The Knight of Malta

The façade of the Castle des Anbiez which looked north, and the surrounding land, were very picturesque.

Irregular buildings, added to the principal edifice according to the different requirements of successive proprietors, broke the monotony of its lines.

The stables, dog-kennels, sheepfolds, commons, and lodgings for labourers and farmers, formed the enclosure of an immense court, planted with two rows of sycamores. This court was reached by a drawbridge over a wide and deep ditch.

Every evening this bridge was removed, and a heavy door of oak, strongly supported on the inside, put the little colony in safely for the night.

Every window of these buildings opened upon the court, with the exception of a few dormer windows, solidly protected by iron grating, which looked out upon the plain.

Maison-Forte counted about two hundred persons among its dependents, – servants, farmers, labourers, and shepherds.

Among them were sixty men of from thirty to fifty years, accustomed to the use of arms during the civil wars in which the impetuous baron had taken part. Royalist and Catholic, Raimond V. had always mounted his horse when it was necessary to defend the ancient rights and possessions of Provence against governors or their deputies, for the kings of France were not kings of Provence, but counts.

The intendants of justice or presidents of courts, whose office it was to collect the taxes, and to announce to the assembled states the assessment of voluntary gifts which Provence owed to the sovereign, were almost always the first victims of these revolts against royal authority, made with the cry of “Long live the king!”

Under such circumstances Raimond V. was among the first to rebel. In the last rebellion of Cascaveoux, – so named from the word cascavoeu, the Provençal for little bell, which the insurgents fastened to the end of a leather strap, and rang as they cried, “Long live the king,” – none sounded the battle-cry, and shook his bell more violently, or made his dependents shake this signal of revolt, with more enthusiastic ardour than Raimond V.

In that, the baron showed himself the worthy son of his father, Raimond IV., one of the gentlemen most seriously compromised in the rebellion of the Razats, which name originated from the fact that the Provençals had been as spoiled of their possessions as if a razor had been employed. This rebellion broke out under Henry III., in 1578, and was suppressed with great difficulty by Marshal de Retz.

The baron looked with great impatience upon the growth of the power of Cardinal Richelieu, at the expense of the royal authority, and the disappearance of the sovereign beneath the shadow of the prime minister.

Similar movements of resistance manifested themselves in Languedoc and in Provence, in favour of Gaston of Orleans, brother of Louis XIII., whom the royalist faction opposed to the cardinal.

There is no doubt that the baron would never have taken an active part in these intrigues, but for the apprehension caused by the pirates along the coast, but, compelled to concentrate his forces in order to defend his house and estate, he declaimed violently against the cardinal, especially since the latter had given the government of Provence to the Marshal of Vitry.

These important functions had, up to that time, been filled by the Duke of Guise, admiral of the Levant, who, to the great delight of the Provençals, after many obstacles, had replaced the Duke d’Epernon.

“The young lion has devoured the old bear,” said Cæsar of Nostradamus on this subject at the celebration of the nomination of the young Lorraine prince for this important post.

When the Marshal of Vitry was promoted to the position of Governor of Provence, the nobility gave vent to their indignation, because a member of the house of Lorraine was not considered worthy of this dignity, usually reserved for a prince of the blood.

When Louis Gallucio, marquis, was Duke of Vitry, it was remarked that the Cardinal de Retz, without otherwise blaming him for having been one of the murderers of the Marshal of Ancre, said simply of him: “He had little sense, but he was bold to temerity, and the part he had in the murder of the Marshal of Ancre gave him, in the eyes of the world, a certain air of business and execution.” This speech gives us an idea of the times and manners.

The Baron des Anbiez, notwithstanding his fondness for independence and rebellion, was the best and most generous of men.

Adored by the peasants of his domain, and revered by the inhabitants of the little town of La Ciotat, who always found him ready to direct their troops and aid them with all his power to defend themselves from the pirates, he exercised a powerful influence throughout the neighbourhood.

Finally, his vigorous opposition to several orders of the Marshal of Vitry, which seemed to him to aim a blow at the rights of Provence, had been highly and generally approved in the country.

When Stephanette returned to Maison-Forte, the sun was just setting. The first care of the young girl was to go to Mlle. Reine des Anbiez. Reine was accustomed to occupy a chamber situated on the first floor of one of the turrets of the castle.

