above us, equity conceded his tasteto be unfortunate rather than remarkable. Inwardly I resolved to bestowupon my Cousin Stephen a competence, and to pick out for him somewhere awife better suited to his station. Meanwhile a silence fell. 

He cleared his throat; swore softly to himself; took a brief turn on thegrass; and approached me, purse in hand. "It is time you were abed, " saidmy cousin. 

I assented to this. "And since one may sleep anywhere, " I reasoned, "whynot here?" Thereupon, for I was somewhat puzzled at his bearing, I laydown upon the gravel and snored. 

"Fool, " he said. I opened one eye. "I have business here"--I openedthe other--"with the Lady Adeliza. " He tossed me a coin as I sprangto my feet. 

"Sir--!" I cried out. 

"Ho, she expects me. "

"In that case--" said I. 

"The difficulty is to give a signal. "

"'Tis as easy as lying, " I reassured him; and thereupon I began to sing. 

Sang I:

_"Such toll we took of his niggling hoursThat the troops of Time were sentTo seise the treasures and fell the towersOf the Castle of Content. 

"Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, With flaming tower and tumbling battlementWhere Time hath conquered, and the firelight streamsAbove sore-wounded Loves and dying Dreams, --Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!"_

And I had scarcely ended when the casement opened. 

"Stephen!" said the Lady Adeliza. 

"Dear love!" said he. 

"Humph!" said I. 

Here a rope-ladder unrolled from the balcony and hit me upon the head. 

"Regard the orchard for a moment, " the Lady Adeliza said, with thewonderfullest little laugh. 

My cousin indignantly protested, "I have company, --a burr thatsticks to me. "

"A fool, " I explained, --"to keep him in countenance. "

"It was ever the part of folly, " said she, laughing yet again, "to beswayed by a woman; and it is the part of wisdom to be discreet. In anyevent, there must be no spectators. "

So we two Allonbys held each a strand of the ladder and stared at theripening apples, black globes among the wind-vext silver of the leaves. In a moment the Lady Adeliza stood between us. Her hand rested upon mineas she leapt to the ground, --the tiniest velvet-soft ounce-weight thatever set a man's blood a-tingle. 

"I did not know--" said she. 

"Faith, madonna!" said I, "no more did I till this. I deduce but now thatthe Marquis of Falmouth is the person you discoursed of an hour since, with whom you hope to enter the Castle of Content. "

"Ah, Will! dear Will, do not think lightly of me, " she said. "Myfather--"

"Is as all of them have been since Father Adam's dotage, " I ended; "andtherefore is keeping fools and honest horses from their rest. "

My cousin said, angrily, "You have been spying!"

"Because I know that there are horses yonder?" said I. "And foolshere--and everywhere? Surely, there needs no argent-bearded Merlin comeyawning out of Brocheliaunde to inform us of that. "

He said, "You will be secret?"

"In comparison, " I answered, "the grave is garrulous, and a death's-heada chattering magpie; yet I think that your maid, madonna, --"

"Beatris is sworn to silence. "

"Which signifies she is already on her way to Monsieur de Puysange. Shewas coerced; she discovered it too late; and a sufficiency of tears andpious protestations will attest her innocence. It is all one. " I winkedan eye very sagely. 

"Your jesting is tedious, " my cousin said. "Come, Adeliza!"

Blaise, my lord marquis' French servant, held three horses in theshadow, so close that it was incredible I had not heard their trampling. Now the lovers mounted and were off like thistledown ere Blaise put footto stirrup. 

"Blaise, " said I. 

"Ohé!" said he, pausing. 

"--if, upon this pleasurable occasion, I were to borrow your horse--"

"Impossible!"

"If I were to take it by force--" I exhibited my coin. 

"Eh?"

"--no one could blame you. "

"And yet perhaps--"

"The deduction is illogical, " said I. And pushing him aside, I mountedand set out into the night after my cousin and the Lady Adeliza. 

4. _All Ends in a Puff of Smoke_

They rode leisurely enough along the winding highway that lay in themoonlight like a white ribbon in a pedlar's box; and staying as I didsome hundred yards behind, they thought me no other than Blaise, being, indeed, too much engrossed with each other to regard the outer world verystrictly. So we rode a matter of three miles in the whispering, moonlitwoods, they prattling and laughing as though there were no such monsterin all the universe as a thrifty-minded father, and I brooding upon manythings beside my marquisate, and keeping an ear cocked backward forpossible pursuit. 

In any ordinary falling out of affairs they would ride unhindered toTeignmouth, and thence to Allonby Shaw; they counted fully upon doingthis; but I, knowing Beatris, who was waiting-maid to the Lady Adeliza, and consequently in the plot, to be the devil's own vixen, despite aninnocent face and a wheedling tongue, was less certain. 

I shall not easily forget that riding away from the old vicomte'spreparations to make a match of it between Adeliza and me. About us thewoods sighed and whispered, dappled by the moonlight with unstablechequerings of blue and silver. Tightly he clung to my crupper, thatswart tireless horseman, Care; but ahead rode Love, anterior to allthings and yet eternally young, in quest of the Castle of Content. Thehorses' hoofs beat against the pebbles as if in chorus to the Devoncradle-song that rang idly in my brain. 'Twas little to me--now--whetherthe quest were won or lost; yet, as I watched the Lady Adeliza's whitecloak tossing and fluttering in the wind, my blood pulsed more stronglythan it is wont to do, and was stirred by the keen odors of the night andby many memories of her gracious kindliness and by a desire to servesomewhat toward the attainment of her happiness. Thus it was that myteeth clenched, and a dog howled in the distance, and the world seemedvery old and very incurious of our mortal woes and joys. 

Then that befell which I had looked for, and I heard the clatter ofhorses' hoofs behind us, and knew that Monsieur de Puysange and his menwere at hand to rescue the Lady Adeliza from my fine-looking youngcousin, to put her into the bed of a rich fool. So I essayed a gallop. 

"Spur!" I cried;--"in the name of Saint Cupid!"

With a little gasp, she bent forward over her horse's mane, urging himonward with every nerve and muscle of her tender body. I could not keepmy gaze from her as we swept through the night. Picture Europa in hertraverse, bull-borne, through the summer sea, the depths giving up theirmisshapen deities, and the blind sea-snakes writhing about her in hideoushomage, while she, a little frightened, thinks resolutely of Crete beyondthese unaccustomed horrors and of the god desirous of her contentation;and there, to an eyelash, you have Adeliza as I saw her. 

But steadily our pursuers gained on us: and as we paused to pick our wayover the frail bridge that spanned the Exe, their clamor was very near. 

"Take care!" I cried, --but too late, for my horse swerved under me as Ispoke, and my lord marquis' steed caught foot in a pile of lumber andfell heavily. He was up in a moment, unhurt, but the horse was lamed. 

"You!" cried my Cousin Stephen. "Oh, but what fiend sends me thisburr again!"

I said: "My fellow-madmen, it is all one if I have a taste fornight-riding and the shedding of noble blood. Alack, though, that I haveleft my brave bauble at Tiverton! Had I that here, I might do such deeds!I might show such prowess upon the person of Monsieur de Puysange asyour Nine Worthies would quake to hear of! For I have the honor to informyou, my doves, that we are captured. "

Indeed, we were in train to be, for even the two sound horses werewell-nigh foundered: Blaise, the idle rogue, had not troubled to providefresh steeds, so easy had the flitting seemed; and it was conspicuousthat we would be overtaken in half an hour. 

"So it seems, " said Stephen Allonby. "Well! one can die but once. " Thusspeaking, he drew his sword with an air which might have been envied byCaptain Leonidas at Thermopylae. 

"Together, my heart!" she cried. 

"Madonna, " said I, dismounting as I spoke, "pray you consider! Withneither of you, is there any question of death; 'tis but that Monsieur dePuysange desires you to make a suitable match. It is not yet too late;his heart is kindly so long as he gets his will and profit everywhere, and he bears no malice toward my lord marquis. Yield, then, to yourfather's wishes, since there is no choice. "

She stared at me, as thanks for this sensible advice. "And you--is it youthat would enter into the Castle of Content?" she cried, with a scornthat lashed. 

I said: "Madonna, bethink you, you know naught of this man your fatherdesires you to wed. Is it not possible that he, too, may love--or maylearn to love you, on provocation? You are very fair, madonna. Yours is abeauty that may draw a man to Heaven or unclose the gates of Hell, atwill; indeed, even I, in my poor dreams, have seen your face as brightand glorious as is the lighted space above the altar when Christ's bloodand body are shared among His worshippers. Men certainly will never ceaseto love you. Will he--your husband that may be--prove less susceptible, we will say, than I? Ah, but, madonna, let us unrein imagination!Suppose, were it possible, that he--even now--yearns to enter into theCastle of Content, and that your hand, your hand alone, may draw the boltfor him, --that the thought of you is to him as a flame before which honorand faith shrivel as shed feathers, and that he has loved you these manyyears, unknown to you, long, long before the Marquis of Falmouth cameinto your life with his fair face and smooth sayings. Suppose, were itpossible, that he now stood before you, every pulse and fibre of himracked with an intolerable ecstasy of loving you, his heart one vasthunger for you, Adeliza, and his voice shaking as my voice shakes, andhis hands trembling as my hands tremble, --ah, see how they tremble, madonna, the poor foolish hands! Suppose, were it possible, --"

"Fool! O treacherous fool!" my cousin cried, in a fine rage. 

She rested her finger-tips upon his arm. "Hush!" she bade him; thenturned to me an uncertain countenance that was half pity, half wonder. "Dear Will, " said she, "if you have ever known aught of love, do you notunderstand how I love Stephen here?"

But she did not any longer speak as a lord's daughter speaks to the foolthat makes mirth for his betters. 

"In that case, " said I, --and my voice played tricks, --"in that case, mayI request that you assist me in gathering such brushwood as we may findhereabout?"

They both stared at me now. "My lord, " I said, "the Exe is high, thebridge is of wood, and I have flint and steel in my pocket. The ford isfive miles above and quite impassable. Do you understand me, my lord?"

