The Usurper

"Come, Loo!" said the Prince, "run out into the gardens for a little while; but don't throw stones at the gazelles, or frighten my Muscovy ducks."

Loo hastened away.

When he was alone, the Prince drew quickly from under his mattress a letter wrapped in green satin; he placed it on his pillow, leaned his cheek against it, and closed his eyes to sleep.

This letter was the one given him by the Kisaki; he preserved it as a precious treasure, and his only joy was to inhale its faint perfume. But, to his great distress, it had seemed to him, for some days past, as if the perfume were evaporating; perhaps, accustomed to inhale it, he did not notice it so strongly.

Suddenly the Prince rose up; he remembered that inside the envelope this subtle and delicious perfume would doubtless be better preserved. He broke the seal, which he had not hitherto touched, thinking that the envelope was empty; but to his great surprise he drew out a paper covered with written characters.

He uttered a cry and tried to read, but in vain. A red veil shimmered before his eyes; there was a buzzing in his ears; he feared lest he should faint, and rested his head on the pillow. He, however, succeeded in calming himself, and again looked at the writing. It was an elegantly worded quatrain. The Prince read it with indescribable emotion: —

"Two flowers bloomed on the banks of a stream. But, alas! the stream divided them.

"In each corolla lay a drop of dew, the shining spirit of the flower.

"Upon one of them the sun fell; he made it sparkle. But she thought: Why am I not on the other bank?

"One day these flowers hung their heads to die. They let fall their luminous soul like a diamond. Then the two drops of dew met at last, and were mingled in the stream."

"She gives me a tryst," cried the Prince, "farther away, later on, in another life. Then she has guessed my love! She loves me, then! O Death! can you not hasten? Can you not bring nearer the celestial hour of our reunion?"

The Prince may have thought his wishes granted; for, falling back on his cushions, he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER XI.

THE WARRIOR-QUAILS

In a delightful landscape in the midst of a thick wood stands the summer residence of the Kisaki, with its pretty roofs of gilded bark. The thick foliage of the lofty trees seemed loath to make way for those glittering house-tops, which projected on every side of the palace, shading a broad veranda, whose floor was covered with carpets, and strewn with silk and satin cushions worked in gold.

The prospect is not extensive, and the dwelling seems shut in by cool green vegetation. Emerald reeds flaunt their slender leaves like banners on the breeze, uprearing silvery, flaky plumes. Orange-bushes bloom beside tall bamboos, and mingle their sweet-scented flowers with the red blossoms of the wild cherry. Farther away, large camelias climb the trees; at their feet big red leaves, covered with light down, unfold beside tall heaths, so delicate, so airy, that they look like tufts of green feathers. Above this first plane of verdure, palms, bananas, oaks, and cedars interlace their branches and form an inextricable network, through which the light filters, tinged with a thousand varying hues.

A brook glides slowly over a bed of thick moss, and its crystal stream is slightly troubled by a water-hen of lovely plumage, who just ruffles it with her wings as she chases a dragon-fly, whose slim body flashes forth metallic reflections.

But more brilliant and more splendid than the flowers, the velvety moss, or the silvery shadows on the stream, are the dresses of the women who sit on the veranda.

The Kisaki, surrounded by her favorite ladies and a few young lords, the noblest of the Court, is witnessing a quail-fight.

On account of the heat, the sovereign wears a light robe of pigeon-colored silk gauze, – a shade of green which she alone has the right to use. In place of the three plates of gold which form her crown, she has arranged in her hair three daisies with silver leaves. Over her left ear, from the head of a long pin buried in her hair, hangs, at the end of a slender gold chain, a huge pearl of rare beauty and perfect shape.

Two young boys, in costumes differing only in color, crouch upon their heels, face to face, watching the contest between the pretty birds, ready to pick up the dead and bring forward fresh combatants.

"How little chance of winning I have," said a lord with an intellectual cast of countenance, "I, who dared to bet against my Queen!"

"You are the only one who was so bold, Simabara," said the Kisaki; "but if you win, I am sure that every one will bet against me in the next fight."

"He is likely to triumph," said the Prince of Tsusima, husband of the beautiful Iza-Farou-No-Kami.