This room was round in shape, serving her as a cabinet for study, and was furnished with great care and expense.

The baron, loving his daughter to idolatry, had devoted to the interior arrangement of this room a considerable sum. The circular walls were covered with rich Flemish tapestry of deep green, with designs of a darker shade, enwrought with threads of gold.

Among other pieces of furniture was a walnut bookcase, curiously carved in the style of the renaissance, and encrusted with Florentine mosaic. A rich, thick Turkey carpet covered the floor. The spaces separating the beams of the ceiling were of azure blue, studded with arabesques of gold of delicate workmanship.

A silver lamp was suspended from the main girder by a chain of silver. The form of these lamps, still used in some villages of Provence, was very simple. They were made of a square of metal, the edges of which, an inch in height, contained the oil, and formed a sort of beak at each angle from which issued the wicks.

On a table with curved legs placed in the embrasure of the window lay a lute, a theorbo, and some pieces of unfinished tapestry.

Two portraits, one of a woman, the other of a man, in the costume of the reign of Henry III., were placed above this table, and lit up by oblique rays through little windows in leaden frames, which were set in the long and narrow casement.

To supply the want of a chimney a large copper coal-pan, curiously carved, and supported by four massive claws, stood in a corner of the room. It contained a bed of ashes and some embers, upon which were smoking some sprigs of fragrant broom.

Reine des Anbiez wore a dress of heavy brown Tours silk, with a train, and tight waist and sleeves; her cheeks were flushed, and her features expressed not surprise only but fright.

She seized her waiting-woman by the hand, and conducted her to the table, and said to her:

“Look!”

The object to which she called the attention of Stephanette was a little vase of rock crystal.

From its long and slender neck issued an orange-coloured lily, with an azure blue calyx, in which stood pistils of silvery whiteness. This brilliant flower exhaled a delicious odour which resembled the mingled perfume of vanilla, lemon, and jessamine.

“Oh, mademoiselle, what a beautiful flower! Is it a present from the Chevalier de Berrol?”

At the mention of her betrothed’s name, Reine turned pale and red by turns; then, without replying to Stephanette, she took up the vase with a sort of fear, and showed her a beautifully enamelled figure which she had discovered there, and the representation of a white dove with a rose-coloured beak, and extended wings, holding in its purplish bronze feet a branch of olive.

“Our Lady!” screamed Stephanette in fright. “It is the very picture of the enamelled pin that young miscreant robbed you of in the rocks of Ollioules, after he had saved monseigneur’s life.”

“But who brought this vase and flower here?” asked Reine.

“You do not know, mademoiselle?”

Reine turned pale and made a sign in the affirmative. “Holy Virgin, this must be sorcery!” cried Stephanette, setting the vase back on the table as if it had burned her hand.

Reine could scarcely control her emotion, but said to her:

“A little while ago, when I went out to see my father mount his horse, I promenaded until nightfall in the great walk by the drawbridge, and when I returned I found this flower on this table. My first thought, like yours, was that Chevalier de Berrol had sent it or brought it, although such a flower in this season would be a miracle; I asked if the chevalier had arrived at Maison-Forte, and was told he had not; besides, I had the key of this apartment with me.”

“Then, mademoiselle, it must be magic.”

“I do not know what to think. In examining the vase more attentively, I see the enamelled likeness of the pin that – ”

Reine could not say more.

Her face and form betrayed the violent emotion which the memory of that strange day caused her, the day when the foreigner had dared approach his lips to hers.

“We must consult the chaplain or the watchman, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Stephanette.

“No, no, be silent. Do not noise abroad this mystery which frightens me in spite of myself. Let us examine this apartment well; perhaps we may discover something.”

“But this flower, this vase, mademoiselle!”

As a reply, Reine threw the flower in the coal-pan.

It almost seemed that the poor flower turned itself in pain upon the burning coals; the light hissing produced by the water which oozed out from the stem, seemed like plaintive cries.

Soon it was in ashes.

Then Reine opened the window which looked upon the esplanade, and threw out the crystal flagon. It broke with a noise upon the parapet, and its fragments fell into the sea.