He clapped his hands. "Oh, excellent!" he cried. 

Then, each having caught my drift, we heaped up a pile of broken boughsand twigs and brushwood on the bridge, all three gathering it together. And I wondered if the moon, that is co-partner in the antics of mostrogues and lovers, had often beheld a sight more reasonless than theforegathering of a marquis, a peer's daughter, and a fool at dead ofnight to make fagots. 

When we had done I handed him the flint and steel. "My lord, " said I, "the honor is yours. "

"Udsfoot!" he murmured, in a moment, swearing and striking futile sparks, "but the late rain has so wet the wood that it will not kindle. "

I said, "Assuredly, in such matters a fool is indispensable. " I heapedbefore him the papers that made an honest woman of my mother and amarquis of me, and seizing the flint, I cast a spark among them that setthem crackling cheerily. Oh, I knew well enough that patience would coaxa flame from those twigs without my paper's aid, but to be patient doesnot afford the posturing which youth loves. So it was a comfort to wreckall magnificently: and I knew that, too, as we three drew back upon thewestern bank and watched the writhing twigs splutter and snap and burn. 

The bridge caught apace and in five minutes afforded passage to nothingshort of the ardent equipage of the prophet Elias. Five minutes later thebridge did not exist: only the stone arches towered above the roaringwaters that glistened in the light of the fire, which had, by this, reached the other side of the river, to find quick employment in thewoods of Tiverton. Our pursuers rode through a glare which was that ofHell's kitchen on baking-day, and so reached the Exe only to curse vainlyand to shriek idle imprecations at us, who were as immune from theiranger as though the severing river had been Pyriphlegethon. 

"My lord, " I presently suggested, "it may be that your priestexpects you?"

"Indeed, " said he, laughing, "it is possible. Let us go. " Thereupon theymounted the two sound horses. "Most useful burr, " said he, "do you followon foot to Teignmouth; and there--"

"Sir, " I replied, "my home is at Tiverton. "

He wheeled about. "Do you not fear--?"

"The whip?" said I. "Ah, my lord, I have been whipped ere this. It isnot the greatest ill in life to be whipped. "

He began to protest. 

"But, indeed, I am resolved, " said I. "Farewell!"

He tossed me his purse. "As you will, " he retorted, shortly. "We thankyou for your aid; and if I am still master of Allonby--"

"No fear of that!" I said. "Farewell, good cousin marquis! I cannot weepat your going, since it brings you happiness. And we have it on excellentauthority that the laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns undera pot. Accordingly, I bid you God-speed in a discreet silence. "

I stood fumbling my cousin's gold as he went forward into the night; butshe did not follow. 

"I am sorry--" she began. She paused and the lithe fingers fretted withher horse's mane. 

I said: "Madonna, earlier in this crowded night, you told me of love'snature: must my halting commentary prove the glose upon your text? Look, then, to be edified while the fool is delivered of his folly. For uponthe maternal side, love was born of the ocean, madonna, and the ocean isbut salt water, and salt water is but tears; and thus may love claimlove's authentic kin with sorrow. Ay, certainly, madonna, Fate hathordained for her diversion that through sorrow alone we lovers may attainto the true Castle of Content. "

There was a long silence, and the wind wailed among the falling, tattered leaves. "Had I but known--" said Adeliza, very sadly. 

I said: "Madonna, go forward and God speed you! Yonder your lover waitsfor you, and the world is exceedingly fair; here is only a fool. As forthis new Marquis of Falmouth, let him trouble you no longer. 'Tis anEastern superstition that we lackbrains are endowed with peculiar giftsof prophecy: and as such, I predict, very confidently, madonna, that youwill see and hear no more of him in this life. "

I caught my breath. In the moonlight she seemed God's master-work. Hereyes were big with half-comprehended sorrow, and a slender hand stoletimorously toward me. I laughed, seeing how she strove to pity my greatsorrow and could not, by reason of her great happiness. I laughed and wascontent. "As surely as God reigns in Heaven, " I cried aloud, "I amcontent, and this moment is well purchased with a marquisate!"

Indeed, I was vastly uplift and vastly pleased with my own nobleness, just then, and that condition is always a comfort. 

More alertly she regarded me; and in her eyes I saw the anxiety and thewonder merge now into illimitable pity. "That, too!" she said, smilingsadly. "That, too, O son of Thomas Allonby!" And her mothering arms wereclasped about me, and her lips clung and were one with my lips for amoment, and her tears were wet upon my cheek. She seemed to shield me, making of her breast my sanctuary. 

"My dear, my dear, I am not worthy!" said Adeliza, with a tenderness Icannot tell you of; and presently she, too, was gone. 

I mounted the lamed horse, who limped slowly up the river bank; veryslowly we came out from the glare of the crackling fire into the cooldarkness of the autumn woods; very slowly, for the horse was lamed andwearied, and patience is a discreet virtue when one journeys towardcurses and the lash of a dog-whip: and I thought of many quips and jestswhereby to soothe the anger of Monsieur de Puysange, and I sang to myselfas I rode through the woods, a nobleman no longer, a tired Jack-puddingwhose tongue must save his hide. 

Sang I:

_"The towers are fallen; no laughter ringsThrough the rafters, charred and rent;The ruin is wrought of all goodly thingsIn the Castle of Content. 

"Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, Rased in the Land of Youth, where mirth was meant!Nay, all is ashes 'there; and all in vainHand-shadowed eyes turn backward, to regainDisastrous memories of that dear domain, --Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!"_

 * * * * *

MAY 27, 1559

_"'O welladay!' said Beichan then, 'That I so soon have married thee!For it can be none but Susie Pie, That sailed the sea for love of me. '"_

_How Will Sommers encountered the Marchioness of Falmouth in theCardinal's house at Whitehall, and how in Windsor Forest that noble ladydied with the fool's arms about her, does not concern us here. That ismatter for another tale. 

You are not, though, to imagine any scandal. Barring an affair with SirHenry Rochford, and another with Lord Norreys, and the brief interval in1525 when the King was enamored of her, there is no record that themarchioness ever wavered from the choice her heart had made, or had anyespecial reason to regret it. 

So she lived and died, more virtuously and happily than most, and foundthe marquis a fair husband, as husbands go; and bore him three sons anda daughter. 

But when the ninth Marquis of Falmouth died long after his wife, in theNovember of 1557, he was survived by only one of these sons, a juniorStephen, born in 1530, who at his father's demise succeeded to the title. The oldest son, Thomas, born 1531, had been killed in Wyatt's Rebellionin 1554; the second, George, born 1526, with a marked look of the King, was, in February, 1556, stabbed in a disreputable tavern brawl. 

Now we have to do with the tenth Marquis of Falmouth's suit for the handof Lady Ursula Heleigh, the Earl of Brudenel's co-heiress. You are toimagine yourself at Longaville Court, in Sussex, at a time when AnneBullen's daughter was very recently become Queen of England. _

CHAPTER VIII

_The Episode Called In Ursula's Garden_

1. Love, and Love's Mimic

Her three lovers had praised her with many canzonets and sonnets on thatMay morning as they sat in the rose-garden at Longaville, and thesun-steeped leaves made a tempered aromatic shade about them. Afterwardthey had drawn grass-blades to decide who should accompany the LadyUrsula to the summer pavilion, that she might fetch her viol and singthem a song of love, and in the sylvan lottery chance had favored theEarl of Pevensey. 

Left to themselves, the Marquis of Falmouth and Master Richard Mervaleregarded each the other, irresolutely, like strange curs uncertainwhether to fraternize or to fly at one another's throat. Then MasterMervale lay down in the young grass, stretched himself, twirled his thinblack mustachios, and chuckled in luxurious content. 

"Decidedly, " said he, "your lordship is past master in the art ofwooing; no university in the world would refuse you a degree. "

The marquis frowned. He was a great bluff man, with wheat-colored hair, and was somewhat slow-witted. After a little he found the quizzical, boyish face that mocked him irresistible, and he laughed, and unbent fromthe dignified reserve which he had for a while maintained portentously. 

"Master Mervale, " said the marquis, "I will be frank with you, for youappear a lad of good intelligence, as lads run, and barring a trifle ofaffectation and a certain squeamishness in speech. When I would goexploring into a woman's heart, I must pay my way in the land's currentcoinage of compliments and high-pitched protestations. Yes, yes, suchsixpenny phrases suffice the seasoned traveler, who does notostentatiously display his gems while traveling. Now, in courtship, Master Mervale, one traverses ground more dubious than the Indies, andthe truth, Master Mervale, is a jewel of great price. "

Master Mervale raised his eyebrows. "The truth?" he queried, gently. "Nowhow, I wonder, did your lordship happen to think of that remoteabstraction. " For beyond doubt, Lord Falmouth's wooing had been thatmorning of a rather florid sort. 

However, "It would surely be indelicate, " the marquis suggested, "toallow even truth to appear quite unclothed in the presence of a lady?" Hesmiled and took a short turn on the grass. "Look you, Master Mervale, "said he, narrowing his pale-blue eyes to slits, "I have, somehow, adisposition to confidence come upon me. Frankly, my passion for the LadyUrsula burns more mildly than that which Antony bore the Egyptian; it isless a fire to consume kingdoms than a candle wherewith to light acontented home; and quite frankly, I mean to have her. The estates lieconvenient, the families are of equal rank, her father is agreed, and shehas a sufficiency of beauty; there are, in short, no obstacles to ourunion save you and my lord of Pevensey, and these, I confess, I do notfear. I can wait, Master Mervale. Oh, I am patient, Master Mervale, but, I own, I cannot brook denial. It is I, or no one. By Saint Gregory! Iwear steel at my side, Master Mervale, that will serve for other purposessave that of opening oysters!" So he blustered in the spring sunlight, and frowned darkly when Master Mervale appeared the more amused thanimpressed. 

"Your patience shames Job the Patriarch, " said Master Mervale, "yet, itseems to me, my lord, you do not consider one thing. I grant you thatPevensey and I are your equals neither in estate nor reputation; still, setting modesty aside, is it not possible the Lady Ursula may come, intime, to love one of us?"

