Part 36

A Scottish laird with seven highlanders of his clan; all on foot. The laird's name was Mac Cumnor.

A Viennese Austrian, without title or coat of arms, who had come by carriage; he had much of the priest about him, a little of the soldier. He was called the councillor. Lastly, a Flemish lady, with a footman, a chambermaid, and a lady's companion. Great equipage, grand bearing, fine horses. She was called the Flemish lady.

All these travellers had arrived on the same day, as we have said, and yet their arrival had caused no confusion in the inn, no crowding in the street, their lodgings having been reserved in advance at the request of their couriers or secretaries, who had arrived the day before or that very morning.

Malicorne, who had arrived a day before them and was travelling on a lean horse burdened with a thin valise, had presented himself at the Hôtel du Beau-Paon as the friend of a nobleman curious to see the festivities, and who, in his turn, was to arrive shortly.

At these words, the host had smiled as if he knew either Malicorne or his lord friend very well, and had said to him:

— Choose, sir, whichever apartment suits you, since you arrive first.

And this with that obsequiousness characteristic of innkeepers, which means: "Rest easy, sir, we know who we are dealing with, and you shall be treated accordingly."

These words and the gesture that accompanied them had seemed kindly, but somewhat unclear, to Malicorne. Now, as he did not wish to incur great expense, and as, by asking for a small room, he would no doubt have been refused on account of his very insignificance, he hastened to seize the innkeeper's words on the fly, and to dupe him with his own cunning.

Accordingly, smiling like a man for whom one does merely what is strictly due:

— My dear host, said he, I shall take the best and most cheerful apartment.

— With stabling?

— With stabling.

— For what day?

— At once, if possible.

— Excellently.

— Only, Malicorne hastened to add, I shall not immediately occupy the large apartment.

— Good! said the host with an knowing air.

— Certain reasons, which you will understand later, force me to put down to my own account only this small room.

— Yes, yes, yes, said the host.

— My friend, when he comes, will take the large apartment, and naturally, as that large apartment will be his, he will settle the bill directly.

— Very well! said the host, very well! It was agreed thus.

— It was agreed thus?

— Word for word.

— That is extraordinary, murmured Malicorne. So, you understand?

— Yes.

— That is all that is needed. Now that you understand… for you do understand, do you not?

— Perfectly.

— Well! then show me to my room.

The host of the Beau-Paon walked ahead of Malicorne, his cap in his hand. Malicorne installed himself in his room and remained quite surprised to see the host, at every ascent or descent, give him those little winks which indicate the fullest understanding between two correspondents.

"There is some misunderstanding beneath all this," said Malicorne to himself; "but, while waiting for it to clear up, I shall take advantage of it, and that is the best thing to do."

And from his room he would dart out like a hunting dog on the scent of news and curiosities of the court, getting roasted here and drowned there, as he had told Mlle de Montalais.

The day after his installation, he had seen arrive successively the seven travellers who filled the whole hostelry.

At the sight of all those people, all those equipages, all that display, Malicorne rubbed his hands, thinking that, had he arrived but a day later, he would not have found a bed wherein to rest on his return from his explorations.

After all the foreigners had been lodged, the host entered his room, and, with his customary courtesy:

— My dear sir, said he to him, there remains for you the large apartment in the third wing; you know that, do you not?

— Assuredly, I know it.

— And it is a veritable gift I am making you.

— Thank you!

— So that, when your friend comes…

— Well?

— Well! he will be pleased with me, or, in the contrary case, it is that he must be very hard to please.

— Pardon! will you allow me to say a few words concerning my friend?

— Speak, by heaven! you are master here.

— He was to come, as you know…

— And he still is to come.

— It is just that he may have changed his mind.

— No.

— You are sure of that?

— I am sure of it.

— It is that, in case you had any doubt…

— After?

— I would say to you, for my part: I do not answer for his coming.

— But he told you however…

— Certainly he told me; but you know; man proposes and God disposes, verba volant, scripta manent.

— Which means?

