LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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