"What!" cried the Kisaki, "have I so nearly lost?"

"See, your champion weakens!"

"Courage! one more effort! courage, little warrior!" said the Queen.

The quails, with bristling feathers and neck outstretched, paused for a moment, gazing motionless, each at the other, then sprang to the attack again; one of them fell.

"Ah! all is over," cried the Queen, rising to her feet; "the bird is dead! Simabara has won."

Young girls now handed about sweetmeats and delicacies of various kinds, with tea gathered on the neighboring mountains; and the sports ceased for a time.

Then a page approached the Kisaki, and told her that a messenger had been waiting for some moments with news from the palace.

"Let him enter," said the sovereign.

The messenger advanced, and prostrated himself.

"Speak," said the Kisaki.

"Light of the World!" said the man, "the embassy from the Shogun has arrived."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Kisaki. "And who are the princes that compose it?"

"The Princes of Nagato, Satsuma, Ouesougi, and Satake."

"It is well!" said the Kisaki, dismissing the messenger by a sign. "These gentlemen will weary of waiting for an audience," she continued, addressing the princes grouped about her. "The Mikado, my divine master, is at the summer-palace with all his wives and his Court; the Dairi is almost deserted. Tsusima, go, seek out these princes, and conduct them hither; they shall share our sports. Let pavilions be prepared for them within the limits of the residence," she added, turning to her women.

Her orders were transmitted to the interior of the house, and the Prince of Tsusima, bowing profoundly, withdrew.

The Dairi was not more than half-an-hour's journey away from the summer-palace, so that an hour was all-sufficient time to go and come.

"Prepare a fresh combat," said Kisaki. The fowlers cried aloud the names of the combatants:

"Gold Spur!"

"Rival of Lightning!"

"Gold Spur is a stranger," said the sovereign. "I will bet on Rival of Lightning; I consider him matchless: he killed Coral Beak, who had slaughtered untold adversaries."

All the spectators followed the Queen's example.

"If that is so," she cried, laughing, "I will bet alone against you all; I will join myself to the fortunes of Gold Spur."

The struggle began. Rival of Lightning rushed forward with the speed which had won him his name. Usually, he disabled his foe at the first onslaught; but now he fell back, leaving a few feathers in his antagonist's beak, the latter being untouched.

"Well done! well done!" was the shout on every side. "Gold Spur begins wonderfully well!"

Some of the noblemen squatted on their heels, to follow the fight more closely.

The birds closed for the second time. But nothing was to be seen except a confused heap of quivering plumes; then Rival of Lightning fell with bleeding head, and Gold Spur proudly placed one foot upon the body of his conquered enemy.

"Victory!" cried the Kisaki, clapping her small milk-white hands. "Gold Spur is the monarch of the day; to him belongs the prize collar."

One of the princesses fetched a black lacquer box containing a gold ring set with rubies and coral, from which hung a tiny crystal bell.

The victor was brought to the Queen, who, taking the ring in two fingers, put it round the bird's neck.

Other fights followed; but the Kisaki, strangely absent-minded, paid little heed to them. She listened to the myriad noises of the forest, and seemed annoyed by the babbling of the brook, which prevented her hearing distinctly a very faint and far-off sound. It might have been the slight clash of swords thrust into a noble's girdle, the crunching of the sand on one of the paths beneath the tread of approaching guests, or the sudden snap of a fan rapidly opened and shut.

An insect, a passing bird, drowned this almost imperceptible sound. However it soon grew louder; everybody heard it. Cheerful voices were mingled with it.

"Here come the ambassadors!" said Simabara.

Soon after, they heard the clang of arms, as the Princes laid off their weapons before appearing in the sovereign's presence.

Tsusima came forward from the interior of the house and announced the noble envoys, who appeared in their turn, and prostrated themselves before the Kisaki.

"Rise!" said the young woman hastily, "and learn the laws which govern our little Court of Flowers. Ceremonious etiquette is banished from it; I am regarded as an elder sister. Every one is free and at ease, and has no duty, but to devise fresh diversions. The watchword here is mirth."

The lords rose; they were soon surrounded, and questioned in regard to recent events at Osaka. The Kisaki cast a rapid glance at the Prince of Nagato. She was struck by the look of weakness imprinted upon the young man's whole frame; but she surprised in his eyes a strange gleam of pride and joy.