At this moment sounded heavy steps, and click of spurs upon the flagstones of the staircase. The hoarse voice of Raimond V. called joyously to his daughter to come and see – that demon of a Mistraon!

“Not a word of this to my father,” said Reine to Stephanette, putting her finger on her lips.

And she descended to meet the good old gentleman.

CHAPTER VII. THE SUPPER

Reine, hiding her emotion, joined her father. Raimond V. kissed his daughter’s brow tenderly, then, taking her arm, descended the last steps of the staircase which led from the tower. He wore an old green military coat, braided with gold, somewhat tarnished, scarlet breeches, great boots of sheepskin covered with mud, and long spurs of rusty iron.

He held his gray cap in his hand, and although the weather was quite cold, the wrinkled and sunburnt brow of Raimond V. was covered with sweat.

By the light of a torch, a valet, holding by the bridle the treacherous and obstreperous Mistraon, whose flanks were foaming with perspiration, could be seen in the court of the castle.

A great black hunting dog with long hair, and a little yellow and white spaniel, were lying at the feet of the stallion from Camargne.

The dog was panting; his ears lying on his head, his mouth open and filled with foam, his eyes half closed, and the feverish palpitation of his sides, all announced that he had just run a rapid race. The sight of Mistraon added to Reine’s annoyance by recalling the scene on the rocks. But the baron, preoccupied by the success of the chase, had not the penetration to discover the agitation of his daughter.

He detached a leather strap which held a large hare to the bow of his saddle, and proudly presented the game to Reine, as he said:

“Would you believe it, Eclair,” and at the name the dog lifted his fine intelligent head, “caught this hare in thirteen minutes on the marshes of Savenol. It was old Genêt,” and at this name the little spaniel lifted his head, “that put him on the track. Mistraon is so fleet that I did not lose sight of Eclair from the time I began to climb the hill of black stones. I made, I am sure, more than a league and a half.”

“Oh, father, why will you ride this horse, after the frightful experience you have had with him?”

“Manjour!” cried the old gentleman, with an air of mock gravity, “never shall it be said that Raimond V. succumbed to one of the indomitable sons of Camargne.”

“But, father – ”

“But, my daughter, I yield no more on land than on sea, and I say that, because I have just been visiting the seines that those rascals in La Ciotat wish to prevent my laying beyond the rocks of Castrembaou. Just now, too, I met the consul Talebard-Talebardon on his nag, and he talked about it And he had the effrontery to threaten me with the tribunal of overseers, of which the watchman is the assignee! Manjour, I laughed so much, that this demon, Mistraon, took advantage of my distraction and flew like an arrow.”

“More dangers, father; this horse will be the death of you!”

“Be easy, my child, although I have not such a vigorous fist as the half savage young Muscovite who so adroitly arrested Mistraon on the border of a precipice, the bridle and the spur and the whip know how to reason with a vicious horse and his pranks. But permit me, my beautiful lady of the castle, to offer you the foot of the animal that I have captured.”

And the baron drew a knife from his pocket, cut off the right foot of the hare, and gallantly presented it to his daughter, who accepted, not without some repugnance, this trophy of the chase.

Mistraon was led back to the stable, but Eclair and Genêt, favourites of the baron, followed him side by side, as, leaning on the arm of his daughter, he made what he called his evening inspection, while waiting for the hour of supper.

The women and young girls were spinning at the wheel, the men mending their nets and cleaning implements of husbandry. Master Laramée, the old sergeant of the company raised by the baron during the civil troubles, and majordomo and commander of the castle garrison, exacted that all of the baron’s tenants, who, in turn, performed the service of sentinel on the terrace which bordered the sea, should be armed in military style.

Others were engaged in decorating long lances, destined for jousts on the water, or to be used in jumping the cross-bar, the usual Christmas amusements, in the colours of the baron, red and yellow. Some, more seriously occupied, prepared the seed for late sowing; some were weaving, with great care, baskets out of rushes, to hold presents of fruit, made at Christmas.

These occupations were enlivened by songs peculiar to the country, sometimes accompanied by some marvellous legend, or terrible recital of the cruelties of pirates.

In an upper hall filled with fruit, children and old men were busy in examining long garlands of grapes, which hung from the rafters of the ceiling, or packing in baskets sweet-smelling figs, dried upon layers of straw.

