CHAPTER XXVIII. HADJI
Christmas had at last arrived
Although the fear of the Barbary pirates had kept the city and the coast in alarm for several days, the people began to feel safe from attack.
The north wind had lasted so long and had blown with such violence that they did not suppose the pirate vessels dared put to sea in such weather, and it seemed still less probable that they would anchor in a harbour on their seashore, which was exactly what Pog and Trimalcyon had done.
The security felt by the inhabitants was fatal to them.
Forty hours at least were required for the galley of the commander to sail from Cape Corsica to La Ciotat. The tempest had ceased only the evening before, and Pierre des Anbiez had been compelled to wait until Christmas morning to put to sea.
On the contrary, the galleys of the pirates were able to reach La Ciotat in three hours; the island of Port-Cros, where they had taken refuge, was only about six leagues distant.
But, as we have said, fear was no longer felt along the coast; besides, they reckoned upon the well-known vigilance of the watchman, Master Peyrou.
He would give the alarm in case of danger; two signals, corresponding with the sentry-box on Cape l’Aigle, had been established, one at a point opposite the bay, the other on the terrace of Maison-Forte.
At the slightest alarm all the men of La Ciotat, capable of bearing arms, were to assemble in the town hall, there to take orders from the consul, and hasten to the point which might be attacked.
A chain had been extended across the entrance of the port, and several large fishing-boats, armed with swivel-guns, were anchored a short distance from this chain. Finally, two coxswains of a long-boat, occupied a whole morning in exploring the environage, had upon their return increased the general feeling of security by announcing that not a sail was to be seen for a distance of three or four leagues.
It was about two hours after midday. A sharp wind from the east had taken the place of the north wind of the preceding days. The sky was clear, the sun bright for a winter day, and the sea beautiful, although there was a gentle swell.
A child carrying a basket on his head began to climb, singing all the while, the steep rocks which led to the house of the watchman.
Suddenly, hearing the moaning of a dog, the child stopped, looked around him with curiosity, saw nothing, and went on his way.
The cry was repeated, and this time it seemed nearer and more pitiful.
Raimond V. had been hunting all day on that side, and thinking that one of the baron’s dogs had fallen into some quagmire, the child set his basket down on the ground, climbed up a large piece of a huge rock which projected some distance over the road, and listened with attention.
The cries of the dog grew fainter, yet sounded more plaintive than before.
The child hesitated no longer. As much to do something which would please his master as to merit a small recompense, he began diligently to search for the poor animal, and soon disappeared among the tall rocks.
The dog seemed sometimes nearer, and sometimes more distant; at last the cries suddenly ceased.
The child had left the path. While he was listening, calling, crying, and whistling, Hadji, the Bohemian, appeared behind a rock.
Thanks to his skill as a juggler, he had imitated the cries of the dog, so as to distract the child from his duty and take him away from his basket. For three days he had been wandering in the midst of this solitude. Not daring to appear again at Maison-Forte, he was expecting every day the arrival of the pirates, who had been instructed by his second message.
Knowing that every morning provisions were carried to Peyrou, Hadji, who had been watching some hours for the purveyor, employed, as we have said, this stratagem to make him abandon his basket.
The Bohemian opened the bottle-case carefully provided by the majordomo Laramée, took out a large bottle covered with straw, and poured in it a small quantity of a white powder, – a powerful soporific, whose effects had already been felt by the worthy Luquin Trinquetaille.
The Bohemian had lived for two days on the small amount of food he had carried away from Maison-Forte; but, fearing to excite suspicion, he had the courage not to touch the appetising viands intended for the watchman. He restored the bottle to its place and disappeared.
The child, after having searched for the stray dog in vain, returned, took up his basket, and finally arrived at the summit of the promontory.
Master Peyrou passed for such a formidable, mysterious being, that his young purveyor did not dare say a word about the cries of the dog; he deposited the basket on the edge of the last stone of the steps, and saying, in a trembling voice, “The good God keep you, Master Peyrou,” descended as fast as his legs could carry him, holding his cap in both hands.
The watchman smiled at the child’s fear, rose from his seat, went for the basket, and set it down near him. The provisions inside smacked of the Christmas festivity.