— Words fly away, writings remain, and, as he did not write to me, as he contented himself with telling me, I would therefore authorize you, without however inviting you to do so… you feel, it is most embarrassing.

— To what do you authorize me?

— Why! to let his apartment, if you can get a good price for it.

— I?

— Yes, you.

— Never, sir, never would I do such a thing. If he did not write to you…

— No.

— He wrote to me, to me.

— Ah!

— Yes.

— And in what terms? Let us see if his letter agrees with his words.

— Here is, more or less, the text:

"Monsieur, Proprietor of the Hôtel du Beau-Paon.

You must have been advised of the rendezvous taken in your hotel by certain persons of importance; I am part of the company that is assembling at Fontainebleau. Retain therefore at once both a small room for a friend who will arrive before or after me…"

— That friend is you, is it not? said the host of the Beau-Paon, interrupting himself.

Malicorne bowed modestly.

The host resumed:

"And a large apartment for me. The large apartment concerns me, but I desire that the price of the room be moderate, that room being intended for a poor devil."

— That is still you, is it not? said the host.

— Yes, certainly, said Malicorne.

— Then we are agreed: your friend will settle the price of his apartment, and you will settle the price of yours.

"May I be broken on the wheel alive," said Malicorne to himself, "if I understand anything of what is happening to me."

Then, aloud:

— And, tell me, were you satisfied with the name?

— What name?

— The name that ended the letter. Did it present every guarantee?

— I was about to ask you that, said the host.

— What! the letter was not signed?

— No, said the host, widening eyes full of mystery and curiosity.

— Then, replied Malicorne, imitating that gesture and that mystery, if he did not name himself…

— Well?

— You will understand that he must have his reasons for that.

— No doubt.

— And that I, his friend, I, his confidant, will not go and betray his incognito.

— That is just, sir, replied the host; therefore I do not insist.

— I appreciate that delicacy. As for me, as my friend said, my room is separate, let us be clear on that.

— Sir, it is all settled.

— You understand, good accounts make good friends. Let us reckon then.

— There is no hurry.

— Let us reckon all the same. Room, food, for me, place at the manger and food for my horse: how much per day?

— Four livres, sir.

— That makes therefore twelve livres for the three days elapsed?

— Twelve livres; yes, sir.

— Here are your twelve livres.

— Eh! sir, what is the use of paying at once?

— Because, said Malicorne, lowering his voice and resorting to the mysterious, since he saw the mysterious succeeded, because, if one had to depart suddenly, to decamp from one moment to the next, it would be all settled.

— Sir, you are right.

— Therefore, I am at home.

— You are at home.

— Well! so much the better. Farewell!

The host withdrew.

Left alone, Malicorne reasoned thus: "There is none but M. de Guiche or Manicamp capable of having written to my host; M. de Guiche, because he wishes to secure for himself a lodging outside the court, in case of success or failure; Manicamp, because he will have been charged with this commission by M. de Guiche.

"Here then is what M. de Guiche or Manicamp will have devised: the large apartment to receive in fitting fashion some thickly veiled lady, with a reserve, for the said lady, of a double exit onto a nearly deserted street leading to the forest.

"The room to shelter momentarily either Manicamp, confidant of M. de Guiche and watchful guardian of the door, or M. de Guiche himself, playing at once, for greater safety, the role of master and that of confidant.

"But this gathering which was to take place, which did in fact take place, in the hotel?

"These are no doubt people who are to be presented to the king.

"But the poor devil for whom the room is intended?

"A ruse to better hide de Guiche or Manicamp.

"If it is thus, as is probable, there is but half a misfortune: and from Manicamp to Malicorne, there is only the purse."

Since that reasoning, Malicorne had slept soundly, leaving the seven strangers occupy and pace to and fro the seven lodgings of the hostelry of the Beau-Paon.

When nothing troubled him at court, when he was weary of excursions and inquisitions, weary of writing notes which he never had the occasion to deliver to their addresses, then he would return to his blessed little room, and, leaning on the balcony adorned with nasturtiums and trellised pinks, he would occupy himself with those strange travellers for whom Fontainebleau seemed to have neither lights, nor joys, nor festivities.

