Part 2 (1/2)
”It shall be. I will quit Phelypeaux at the dawn.” Then St. Georges added aside: ”Comrade, I leave here in the inn the two things dearest to me in the world--my child and horse. I confide them to you. Will you accept the trust until the morning?”
”With the greatest will, monsieur. Trust me. Ere I sleep to-night I will see that all is well with both. You may depend on me.”
”So be it,” replied St. Georges. ”I do depend on you. Farewell till dawn,” and he strode across the great, gaunt _place_, on which the snow still fell and lay.
”'Ring loud!' the old man said,” he muttered to himself; ”well, here's for it,” and he pulled a peal on the bell chain hanging by the side of the door that might have waked the dead. Then, as he stood there musing on why the king should have given him orders to put up at such a place as Phelypeaux's instead of enjoying the solid, if rough, comfort of a Burgundian inn, the wicket opened again and the old man's sour face appeared once more at it.
”So!” he said, ”you have come back. And I perceive you have left the child behind you. 'Tis well. We have no room for children here. Come in, come in,” he added snappishly.
Obeying an invitation given in none too warm a tone, St. Georges stepped through the wicket into the courtyard of the house--a place filled with snow that had lain there and increased since the first flake had fallen until now, and through which a thin path or track had been trodden from the great doorway to a smaller one that admitted to the house.
”You perceive,” remarked Phelypeaux, ”this is not a luxurious halting for you, monsieur. Still, the _chevaux-legers_ are doubtless used to an absence of luxury.”
”The _chevaux-legers_ can make s.h.i.+ft with anything,” replied the soldier. And shrugging his shoulders as he spoke, he said: ”_Monseigneur l'eveque_, why do you imagine his Majesty has instructed me to become your guest for a night?”
He spoke without any of that respect usually shown to exalted members of the Church in the days of Louis XIV--a monarch who considered himself a religious man, and demanded that the most scrupulous reverence should be paid to all things ecclesiastical. But, in truth, the Bishop of Lodeve was known to be a scandal to the sacred calling he belonged to; and now that Georges St. Georges was aware that he was face to face with the man himself, he refused to testify a respect for him that he could not feel.
”Humph! 'Monseigneur l'eveque!' Ha! So you know me?” St. Georges nodded, whereon the other went on:
”Why the king has sent you to me? Eh? Perhaps because he thinks I am a good host, and because he loves his troops to be well treated. So I am a good host--only it is when I am in Languedoc. Here, _malheureus.e.m.e.nt_, I must be perforce a bad one. I have no servants but those I have brought with me, and one or two women who look after the chateau during my absence.”
He had by this time opened the door into the house and escorted his visitor into a large, desolate-looking saloon, on the walls of which the damp hung in huge beads and drops, and in which there was a fireplace of vast dimensions that gave the appearance of never having had a fire lighted in it for years. Yet before this fireplace there stood two great armchairs, as though to suggest that here was a comfortable, cosey spot in which to sit.
”We'll soon have a fire,” said this strange creature, whereon he went to a corner of the room in which hung some arras, and, thrusting it aside, brought forth a handful of kindling wood, two or three green, newly cut logs of different sizes, and some shavings, to which he applied the tinder after he had thrown them all pell-mell into the grate together. Then, when the smoke which arose from the damp green wood had thoroughly permeated the whole of the room, he looked round at St. Georges and said:
”You were gone some while to the 'Ours.' Did you sup there?”
”Nay,” replied the other, glancing at him through the smoke and by aid of the single candle by which the room was illuminated, for it was now night. ”Nay, monseigneur, I thought to sup with you.”
”And so you shall,” exclaimed Phelypeaux, with an a.s.sumed air of hilarity--”and so you shall. Only--I cannot entertain you as in Languedoc. Now, if we were there----”
”Well,” said the soldier, ”we are not. We are in Burgundy. The land of good cheer. We must take what Burgundy offers.”
”_Helas!_ it offers little. At least in this house. However, I will see.” Saying which he opened a door at the other end of the room, and calling, ”Pierre, Pierre!” loudly, he cried out, after a harsh voice had answered him from some distant room: ”Bring some supper for Monsieur St. Georges and myself. For Monsieur St. Georges and myself.
You understand! For Monsieur St. Georges and myself.”
”Why emphasize 'Monsieur St. Georges' so strongly, monseigneur?” the other demanded. ”The respected servitor can hardly care much whether he bring supper for you and Monsieur St. Georges or for you and Monsieur the dev---- I beg your pardon, monseigneur.”
The Bishop of Lodeve laughed a kind of grim, uncanny laugh as St.
Georges said this, then he remarked:
”Surely you don't believe in--in--the gentleman you were about to mention. Let me see, there is a musty proverb that he who sups with that personage needs a long spoon. Well, I would not sup with him--if he exists. Our supper will be none too profuse as it is,” and again he laughed.
So, indeed, it seemed, judging by what Pierre brought in later. The soup, served in a handsome silver tureen, whose antique form and chasings must have dated back to the days of Henri de Navarre at latest, was so thin that it was nothing but boiling water with a greasy flavour, and St. Georges twisted his long mustaches with dismay as he gazed into the stuff before him. Moreover, the bread with which he endeavoured to fortify this meagre commencement was half baked, so that it was of the consistency of dough. Next, the meat which was brought to table must have been unkilled at the time he rode into Dijon, so tough and tasteless was it; and the wine was a disgrace to France, let alone to Burgundy, where every peasant can obtain a drink that is palatable if weak. And, to add to the other miseries of this _regale_, the tablecloth and napkins were so damp that, affected by the tureen and plates, which were hot if they possessed no other virtues--such as eatable food upon them--they smoked so much that the guest could scarcely see his host across the table.
”Not the fare of Languedoc,” this worthy divine muttered, once or twice, ”not the fare of Languedoc. Ah, Monsieur St. Georges, you must come and see me in my bishopric if you want to live well. I can give you a good supper there.”
”So I have heard, monseigneur. With many other things as well. Music, I hear, accompanies your feasts; the voices of silver-tongued lads----”