First, there was a very fine roast turkey, a necessary dish at the solemn feast of Christmas; then a cold fish pie, some honey cakes and oil, and a basket of grapes and dried fruit done up in the style of a Christmas present; finally, two loaves of white bread with a golden brown crust, and a large bottle, containing at least two pints of the finest Burgundy wine from the cellar of Raimond V., completed his repast.
The good watchman, lonely philosopher as he was, did not appear insensible to these good things. He entered his house, took his little table, set it before his door, and there placed his preparations for his Christmas feast. Yet he was saddened by melancholy thoughts.
By the unusual clouds of smoke rising above the town of La Ciotat, it could be seen that the inhabitants, rich or poor, were making joyous preparations to unite family and friends at their tables. The watchman sighed as he thought of the exile which he had imposed upon himself. Already old, without relatives and family ties, he was liable to die on this rock, in the midst of this imposing solitude.
Another cause brought sadness to the heart of Peyrou. He had vainly hoped to signal the arrival of the commander’s galley. He knew with what joy Raimond V. would have embraced his two brothers, especially at this season, and he also knew that the gloomy sadness of Pierre des Anbiez found some relief, some consolation in the midst of sweet family happiness and festivity.
And in fact, there was still another reason, not less important, which made the watchman desire most earnestly the return of the commander.
He had been for more than twenty years the guardian of a terrible secret, and of the papers which were connected with it. His retired life and his fidelity, which had endured every test, were sufficient warrants for the security of this secret. But the watchman desired to ask the commander to deliver him from this grave responsibility, and to entrust it henceforth to Raimond V.
In fact, Peyrou realised that he might at any time die a violent death; his scene with the Bohemian proved to what dangers he was exposed in this remote and isolated spot.
All these reasons made him look anxiously for the coming of the black galley, and for the last time, before sitting down to the table, he examined the horizon attentively.
The sun was just beginning to set, and although the watchman descried nothing in the distance, he did not lose all hope of seeing the galley before nightfall, and to be able to signal the galley more readily, he resolved to dine outside.
The sight of a good dinner drove some of the wrinkles from his brow. He began by holding the flagon of Burgundy wine to his lips. After having swallowed several draughts, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as he quoted the Provençal proverb, “A Tousan tou vin es san, – On All Saints’ Day all wine is good for the health.”
“Raimond V. has not forgotten how to judge,” added he, smiling. Then he carved the turkey.
“Well, well, for an old man, old wine. I feel my heart already rejoice, and my hopes of seeing the commander’s galley are a good deal brighter.”
At this moment, Peyrou heard a rustling in the air; one of the branches of the old pine cracked, and Brilliant alighted with a heavy wing on the stone roof of the sentry-box; then from the roof she descended to the ground.
“Ah, ah! Brilliant,” said the watchman, “you come to get your part of the Christmas present, do you? Take this!” and he handed her a piece of the turkey, which the eagle refused.
“Ah! cruel wretch, you would not disdain that morsel if it was bloody. Do you want some of this pie? No? Ah! you will not find every day such a treat as the pigeon of that accursed Bohemian. Never shall I forget the service you rendered me, my courageous bird, although your taste for blood went for much in your fine action. But, no matter, Brilliant, no matter; it smells of ingratitude to be looking for the motive of a deed by which we have profited. I ought to have thought of you and given you a fine quarter of mutton for your Christmas feast. But to-morrow I will not forget For you, as for a great many men, the treat makes the festivity, and it is not the holy day or saint they glorify.”
Master Peyrou finished his dinner, sometimes chatting with Brilliant, and sometimes embracing the baron’s bottle.
Twilight was slowly descending upon the town.
The watchman, wrapping himself in his cloak, lit his pipe, and sat down to contemplate the approach of the beautiful winter night, in a sort of meditative beatitude.
Although the night was falling, he again examined the horizon with his telescope, and discovered nothing. Turning his head mechanically on the side of Maison-Forte, with the thought that all hope of seeing the commander arrive was not yet lost, he saw, to his great astonishment, a company of soldiers, commanded by two men on horseback, rapidly marching up the beach toward the house of Raimond V.
He seized his telescope, and, in spite of the gathering darkness, recognised the recorder Isnard, mounted on his white mule. The recorder was accompanied by a cavalier, whose hausse-col, or metal collar, jacket of buff-skin, and white scarf marked him as a captain of infantry.