This lasted thus until the seventh day, a day which we have detailed at length with its night in the preceding chapters.

That night, Malicorne was taking the cool air at his window towards one in the morning, when Manicamp appeared on horseback, nose to the wind, with a worried and bored air.

"Good!" said Malicorne, recognizing him at once, "there is my man come to claim his apartment, that is to say my room."

And he called to Manicamp.

Manicamp lifted his head, and in his turn recognized Malicorne.

— Ah! by heaven! said the latter, brightening, welcome, Malicorne. I am roaming about Fontainebleau, seeking three things which I cannot find: de Guiche, a room, and a stable.

— As for M. de Guiche, I can give you neither good nor bad news, for I have not seen him; but, as for your room and a stable, that is another matter.

— Ah!

— Yes; it is here that they were reserved?

— Reserved, and by whom?

— By you, it would seem.

— By me?

— Did you not reserve a lodging?

— Not in the least.

The host, at that moment, appeared on the threshold.

— A room? asked Manicamp.

— Did you reserve it, sir?

— No.

— Then, no room.

— If that is so, I reserved a room, said Manicamp.

— A room or a lodging?

— Whatever you wish.

— By letter? asked the host.

Malicorne made an affirmative sign with his head to Manicamp.

— Eh! assuredly by letter, said Manicamp. Did you not receive a letter from me?

— Dated what day? asked the host, whose suspicions were aroused by Manicamp's hesitations.

Manicamp scratched his ear and looked towards Malicorne's window; but Malicorne had left his window and was coming down the stairs to come to his friend's aid.

At that very same moment, a traveller, wrapped in a long Spanish cloak, appeared under the porch, within earshot of the colloquy.

— I ask you on what date you wrote me this letter to reserve a lodging at my house? repeated the host, insisting.

— On the date of last Wednesday, said in a soft and polite voice the mysterious stranger, touching the host's shoulder.

Manicamp drew back, and Malicorne, who appeared on the threshold, scratched his ear in his turn. The host bowed to the new arrival as a man who recognizes his true traveller.

— Sir, said he civilly, your apartment awaits you, as do your stables. Only…

He looked around him.

— Your horses? he asked.

— My horses will arrive or will not arrive. It matters little to you, does it not? provided one pays you for what was reserved.

The host bowed lower.

— You have, moreover, continued the unknown traveller, kept for me the small room which I asked you for?

— Ouch! said Malicorne, trying to hide himself.

— Sir, your friend has occupied it for a week, said the host, pointing to Malicorne, who was making himself as small as he possibly could.

The traveller, drawing his cloak up to the level of his nose, cast a rapid glance at Malicorne.

— The gentleman is not my friend, said he.

The host started.

— I do not know the gentleman, continued the traveller.

— What! cried the innkeeper, addressing Malicorne, what! you are not the friend of the gentleman?

— What is it to you, provided one pays you? said Malicorne, majestically parodying the stranger.

— It matters so much, said the host, who was beginning to perceive that there had been a substitution of persons, that I beg you, sir, to vacate the premises reserved in advance and by another than yourself.

— But finally, said Malicorne, the gentleman has no need at once of a room on the first floor and an apartment on the second… If the gentleman takes the room, I take, myself, the apartment; if the gentleman chooses the apartment, I keep the room.

— I am desolated, sir, said the traveller in his soft voice; but I have need at once of the room and of the apartment.

— But finally for whom? asked Malicorne.

— The apartment, for myself.

— Very well; but the room?

— Look, said the traveller, extending his hand towards a sort of procession that was advancing.

Malicorne followed with his eyes the direction indicated and saw arrive upon a litter that Franciscan of whom he had, with some details added by himself, recounted to Montalais the installation in his room, and whom he had so uselessly tried to convert to more humble views.

The result of the arrival of the unknown traveller and of the sick Franciscan was the expulsion of Malicorne, held without any regard outside the Hôtel du Beau-Paon by the host and the peasants who served as bearers to the Franciscan.