Farther on was the laundry, where the washerwomen, under the supervision of a gentlewoman, Dulceline, the housekeeper, were occupied in perfuming the linen of the castle, by putting between its folds, whiter than snow, the leaves of aromatic herbs.

Often the sharp voice of Dulceline rose above the songs of the washerwomen, as she reprimanded some idlers.

By the side of the laundry was the pharmacy of the castle, where the peasants of the neighbourhood found all their remedies. This pharmacy belonged to the department of the baron’s chaplain, Abbé Mascarolus, an old and excellent priest of angelic piety and rare simplicity. The chaplain had an extensive acquaintance with medical men and their attainments, and firmly believed in the strange pharmacy of that time.

In spite of the continual apprehension of a visit from the pirates, all the inhabitants of Maison-Forte shared the traditional gaiety, so to speak, which the approach of Christmas, the most joyous and most important festival of the year, always brought to Provence.

Every evening before supper, the baron made, in company with his daughter, what he called his inspection; that is, he went through the whole theatre of the various occupations with which we have been entertaining the reader, chatting familiarly with everybody, listening to requests and complaints, often impatient and sometimes flying into a passion and scolding, but always full of justice and kindness, and so cordial in his good-humour that his bursts of irritation were soon forgotten.

Raimond V. kept a large part of his domain in good condition. He sat up a long time at night to talk with his principal shepherds, labourers, farmers, and vinedressers, convinced of the wisdom of the two Provençal proverbs, worthy of the watchman on the cape of l’Aigle: Luci doou mestre engraisso lou chivaou, – the eye of the master fattens the horse. Bouen pastre, bouen ave, – good shepherd, good flock.

The old gentleman usually completed his circuit by a visit to the pharmacy, where he found Abbé Mascarolus, who gave him a sort of hygienic statement of the health of the inhabitants of the domain Des Anbiez.

To-day, he passed by the laundry, going directly to the pharmacy, accompanied by Reine. Preparations for the Christmas holidays were going on all through the castle, but the most important solemnity of all was reserved for the care of the venerable Dulceline, who had entreated the abbé to enlighten her with his counsels.

This was the cradle or crib, a sort of picture placed every Christmas day in the most beautiful room of the habitation, – castle, cottage, or mansion.

This picture represented the birth of the infant Jesus; there were the stable, the ox, the ass, St Joseph, and the Virgin holding on her knees the Saviour of the world.

Every family, poor or rich, deemed it absolutely requisite to have a cradle as elegant as could be afforded, ornamented with garlands and tinsel, and illuminated with a circle of candles.

As Raimond V. passed the laundry, he was surprised not to see Dulceline, and asked where she was.

“Monseigneur,” said a young girl with black eyes and cheeks the colour of a pomegranate, “Mile. Dulceline is in the chamber of the philters, with the abbé and Thereson; she is at work on the cradle, and forbids us to enter.”

“The devil!” said the baron, “the supper-bell has rung, and the abbé must say grace for us.”

He advanced to the door; it was fastened on the inside; he knocked.

“Come, come, abbé, supper is ready, and I am as hungry as the devil.”

“One moment, monseigneur,” said Dulceline, “we cannot open, – it is a secret.”

“What, abbé, you have secrets with Dulceline?” said the old gentleman, laughing.

“Ah, monseigneur, God save us! Thereson is with us,” screamed the old lady, offended at the baron’s pleasantry. As she opened the door, she presented a pale, wrinkled face, framed in a ruff and cap, worthy of the pencil of Holbein.

The abbé, fifty years old, was dressed in a black robe and cap, which fit his head closely and displayed his gentle face to advantage.

Thereson, as soon as the baron entered, hid the cradle under a cloth. The baron approached, and was about to lift it, when Dulceline cried, in a beseeching tone:

“Oh, monseigneur! permit us the pleasure of surprising you; rest assured this will be the most beautiful cradle that has ever adorned the great hall of Maison-Forte, and it ought to be, by Our Lady, since the commander and Father Elzear are coming such a distance to assist at the Christmas festivity.”

“Manjour! I shall be unhappy indeed if they do not come,” said the baron: “two years have passed since my brothers have spent a night or a day in our father’s house, and by St. Bernard, my patron, who assists me, the Lord will grant us a reunion this time!”

