The Queen Pedauque Part 14

It was a pretty girl, reminding me of the serving-maid of the bailiff's wife, but with more vivacity in her looks. She did not dare to scream.

She whispered breathless in my ear: 'Leave me, leave me; you're mad!'

Look here, Tournebroche, I still have the marks of her finger nails on my wrist. O that I could keep as vivid on my lips the impression of the kiss she gave me!"

"What, Monsieur Abbe," I exclaimed, "she gave you a kiss?"

"Be sure, my boy, that in my place you would have had one too--that is to say, if you, as I did, seized the opportunity. I believe I told you that I held the damsel in close embrace. She tried to fly from me, she suppressed her screams, she murmured groans. 'For heaven's sake, leave me! It begins to be light, a moment more and I am lost.' Her fears, her fright, her danger--who could be barbarous enough not to be affected by them? I am not inhuman. I gave her freedom at the price of a kiss, which she gave me quickly. On my word, I never enjoyed a more delicious one."

At this part of his tale, my dear tutor, raising his nose to sniff a pinch of snuff, became aware of my confusion and pain, which he thought to be utter astonishment, and continued to say:

"Jacques Tournebroche, all that remains for me to tell will astonish you still more. To my regret I let the pretty girl go, but curiosity tempted me to follow her. I went down the stairs after her, saw her cross the lobby, go out by a little door opening on the fields in the direction where the park extends farthest, and run up the lane. I followed swiftly. I was quite sure that she would not go far, dressed as a pierrot and wearing a night-cap. She took the path wherein the mandrakes dwell. My curiosity doubled, and I followed her up to Mosade's lodge.

At this moment the hideous Jew appeared at a window in his dressing-gown and monstrous headgear, like one of those figures who show themselves at the stroke of noon, outside those old clocks more Gothic and more ridiculous than the churches wherein they are kept, for the enjoyment of the yokels and the profit of the beadle.

"He discovered me, hidden as I was behind the foliage, at the very moment when that pretty girl, fleet as Galatea, slipped into the lodge.

It looked as if I had followed her up in the manner, way and habit of those satyrs of which we have spoken of late when conferring on the finest pa.s.sages of Ovid. My dress could but add to such resemblance--did I tell you, my boy, that I wore only a s.h.i.+rt? Seeing me, Mosaide's eyes vomited fire. Out of his dirty yellow greatcoat he drew a neat little stiletto and shook it through the window with an arm in no way weighed down by age. He roared bilingual curses on me. Yes, Tournebroche, my grammatical knowledge authorises me to say that his curses were bilingual, that Spanish, or rather Portuguese, was mixed in them with Hebrew. I went into a rage at not being able to catch their exact sense, as I do not know these languages, although I can recognise them by certain sounds which are frequent when they are spoken. It is very possible that he accused me of wanting to corrupt that girl, whom I believe to be his niece Jahel, whom, as you will remember, M. d'Asterac has repeatedly mentioned to us. As such his invectives were rather flattering to me, as I have become, my boy, by the progress of age and the fatigues of an agitated life, so that I cannot aspire any longer to the love of juvenile maidens. Alas! should I become a bishop that is a dish of which I shall never taste. I am sorry for it. But it is no good to be closely attached to the perishable things of this world, and we are compelled to leave what leaves us. Accordingly Mosade, brandis.h.i.+ng his stiletto, squalled out his hoa.r.s.e sounds mingled with sharp yelpings in such a manner that I felt insulted, as well as vituperated, in a chant or song. And without flattering myself, my dear boy, I can say that I have been treated as a rake and a seducer in a tune solemn and ceremonious. When yonder Mosaide brought his imprecations to an end, I endeavoured to let him have my reply in two languages also. I replied in a mixture of Latin and French that he was a manslayer and a sacrilegist, who murdered tiny babes and stabbed sacred hosts. The fresh morning wind blowing between my naked legs reminded me that I wore a s.h.i.+rt only. I felt somewhat embarra.s.sed, because it is evident, my boy, that a man without breeches is in a state highly inconvenient to speak of sacred truth, to confound error and to prevent crime. Withal I gave him a prodigious sketch of his outrages, and I threatened him with the terrors of justice both human and divine."

"What do you say, my good master?" I nearly screamed, "yonder Mosade, who has such a pretty niece, kills newborn babes and stabs hosts?"