The reader has been made acquainted with the consequences of this expulsion, with the conversation of Manicamp with Montalais, which Manicamp, more adroit than Malicorne, had known how to bring about in order to get news of de Guiche; with the subsequent conversation of Montalais with Malicorne; finally, with the double billet of lodging furnished to Manicamp and to Malicorne by the Count de Saint-Aignan.

It remains for us to teach our readers what were the traveller in the cloak, principal lessee of the double apartment of which Malicorne had occupied a portion, and the Franciscan, equally mysterious, whose arrival, combined with that of the traveller in the cloak, had had the misfortune to disturb the combinations of the two friends.

Chapter CXXVI — A Jesuit of the Eleventh Year

And first, so as not to keep the reader in suspense, we shall hasten to answer the first question.

The traveller with the cloak pulled down over his nose was Aramis, who, after having left Fouquet and drawn from a portmanteau opened by his lackey a complete cavalier's costume, had gone out of the castle and had betaken himself to the Hôtel du Beau-Paon, where, by letter, for seven days past, he had indeed, as the host had announced, ordered a room and an apartment.

Aramis, immediately after the expulsion of Malicorne and Manicamp, approached the Franciscan and asked him which he preferred of the apartment or the room.

The Franciscan asked where the one and the other were placed.

He was answered that the room was on the first floor and the apartment on the second.

— Then, the room, said he.

Aramis did not insist, and, with entire submission:

— The room, said he to the host.

And, bowing respectfully, he withdrew into the apartment.

The Franciscan was at once carried into the room.

Now, is it not a strange thing, this respect of a prelate for a simple monk, and for a monk of a mendicant order, to whom was thus given, without his even having asked for it, a room which was the ambition of so many travellers?

How also to explain this unexpected arrival of Aramis at the Hôtel du Beau-Paon, he who, having entered the castle with M. Fouquet, might have lodged at the castle with M. Fouquet?

The Franciscan bore the transport up the stairs without uttering a complaint, though one saw that his suffering was great, and that at each jolt of the litter against the wall or against the banister of the stairs, he experienced through all his body a terrible shock.

At last, when he had arrived in the room:

— Help me into this armchair, said he to the bearers.

These set down the litter on the floor, and, lifting the sick man as gently as they could, they deposited him on the armchair he had indicated and which was placed at the head of the bed.

— Now, he added with great gentleness of gesture and speech, have the host sent up to me.

They obeyed.

Five minutes later, the host of the Beau-Paon appeared on the threshold of the door.

— My friend, said the Franciscan to him, dismiss, I pray you, these good people; they are vassals of the viscounty of Melun. They found me fainting from the heat on the road, and, without asking themselves if their trouble would be paid, they would have me borne to their homes. But I know what it costs the poor to give hospitality to a sick man, and I have preferred the hostelry, where, moreover, I was expected.

The host looked at the Franciscan with astonishment.

The Franciscan made with his thumb and in a certain fashion the sign of the cross upon his breast.

The host answered by making the same sign upon his left shoulder.

— Yes, it is true, said he, you were expected, my father; but we hoped you would arrive in better condition.

And, as the peasants looked with astonishment at this innkeeper so proud, become all at once respectful in the presence of a poor monk, the Franciscan drew from his long pocket two or three gold pieces, which he showed.

— There, my friends, said he, is wherewith to pay the care that shall be given me. So set your minds at rest and fear not to leave me here. My company, for which I travel, will not have me beg; only, as the care given me by you also merits reward, take these two louis and withdraw in peace.

The peasants dared not accept; the host took the two louis from the monk's hand, and put them into the hand of a peasant.

The four bearers withdrew, opening eyes wider than ever.

The door closed again, and while the host stood respectfully near the door, the Franciscan collected himself for a moment.

Then he passed over his yellowed brow a hand dry with fever, and with his cramped fingers tremblingly rubbed the greying curls of his beard.

His large eyes, hollowed by sickness and agitation, seemed to follow in the void a painful and inflexible idea.