"He has read the verses that I gave him," she thought. "How foolish I was to write what I did!"

Still, she signed to him to approach.

"Rash man!" she cried, "why did you undertake a journey when you are still so weak and ill?"

"You deigned to protect my life, divine Queen," said the Prince; "could I longer delay coming to testify my humble gratitude?"

"It is true that my foresight saved you from death, but it did not succeed in preserving you from frightful wounds," said the Queen. "It seems as if all your blood had flowed from your veins; you are as pale as these jasmine-flowers."

She showed him a blossoming spray which she held in her hand.

"You must have suffered greatly," she added.

"Ah! dare I confess to you," cried Nagato, "that to me physical suffering is a comfort? There is another and far more painful wound, – that which is killing me, which leaves me no rest or peace."

"What!" said the Kisaki, disguising her profound emotion with a smile, "is this the way that you obey my wishes? Did you not hear me say that gayety reigns here? Speak no more of death or sorrow; let your soul unbend beneath the balmy breath of this beautiful and invigorating scene. You shall pass some days here; you shall see what a rural and delightful life we lead in this retreat. We rival in simplicity our ancestors, the shepherds, who first pitched their tents on this soil. Iza-Farou," she continued, addressing the Princess, who passed before the house just then, "I should like to hear a story; call our companions, and put an end to their political debates."

Soon all the privileged people admitted to the intimacy of the Queen were assembled. They went into the outer hall of the house. The Kisaki ascended a low platform, covered with carpets and cushions, and half reclined upon them. The women took their places on her left, the men on her right; and servants at once placed upon the ground, before each, a small gold plate containing dainties and warm drinks.

Through all the open panels the scented air of the woods entered the spacious room, which was filled with a greenish light, reflected from the neighboring trees. The walls were wonderfully decorated; fabulous animals, the bird Foo, the unicorn, and the sacred tortoise stood out in bold relief from a background of azure, gold, or purple, and a screen of cloisonné enamel, in tints of turquoise and brown, described its zigzags behind the dais. There was no furniture, nothing but thick mats, cushions, and satin hangings ornamented with birds, embroidered in circles of gold.

"I declare to you at the outset," said the Kisaki, "that I shall not utter a word. I am seized with an overwhelming laziness and indifference. Besides, I want to hear stories, and not to tell them."

Loud protests were made against this announcement.

"I am not to be moved," said the Queen, laughing; "you shall not even persuade me to pronounce a few words of flattery when your stories are done."

"Never mind!" cried Simabara; "I will tell the story of the wolf changed into a young girl."

"Do! do!" exclaimed the women; "we like the title."

"An old wolf – "

"Oh! he was old, was he?" said a young princess, with a look of contempt.

"You know very well that to give shelter to a human soul, an animal must be old."

"True! true!" cried the listeners; "go on!"

"An old wolf," said Simabara, "lived in a cave near a much travelled road. This wolf had an insatiable appetite. He therefore frequently left his cavern, went to the side of the road, and gobbled up a passer-by. But this mode of procedure was not at all to the taste of the travellers, and they ceased to frequent that road; so that little by little it became quite deserted. The wolf meditated long and deeply, seeking a way to put an end to this state of things. Suddenly he disappeared, and every one supposed he was dead. Some bold people ventured along the road, and there they saw a lovely young girl, who smiled bewitchingly upon them.

"'Will you follow me, and rest in a cool, delightful spot,' she said.

"None thought of refusing; but no sooner had they left the road, than the young girl returned to her former shape of an old wolf, and devoured the travellers; then she resumed her fair form and returned to the roadside. From that day forth not a traveller has escaped the jaws of the wolf."

The princes loudly applauded this story; but the women protested.

"That is to say that we are dangerous traps hidden beneath flowers," said they.

"The flowers are so beautiful that we shall never see the trap," said the Prince of Tsusima, with a laugh.

"Come!" said the Queen; "Simabara shall drink two cups of saki, for hurting the feelings of the women."

Simabara merrily drained the cups.