"Setting common sense aside, " said the marquis, stiffly, "it is possibleshe may be smitten with the smallpox. Let us hope, however, that she mayescape both of these misfortunes. "

The younger man refrained from speech for a while. Presently, "You likenlove to a plague, " he said, "yet I have heard there was once a cousin ofthe Lady Ursula's--a Mistress Katherine Beaufort--"

"Swounds!" Lord Falmouth had wheeled about, scowled, and then tappedsharply upon the palm of one hand with the nail-bitten fingers of theother. "Ay, " said he, more slowly, "there was such a person. "

"She loved you?" Master Mervale suggested. 

"God help me!" replied the marquis; "we loved each other! I know not howyou came by your information, nor do I ask. Yet, it is ill to open an oldwound. I loved her; let that suffice. " With a set face, he turned awayfor a moment and gazed toward the high parapets of Longaville, half-hidden by pale foliage and very white against the rain-washed sky;then groaned, and glared angrily into the lad's upturned countenance. "You talk of love, " said the marquis; "a love compounded equally ofyouthful imagination, a liking for fantastic phrases and a dispositionfor caterwauling i' the moonlight. Ah, lad, lad!--if you but knew! Thatis not love; to love is to go mad like a star-struck moth, and afterwardto strive in vain to forget, and to eat one's heart out in theloneliness, and to hunger--hunger--" The marquis spread his big handshelplessly, and then, with a quick, impatient gesture, swept back themass of wheat-colored hair that fell about his face. "Ah, MasterMervale, " he sighed, "I was right after all, --it is the cruelest plaguein the world, and that same smallpox leaves less troubling scars. "

"Yet, " Master Mervale said, with courteous interest, "you did not marry?"

"Marry!" His lordship snarled toward the sun and laughed. "Look you, Master Mervale, I know not how far y'are acquainted with the business. Itwas in Cornwall yonder years since; I was but a lad, and she awench, --Oh, such a wench, with tender blue eyes, and a faint, sweet voicethat could deny me nothing! God does not fashion her like everyday, --_Dieu qui la fist de ses deux mains_, saith the Frenchman. " Themarquis paced the grass, gnawing his lip and debating with himself. "Marry? Her family was good, but their deserts outranked their fortunes;their crest was not the topmost feather in Fortune's cap, you understand;somewhat sunken i' the world, Master Mervale, somewhat sunken. And I? Myfather--God rest his bones!--was a cold, hard man, and my two elderbrothers--Holy Virgin, pray for them!--loved me none too well. I was thecadet then: Heaven helps them that help themselves, says my father, and Iha'n't a penny for you. My way was yet to make in the world; to saddlemyself with a dowerless wench--even a wench whose least 'Good-morning'set a man's heart hammering at his ribs--would have been folly, MasterMervale. Utter, improvident, shiftless, bedlamite folly, lad!"

"H'm!" Master Mervale cleared his throat, twirled his mustachios, andsmiled at some unspoken thought. "We pay for our follies in thisworld, my lord, but I sometimes think that we pay even more dearly forour wisdom. "

"Ah, lad, lad!" the marquis cried, in a gust of anger; "I dare say, asyour smirking hints, it was a coward's act not to snap fingers at fateand fathers and dare all! Well! I did not dare. We parted--in whatlamentable fashion is now of little import--and I set forth to seek myfortune. Ho, it was a brave world then, Master Mervale, for all the tearsthat were scarce dried on my cheeks! A world wherein the heavens were asblue as a certain woman's eyes, --a world wherein a likely lad might seefar countries, waggle a good sword in Babylon and Tripolis and otherultimate kingdoms, beard the Mussulman in his mosque, and at last fetchhome--though he might never love her, you understand--a soldan's daughterfor his wife, --

_With more gay gold about her middleThan would buy half Northumberlee. "_

His voice died away. He sighed and shrugged. "Eh, well!" said themarquis; "I fought in Flanders somewhat--in Spain--what matter where?Then, at last, sickened in Amsterdam, three years ago, where a messengercomes to haul me out of bed as future Marquis of Falmouth. One brotherslain in a duel, Master Mervale; one killed in Wyatt's Rebellion; myfather dying, and--Heaven rest his soul!--not over-eager to meet hisMaker. There you have it, Master Mervale, --a right pleasant jest ofFortune's perpetration, --I a marquis, my own master, fit mate for anywoman in the kingdom, and Kate--my Kate who was past humanpraising!--vanished. "

"Vanished?" The lad echoed the word, with wide eyes. 

"Vanished in the night, and no sign nor rumor of her since! Gone to seekme abroad, no doubt, poor wench! Dead, dead, beyond question, MasterMervale!" The marquis swallowed, and rubbed his lips with the back of hishand. "Ah, well!" said he; "it is an old sorrow!"

The male animal shaken by strong emotion is to his brothers anembarrassing rather than a pathetic sight. Master Mervale, lowering hiseyes discreetly, rooted up several tufts of grass before he spoke. Then, "My lord, you have known of love, " said he, very slowly; "does theresurvive no kindliness for aspiring lovers in you who have been one of us?My lord of Pevensey, I think, loves the Lady Ursula, at least, as much asyou ever loved this Mistress Katherine; of my own adoration I do notspeak, save to say that I have sworn never to marry any other woman. Herfather favors you, for you are a match in a thousand; but you do not loveher. It matters little to you, my lord, whom she may wed; to us itsignifies a life's happiness. Will not the memory of that Cornishlass--the memory of moonlit nights, and of those sweet, vain aspirationsand foiled day-dreams that in boyhood waked your blood even to suchbrave folly as now possesses us, --will not the memory of these thingssoften you, my lord?"

But Falmouth by this time appeared half regretful of his recent outburst, and somewhat inclined to regard his companion as a dangerously plausibleyoung fellow who had very unwarrantably wormed himself into LordFalmouth's confidence. Falmouth's heavy jaw shut like a trap. 

"By Saint Gregory!" said he; "if ever such notions soften me at all, Ipray to be in hell entirely melted! What I have told you of is past, Master Mervale; and a wise man does not meditate unthriftily uponspilt milk. "

"You are adamant?" sighed the boy. 

"The nether millstone, " said the marquis, smiling grimly, "is incomparison a pillow of down. "

"Yet--yet the milk was sweet, my lord?" the boy suggested, with a faintanswering smile. 

"Sweet!" The marquis' voice had a deep tremor. 

"And if the choice lay between Ursula and Katherine?"

"Oh, fool!--Oh, pink-cheeked, utter ignorant fool!" the marquis groaned. "Did I not say you knew nothing of love?"

"Heigho!" Master Mervale put aside all glum-faced discussion, with alittle yawn, and sprang to his feet. "Then we can but hope thatsomewhere, somehow, Mistress Katherine yet lives and in her own good timemay reappear. And while we speak of reappearances--surely the Lady Ursulais strangely tardy in making hers?"

The marquis' jealousy when it slumbered slept with an open ear. "Let usjoin them, " he said, shortly, and he started through the gardens withquick, stiff strides. 

2. _Song-guerdon_

They went westward toward the summer pavilion. Presently the marquisblundered into the green gloom of the maze, laid out in the Italianfashion, and was extricated only by the superior knowledge of MasterMervale, who guided Falmouth skilfully and surely through manifoldintricacies, to open daylight. 

Afterward they came to a close-shaven lawn, where the summer pavilionstood beside the brook that widened here into an artificial pond, spreadwith lily-pads and fringed with rushes. The Lady Ursula sat with the Earlof Pevensey beneath a burgeoning maple-tree. Such rays as sifted throughinto their cool retreat lay like splotches of wine upon the ground, andthere the taller grass-blades turned to needles of thin silver; onepalpitating beam, more daring than the rest, slanted straight toward thelittle head of the Lady Ursula, converting her hair into a halo of mistygold, that appeared out of place in this particular position. She seemeda Bassarid who had somehow fallen heir to an aureole; for otherwise, tophrase it sedately, there was about her no clamant suggestion ofsaintship. At least, there is no record of any saint in the calendar whoever looked with laughing gray-green eyes upon her lover and mocked atthe fervor and trepidation of his speech. This the Lady Ursula now did;and, manifestly, enjoyed the doing of it. 

Within the moment the Earl of Pevensey took up the viol that lay besidethem, and sang to her in the clear morning. He was sunbrowned and verycomely, and his big, black eyes were tender as he sang to her sittingthere in the shade. He himself sat at her feet in the sunlight. 

Sang the Earl of Pevensey:

_"Ursula, spring wakes about us--Wakes to mock at us and flout usThat so coldly do delay:When the very birds are mating, Pray you, why should we be waiting--We that might be wed to-day!

"'Life is short, ' the wise men tell us;--Even those dusty, musty fellowsThat have done with life, --and passWhere the wraith of AristotleHankers, vainly, for a bottle, Youth and some frank Grecian lass. _

"Ah, I warrant you;--and ZenoWould not reason, now, could he knowOne more chance to live and love:For, at best, the merry May-timeIs a very fleeting play-time;--Why, then, waste an hour thereof?

"Plato, Solon, Periander, Seneca, Anaximander, Pyrrho, and Parmenides!Were one hour alone remainingWould ye spend it in attainingLearning, or to lips like these?

"Thus, I demonstrate by reasonNow is our predestined seasonFor the garnering of all bliss;Prudence is but long-faced folly;Cry a fig for melancholy!Seal the bargain with a kiss"_

When he had ended, the Earl of Pevensey laughed and looked up into theLady Ursula's face with a long, hungry gaze; and the Lady Ursula laughedlikewise and spoke kindly to him, though the distance was too great forthe eavesdroppers to overhear. Then, after a little, the Lady Ursula bentforward, out of the shade of the maple into the sun, so that the sunlightfell upon her golden head and glowed in the depths of her hair, as shekissed Pevensey, tenderly and without haste, full upon the lips. 