"I don't know anything about him," M. Jerome Coignard replied, "and besides cannot know it. But those crimes are his, they are of his race, and I can charge him with them without slandering him. I place on that miscreant's back a long array of flagitious ancestors. You cannot have remained ignorant of all that is said of the Jews and of their abominable rites. You may see in an ancient cosmography of Munster in Westphalia a drawing representing some Jews mutilating a child; they are recognisable by the wheel or round of cloth they wear on their clothes in sign of infamy. For all that I do not believe these misdeeds to be of their daily and domestic use. I also doubt that the majority of Israelites are inclined to outrage the holy wafers. To accuse them of doing so would be to believe that they are as deeply convinced of the divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ as we are ourselves. Sacrilege without faith is unbelievable, and the Jew who stabbed a host rendered by that very deed a sincere homage to the truth of transubstantiation. These are fables, my boy, to be left to the ignorant and, if I throw them in the face of that horrible Mosade, I do it less by the counsels of sound criticism than by the impressive suggestions of resentment and anger."

"Oh! sir," I said, "you might have contented yourself with reproaching him for the murder of the Portuguese he killed in the frenzy of his jealousy; that certainly was a murder."

"What!" broke out my good master. "Mosade has killed a Christian? He is dangerous, my dear Tournebroche. You'll have to come to the same conclusion that I have arrived at myself about this adventure. It is quite certain that his niece is the mistress of M. d'Asterac, whose room she doubtless had just left when I met her on the stairs.

"I am too religious a man not to be sorry that so amiable a person comes of the Jewish race, who crucified Jesus Christ. Alas! do not doubt, my dear boy, that villain Mordecai is the uncle of an Esther who does not need to macerate six months in myrrh to become worthy of the bed of a king. That old spagyric raven is not the man fit for such a beauty, and I am rather inclined to take an interest in her myself.

"Mosade will have to hide her very secretly and carefully; should she show herself once only at the promenade or the theatre, she would have all the world at her feet on the following morning. Don't you wish to see her, Tournebroche?"

I replied that I wished it very much. And then both of us drove deeper in our Greek.

CHAPTER XVII

Outside Mademoiselle Catherine's House--We are invited in by M.

d'Anquetil--The Supper--The Visit of the Owner and the horrible Consequences.

That evening my tutor and I happened to be in the Rue du Bac, and as it was rather warm M. Jerome Coignard said to me:

"Jacques Tournebroche, my son, would it be agreeable to you to turn to the left, into the Rue de Grenelle, in quest of a tavern--that's to say, to some place where we could get a pot of wine for two sous? I am rather short of cash, my boy, and strongly suppose you to be no better off.

M. d'Asterac, who possibly can make gold, does not give any to his secretaries and servants, as we well know, to our cost, you and I. He leaves us in a lamentable state. I have never a penny in my pocket, and it will become necessary to remedy that evil by industry and artifice.

It is a fine thing to bear poverty with an even mind, like Epictetus of glorious memory. But it is an exercise I am tired of and which has become tedious by habit. I feel it is high time for a change of virtue, and to insinuate myself into the possession of wealth without being possessed by it, which certainly is the n.o.blest state to be reached by the soul of a philosopher. I shall feel myself obliged, very soon, to earn profits of some kind to show that my sagacity has not failed me during my prosperity. I am in search of the means to reach such an issue; my mind is occupied by it, Tournebroche."

And as my dear tutor spoke with a n.o.ble distinction of that matter, we came near the pretty dwelling wherein M. de la Gueritude had lodged Mademoiselle Catherine. "You'll recognise it, she had said to me, by the roses on the balcony." There was not light enough to see the roses, but I fancied I could smell them. Advancing a few yards I saw her at the window watering flowers. She recognised me, laughed, and threw me kisses with her chubby little hand. Upon that a hand pa.s.sing through the open window slapped her cheek. In her surprise she let the water jug slip out of her hand, it fell down into the street, at a hair's breadth from my tutor's head. The slapped beauty disappeared from the window, and the ear-boxer appeared; he leaned out and shouted:

"Thank G.o.d, sir, you are not the Capuchin. I cannot stand seeing my mistress throw kisses to that stinking beast, who continually prowls under this window. For once I have not to blush at her choice. You look quite an honest man, and I believe I have seen you before. Do me the honour to come up. Within a supper is prepared. You'll do me a real favour to partake of it, as well as the abbe, who has just had a pot of water thrown over his head, and shakes himself like a wetted dog. After supper we'll have a game of cards, and at daybreak we'll go hence to cut one another's throats. But that will be purely and simply an act of civility and only to do you honour, sir, for, in truth, that girl is not worth the thrust of a sword. She is a hussy. I'll never see her any more."