“What does that mean?” cried the watchman, recalling with alarm the animosity of Master Isnard. “Are they going to arrest the Baron des Anbiez by virtue of an order from the Marshal of Vitry? Ah! I have too much reason to fear it, and what I fear more is the resistance of the baron. My God! how is all this going to end? What a sad Christmas if things are as I fear!”
Greatly disturbed, the watchman stood with his eyes fixed on the shore, although night was now too far advanced to permit him to distinguish any object.
Soon the moon rose bright and clear, flooding the rocks, the bay, the shore, and the castle of Maison-Forte with her brilliant light.
In the distance the city, immersed in fog, showed many a luminous point through the cloudy, vapourous mass, and its sharp-pointed roofs and belfries cut a black silhouette on the pale azure of the sky.
The sea, perfectly calm, was like a peaceful lake, and its soft murmurs were scarcely audible. The waves seemed to sleep. A line of darker blue marked the curve of the horizon.
The watchman looked anxiously at the windows of Maison-Forte, which were all brilliantly illuminated.
By degrees, his eyelids grew heavy.
Attributing the sensation of heaviness in his head to the wine, which he had partaken of in moderation, he began to walk about briskly, but, notwithstanding his persistent efforts, he felt a sort of lassitude stealing through all his limbs. His sight began to grow dim; he was obliged to return and sit down on his bench.
For some minutes he struggled with all his might against this numbness which was gradually taking possession of all his faculties.
Finally, although his reason commenced to share this state of general stupor, he had the presence of mind to go in his cabin and plunge his head in a basin of ice-cold water.
This immersion seemed for some moments to restore to him the use of his senses.
“Miserable creature I am! What have I done!” cried he. “I have made myself drunk – ”
He took a few more steps, but was obliged to sit down again.
The soporific, thwarted in its effect for a moment, redoubled its power over him. Leaning back against the wall of his cabin, he retained perception enough to be the witness of a spectacle which overwhelmed him with rage and despair.
Two galleys and a chebec appeared at the eastern point of the bay, – a point which he alone was able to discover from the height of Cape l’Aigle. These vessels were slowly doubling the promontory with the utmost precaution. With one last effort he straightened himself up to his full height, and cried, in a feeble voice, “Pirates!” He stumbled as he tried to walk to the pile where were collected all sorts of combustible material ready to be kindled at a moment’s notice. The moment he reached it he fell, deprived of consciousness.
The Bohemian, who had been watching his every movement, then appeared just where the foot-path entered the esplanade, and advanced with the greatest circumspection. Hiding himself behind the cabin, he listened, and heard only the laboured breathing of the watchman. Certain of the effect of his soporific, he approached Peyrou, stooped down, and touched his hands and his forehead and found that they were cold.
“The dose is strong,” said he, “perhaps too strong. So much the worse, I did not wish to kill him.”
Then advancing to the edge of the precipice, he saw distinctly the three pirate vessels in the distance. Moving slowly and cautiously, for fear of being discovered, they made use of oars to reach the entrance of the port, where the Bohemian was to join them.
The practised eye of Hadji recognised in front of the two galleys certain luminous points or flames, which were nothing else than torches designed to burn the city and the fishing-boats.
“By Eblis! they are going to smoke these citizens like foxes in their burrows. It is time, perhaps, for this old man to go to sleep for ever; but we must visit his cabin. I will have time to descend. I will be on the beach soon enough to seize a boat and join Captain Pog, who expects me before he begins the attack. Let us enter; they say the old man hides a treasure here.”
Hadji took a brand from the fireplace and lit a lamp.
The first object which met his eye was a trunk or box of sculptured ebony placed near the watchman’s bed.
“That is a costly piece of furniture for such a recluse.”
Not finding a key, he took a hatchet, broke open the lock, and opened the two leaves of the door; the shelves were empty.
“It is not natural to lock up nothing with so much precaution; time presses, but this key will open everything.” He took up the hatchet again, and in a moment the ebony case was in pieces.
A double bottom fell apart.
The Bohemian uttered a cry of joy as he perceived the little embossed silver casket of which we have spoken, and on which was marked a Maltese cross. This casket, which was quite heavy, was fastened no doubt by a secret spring, as neither key nor lock could be discovered.