3. _Falmouth Furens_

The Marquis of Falmouth caught Master Mervale's arm in a grip that madethe boy wince. Lord Falmouth's look was murderous, as he turned in theshadow of a white-lilac bush and spoke carefully through sharp breathsthat shook his great body. 

"There are, " said he, "certain matters I must immediately discuss with mylord of Pevensey. I desire you, Master Mervale, to fetch him to the spotwhere we parted last, so that we may talk over these matters quietly andundisturbed. For else--go, lad, and fetch him!"

For a moment the boy faced the half-shut pale eyes that were like coalssmouldering behind a veil of gray ash. Then he shrugged his shoulders, sauntered forward, and doffed his hat to the Lady Ursula. There followedmuch laughter among the three, many explanations from Master Mervale, and yet more laughter from the lady and the earl. The marquis ground hisbig, white teeth as he listened, and he appeared to disapprove of somuch mirth. 

"Foh, the hyenas! the apes, the vile magpies!" the marquis observed. Heheaved a sigh of relief, as the Earl of Pevensey, raising his handslightly toward heaven, laughed once more, and departed into thethicket. Lord Falmouth laughed in turn, though not very pleasantly. Afterward he loosened his sword in the scabbard and wheeled back to seektheir rendezvous in the shadowed place where they had made sonnets tothe Lady Ursula. 

For some ten minutes the marquis strode proudly through the maze, pondering, by the look of him, on the more fatal tricks of fencing. In aquarter of an hour he was lost in a wilderness of trim yew-hedges whichconfronted him stiffly at every outlet and branched off into innumerablegravelled alleys that led nowhither. 

"Swounds!" said the marquis. He retraced his steps impatiently. He casthis hat upon the ground in seething desperation. He turned in a differentdirection, and in two minutes trod upon his discarded head-gear. 

"Holy Gregory!" the marquis commented. He meditated for a moment, thencaught up his sword close to his side and plunged into the nearesthedge. After a little he came out, with a scratched face and a scantbreath, into another alley. As the crow flies, he went through the mazeof Longaville, leaving in his rear desolation and snapped yew-twigs. Hecame out of the ruin behind the white-lilac bush, where he had stood andhad heard the Earl of Pevensey sing to the Lady Ursula, and had seenwhat followed. 

The marquis wiped his brow. He looked out over the lawn and breathedheavily. The Lady Ursula still sat beneath the maple, and beside her wasMaster Mervale, whose arm girdled her waist. Her arm was about his neck, and she listened as he talked eagerly with many gestures. Then they bothlaughed and kissed each other. 

"Oh, defend me!" groaned the marquis. Once more he wiped his brow, as hecrouched behind the white-lilac bush. "Why, the woman is a secondMessalina!" he said. "Oh, the trollop! the wanton! Oh, holy Gregory! YetI must be quiet--quiet as a sucking lamb, that I may strike afterward asa roaring lion. Is this your innocence, Mistress Ursula, that cannotendure the spoken name of a spade? Oh, splendor of God!"

Thus he raged behind the white-lilac bush while they laughed and kissedunder the maple-tree. After a space they parted. The Lady Ursula, stilllaughing, lifted the branches of the rearward thicket and disappearedin the path which the Earl of Pevensey had taken. Master Mervale, kissing his hand and laughing yet more loudly, lounged toward theentrance of the maze. 

The jackanapes (as anybody could see), was in a mood to be pleased withhimself. Smiles eddied about the boy's face, his heels skipped, disdaining the honest grass; and presently he broke into a glad littlesong, all trills and shakes, like that of a bird ecstasizing over theperfections of his mate. 

Sang Master Mervale:

_"Listen, all lovers! the spring is hereAnd the world is not amiss;As long as laughter is good to hear, And lips are good to kiss, As long as Youth and Spring endure, There is never an evil past a cureAnd the world is never amiss. 

"O lovers all, I bid ye declareThe world is a pleasant place;--Give thanks to God for the gift so fair, Give thanks for His singular grace!Give thanks for Youth and Love and Spring!Give thanks, as gentlefolk should, and sing, 'The world is a pleasant place!'"_

In mid-skip Master Mervale here desisted, his voice trailing intoinarticulate vowels. After many angry throes, a white-lilac bush had beendelivered of the Marquis of Falmouth, who now confronted Master Mervale, furiously moved. 

4. _Love Rises from un-Cytherean Waters_

"I have heard, Master Mervale, " said the marquis, gently, "that loveis blind?"

The boy stared at the white face, that had before his eyes veiled ragewith a crooked smile. So you may see the cat, tense for the fatal spring, relax and with one paw indolently flip the mouse. 

"It is an ancient fable, my lord, " the boy said, smiling, and made asthough to pass. 

"Indeed, " said the marquis, courteously, but without yielding an inch, "it is a very reassuring fable: for, " he continued, meditatively, "werethe eyes of all lovers suddenly opened, Master Mervale, I suspect itwould prove a red hour for the world. There would be both tempers andreputations lost, Master Mervale; there would be sword-thrusts; therewould be corpses, Master Mervale. "

"Doubtless, my lord, " the lad assented, striving to jest and have done;"for all flesh is frail, and as the flesh of woman is frailer than thatof man, so is it, as I remember to have read, the more easily entrappedby the gross snares of the devil, as was over-well proved by theserpent's beguiling deceit of Eve at the beginning. "

"Yet, Master Mervale, " pursued the marquis, equably, but without smiling, "there be lovers in the world that have eyes?"

"Doubtless, my lord, " said the boy. 

"There also be women in the world, Master Mervale, " Lord Falmouthsuggested, with a deeper gravity, "that are but the handsome sepulchresof iniquity, --ay, and for the major part of women, those miracles whichare their bodies, compact of white and gold and sprightly color thoughthey be, serve as the lovely cerements of corruption. "

"Doubtless, my lord. The devil, as they say, is homelier with that sex. "

"There also be swords in the world, Master Mervale?" purred the marquis. He touched his own sword as he spoke. 

"My lord--!" the boy cried, with a gasp. 

"Now, swords have at least three uses, Master Mervale, " Falmouthcontinued. "With a sword one may pick a cork from a bottle; with a swordone may toast cheese about the Twelfth Night fire; and with a sword onemay spit a man, Master Mervale, --ay, even an ambling, pink-faced, lispinglad that cannot boo at a goose, Master Mervale. I have no inclination, Master Mervale, just now, for either wine or toasted cheese. "

"I do not understand you, my lord, " said the boy, in a thin voice. 

"Indeed, I think we understand each other perfectly, " said the marquis. "For I have been very frank with you, and I have watched you from behindthis bush. "

The boy raised his hand as though to speak. 

"Look you, Master Mervale, " the marquis argued, "you and my lord ofPevensey and I be brave fellows; we need a wide world to bustle in. Now, the thought has come to me that this small planet of ours is scarcelycommodious enough for all three. There be purgatory and Heaven, and yetanother place, Master Mervale; why, then, crowd one another?"

"My lord, " said the boy, dully, "I do not understand you. "

"Holy Gregory!" scoffed the marquis; "surely my meaning is plain enough!it is to kill you first, and my lord of Pevensey afterward! Y'arephoenixes, Master Mervale, Arabian birds! Y'are too good for this world. Longaville is not fit to be trodden under your feet; and therefore it ismy intention that you leave Longaville feet first. Draw, MasterMervale!" cried the marquis, his light hair falling about his flushed, handsome face as he laughed joyously, and flashed his sword in thespring sunshine. 

The boy sprang back, with an inarticulate cry; then gulped some dignityinto himself and spoke. "My lord, " he said, "I admit that explanation mayseem necessary. "

"You will render it, if to anybody, Master Mervale, to my heir, who willdoubtless accord it such credence as it merits. For my part, having twoduels on my hands to-day, I have no time to listen to a romance out ofthe Hundred Merry Tales. "

Falmouth had placed himself on guard; but Master Mervale stood withchattering teeth and irresolute, groping hands, and made no effort todraw. "Oh, the block! the curd-faced cheat!" cried the marquis. "Willnothing move you?" With his left hand he struck at the boy. 

Thereupon Master Mervale gasped, and turning with a great sob, ranthrough the gardens. The marquis laughed discordantly; then he followed, taking big leaps as he ran and flourishing his sword. 

"Oh, the coward!" he shouted; "Oh, the milk-livered rogue! Oh, youpaltry rabbit!"

So they came to the bank of the artificial pond. Master Mervale swervedas with an oath the marquis pounced at him. Master Mervale's foot caughtin the root of a great willow, and Master Mervale splashed into ten feetof still water, that glistened like quicksilver in the sunlight. 

"Oh, Saint Gregory!" the marquis cried, and clasped his sides in noisymirth; "was there no other way to cool your courage? Paddle out and beflogged, Master Hare-heels!" he called. The boy had come to the surfaceand was swimming aimlessly, parallel to the bank. "Now I have heard, "said the marquis, as he walked beside him, "that water swells a man. PrayHeaven, it may swell his heart a thousandfold or so, and thus hearten himfor wholesome exercise after his ducking--a friendly thrust or two, alittle judicious bloodletting to ward off the effects of the damp. "

The marquis started as Master Mervale grounded on a shallow and rose, dripping, knee-deep among the lily-pads. "Oh, splendor of God!" criedthe marquis. 

Master Mervale had risen from his bath almost clean-shaven; only onesodden half of his mustachios clung to his upper lip, and as he rubbedthe water from his eyes, this remaining half also fell away from theboy's face. 

"Oh, splendor of God!" groaned the marquis. He splashed noisily intothe water. "O Kate, Kate!" he cried, his arms about Master Mervale. "Oh, blind, blind, blind! O heart's dearest! Oh, my dear, my dear!"he observed. 

Master Mervale slipped from his embrace and waded to dry land. "Mylord, --" he began, demurely. 

"My lady wife, --" said his lordship of Falmouth, with a tremulous smile. He paused, and passed his hand over his brow. "And yet I do notunderstand, " he said. "Y'are dead; y'are buried. It was a frightened boyI struck. " He spread out his strong arms. "O world! O sun! O stars!" hecried; "she is come back to me from the grave. O little world! smallshining planet! I think that I could crush you in my hands!"