"Formerly," said Princess Iza-Farou, flashing a mischievous glance at Simabara, "heroes were plenty. There were Asahina, who could seize in each hand a warrior in full armor and hurl him to a great distance; Tametomo, with his terrible bow; Yatsitsone, whose only shield was his open fan; and how many more! Their lofty deeds were the constant theme of conversation. It was said, among other things, that on one occasion Sousige, the unrivalled cavalier, returning from a journey, saw several of his friends crouching round a chess-board; he spurred his horse over, their heads, and the animal stood motionless on his hind feet in the centre of the board. The players, struck dumb, thought that the knight had dropped from heaven. Nowadays I hear nothing to compare with that."

"Good! good!" exclaimed Simabara; "you would infer that none of us are capable of such a remarkable feat of horsemanship, and that the age of heroes is passed."

"That is exactly the idea that I wished to convey," said Iza-Farou, bursting into laughter; "was I not bound to reply to your impudent wolf?"

"She had a right to avenge us," said the Kisaki; "she shall not be punished."

"Flower-of-the-Reed knows a story, but she won't tell it!" cried a princess, who had been whispering with her neighbor.

Flower-of-the-Reed hid her face behind the loose sleeve of her robe. She was a very young girl, and somewhat shy.

"Come, speak!" said the Kisaki, "and don't be alarmed; we have nothing in common with Simabara's wolf."

"Very well! This is my story," said Flower-of-the-Reed, suddenly reassured. "In the Island of Yezo lived a young man and a maiden who loved each other tenderly. They had been betrothed from their cradles, and had never been parted. The girl was fifteen years old, and the young man eighteen. The date of their marriage was soon to be fixed. Unhappily the son of a rich man fell in love with the girl, and asked her father for her hand; and he, heedless of his former promises, gave it to him. The young couple pleaded in vain; the father was firm. Then the girl went to her lover in despair.

"'Listen!' said she; 'as we must be parted in this world, death shall unite us. Let us go to the tomb of your ancestors, and there kill ourselves.'

"They did as she proposed; they lay down upon the tomb and stabbed themselves. But the rejected lover had followed them. When he no longer heard their voices, he approached and saw them stretched out side by side, motionless, hand in hand.

"While he bent over them, two white butterflies rose from the tomb and flew gayly upwards, fluttering their wings.

"'Ah!' angrily cried the jealous survivor, 'it is they! They have escaped me; they escape into glory; they are happy! But I will follow them, even into heaven!'

"So saying, he seized the dagger which lay upon the tomb, and in his turn struck himself to the heart.

"Then a third butterfly rose into the air. But the others were far away; he could never reach them.

"Even now, to this very day, if you look among the flowers, when spring comes back to us, you will see the two winged lovers pass, side by side. Look again; you will soon see the jealous one, who follows, but can never overtake them."

"Indeed," said Iza-Farou, "butterflies are always grouped in that way: two flutter about together, and a third follows them at a distance."

"I have noticed that peculiarity too, without knowing the reason for it," said the Kisaki. "The story is pretty; I never heard it before."

"The Prince of Satsuma must tell us something," said Flower-of-the-Reed.

"I!" exclaimed the old man in some alarm; "but I don't know any stories."

"Yes! yes! you know plenty," exclaimed the women; "you must tell us one."

"Then I will relate an adventure which happened not long since to the Prince of Figo's cook."

This announcement provoked a general outburst of merriment.

"You will see," said Satsuma, "you will see that this cook had a good deal of wit. In the first place, he is very skilful at his trade, which is not a thing to be despised; and moreover he pays extreme attention to the minutest details of his work. A few days ago, however, at a feast to which I went, the servants brought in a bowl full of rice and uncovered it before the Lord of Figo. What was the latter's surprise to see in the middle of the snowy rice a black insect, quite motionless, because it was cooked! The Prince turned white with rage. He summoned the cook; and seizing the ignoble insect with the tips of his ivory chopsticks, he presented it to the fellow with a terrible look. There was nothing left for the unfortunate servant but to rip himself up as speedily as possible. But it seemed that that operation was not at all to his liking; for, approaching his master with every sign of the most lively joy, he took the insect and ate it, pretending to think that the Prince did him the honor to offer him a taste of the repast. The guests began to laugh at this display of quick wits. The Prince of Figo himself could not help smiling, and the cook was rescued from death."