“I have my fine part of the booty, now let us run to help Captain Pog in taking his. Ah, ah!” added he, with a diabolical laugh, as he beheld the bay and the city wrapped in profound stillness, “soon Eblis will shake his wings of fire over that scene. The sky will be in flames, and the waters will run with blood!” Then, as a last precaution, he emptied a tunnel of water on the signal pile, and descended in hot haste to join the pirate vessels.
CHAPTER XXIX. CHRISTMAS
While so many misfortunes were threatening the city, the inhabitants were quietly keeping Christmas.
Notwithstanding the uneasiness the opinion of the watchman had given, notwithstanding the alarm caused by terror of the pirates, in every house, poor or rich, preparations were being made for the patriarchal feast.
We have spoken of the magnificent cradle which had long been in course of preparation through the untiring industry of Dame Dulceline.
It was at last finished and placed in the hall of the dais, or hall of honour in Maison-Forte.
Midnight had just sounded. The woman in charge was impatiently awaiting the return of Raimond V., his daughter, Honorât de Berrol, and other relations and guests whom the baron had invited to the ceremony.
All the family and guests had gone to La Ciotat, to be present at the midnight mass.
Abbé Mascarolus had said mass in the chapel of the castle for those who had remained at home.
We will conduct the reader to the hall of the dais, which occupied two-thirds of the long gallery which communicated with the two wings of the castle.
It was never opened except on solemn occasions.
A splendid red damask silk covered its walls. To supply the place of flowers, quite rare in that season, masses of green branches, cut from trees and arranged in boxes, hid almost entirely the ten large arched windows of this immense hall.
At one end of the hall rose a granite chimneypiece, ten feet high and heavily sculptured.
Notwithstanding the season was cold, no fire burned in this vast fireplace, but an immense pile, composed of branches of vine, beech, olive, and fir-apples, only waited the formality of custom to throw waves of light and heat into the grand and stately apartment.
Two pine-trees with long green branches ornamented with ribbons, oranges, and bunches of grapes, were set up in boxes on each side of the chimney, and formed above the mantelpiece a veritable thicket of verdure.
Six copper chandeliers with lighted yellow wax candles only partially dissipated the darkness of the immense room.
At the other end, opposite the chimney, rose the dais, resembling somewhat the canopy of a bed, with curtains, hangings, and cushions of red damask, as were, too, the mantle and gloves, a part of the equipment of office.
The red draperies covered, with their long folds, five wooden steps, which were hidden under a rich Turkey carpet.
Ordinarily the armorial chair of Raimond V. was placed on this elevation, and here enthroned, the old gentleman, as lord of the manor, administered on rare occasions justice to high and low. On Christmas Day, however, the cradle of the infant Jesus occupied this place of honour.
A table of massive oak, covered over with a rich oriental drapery, furnished the middle of the gallery.
On this table could be seen an ebony box handsomely carved, with a coat of arms on its lid. This box contained the book of accounts, a sort of record in which were written the births and all other important family events.
Armchairs and benches of carved oak, with twisted feet, completed the furniture of this hall, to which its size and severe bareness gave an imposing character.
Dame Dulceline and Abbé Mascarolus had just finished placing the cradle under the dais. This marvel was a picture in relief about three feet square at the base and three feet high. The faithful representation of the stable where the Saviour was born would have been too severe a limitation to the poetical conceptions of the good abbé.
So, instead of a stable, the holy scene was pictured under a sort of arcade sustained by two half ruined supports. In the spaces between the stones, real little stones artistically cut, were hung long garlands of natural vines and leaves, most beautifully intertwined.
A cloud of white wax seemed to envelope the upper part of the arcade. Five or six cherubs about a thumb high, modelled in wax painted a natural colour, and wearing azure wings made of the feathers of humming-birds, were here and there set in the cloud, and held a streamer of white silk, in the middle of which glittered the words, embroidered in letters of gold: Gloria in Jezcelriir.
The supports of the arcade rested on a sort of carpet of fine moss, packed so closely as to resemble green velvet, and in front of this erection was placed the cradle of the Saviour of the world; a real, miniature cradle, covered over with the richest laces. In it reposed the infant Jesus.
Kneeling by the cradle, the Virgin Mary bent over the Babe her maternal brow, the white veil of the Queen of Angels falling over her feet and hiding half of her azure coloured silk robe.