"Meanwhile, " Master Mervale suggested, after an interval, "it is I thatyou are crushing. " He sighed, --though not very deeply, --and continued, with a hiatus: "They would have wedded me to Lucius Rossmore, and I couldnot--I could not--"

"That skinflint! that palsied goat!" the marquis growled. 

"He was wealthy, " said Master Mervale. Then he sighed once more. "Thereseemed only you, --only you in all the world. A man might come to you inthose far-off countries: a woman might not. I fled by night, my lord, bythe aid of a waiting-woman; became a man by the aid of a tailor; and setout to find you by the aid of such impudence as I might muster. But luckdid not travel with me. I followed you through Flanders, Italy, Spain, --always just too late; always finding the bird flown, the nest yetwarm. Presently I heard you were become Marquis of Falmouth; then I gaveup the quest. "

"I would suggest, " said the marquis, "that my name is Stephen;--but why, in the devil's name, should you give up a quest so laudable?"

"Stephen Allonby, my lord, " said Master Mervale, sadly, "was not Marquisof Falmouth; as Marquis of Falmouth, you might look to mate with anywoman short of the Queen. "

"To tell you a secret, " the marquis whispered, "I look to mate with onebeside whom the Queen--not to speak treason--is but a lean-faced, yellowpiece of affectation. I aim higher than royalty, heart'sdearest, --aspiring to one beside whom empresses are but common hussies. "

"And Ursula?" asked Master Mervale, gently. 

"Holy Gregory!" cried the marquis, "I had forgot! Poor wench, poor wench!I must withdraw my suit warily, --firmly, of course, yet very kindlily, you understand, so as to grieve her no more than must be. Poorwench!--well, after all, " he hopefully suggested, "there is yetPevensey. "

"O Stephen! Stephen!" Master Mervale murmured; "Why, there was never anyother but Pevensey! For Ursula knows all, --knows there was never anymore manhood in Master Mervale's disposition than might be gummed on witha play-actor's mustachios! Why, she is my cousin, Stephen, --my cousin andgood friend, to whom I came at once on reaching England, to find you, favored by her father, pestering her with your suit, and the poor girlwell-nigh at her wits' end because she might not have Pevensey. So, " saidMaster Mervale, "we put our heads together, Stephen, as you observe. "

"Indeed, " my lord of Falmouth said, "it would seem that you two wencheshave, between you, concocted a very pleasant comedy. "

"It was not all a comedy, " sighed Master Mervale, --"not all a comedy, Stephen, until to-day when you told Master Mervale the story of KatherineBeaufort. For I did not know--I could not know--"

"And now?" my lord of Falmouth queried. 

"H'm!" cried Master Mervale, and he tossed his head. "You are veryunreasonable in anger! you are a veritable Turk! you struck me!"

The marquis rose, bowing low to his former adversary. "Master Mervale, "said the marquis, "I hereby tender you my unreserved apologies for theaffront I put upon you. I protest I was vastly mistaken in yourdisposition and hold you as valorous a gentleman as was ever made bybarbers' tricks; and you are at liberty to bestow as many kisses andcaresses upon the Lady Ursula as you may elect, reserving, however, areasonable sufficiency for one that shall be nameless. Are we friends, Master Mervale?"

Master Mervale rested his head upon Lord Falmouth's shoulder, and sighedhappily. Master Mervale laughed, --a low and gentle laugh that was vibrantwith content. But Master Mervale said nothing, because there seemed to bebetween these two, who were young in the world's recaptured youth, nolonger any need of idle speaking. 

 * * * * *

JUNE 1, 1593

_"She was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us that favor, as to let us see that peerless dame, weshould think ourselves much beholding unto you. "_

_There was a double wedding some two weeks later in the chapel atLongaville: and each marriage appears to have been happy enough. 

The tenth Marquis of Falmouth had begotten sixteen children withinseventeen years, at the end of which period his wife unluckily died inproducing a final pledge of affection. This child, a daughter, survived, and was christened Cynthia: of her you may hear later. 

Meanwhile the Earl and the Countess of Pevensey had propagated moremoderately; and Pevensey had played a larger part in public life than wasallotted to Falmouth, who did not shine at Court. Pevensey, indeed, hashis sizable niche in history: his Irish expeditions, in 1575, were oncenotorious, as well as the circumstances of the earl's death in that yearat Triloch Lenoch. His more famous son, then a boy of eight, succeeded tothe title, and somewhat later, as the world knows, to the hazardousposition of chief favorite to Queen Elizabeth. 

"For Pevensey has the vision of a poet, "--thus Langard quotes the lonelyold Queen, --"and to balance it, such mathematics as add two and twocorrectly, where you others smirk and assure me it sums up to whateverthe Queen prefers. I have need of Pevensey: in this parched little ageall England has need of Pevensey. "

That is as it may have been: at all events, it is with this LordPevensey, at the height of his power, that we have now to do. _

CHAPTER IX

_The Episode Called Porcelain Cups_

1. _Of Greatness Intimately Viewed_

"Ah, but they are beyond praise, " said Cynthia Allonby, enraptured, "andcertainly you should have presented them to the Queen. "

"Her majesty already possesses a cup of that ware, " replied LordPevensey. "It was one of her New Year's gifts, from Robert Cecil. Hersis, I believe, not quite so fine as either of yours; but then, they tellme, there is not the like of this pair in England, nor indeed on thehither side of Cataia. "

He set the two pieces of Chinese pottery upon the shelves in the southcorner of the room. These cups were of that sea-green tint calledceladon, with a very wonderful glow and radiance. Such oddities were thelast vogue at Court; and Cynthia could not but speculate as to whatmonstrous sum Lord Pevensey had paid for this his last gift to her. 

Now he turned, smiling, a really superb creature in his blue and gold. "I had to-day another message from the Queen--"

"George, " Cynthia said, with fond concern, "it frightens me to see youthus foolhardy, in tempting alike the Queen's anger and the Plague. "

"Eh, as goes the Plague, it spares nine out of ten, " he answered, lightly. "The Queen, I grant you, is another pair of sleeves, for anirritated Tudor spares nobody. "

But Cynthia Allonby kept silence, and did not exactly smile, while sheappraised her famous young kinsman. She was flattered by, and a littleafraid of, the gay self-confidence which led anybody to take suchchances. Two weeks ago it was that the terrible painted old Queen hadnamed Lord Pevensey to go straightway into France, where, rumor had it, King Henri was preparing to renounce the Reformed Religion, and makinghis peace with the Pope: and for two weeks Pevensey had lingered, on onepretence or another, at his house in London, with the Plague creepingabout the city like an invisible incalculable flame, and the Queen askingquestions at Windsor. Of all the monarchs that had ever reigned inEngland, Elizabeth Tudor was the least used to having her ordersdisregarded. Meanwhile Lord Pevensey came every day to the Marquis ofFalmouth's lodgings at Deptford: and every day Lord Pevensey pointed outto the marquis' daughter that Pevensey, whose wife had died in childbirtha year back, did not intend to go into France, for nobody could foretellhow long a stay, as a widower. Certainly it was all very flattering. . . . 

"Yes, and you would be an excellent match, " said Cynthia, aloud, "if thatwere all. And yet, what must I reasonably expect in marrying, sir, thefamous Earl of Pevensey?"

"A great deal of love and petting, my dear. And if there were anythingelse to which you had a fancy, I would get it for you. "

Her glance went to those lovely cups and lingered fondly. "Yes, dearMaster Generosity, if it could be purchased or manufactured, you wouldget it for me--"

"If it exists I will get it for you, " he declared. 

"I think that it exists. But I am not learned enough to know what it is. George, if I married you I would have money and fine clothes and gildedcoaches, and an army of maids and pages, and honor from all men. And youwould be kind to me, I know, when you returned from the day's work atWindsor--or Holyrood or the Louvre. But do you not see that I wouldalways be to you only a rather costly luxury, like those cups, which theQueen's minister could afford to keep for his hours of leisure?"

He answered: "You are all in all to me. You know it. Oh, very well do youknow and abuse your power, you adorable and lovely baggage, who have keptme dancing attendance for a fortnight, without ever giving me an honestyes or no. " He gesticulated. "Well, but life is very dull in Deptfordvillage, and it amuses you to twist a Queen's adviser around yourfinger! I see it plainly, you minx, and I acquiesce because it delightsme to give you pleasure, even at the cost of some dignity. Yet I may nolonger shirk the Queen's business, --no, not even to amuse you, my dear. "

"You said you had heard from her--again?"

"I had this morning my orders, under Gloriana's own fair hand, either todepart to-morrow into France or else to come to-morrow to Windsor. I neednot say that in the circumstances I consider France the more wholesome. "

Now the girl's voice was hurt and wistful. "So, for the thousandth time, is it proven the Queen's business means more to you than I do. Yes, certainly it is just as I said, George. "

He observed, unruffled: "My dear, I scent unreason. This is a highmatter. If the French King compounds with Rome, it means war forProtestant England. Even you must see that. "

She replied, sadly: "Yes, even I! oh, certainly, my lord, even ahalf-witted child of seventeen can perceive as much as that. "

"I was not speaking of half-witted persons, as I remember. Well, itchances that I am honored by the friendship of our gallant Bearnais, andam supposed to have some claim upon him, thanks to my good fortune lastyear in saving his life from the assassin Barriere. It chances that I mayperhaps become, under providence, the instrument of preserving my fellowcountrymen from much grief and trumpet-sounding and throat-cutting. Instead of pursuing that chance, two weeks ago--as was my duty--I havedangled at your apron-strings, in the vain hope of softening the mostvariable and hardest heart in the world. Now, clearly, I have not theright to do that any longer. "

She admired the ennobled, the slightly rapt look which, she knew, denotedthat George Bulmer was doing his duty as he saw it, even in herdisappointment. "No, you have not the right. You are wedded to yourstatecraft, to your patriotism, to your self-advancement, or christen itwhat you will. You are wedded, at all events, to your man's business. Youhave not the time for such trifles as giving a maid that foolish andlovely sort of wooing to which every maid looks forward in her heart ofhearts. Indeed, when you married the first time it was a kind ofinfidelity; and I am certain that poor, dear mouse-like Mary must havefelt that often and over again. Why, do you not see, George, even now, that your wife will always come second to your real love?"

