Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician. Dumas Alexandre
I am," sighed Gilbert.
These sighs summed up the disappointments and repressed ambition of the youth.
"That is the goodman Labrie coming," said the latter at the sound of footsteps within.
The door opened, but at the sight of the stranger the old servant wanted to slam it.
"Excuse me, friend," interposed the traveler; "don't shut the door in my face. I will risk my travel-stained garb, and I warrant you that I shall not be expelled before I have warmed myself and had a meal. I hear you keep good wine, eh? You ought to know that?"
Labrie tried still to resist, but the other was determined and led the horses right in with the coach, while Gilbert closed the gates in a trice. Vanquished, the servant ran to announce his own defeat. He rushed toward the house, shouting:
"Nicole Legay!"
"Nicole is Mademoiselle Andrea's maid," explained the boy, as the gentleman advanced with his usual tranquility.
A light appeared among the shrubbery, showing a pretty girl.
"What is all this riot; what's wanted of me?" she challenged.
"Quick, my lass," faltered the old domestic, "announce to master that a stranger, overtaken by the storm, seeks hospitality for the night."
Nicole darted so swiftly toward the building as to be lost instantly to sight. Labrie took breath, as he might be sure that his lord would not be taken by surprise.
"Announce Baron Joseph Balsamo," said the traveler; "the similarity in rank will disarm your lord."
At the first step of the portal he looked round for Gilbert, but he had disappeared.
CHAPTER V
TAVERNEY AND HIS DAUGHTER
Though forewarned by Gilbert of Baron Taverney's poverty, Baron Balsamo was not the less astonished by the meanness of the dwelling which the youth had dubbed the Castle. On the paltry threshold stood the master in a dressing gown and holding a candle.
Taverney was a little, old gentleman of five-and-sixty, with bright eye and high but retreating forehead. His wretched wig had lost by burning at the candles what the rats had spared of its curls. In his hands was held a dubiously white napkin, which proved that he had been disturbed at table. His spiteful face had a likeness to Voltaire's, and was divided between politeness to the guest and distaste to being disturbed. In the flickering light he looked ugly.
"Who was it pointed out my house as a shelter?" queried the baron, holding up the light to spy the pilot to whom he was eager to show his gratitude, of course.
"The youth bore the name of Gilbert, I believe."
"Ugh! I might have guessed that. I doubted, though, he was good enough for that. Gilbert, the idler, the philosopher!"
This flow of epithets, emphasized threateningly, showed the visitor that little sympathy existed between the lord and his vassal.
"Be pleased to come in," said the baron, after a short silence more expressive than his speech.
"Allow me to see to my coach, which contains valuable property," returned the foreign nobleman.
"Labrie," said Lord Taverney, "put my lord's carriage under the shed, where it will be less uncovered than in the open yard, for some shingles stick to the roof. As for the horses, that is different, for I cannot answer for their supper; still, as they are not yours, but the post's, I daresay it makes no odds."
"Believe me, I shall be ever grateful to your lordship – "
"Oh, do not deceive yourself," said the baron, holding up the candle again to light Labrie executing the work with the aid of the foreign noble; "Taverney is a poor place and a sad one."
When the vehicle was under cover, after a fashion, the guest slipped a gold coin into the servant's hand. He thought it a silver piece, and thanked heaven for the boon.
"Lord forbid I should think the ill of your house that you speak," said Balsamo, returning and bowing as the baron began leading him through a broad, damp antechamber, grumbling:
"Nay, nay, I know what I am talking about; my means are limited. Were you French – though your accent is German, in spite of your Italian title – but never mind – you would be reminded of the rich Taverney."
"Philosophy," muttered Balsamo, for he had expected the speaker would sigh.
The master opened the dining-room door.
"Labrie, serve us as if you were a hundred men in one. I have no other lackey, and he is bad. But I cannot afford another. This dolt has lived with me nigh twenty years without taking a penny of wages, and he is worth it. You will see he is stupid."
"Heartless," Balsamo continued his studies; "unless he is putting it on."
The dining-room was the large main room of a farmhouse which had been converted into the manor. It was so plainly furnished as to seem empty. A small, round table was placed in the midst, on which reeked one dish, a stew of game and cabbage. The wine was in a stone jar; the battered, worn and tarnished plate was composed of three plates, a goblet and a salt dish; the last, of great weight and exquisite work, seemed a jewel of price amid the rubbish.
"Ah, you let your gaze linger on my salt dish?" said the host. "You have good taste to admire it. You notice the sole object presentable here. No, I have another gem, my daughter – "
"Mademoiselle Andrea?"
"Yes," said Taverney, astonished at the name being known; "I shall present you. Come, Andrea, my child, and don't be alarmed."
"I am not, father," said a sonorous but melodious voice as a maiden appeared, who seemed a lovely pagan statue animated.
Though of the utmost plainness, her dress was so tasteful and suitable that a complete outfit from a royal wardrobe would have appeared less rich and elegant.
"You are right," he whispered to his host, "she is a precious beauty."
"Do not pay my poor girl too many compliments," said the old Frenchman carelessly, "for she comes from the nunnery school and may credit them. Not that I fear that she will be a coquette," he continued; "just the other way, for the dear girl does not think enough of herself, and I am a good father, who tries to make her know that coquetry is a woman's first power."
Andrea cast down her eyes and blushed; whatever her endeavor she could not but overhear this singular theory.
"Was that told to the lady at convent, and is that a rule in religious education?" queried the foreigner, laughing.
"My lord, I have my own ideas, as you may have noticed. I do not imitate those fathers who bid a daughter play the prude and be inflexible and obtuse; go mad about honor, delicacy and disinterestedness. Fools! they are like seconds who lead their champion into the lists with all the armor removed and pit him against a man armed at all points. No, my daughter Andrea will not be that sort, though reared in a rural den at Taverney."
Though agreeing with the master about his place, the baron deemed it duty to suggest a polite reproof.
"That is all very well, but I know Taverney; still, be that as it may, and far though we are from the sunshine of Versailles Palace, my daughter is going to enter the society where I once flourished. She will enter with a complete arsenal of weapons forged in my experience and recollections. But I fear, my lord, that the convent has blunted them. Just my luck! my daughter is the only pupil who took the instructions as in earnest and is following the Gospel. Am I not ill-fated?"
"The young lady is an angel," returned Balsamo, "and really I am not surprised at what I hear."
Andrea nodded her thanks, and they sat down at table.
"Eat away, if hungry. That is a beastly mess which Labrie has hashed up."
"Call you partridges so? You slander your feast. Game-birds in May? Shot on your preserves?"
"Mine? My good father left me some, but I got rid of them long ago. I have not a yard of land. That lazybones Gilbert, only good for mooning about, stole a gun somewhere and done a bit