LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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 régale, 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 – "

      "Ha!" chuckled the other, "you have heard that. Well, why not? The choir is lazy, and – since it costs me nothing – may as well sing at my table. Now, since I cannot persuade you to eat more," St. Georges having pushed his plate away from him with an action of disgust, "let us have a little talk. – Pierre, go away; we wish to be alone. Though – stay – first of all bring a bottle of the old clos from the buffet – the old clos, you understand, the '79 bottling."

      The cavalryman wondered if the "old clos" was likely to be any better than the vinaigrous stuff he had just been treated to, and sat waiting its arrival with curiosity, if not impatience. Meanwhile, he regarded his host from under his eyelids as well as he could through the mist made by the still steaming napkins, and also by the wet, hissing logs which spluttered and reeked in the grate close by which the table had been drawn up. The old man, he saw, was perfectly cognizant that he was being observed; occasionally from under his eyelids he would shoot a glance in his turn at the great form of the 2chevau-léger near him, and would then smile in what he evidently intended to be an engaging manner; while at other times he would swiftly remove his eyes and gaze meditatively into the green wood that smouldered on the andirons.

      Then Pierre came back with a bottle that appeared, outwardly at least, to give promise of containing good liquor within it, since it was covered with dust and cobwebs, and, uncorking it and placing two long, thin, tapering glasses by its side, withdrew – yet not before Phélypeaux, with that remarkable persistency in mentioning his guest's name which the latter had previously remarked, had called out:

      "Fill Monsieur St. Georges's glass, Pierre. Fill it, I say. Fill the glass of Monsieur St. Georges. – Monsieur St. Georges," raising his own, "I drink to you. To your good health and prosperous ride to Paris. And afterward, Monsieur St. Georges – afterward."

      CHAPTER III.

      IT IS THE MAN

      The wine was good! Worthy of whatever clos it had ripened on! A glass of it went far to repay St. Georges for any discomfort he had suffered during the wretched meal just concluded, and made amends for all that had passed hitherto. As for the Bishop of Lodève, he drank two glasses rapidly in succession, smacked his lips, and peered at the ruby liquid held between the guttering candle and his eye in the most approved fashion, and seemed to be making or receiving amends for the miserable meal he had also partaken of, though so sparingly that the soldier thought he must either have made a better one recently or be about to make one later on.

      Then, after he had put three of the logs together – which seemed at last as though about to burn with some effect – by the summary method of kicking them close to each other with his foot, he said quietly, though quite unexpectedly on the part of the other:

      "His Most Christian Majesty – or rather Louvois for him – wrote me that I might expect a visit from you on your way from Franche-Comté to Paris."

      "Indeed!" said St. Georges, looking, as he felt, astonished. After which he added: "Truly, for a poor lieutenant of horse, such as I am, the king seems much interested in my doings. I marvel much that he should be so."

      "Family interest, perhaps?" said the bishop, glinting an eye at him from behind the glass which he was again holding up to the light of the guttering candle. "Family interest is useful at court."

      "Family interest!" exclaimed the other, pushing his glass away from him. "Monseigneur, it is evident you know nothing of Georges St. Georges, or you would not mention that. Still, how should you know my affairs?"

      "How, indeed!" replied Phélypeaux, though again there was a flash from the eye – "how, indeed! I – I never heard of you until his Majesty said you would honour me with a visit. Yet, Captain – I mean Monsieur – St. Georges, there must be something which guides Louis in sending for you – in removing you from the miserable garrison in the Jura to Paris. Ah, Paris!" he interjected with an upward glance. "Paris! Paris!" But having recovered from this fervent ecstasy, he continued: "And if not family interest – I am a believer in family interest myself – what can it be? Unless, of course, you have been selected because of your military promise."

      "Nor can it be that either," replied the guest. "I have been in garrison at Pontarlier for a year, and as for my service, why I have done nothing to distinguish myself. No more than thousands of his Majesty's troops have done – nay, not half so much."

      "How old are you, may I ask?"

      "Thirty-three."

      "Ah," replied monseigneur, "and this is the third day of '88. So you were born in 1655. Ah!" and he leaned back in his chair and muttered to himself, though once he said quite audibly: "Yes, yes. That would do very well."

      "What would do very well, monseigneur?" asked the other, looking at him.

      "Pardon me," replied the bishop, and St. Georges could not help remarking how much more courtly his manner had become by degrees, so that, while heretofore it was quite in keeping with what he had originally imagined him to be – a servitor – it was now thoroughly suitable to his position – the position of a member of an old French family and of a father of the Church; "pardon me, my mind rambles sometimes when – when I throw it back. I was reflecting that – that – it was in that year I was made bishop. So you were born in 1655? And how – since you say you have none of that valuable family interest – did you become a chevau-léger?"

      "It is somewhat of a story, and a long one. Hark! surely that is the cathedral clock striking. It is too late to pester you with my affairs."

      "Not a jot," exclaimed Phélypeaux – "not a jot. Nay, tell the story, and – shall we crack another bottle of the clos? It is good wine."

      "It is, indeed," replied St. Georges, "excellent. Yet I will drink no more. Three glasses are all I allow myself after supper at the best of times. And, after all, my history will not take long in telling. At least such portions of it as I need tell you."

      "Tell me all. I love to hear the history of the young and adventurous, as you are – as you must be. The chevaux-légers encounter adventure even in garrison," and he leered at him.

      "I have encountered none, or very few. A few indecisive campaigns against Holland in the year the king gave me my commission – namely, fourteen years ago – then the Peace of Nimeguen, and since then stagnation in various garrisons. Yet they say the time is coming for war. Holland seeks allies everywhere against France; soon a great campaign should occur."

      "Without doubt, when his Most Christian Majesty will triumph as he has done before. But why – how – did you obtain your commission? You do not tell me that."

      "No, I had forgotten. Yet 'tis not much to tell. My mother – an English woman – excuse me, Monseigneur l'Évêque, but you have spilt your wine."

      "So, indeed, I have," said the bishop, sopping up the wine which his elbow had overturned by a sudden jerk while the other was speaking, "so, indeed, I have. But 'tis not much. And there is still that other bottle uncorked." Then with a sidelong

Скачать книгу