"In my heart, dear sophist, you will always come first. But it is notpermitted that any loyal gentleman devote every hour of his life tosighing and making sonnets, and to the general solacing of a maid'sloneliness in this dull little Deptford. Nor would you, I am sure, desireme to do so. "

"I hardly know what I desire, " she told him ruefully. "But I know thatwhen you talk of your man's business I am lonely and chilled and faraway from you. And I know that I cannot understand more than half yourfine high notions about duty and patriotism and serving England and soon, " the girl declared: and she flung wide her lovely little hands, in adespairing gesture. "I admire you, sir, when you talk of England. Itmakes you handsomer--yes, even handsomer!--somehow. But all the while Iam remembering that England is just an ordinary island inhabited by anumber of ordinary persons, for the most of whom I have no particularfeeling one way or the other. "

Pevensey looked down at her for a while with queer tenderness. Then hesmiled. "No, I could not quite make you understand, my dear. But, ah, whyfuddle that quaint little brain by trying to understand such matters aslie without your realm? For a woman's kingdom is the home, my dear, andher throne is in the heart of her husband--"

"All this is but another way of saying your lordship would have us cupsupon a shelf, " she pointed out--"in readiness for your leisure. "

He shrugged, said "Nonsense!" and began more lightly to talk of othermatters. Thus and thus he would do in France, such and such trinketshe would fetch back--"as toys for the most whimsical, the loveliest, and the most obstinate child in all the world, " he phrased it. Andthey would be married, Pevensey declared, in September: nor (he gailysaid) did he propose to have any further argument about it. Childrenshould be seen--the proverb was dusty, but it particularly applied topretty children. 

Cynthia let him talk. She was just a little afraid of hisself-confidence, and of this tall nobleman's habit of getting what hewanted, in the end: but she dispiritedly felt that Pevensey had failedher. Why, George Bulmer treated her as if she were a silly infant; andhis want of her, even in that capacity, was a secondary matter: he wasgoing into France, for all his petting talk, and was leaving her to shiftas she best might, until he could spare the time to resume hislove-making. . . . 

2. _What Comes of Scribbling_

Now when Pevensey had gone the room seemed darkened by the withdrawal ofso much magnificence. Cynthia watched from the window as the tall earlrode away, with three handsomely clad retainers. Yes, George was veryfine and admirable, no doubt of it: even so, there was relief in thereflection that for a month or two she was rid of him. 

Turning, she faced a lean, dishevelled man, who stood by the Magdalentapestry scratching his chin. He had unquiet bright eyes, thisout-at-elbows poet whom a marquis' daughter was pleased to patronize, andhis red hair was unpardonably tousled. Nor were his manners beyondreproach, for now, without saying anything, he, too, went to the window. He dragged one foot a little as he walked. 

"So my lord Pevensey departs! Look how he rides in triumph! like lameTamburlaine, with Techelles and Usumcasane and Theridamas to attend him, and with the sunset turning the dust raised by their horses' hoofs into asort of golden haze about them. It is a beautiful world. And truly, Mistress Cyn, " the poet said, reflectively, "that Pevensey is a verysplendid ephemera. If not a king himself, at least he goes magnificentlyto settle the affairs of kings. Were modesty not my failing, MistressCyn, I would acclaim you as strangely lucky, in being beloved by two finefellows that have not their like in England. "

"Truly, you are not always thus modest, Kit Marlowe--"

"But, Lord, how seriously Pevensey takes it all! and takes himself inparticular! Why, there departs from us, in befitting state, a personagewhose opinion as to every topic in the world is written legibly in thecarriage of those fine shoulders, even when seen from behind and from soconsiderable a distance. And in not one syllable do any of these opinionsdiffer from the opinions of his great-great-grandfathers. Oho, and harkto Deptford! now all the oafs in the Corn-market are cheering thisbulwark of Protestant England, this rising young hero of a people with nononsense about them. Yes, it is a very quaint and rather splendidephemera. "

The daughter of a marquis could not quite approve of the way in whichthis shoemaker's son, however talented, railed at his betters. "Pevenseywill be the greatest man in these kingdoms some day. Indeed, Kit Marlowe, there are those who say he is that much already. "

"Oh, very probably! Still, I am puzzled by human greatness. A centuryhence what will he matter, this Pevensey? His ascent and his declensionwill have been completed, and his foolish battles and treaties will havegiven place to other foolish battles and treaties, and oblivion will haveswallowed this glistening bluebottle, plumes and fine lace and statelyruff and all. Why, he is but an adviser to the queen of half an island, whereas my Tamburlaine was lord of all the golden ancient East: and whatdoes my Tamburlaine matter now, save that he gave Kit Marlowe the subjectof a drama? Hah, softly though! for does even that very greatly matter?Who really cares to-day about what scratches were made upon wax by thatold Euripides, the latchet of whose sandals I am not worthy to unloose?No, not quite worthy, as yet!"

And thereupon the shabby fellow sat down in the tall leather-coveredchair which Pevensey had just vacated: and this Marlowe nodded hisflaming head portentously. "Hoh, look you, I am displeased, Mistress Cyn, I cannot lend my approval to this over-greedy oblivion that gapes forall. No, it is not a satisfying arrangement, that I should teeterinsecurely through the void on a gob of mud, and be expected by and by torelinquish even that crazy foothold. Even for Kit Marlowe death lies inwait! and it may be, not anything more after death, not even any lovelywords to play with. Yes, and this Marlowe may amount to nothing, afterall: and his one chance of amounting to that which he intends may betaken away from him at any moment!"

He touched the breast of a weather-beaten doublet. He gave her that queertwisted sort of smile which the girl could not but find attractive, somehow. He said: "Why, but this heart thumping here inside me may stopany moment like a broken clock. Here is Euripides writing better than I:and here in my body, under my hand, is the mechanism upon which dependall those masterpieces that are to blot the Athenian from the reckoning, and I have no control of it!"

"Indeed, I fear that you control few things, " she told him, "and thatleast of all do you control your taste for taverns and bad women. Oh, Ihear tales of you!" And Cynthia raised a reproving forefinger. 

"True tales, no doubt. " He shrugged. "Lacking the moon he vainly criedfor, the child learns to content himself with a penny whistle. "

"Ah, but the moon is far away, " the girl said, smiling--"too far to hearthe sound of human crying: and besides, the moon, as I remember it, wasnever a very amorous goddess--"

"Just so, " he answered: "also she was called Cynthia, and she, too, wasbeautiful. "

"Yet is it the heart that cries to me, my poet?" she asked him, softly, "or just the lips?"

"Oh, both of them, most beautiful and inaccessible of goddesses. " ThenMarlowe leaned toward her, laughing and shaking that disreputable redhead. "Still, you are very foolish, in your latest incarnation, to bewasting your rays upon carpet earls who will not outwear a century. Weremodesty not my failing, I repeat, I could name somebody who will lastlonger. Yes, and--if but I lacked that plaguey virtue--I would advise youto go a-gypsying with that nameless somebody, so that two manikins mightsnatch their little share of the big things that are eternal, just as thebutterfly fares intrepidly and joyously, with the sun for his torchboy, through a universe wherein thought cannot estimate the unimportance of abutterfly, and wherein not even the chaste moon is very important. Yes, certainly I would advise you to have done with this vanity of courts andmasques, of satins and fans and fiddles, this dallying with tinsels andbright vapors; and very movingly I would exhort you to seek out Arcadia, travelling hand in hand with that still nameless somebody. " And of asudden the restless man began to sing. 

Sang Kit Marlowe:

_"Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. 

"And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals--"_

But the girl shook her small, wise head decisively. "That is all veryfine, but, as it happens, there is no such place as this Arcadia, wherepeople can frolic in perpetual sunlight the year round, and find theirfood and clothing miraculously provided. No, nor can you, I am afraid, give me what all maids really, in their heart of hearts, desire far morethan any sugar-candy Arcadia. Oh, as I have so often told you, Kit, Ithink you love no woman. You love words. And your seraglio is tenanted byvery beautiful words, I grant you, though there is no longer any Sestosbuilded of agate and crystal, either, Kit Marlowe. For, as you mayperceive, sir, I have read all that lovely poem you left with me lastThursday--"

She saw how interested he was, saw how he almost smirked. "Aha, so youthink it not quite bad, eh, the conclusion of my _Hero and Leander_?"

"It is your best. And your middlemost, my poet, is better than aught elsein English, " she said, politely, and knowing how much he delighted tohear such remarks. 

"Come, I retract my charge of foolishness, for you are plainly a wenchof rare discrimination. And yet you say I do not love you! Cynthia, youare beautiful, you are perfect in all things. You are that heavenlyHelen of whom I wrote, some persons say, acceptably enough. How strangeit was I did not know that Helen was dark-haired and pale! for certainlyyours is that immortal loveliness which must be served by poets in lifeand death. "

"And I wonder how much of these ardors, " she thought, "is kindled by mypraise of his verses?" She bit her lip, and she regarded him with a hintof sadness. She said, aloud: "But I did not, after all, speak to LordPevensey concerning the printing of your poem. Instead, I burned your_Hero and Leander_. "

She saw him jump, as under a whip-lash. Then he smiled again, in that wryfashion of his. "I lament the loss to letters, for it was my only copy. But you knew that. "

"Yes, Kit, I knew it was your only copy. "

"Oho! and for what reason did you burn it, may one ask?"

"I thought you loved it more than you loved me. It was my rival, Ithought--" The girl was conscious of remorse, and yet it was remorsecommingled with a mounting joy. 

"And so you thought a jingle scribbled upon a bit of paper could be yourrival with me!"

Then Cynthia no longer doubted, but gave a joyous little sobbinglaugh, for the love of her disreputable dear poet was sustaining thestringent testing she had devised. She touched his freckled handcaressingly, and her face was as no man had ever seen it, and hervoice, too, caressed him. 

