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The Knight of Malta. Эжен Сю
Читать онлайн.Название The Knight of Malta
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isbn 4064066205249
Автор произведения Эжен Сю
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
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.
The walls, simply plastered with lime, as well as the ceiling with its great projecting girders of black oak, had no other ornament than the skins of foxes and badgers and wolves, nailed at symmetrical distances by the careful hand of the majordomo.
In the spaces between the skins hung fishing-lines, weapons of the chase, whips, and spurs; and as curiosities, a Moorish bridle with its two-edged bit and top-not of crimson silk.
On an oak dresser, with a beautifully bowed front, stood an ancient and massive silver plate, whose richness contrasted singularly with the almost savage rusticity of the hall.
Great bottles of white glass were filled with the generous wines of Provence and Languedoc; smaller flagons contained Spanish wines, easily and promptly brought from Barcelona by coasting ships.
A few rustic valets, attired in cassocks of brown serge, served the table under the orders of the major-domo, the liveries with the colours of the baron never leaving the wardrobe except on feast-days.
The oblong table placed near the fireside rested on a thick carpet of Spanish broom or esparto. The rest of the hall was paved with flags of sandstone.
At the head of the table was the armorial chair of Raimond V.; at his right, the cover for his daughter, at his left, the cover for the stranger,—a custom of touching hospitality.
Below this place was the cover for the chaplain.
The table was delicately and abundantly served.
Around an enormous tureen of soup, made of the excellent sea eels of La Ciotat, and fragments of swordfish and sea dates, were fowls from the Pyrenees, which surrounded a perfectly roasted goose; on the other side, a saddle of lamb three months old, and the half of a kid one month old, justified by their appetising odour the culinary proverb: Cabri d’un mes, agneou de tres,—kid of one month, lamb of three; shell-fish of all kinds, such as oysters and mussels, having above all the flavour of the rock, as the Provençals say, filled the spaces left between substantial viands.
Side-dishes strongly salted and spiced, such as shrimps, lobsters, artichokes, celery, and tender fennel, formed a formidable reserve which Raimond V. called to his aid, when his appetite showed signs of exhaustion.
This profusion, which at first glance seemed so prodigal, was easily explained by the abundant resources of the country, the customary hospitality of the time, and the great number of persons a lord was expected to entertain.
Grace being said by the worthy Abbé Mascarolus, the baron, his daughter, and the chaplain sat down to the table, and Laramée took his usual post behind the chair of his master.
CHAPTER VIII. THE LOVER
The baron was scarcely seated, when he said:
“What in the devil is the matter with my head? Is Honorât not going to take supper with us?”
“He promised yesterday to do so,” said Reine.
“And do you allow your betrothed to break his word? What o’clock is it, Laramée?”
“Monseigneur, I have just posted the two sentinels on the rampart.”
“That is to say it is eight o’clock, is it not, captain?” merrily answered the baron to the majordomo, tending his glass.
“Yes, monseigneur, somewhat past eight.”
“Ah, that!” replied the old gentleman, replacing his glass on the table, not without having emptied it. “I hope nothing has happened to Honorat.”
“Father, why not send a messenger on horseback to Berrol at once?” said Reine, with keen interest.
“You are right, my child; at any rate, we would feel assured: there is not much to fear, but at night the road through the morasses of Berrol is not safe.”
“Whom shall I send for the chevalier, monseigneur?” said Laramée.
The baron was about to reply when the Chevalier de Berrol appeared, preceded by a valet who carried a lamp.
“Where in the devil do you come from, my son?” said the Baron des Anbiez, extending his hand to Honorat, whom he called son since he was to marry his daughter. “Did you meet the fairies in the quagmires of Berrol?”
“No, my father, I was at the house of Seigneur de Saint-Yves, and then—” Suddenly he approached the young girl, and said, “Excuse me, I pray, Reine, for being late.”
She extended her hand to him with charming grace, and said, with a penetrating, almost serious tone:
“I am happy, very happy to see you, Honorât, for we were anxious.”
There was in these few words, and in the look which accompanied them, such an expression of confidence, tenderness, and solicitude, that the chevalier started with delight.
“Come, come, sit down to the table, and as you have made your peace with Reine, tell us what detained you at the house of Seigneur de Saint-Yves.”
The chevalier handed his sword and cap to Laramée, and taking a seat by the side of the baron, replied: “The recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, who is making a tour of the province, accompanied by a scribe and two guards of the governor, has come by order of the latter to visit the castle of Seigneur de Saint-Yves.”
“Manjour!” cried the impetuous baron, “I am sure that it concerns some insolent command! This marshal, murderer of our favourites, never means to give us another; and they say this recorder is the most arrant knave that ever announced a decree.”
“Oh, father, control yourself,” said Reine.
“You are right; Vitry does not deserve a generous anger. But it is hard, nevertheless, for the Provençal nobility to see such a man hold functions which, heretofore, have always been given to princes of the blood. But we live in strange times. Kings are asleep, cardinals reign, and bishops wear the cuirass and the belt. Do you think that is very canonical, abbé?”
The good Mascarolus never liked to give a decided opinion, and he replied, humbly:
“Without doubt, monseigneur, the canons of Jean VIII. and the text of St. Ambrose forbid prelates to bear arms; but on the other hand the literal interpretation of the Council of Worms authorises them to do so—with the Pope’s approbation—when they possess domains independent of the Crown. Under Louis the Young, the Bishops of Paris went to battle. Hinemar and Hervien, Archbishops of Reims, led their troops under Charles the Bald, and under Charles the Simple; Tristan de Salazar, Archbishop of Reims, thoroughly armed, mounted on a good charger, a javelin in his hand—”
“Well, well, abbé,” interrupted the baron, “by the grace of the cardinal, we shall grow accustomed to the sight of bishops equipped as soldiers, with a helmet for mitre, a military coat as a stole, a lance instead of a cross, and shedding blood in the place of sprinkling holy water,—it is altogether proper. Some wine, Laramée! And you, Honorât, finish your story.”
“The fact is,”