— What physicians have you at Fontainebleau? he asked at last.

— We have three, my father.

— What are their names?

— Luiniguet, first.

— Next?

— Then a Carmelite brother named Brother Hubert.

— Next?

— Next a secular named Grisart.

— Ah! Grisart! murmured the monk. Send quickly for M. Grisart.

The host made a movement of eager obedience.

— By the way, what priests have you at hand here?

— What priests?

— Yes, of what orders?

— There are Jesuits, Augustinians, and Cordeliers; but, my father, the Jesuits are the nearest from here. I shall therefore call a Jesuit confessor, shall I not?

— Yes, go.

The host went out.

One guesses that, at the sign of the cross exchanged between them, the host and the sick man had recognized each other as two affiliates of the redoubtable Society of Jesus.

Left alone, the Franciscan drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, of which he perused several with scrupulous attention. However, the force of the sickness overcame his courage: his eyes rolled, a cold sweat ran from his brow, and he let himself fall, almost fainting, his head thrown back, his arms hanging on either side of his armchair.

He had been for five minutes without any movement, when the host re-entered, leading the physician, to whom he had scarce given time to dress.

The noise of their entry, the draught of air caused by the opening of the door, revived the sick man's senses. He hastily gathered his scattered papers, and with his long and fleshless hand hid them under the cushions of the armchair.

The host went out, leaving together the sick man and the physician.

— Come, said the Franciscan to the doctor, come, M. Grisart, approach, for there is no time to lose; feel, auscultate, judge and pronounce sentence.

— Our host, answered the physician, assured me that I had the happiness of attending an affiliate.

— An affiliate, yes, answered the Franciscan. Tell me then the truth; I feel myself very ill; it seems to me that I am going to die.

The physician took the monk's hand and felt his pulse.

— Oh! oh! said he, dangerous fever.

— What do you call a dangerous fever? asked the sick man with an imperious glance.

— To an affiliate of the first or second year, answered the physician, interrogating the monk with his eyes, I would say curable fever.

— But to me? said the Franciscan.

The physician hesitated.

— Look at my grey hair and my brow stuffed with thoughts, he continued; look at the wrinkles by which I count my trials; I am a Jesuit of the eleventh year, M. Grisart.

The physician started.

Indeed, a Jesuit of the eleventh year was one of those men initiated into all the secrets of the order, one of those men for whom science has no more secrets, society no more barriers, temporal obedience no more bonds.

— Thus, said Grisart, bowing respectfully, I find myself face to face with a master?

— Yes, act accordingly then.

— And you wish to know?…

— My real condition.

— Well! said the physician, it is a cerebral fever, otherwise called acute meningitis, arrived at its highest point of intensity.

— Then, there is no hope, is that not so? asked the Franciscan in a curt tone.

— I do not say that, replied the doctor; however, in view of the disorder of the brain, the shortness of breath, the rapidity of the pulse, the incandescence of the terrible fever that devours you…

— And which has thrown me three times since this morning, said the brother.

— Hence do I call it terrible. But how is it you did not remain on the road?

— I was expected here, I had to arrive.

— Though you should die?

— Though I should die.

— Well! in view of all these symptoms, I shall tell you that the situation is almost hopeless.

The Franciscan smiled in a strange fashion.

— What you tell me there is perhaps enough for what is due to an affiliate, even of the eleventh year, but for what is due to me, master Grisart, it is too little, and I have the right to demand more. Come, let us be even truer than that, let us be frank, as if it were a question of speaking to God. Besides, I have already sent for a confessor.

— Oh! yet I hope, stammered the doctor.

— Answer, said the sick man, showing with a gesture of dignity a gold ring whose stone had until then been turned inward, and which bore engraved the representative sign of the Society of Jesus.

Grisart uttered an exclamation.

— The General! cried he.

— Silence! said the Franciscan; you understand that it is a question of being truthful.

— Lord, lord, call the confessor, murmured Grisart; for, in two hours, at the first relapse, you will be seized with delirium, and you will pass into the crisis.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”