The paschal lamb, his four feet bound with a rose coloured ribbon, was laid at the foot of the cradle; behind it the kneeling ox thrust his large head, and his eyes of enamel seemed to contemplate the divine Infant.
The ass, on a more distant plane, and half hidden by the posts of the arcade, behind which it stood, also showed his meek and gentle head.
The dog seemed to cringe near the cradle, while the shepherds, clothed in coarse cassocks, and the magi kings, dressed in rich robes of brocatelle, were offering their adoration.
A fourth row of little candles, made of rose-scented wax, burned around the cradle.
An immense amount of work, and really great resources of imagination, had been necessary to perfect such an exquisite picture. For instance, the ass, which was about six thumbs in height, was covered in mouse-skin which imitated his own to perfection. The black and white ox owed his hair to an India pig of the same colour, and his short and polished black horns to the rounded nippers of an enormous beetle.
The robes of the magi kings revealed a fairy-like skill and patience, and their long white hair was really veritable hair, which Dame Dulceline had cut from her own venerable head.
As to the figures of the cherubs, the infant Jesus, and other actors in this holy scene, they had been purchased in Marseilles from one of those master wax-chandlers, who always kept assorted materials necessary in the construction of these cradles.
Doubtless it was not high art, but there was, in this little monument of a laborious and innocent piety, something as simple and as pathetic as the divine scene which they tried to reproduce with such religious conscientiousness.
The good old priest and Dame Dulceline, after having lit the last candles which surrounded the cradle, stood a moment, lost in admiration of their work.
“Never, M. Abbé,” said Dame Dulceline, “have we had such a beautiful cradle at Maison-Forte.”
“That is true, Dame Dulceline; the representation of the animals approaches nature as closely as is permitted man to approach the marvels of creation.”
“Ah, M. Abbé, why did it have to be that the accursed Bohemian, who they say is an emissary of the pirates, should give us the secret of making glass eyes for these animals?”
“What does it matter, Dame Dulceline? Perhaps some day the miscreant will learn the eternal truth. The Lord employs every arm to build his temple.”
“Pray tell me, M. Abbé, why we must put the cradle under the dais in the hall of honour. Soon it will be forty years since I began making cradles for Maison-Forte des Anbiez. My mother made them for Raimond IV., father of Raimond V., for as many years. Ah, well! I have never asked before, nor have I even asked myself why this hall was always selected for the blessed exposition.”
“Ah, you see, Dame Dulceline, there is always, at the base of our ancient religious customs, something consoling for the humble, the weak, and the suffering, and also something imposing as a lesson for the happy and the rich and the powerful of this world. This cradle, for instance, is the symbol of the birth of the divine Saviour. He was the poor child of a poor artisan, and yet some day he was to be as far above the most powerful of men as the heavens are above the earth. So you see, Dame Dulceline, upon the anniversary day of the redemption, the poor and rustic cradle of the infant Saviour takes the place of honour in the ceremonial hall of the noble baron.”
“Ah, I understand, M. Abbé, they put the infant Jesus in the place of the noble baron, to show that the lords of this world should be first to bow before the Saviour!”
“Without doubt, Dame Dulceline, in thus doing homage to the Lord through the symbol of his power, the baron preaches by example the communion and equality of men before God.”
Dame Dulceline remained silent a moment, thinking of the abbé's words, then, satisfied with his explanation, she proposed another question to him, which in her mind was more difficult of solution.
“M. Abbé,” asked she, with an embarrassed air, “you say that at the base of all ancient customs there is always a lesson; can there be one, then, in the custom of Palm Sunday, when foundling children run about the streets of Marseilles with branches of laurel adorned with fruit? For instance, last year, on Palm Sunday, – I blush to think of it even now, M. Abbé, – I was walking on the fashionable promenade of Marseilles with Master Tale-bard-Talebardon, who was not then the declared enemy of monseigneur, and, lo! one of the unfortunate little foundlings stopped right before me and the consul, and said, with a sweet voice, as he kissed our hands, ‘Good morning, mother! good morning, father!’ By St Dulceline, my patron saint, M. Abbé, I turned purple with shame, and Master Talebard-Talebardon did, too. I beg your pardon, respectfully, for alluding to the coarse jokes of Master Laramée, who accompanied us, on the subject of this poor foundling’s insult! But this Master Laramée has neither modesty nor shame. I could not help repulsing with horror this nursling of public charity, and I pinched his arm sharply, and said to him: ‘Will you be silent, you ugly little bastard?’ He felt his fault, for he began to weep, and when I complained of his indecent impudence to a grave citizen, he replied to me: ‘My good lady, such is the custom here; on Palm Sunday foundlings have the privilege of running through the streets, and saying, ‘father and mother,’ to all whom they may meet.”