"Ah, you have made me the happiest of women, Kit! Kit, I am almostdisappointed in you, though, that you do not grieve more for the loss ofthat beautiful poem. "

His smiling did not waver; yet the lean, red-haired man stayedmotionless. "Why, but see how lightly I take the destruction of mylife-work in this, my masterpiece! For I can assure you it was amasterpiece, the fruit of two years' toil and of much lovingrepolishment--"

"Ah, but you love me better than such matters, do you not?" she askedhim, tenderly. "Kit Marlowe, I adore you! Sweetheart, do you notunderstand that a woman wants to be loved utterly and entirely? She wantsno rivals, not even paper rivals. And so often when you talked of poetryI have felt lonely and chilled and far away from you, and I have beenhalf envious, dear, of your Heros and Helens and your othergood-for-nothing Greek minxes. But now I do not mind them at all. And Iwill make amends, quite prodigal amends, for my naughty jealousy: and mypoet shall write me some more lovely poems, so he shall--"

He said: "You fool!"

And she drew away from him, for this man was no longer smiling. 

"You burned my _Hero and Leander_! You! you big-eyed fool! You lispingidiot! you wriggling, cuddling worm! you silken bag of guts! had not evenyou the wit to perceive it was immortal beauty which would have livedlong after you and I were stinking dirt? And you, a half-witted animal, ashining, chattering parrot, lay claws to it!" Marlowe had risen in a sortof seizure, in a condition which was really quite unreasonable when youconsidered that only a poem was at stake, even a rather long poem. 

And Cynthia began to smile, with tremulous hurt-looking young lips. "Somy poet's love is very much the same as Pevensey's love! And I was right, after all. "

"Oh, oh!" said Marlowe, "that ever a poet should love a woman! What jokesdoes the lewd flesh contrive!" Of a sudden he was calmer; and then ragefell away from him like a dropped cloak, and he viewed her as withrespectful wonder. "Why, but you sitting there, with goggling innocentbright eyes, are an allegory of all that is most droll and tragic. Yes, and indeed there is no reason to blame you. It is not your fault thatevery now and then is born a man who serves an idea which is to him themost important thing in the world. It is not your fault that this manperforce inhabits a body to which the most important thing in the worldis a woman. Certainly it is not your fault that this compost makes yetanother jumble of his two desires, and persuades himself that the two aresomehow allied. The woman inspires, the woman uplifts, the womanstrengthens him for his high work, saith he! Well, well, perhaps thereare such women, but by land and sea I have encountered none of them. "

All this was said while Marlowe shuffled about the room, with bentshoulders, and nodding his tousled red head, and limping as he walked. Now Marlowe turned, futile and shabby looking, just where a while agoLord Pevensey had loomed resplendent. Again she saw the poet's queer, twisted, jeering smile. 

"What do you care for my ideals? What do you care for the ideals of thattall earl whom for a fortnight you have held from his proper business? orfor the ideals of any man alive? Why, not one thread of that dark hair, not one snap of those white little fingers, except when ideals irritateyou by distracting a man's attention from Cynthia Allonby. Otherwise, heis welcome enough to play with his incomprehensible toys. "

He jerked a thumb toward the shelves behind him. 

"Oho, you virtuous pretty ladies! what all you value is such matters asthose cups: they please the eye, they are worth sound money, and peopleenvy you the possession of them. So you cherish your shiny mud cups, andyou burn my _Hero and Leander_: and I declaim all this dull nonsense overthe ashes of my ruined dreams, thinking at bottom of how pretty you are, and of how much I would like to kiss you. That is the real tragedy, theimmemorial tragedy, that I should still hanker after you, my Cynthia--"

His voice dwelt tenderly upon her name. His fever-haunted eyes weretender, too, for just a moment. Then he grimaced. 

"No, I was wrong--the tragedy strikes deeper. The root of it is thatthere is in you and in all your glittering kind no malice, no will to doharm nor to hurt anything, but just a bland and invincible and, upon thewhole, a well-meaning stupidity, informing a bright and soft anddelicately scented animal. So you work ruin among those men who serveideals, not foreplanning ruin, not desiring to ruin anything, not evenhaving sufficient wit to perceive the ruin when it is accomplished. Youare, when all is done, not even detestable, not even a worthy peg whereonto hang denunciatory sonnets, you shallow-pated pretty creatures whompoets--oh, and in youth all men are poets!--whom poets, now and always, are doomed to hanker after to the detriment of their poesy. No, I concedeit: you kill without pre-meditation, and without ever suspecting yourhands to be anything but stainless. So in logic I must retract all myharsh words; and I must, without any hint of reproach, endeavor to bidyou a somewhat more civil farewell. "

She had regarded him, throughout this preposterous and uncalled-forharangue, with sad composure, with a forgiving pity. Now she asked him, very quietly, "Where are you going, Kit?"

"To the Golden Hind, O gentle, patient and unjustly persecuted virginmartyr!" he answered, with an exaggerated bow--"since that is the part inwhich you now elect to posture. "

"Not to that low, vile place again!"

"But certainly I intend in that tavern to get tipsy as quickly aspossible: for then the first woman I see will for the time become thewoman whom I desire, and who exists nowhere. " And with that thered-haired man departed, limping and singing as he went to look for atrull in a pot-house. 

Sang Kit Marlowe:

_"And I will make her beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

"A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold--"_

3. _Economics of Egeria_

She sat quite still when Marlowe had gone. 

"He will get drunk again, " she thought despondently. "Well, and whyshould it matter to me if he does, after all that outrageous ranting? Hehas been unforgivably insulting--Oh, but none the less, I do not want tohave him babbling of the roses and gold of that impossible fairy worldwhich the poor, frantic child really believes in, to some painted womanof the town who will laugh at him. I loathe the thought of her laughingat him--and kissing him! His notions are wild foolishness; but I at leastwish that they were not foolishness, and that hateful woman will not careone way or the other. "

So Cynthia sighed, and to comfort her forlorn condition fetched ahand-mirror from the shelves whereon glowed her green cups. She touchedeach cup caressingly in passing; and that which she found in the mirror, too, she regarded not unappreciatively, from varying angles. . . . Yes, after all, dark hair and a pale skin had their advantages at a courtwhere pink and yellow women were so much the fashion as to be common. Menremembered you more distinctively. 

Though nobody cared for men, in view of their unreasonable behavior, andtheir absolute self-centeredness. . . . Oh, it was pitiable, it wasgrotesque, she reflected sadly, how Pevensey and Kit Marlowe had bothfailed her, after so many pretty speeches. 

Still, there was a queer pleasure in being wooed by Kit: his insanenotions went to one's head like wine. She would send Meg for him againto-morrow. And Pevensey was, of course, the best match imaginable. . . . No, it would be too heartless to dismiss George Buhner outright. It wasunreasonable of him to desert her because a Gascon threatened to go tomass: but, after all, she would probably marry George, in the end. Hewas really almost unendurably silly, though, about England and freedomand religion and right and wrong and things like that. Yes, it would betedious to have a husband who often talked to you as though he wereaddressing a public assemblage. . . . Yet, he was very handsome, particularly in his highflown and most tedious moments; that year-old sonof his was sickly, and would probably die soon, the sweet forlorn littlepet, and not be a bother to anybody: and her dear old father would beprofoundly delighted by the marriage of his daughter to a man whose wifecould have at will a dozen céladon cups, and anything else she chose toask for. . . . 

But now the sun had set, and the room was growing quite dark. So Cynthiastood a-tiptoe, and replaced the mirror upon the shelves, setting itupright behind those wonderful green cups which had anew reminded her ofPevensey's wealth and generosity. She smiled a little, to think of whatfun it had been to hold George back, for two whole weeks, fromdischarging that horrible old queen's stupid errands. 

4. _Treats Philosophically of Breakage_

The door opened. Stalwart young Captain Edward Musgrave came with alighted candle, which he placed carefully upon the table in theroom's centre. 

He said: "They told me you were here. I come from London. I bringnews for you. "

"You bring no pleasant tidings, I fear--"

"As Lord Pevensey rode through the Strand this afternoon, on his wayhome, the Plague smote him. That is my sad news. I grieve to bring suchnews, for your cousin was a worthy gentleman and universally respected. "

"Ah, " Cynthia said, very quiet, "so Pevensey is dead. But the Plaguekills quickly!"

"Yes, yes, that is a comfort, certainly. Yes, he turned quite black inthe face, they report, and before his men could reach him had fallen fromhis horse. It was all over almost instantly. I saw him afterward, hardlya pleasant sight. I came to you as soon as I could. I was vexatiouslydetained--"

"So George Bulmer is dead, in a London gutter! It seems strange, because he was here, befriended by monarchs, and very strong andhandsome and self-confident, hardly two hours ago. Is that his bloodupon your sleeve?"

"But of course not! I told you I was vexatiously detained, almost at yourgates. Yes, I had the ill luck to blunder into a disgusting business. Thetwo rapscallions tumbled out of a doorway under my horse's very nose, egad! It was a near thing I did not ride them down. So I stopped, naturally. I regretted stopping, afterward, for I was too late to be ofhelp. It was at the Golden Hind, of course. Something really ought to bedone about that place. Yes, and that rogue Marler bled all over a newdoublet, as you see. And the Deptford constables held me with theirfoolish interrogatories--"

"So one of the fighting men was named Marlowe! Is he dead, too, dead inanother gutter?"

"Marlowe or Marler, or something of the sort--wrote plays and sonnets andsuch stuff, they tell me. I do not know anything about him--though, Igive you my word, now, those greasy constables treated me as though Iwere a noted frequenter of pot-houses. That sort of thing is mostannoying. At all events, he was drunk as David's sow, and squabblingover, saving your presence, a woman of the sort one looks to find in thatabominable hole. And so, as I was saying, this other drunken rascal dug aknife into him--"

But now, to Captain Musgrave's discomfort, Cynthia Allonby had begun toweep heartbrokenly. 