"Good! good!" cried all the listeners; "there's a story which cannot offend any one."

"It is Nagato's turn," said Tsusima, "he must know delightful stories."

Nagato started as if aroused from a dream; he had heard nothing, noticed nothing, absorbed as he was in the ecstatic contemplation of the goddess whom he adored.

"You want a story?" he asked, looking at the company as if he saw them for the first time.

He reflected for a few seconds.

"Very well; you shall have one," he said.

"There was once a tiny pond, born upon a day of storm and tempest. It was formed upon a mossy bed, and violets and pretty flowering-shrubs surrounded it and bent over it. The clouds, its kindred, had not yet quite dispersed, when the birds came, dipping the tips of their wings in its waters, and delighting it with their songs. It was happy, and rejoiced in life, finding it good. But soon the clouds vanished, and something marvellously dazzling appeared high overhead. The water sparkled; diamond-like ripples traversed its surface; it was changed to a magnificent casket of jewels. But the clouds came back, the vision disappeared. What sorrow then, and what regrets! The pond found no more pleasure in the songs of the birds; he despised the reflections cast upon his bosom by the flowers on his shores; everything looked dark and ugly to him. At last the sky cleared again, and this time for a long period. The bright wonder reappeared; the pond was again penetrated with warmth, splendor, and joy; but he felt that he was dying beneath those golden darts, which grew more and more fiery. Yet if a light branch threw its shadow over him, if a fine mist sprang up and served him as a shield, how he cursed them for delaying his delicious annihilation for one moment! The third day he had not one drop of water left: the pond had been swallowed by the sun."

This tale plunged the princesses in sweet reveries. The men declared that Nagato had invented a new form of story-telling, and that his improvisation ought to be put into poetry.

The Queen, who understood that the Prince spoke for her ear alone, almost involuntarily threw him a look full of melancholy pleasure.

The day neared its close. Two princesses now knelt before the Kisaki, to take her orders for the next day's diversions.

"To-morrow," said she, after a few moments' consideration, "we will have a rustic breakfast and a poetic contest in the western orchard."

The party soon broke up, and the embassy was conducted to the pavilions, embowered in shrubs and flowers, which had been assigned to it.

CHAPTER XII.

THE WESTERN ORCHARD

When the Prince of Nagato woke next day he experienced a feeling of well-being and of joy to which he had long been a stranger. Yielding to the brief and idle revery which is like the dawn of wakening consciousness, his eye wandered over the dancing shadows of the leaves without, cast upon the closed blinds by the sun. Myriads of birds warbled and chattered, and one might almost think that the light itself sang in that medley of clear voices.

The Prince thought of the happy day which lay before him; it was an oasis in the dry and burning desert of his love. He repulsed the thought of speedy departure, with its train of attendant griefs, to give himself wholly up to the delights of the present; he was calm and happy.

The night before, his mind full of memories, his heart filled with emotion, he knew that sleep would hold persistently aloof. He therefore ordered a drink to be prepared which would prevent insomnia. A secret feeling of coquetry led him to avoid a feverish night. He was aware of his own beauty, having been told of it frequently; and the glance of every woman he met repeated the story daily. Had not his grace of person and of face, the charm which emanated from him, had their share in attracting the favorable notice of the Queen? They therefore deserved to be guarded from the inroads of fever and fatigue.

Calling his servants, the Prince demanded a mirror, and examined himself with eager haste.

But the first glance allayed his fears. His pallor had recovered the warm tints of which illness had robbed it; the blood returned to his lips; and yet his eyes still retained something of their feverish lustre. He paid an almost childish attention to the details of his dress, choosing the sweetest perfumes, the softest garments, of the faint but clear blue tint which he preferred.

When he left his pavilion at last, the guests were already assembled before the Kisaki's palace. His arrival caused a sensation. The men went into raptures over his toilette; the women dared not speak. But their silence was most flattering; it might be translated thus: He is worthy to be loved, even by a queen; for that perfectly beautiful body is the temple of the most refined spirit and the noblest heart in the kingdom.

The Princess Iza-Farou-No-Kami approached Nagato. "You have not asked me for news of Fatkoura, Prince," said she.