“That is really the custom, Dame Dulceline,” said the abbé.
“Well, it may be the custom, M. Abbé, but is that not a very impertinent and improper custom, to permit unfortunate little children without father or mother to walk up and say ‘mother’ to honest, discreet persons like myself, for example, who prefer the peace of celibacy to the disquietudes of family? As to the morality of this custom, I pray you explain it, M. Abbé. I look for it in vain with all my eyes. I can see nothing in it but what is outrageously indecent!”
“And you are mistaken, Dame Dulceline,” said Abbé Mascarolus; “this custom is worthy of respect, and you were wrong to treat that poor child so cruelly.”
“I was wrong? That little rascal comes and calls me mother, and I permit it? Why, then, thanks to this custom, there would – ”
“Thanks to this custom,” interrupted the abbé, “thanks to the privilege that these little unfortunates have, of being able to say, one day in the year, ‘father and mother’ to those they meet, – those dear names that they never pronounce, which, perhaps, may have never passed their lips – alas! how many there are, and I have seen them, who say these words with tears in their eyes, as they remember that, when that day is past, they cannot repeat the blessed words! And sometimes it happens, Dame Dulceline, that strangers, moved to pity by such innocence and sorrow, or being touched by the caressing words, have adopted some of these unfortunates; others have given abundant alms, because this innocent appeal for charity is almost always heard. You see, Dame Dulceline, that this custom, too, has a useful end, – a pious signification.”
The old woman bowed her head in silence, and finally replied to the good chaplain:
“You are a clever man, M. Abbé; you are right. See what it is to have knowledge! Now I repent of having repulsed the child so cruelly. Next Palm Sunday I will not fail to carry several yards of good, warm cloth, and nice linen, and this time, I promise you, I will not act the cruel stepmother with the poor children who call me mother! But if that old sot, Laramée, makes any indecent joke about me, as sure as he has eyes I will prove to him that I have claws!”
“That would prove too much, Dame Dulceline. But, since monseigneur does not yet return, and since we are discussing the customs of our good old Provence, and their usefulness to poor people, come, now, what have you observed on the day of St Lazarus, concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“What do you want me to tell you, M. Abbé? Now I distrust myself; before your explanation I railed against the custom of foundlings on Palm Sunday, now I respect it.”
“Say always, Dame Dulceline, that the sin of ignorance is excusable. But what is your opinion concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“Bless me, M. Abbé, I understand nothing about it! I sometimes ask myself what is the good, the day of the feast of St. Elmo, of dressing up, at the expense of the city or community, all the poor young boys and girls as handsomely as possible. That is not all. Not content with that, these young people go from house to house, among the rich citizens and the lords, asking to borrow something. This one wants a gold necklace, that one a pair of diamond earrings, another a silver belt, another a hatband set with precious stones, or a sword-belt braided in gold. Ah, well! in my opinion, – but I may change it in an hour, – M. Abbé, it is wrong to lend all these costly articles to poor people and artisans who have not a cent.”
“Why so? Since the feast of St. Lazarus has been celebrated here, have you ever heard, Dame Dulceline, that any of those precious jewels have been lost or stolen?”
“Good God in Heaven! Never, M. Abbé, neither here, nor in Marseilles, nor in all Provence, I believe. Thank God, our youth is honest, after all! For instance, last year Mlle. Reine loaned her Venetian girdle, which Stephanette says cost more than two thousand crowns. Ah, well! Thereson, the daughter of the miller at Pointe-aux-Cailles, who wore this costly ornament during all the feast, came and brought it back before sunset, although she had permission to keep it till night. And for this same feast of St. Lazarus, monseigneur loaned to Pierron, the fisherman of Maison-Forte, his beautiful gold chain, and his medallion set with rubies, that Master Laramée cleans, as you told him to do, with teardrops of the vine.”