So he cleared his throat, and he patted the back of her hand. "It is agreat shock to you, naturally--oh, most naturally, and does you greatcredit. But come now, Pevensey is gone, as we must all go some day, andour tears cannot bring him back, my dear. We can but hope he is betteroff, poor fellow, and look on it as a mysterious dispensation and thatsort of thing, my dear--"

"Oh, Ned, but people are so cruel! People will be saying that it was Iwho kept poor Cousin George in London this past two weeks, and that butfor me he would have been in France long ago! And then the Queen, Ned!--why, that pig-headed old woman will be blaming it on me, thatthere is nobody to prevent that detestable French King from turningCatholic and dragging England into new wars, and I shall not be able togo to any of the Court dances! nor to the masques!" sobbed Cynthia, "noranywhere!"

"Now you talk tender-hearted and angelic nonsense. It is noble of you tofeel that way, of course. But Pevensey did not take proper care ofhimself, and that is all there is to it. Now I have remained in Londonsince the Plague's outbreak. I stayed with my regiment, naturally. Wehave had a few deaths, of course. People die everywhere. But the Plaguehas never bothered me. And why has it never bothered me? Simply because Iwas sensible, took the pains to consult an astrologer, and by his advicewear about my neck, night and day, a bag containing tablets of toads'blood and arsenic. It is an infallible specific for men born in February. No, not for a moment do I wish to speak harshly of the dead, but sensiblepersons cannot but consider Lord Pevensey's death to have been caused byhis own carelessness. "

"Now, certainly that is true, " the girl said, brightening. "It was reallyhis own carelessness and his dear lovable rashness. And somebody couldexplain it to the Queen. Besides, I often think that wars are good forthe public spirit of a nation, and bring out its true manhood. But thenit upset me, too, a little, Ned, to hear about this Marlowe--for I musttell you that I knew the poor man, very slightly. So I happen to knowthat to-day he flung off in a rage, and began drinking, because somebody, almost by pure chance, had burned a packet of his verses--"

Thereupon Captain Musgrave raised heavy eyebrows, and guffawed soheartily that the candle flickered. "To think of the fellow's putting iton that plea! when he could so easily have written some more verses. Thatis the trouble with these poets, if you ask me: they are not practicaleven in their ordinary everyday lying. No, no, the truth of it was thatthe rogue wanted a pretext for making a beast of himself, and seized thefirst that came to hand. Egad, my dear, it is a daily practise with thesepoets. They hardly draw a sober breath. Everybody knows that. "

Cynthia was looking at him in the half-lit room with very flatteringadmiration. . . . Seen thus, with her scarlet lips a littleparted--disclosing pearls, --and with her naive dark eyes aglow, she wasquite incredibly pretty and caressable. She had almost forgotten untilnow that this stalwart soldier, too, was in love with her. But now herspirits were rising venturously, and she knew that she liked NedMusgrave. He had sensible notions; he saw things as they really were, andwith him there would never be any nonsense about toplofty ideas. Then, too, her dear old white-haired father would be pleased, because there wasa very fair estate. . . . 

So Cynthia said: "I believe you are right, Ned. I often wonder how theycan be so lacking in self-respect. Oh, I am certain you must be right, for it is just what I felt without being able quite to express it. Youwill stay for supper with us, of course. Yes, but you must, because it isalways a great comfort for me to talk with really sensible persons. I donot wonder that you are not very eager to stay, though, for I am probablya fright, with my eyes red, and with my hair all tumbling down, like anold witch's. Well, let us see what can be done about it, sir! There was ahand-mirror--"

And thus speaking, she tripped, with very much the reputed grace of afairy, toward the far end of the room, and standing a-tiptoe, groped atthe obscure shelves, with a resultant crash of falling china. 

"Oh, but my lovely cups!" said Cynthia, in dismay. "I had forgotten theywere up there: and now I have smashed both of them, in looking for mymirror, sir, and trying to prettify myself for you. And I had so fanciedthem, because they had not their like in England!"

She looked at the fragments, and then at Musgrave, with wide, innocenthurt eyes. She was really grieved by the loss of her quaint toys. ButMusgrave, in his sturdy, common-sense way, only laughed at herseriousness over such kickshaws. 

"I am for an honest earthenware tankard myself!" he said, jovially, asthe two went in to supper. 

 * * * * *

1905-1919

_"Tell me where is fancy bred Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished?. . . Then let us all ring fancy's knell. "_

CHAPTER X

_The Envoi Called Semper Idem_

1. _Which Baulks at an Estranging Sea_

Here, then, let us end the lovers' comedy, after a good precedent, withsupper as the denouement. _Chacun ira souper: la comédie ne peut pasmieux finir. _

For epilogue, Cynthia Allonby was duly married to Edward Musgrave, and hemade her a fair husband, as husbands go. That was the upshot ofPevensey's death and Marlowe's murder: as indeed, it was the outcome ofall the earlier-recorded heart-burnings and endeavors and spoiled dreams. Through generation by generation, traversing just three centuries, I haveexplained to you, my dear Mrs. Grundy, how divers weddings came about:and each marriage appears, upon the whole, to have resultedsatisfactorily. Dame Melicent and Dame Adelaide, not Florian, touched theroot of the matter as they talked together at Storisende: and the trio'sdescendants could probe no deeper. 

But now we reach the annals of the house of Musgrave: and furtheradventuring is blocked by R. V. Musgrave's monumental work _The Musgravesof Matocton_. The critical may differ as to the plausibility of thefamily tradition (ably defended by Colonel Musgrave, pp. 33-41) thatMistress Cynthia Musgrave was the dark lady of Shakespeare's Sonnets, andthat this poet, also, in the end, absolved her of intentional malice. There is none, at any event, but may find in this genealogical classic afull record of the highly improbable happenings which led to theemigration of Captain Edward Musgrave, and later of Cynthia Musgrave, tothe Colony of Virginia; and none but must admire Colonel Musgrave'spainstaking and accurate tracing of the American Musgraves who descendedfrom this couple, down to the eve of the twentieth century. 

It would be supererogatory, therefore, for me to tell you of the variousMusgrave marriages, and to re-dish such data as is readily accessible onthe reference shelves of the nearest public library, as well as in thearchives of the Colonial Dames, of the Society of the Cincinnati, and ofthe Sons and Daughters of various wars. It suffices that from themarriage of Edward Musgrave and Cynthia Allonby sprang this well-knownAmerican family, prolific of brave gentlemen and gracious ladies who indue course, and in new lands, achieved their allotted portion of laughterand anguish and compromise, very much as their European fathers andmothers had done aforetime. 

So I desist to follow the line of love across the Atlantic; and, for thewhile at least, make an end of these chronicles. My pen flags, my inkruns low, and (since Florian wedded twice) the Dizain of Marriages iscompleted. 

2. _Which Defers to Various Illusions_

I have bound up my gleanings from the fields of old years into a modestsheaf; and if it be so fortunate as to please you, my dear Mrs. Grundy, --if it so come about that your ladyship be moved in time todesire another sheaf such as this, --why, assuredly, my surprise will beuntempered with obduracy. The legends of Allonby have been but lightlytouched upon: and apart from the _Aventures d'Adhelmar_, Nicolas de Caenis thus far represented in English only by the _Roi Atnaury_ (which, tobe sure, is Nicolas' masterpiece) and the mutilated _Dizain des Reines_and the fragmentary _Roman de Lusignan_. 

But since you, madam, are not Schahriah, to give respite for the sake ofan unnarrated tale, I must now without further peroration make an end. Through the monstrous tapestry I have traced out for you the windings ofa single thread, and I entreat you, dear lady, to accept it withassurances of my most distinguished regard. 

And if the offering be no great gift, this lack of greatness, believe me, is due to the errors and limitations of the transcriber alone. 

For they loved greatly, these men and women of the past, in that rapthour wherein Nature tricked them to noble ends, and lured them to skyeyheights of adoration and sacrifice. At bottom they were, perhaps, no moreheroical than you or I. Indeed, neither Florian nor Adhelmar was atstrict pains to act as common-sense dictated, and Falstaff is scarcelydescribable as immaculate: Villon thieved, Kit Marlowe left a wake ofemptied bottles, and Will Sommers was notoriously a fool; Matthiette wasvain, and Adelais self-seeking, and the tenth Marquis of Falmouth, if youpress me, rather a stupid and pompous ass: and yet to each in turn it wasgranted to love greatly, to know at least one hour of magnanimity wheneach was young in the world's annually recaptured youth. 

And if that hour did not ever have its sequel in precisely theanticipated life-long rapture, nor always in a wedding with the personpreferred, yet since at any rate it resulted in a marriage that turnedout well enough, in a world wherein people have to consider expediency, one may rationally assert that each of these romances ended happily. Besides, there had been the hour. 

Ah, yes, this love is an illusion, if you will. Wise men have protestedthat vehemently enough in all conscience. But there are two ends to everystickler for his opinion here. Whether you see, in this fleet hour'sabandonment to love, the man's spark of divinity flaring in momentarysplendor, --a tragic candle, with divinity guttering and half-choked amongthe drossier particles, and with momentary splendor lighting man'ssimilitude to Him in Whose likeness man was created, --or whether you, more modernly, detect as prompting this surrender coarse-fibred Nature, in the Prince of Lycia's role (with all mankind her Troiluses to becajoled into perpetuation of mankind), you have, in either event, conceded that to live unbefooled by love is at best a shuffling anddebt-dodging business, and you have granted this unreasoned, transitorysurrender to be the most high and, indeed, the one requisite action whichliving affords. 

Beyond that is silence. If you succeed in proving love a species ofmadness, you have but demonstrated that there is something moreprofoundly pivotal than sanity, and for the sanest logician this is adisastrous gambit: whereas if, in well-nigh obsolete fashion, you confessthe universe to be a weightier matter than the contents of your skull, and your wits a somewhat slender instrument wherewith to plumbinfinity, --why, then you will recall that it is written _God is love_, and this recollection, too, is conducive to a fine taciturnity. 

EXPLICIT LINEA AMORIS