“God will hear you, monseigneur, and I join my prayers to yours,” said the abbé. Then he added: “Monseigneur, did you have a successful hunt?”

“Very good, abbé, see for yourself!” and the baron took the hare’s foot that Reine held in her hand, and showed it to the abbé.

“If mademoiselle does not desire to keep this foot,” said the abbé, “I will ask her for it, for my pharmacy, and will monseigneur tell me if it is the right or the left foot of the animal?”

“And what are you going to do with it, abbé?”

“Monseigneur,” said the good Mascarolus, pointing to an open volume on the table, “I have just received this book from Paris. It is the journal of M. de Maucaunys, a very illustrious and learned man, and I read here, page 317: ‘Recipe for the gout. Lay against the thigh, between the trousers and the shirt, on the side affected, two paws of a hare killed between Lady Day of September and Christmas, but with the important restriction, that the hind left paw must be used if it is the right arm which is ailing, and the right fore paw if it is the leg or the left thigh which is ailing: on the instant the application is made, the pain will cease.’”

“Stuff!” cried the baron, laughing with all his might. “This is a wonderful discovery; now the poachers will claim to be apothecaries, and they will catch hares only to cure the gout.”

The good abbé, quite embarrassed by the sarcasms of the baron, continued to read to keep himself in countenance, and added: “I see, baron, on page 177, wood-lice, given to dropsical nightingales, will cure them entirely.”

Here the laughter of the good gentleman was more uproarious. Reine, notwithstanding her preoccupation, could not repress a smile, and finally laughed with her father.

The Abbé Mascarolus smiled softly, and bore these innocent railleries with Christian resignation, and no longer tried to defend an empiricism which, no doubt, may find analogies in medical books of the present day.

Raimond V. took leave of the pharmacy to find pleasure elsewhere, when Laramée, majordomo and master of ceremonies, came to announce that supper had been waiting a long time.

Laramée, the advance guard of the baron’s escort through the gorges of Ollioules, had the physiognomy of a real pandour; his complexion reddened by wine-drinking, his rough voice, his white and closely cut hair, his long gray moustache, and his continual swearing, were by no means to the taste of Dulceline.

She received the entrance of the majordomo into the sanctuary of the abbé with a sort of muttered remonstrance, which at last changed to sharp and loud complaint, when she saw that Laramée had the indiscretion to approach the veil which covered the mysterious cradle and try to lift it.

“Well, well, Laramée,” said the baron, “Manjour, do you claim more privileges than your master, and insist upon seeing the wonders that Dulceline is hiding from our eyes? Come, come, take this lamp and light onr way.”

Then, turning to Mascarolus, Raimond V. said humorously: “Since, according to your fine book, wood-lice will cure dropsy in nightingales, you ought to try your remedy on this old scoundrel, who surely is threatened with dropsy, for he is a veritable old bottle, swollen with wine, ready to burst; as for the rest, like the nightingale, he will sing at night, – and the devil knows what songs!”

“Yes, monseigneur, and with a voice loud enough to wake the whole castle, and make the owls fly from the top of the old tower,” added Dulceline.

“And just as true as I drank two glasses of Sauvechrétien wine this morning, screech owls know the owls, Dulceline, my dear,” said the majordomo with a jocose manner as he passed, lamp in hand, before the superintendent of the laundry.

“Monseigneur,” cried she, “do you hear the insolence of Master Laramée?”

“And you shall be avenged, my dear, for I will make him drink a pint of water to your health. Come, come, go on, majordomo, the soup will get cold.”

The baron, Reine, and the abbé left the pharmacy and descended the stairs, and crossed the long and dark gallery which united the two wings of Maison-Forte; they entered a large dining-room, brilliantly lighted by a good fire of beech, olive roots, and fir-apples, which shed through the whole room the odour of balsam.

The immense chimney, with a large stone mantel, and andirons of massive iron, smoked a little, but by way of compensation, the windows latticed with lead, and the heavy doors of oak were not hermetically sealed, and the smoke found a way of escape through the numerous openings.

The north wind, entering these cracks, made a shrill whistle, which was victoriously combatted by the merry crackling of the beech and olive logs which burned in the fireplace.