I recognised in the speaker, the Monsieur d'Anquetil whom I had seen a short time ago excite his followers so vehemently to spike Friar Ange.

Now he spoke with courtesy and treated me as a gentleman. I understood all the favour he conferred on me by his consent to cut my throat. Nor was my dear tutor less sensible of so much urbanity, and after having shaken himself he said to me:

"Jacques Tournebroche, my son, we cannot say nay to such a gracious invitation."

Already two lackeys had come down bearing torches. They led us to a room where a collation had been prepared on a table lit up by wax candles burning in two silver candelabra. M. d'Anquetil invited us to be seated, and my good master tied his napkin round his throat. He already had a thrush on his fork when heart-rending sobs were to be heard.

"Don't take any notice of yonder noise," said M. d'Anquetil, "it's only Catherine, whom I have locked in that room."

"Ah! sir; you must forgive her," said my kind-hearted tutor, looking sadly on the gold-brown toasted little bird on his fork. "The pleasantest meat tastes bitter when seasoned with tears and moans. Could you have the heart to let a woman cry? Reprieve this one, I beg of you!

Is she then so blamable for having thrown a kiss to my young pupil, who was her neighbour and companion in the days of their common mediocrity, at a time when this pretty girl's charms were only famous under the vine arbour of the _Little Bacchus_? It was but an innocent action, as much so as a human, and particularly a woman's, action can ever be innocent, and altogether free of the original stain. Allow me also to say, sir, that jealousy is a Gothic sentiment, a sad reminder of barbaric customs, which has no business to survive in a delicate, well-born soul."

"Monsieur l'Abbe," inquired M. d'Anquetil, "on what grounds do you presume me to be jealous? I am not! But I cannot stand a woman mocking me."

"We are playthings of the winds," said my tutor, and sighed. "Everything laughs at us, the sky, the stars, rain and shadow, zephyr and light and woman. Let Catherine sup with us. She is pretty and will enliven our table. Whatever she may have done, that kiss and the rest, do not render her the less pleasant to look at. The infidelities of women do not spoil their beauty. Nature, pleased to adorn them, is indifferent to their faults; follow her, and forgive Catherine."

I seconded my tutor's entreaties, and M. d'Anquetil consented to free the prisoner. He went to the door of the room from whence the cries came, unlocked it, and called Catherine, whose only reply was to redouble her wailing.

"Gentlemen," her lover said to us, "there she is lying flat on her belly, her head plunged in the pillows, and at every sob raising her rump ridiculously. Look at that. It is for such we take so much trouble and commit so many absurdities! Catherine, come to supper."

But Catherine did not move, and continued to cry. He pulled her by the arm, by the waist. She resisted. He became more pressing, and said caressingly:

"Come, darling, get up."

But she was stubborn, would not change place, and stuck there, holding to pillows and mattress.

At last her lover lost patience, swore, and shouted rudely:

"Get up, s.l.u.t!"

At once she got up, and, smiling amid her tears, took his arm and came with him to the dining-room, looking the very picture of a happy victim.

She sat down between M. d'Anquetil and me, her head inclined on the shoulder of her lover the while her foot felt for mine under the table.

"Gentlemen," said our host, "forgive my vivacity, an impulse I cannot regret, because it gives me the honour to entertain you at this place.

To say the truth, I cannot endure all the whims of this pretty girl, and I have been very suspicious since I surprised her with her Capuchin."

"My dear friend," Catherine said, pressing at the sama time her foot on mine, "your jealousy goes astray. You should know that my only liking is for M. Jacques."

"She jests," said M. d'Anquetil.

"Do not doubt of it," said I. "It is quite evident that she loves you, and you alone."

"Without flattering myself," he replied, "I have somehow attracted her attachment. But she is coquettish and fickle."

"Give me something to drink," said the abbe.

M. d'Anquetil pa.s.sed him the demijohn and exclaimed:

"By gad! abbe, you who belong to the Church, you'll tell us why women love Capuchins."