THE TRAVELER had risen early, in order to look after his carriage and inquire how Althotas had got on. No one was up at that hour in the castle but Gilbert, who followed with his eyes every movement of the stranger. But he could discover little, as Balsamo closed the carriage door too carefully for his inquisitive looks to penetrate its mystery.
Seeing the baron's abode by the clear light of a sunny morning, Balsamo was struck by the different impression it made on him from what it had done the preceding night. In fact, the little white and red chateau—for it was built of stone and brick—made a pretty picture, surrounded as it was by a grove of sycamores and laburnums of a large size, the flowers of which hung on the roof of the low building, and girt the towers with a crown of gold. In front of the court there was a small piece of water, surrounded by a broad border of turf and a hedge of acacias, on which the eye rested with pleasure, confined as the view was on this side by the tall chestnut and ash trees of the avenue.
Balsamo turned along a broad walk on the left, and had scarcely advanced twenty paces when he found himself in the midst of a thick shrubbery of maples, palms, and lindens, among which the roses and syringas, steeped by the rain of the preceding night, sent forth a delicious perfume. Through the hedge of privet which bordered the walk peeped jasmine and honeysuckle, and in the distance could be seen a long alley, lined with pink hawthorn and wild roses, leading to a wood.
Balsamo at last arrived at the extremity of the demesne. Here, on a slight elevation, stood the massive ruins of an ancient castle, one of the towers of which was still standing almost uninjured, and clothed from its base to its summit with luxuriant shoots of the ivy and wild vine. Viewed from this point, the demesne of Taverney, though but seven or eight acres in extent, wanted neither dignity nor elegance.
After having spent about an hour in examining the ruins, Balsamo was returning toward the house, when he saw the baron leave it by the side-door, his slight frame buried in an Indian flowered dressing-gown, and proceed to prune and arrange his little parterre. He hastened to meet him, and now having still further sounded the poverty of his host, his politeness was more decided in its expression than it had been the night before.
“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to offer you my excuses for the trouble I have given you, and, at the same time, my respectful thanks for your hospitality. I should not have ventured to come down before knowing that you were up, but the view of Taverney from my window was so charming, that I could not resist my desire to revisit those imposing ruins, and to see your beautiful garden.”
“The ruins,” said the baron, after having politely wished, the stranger good morning—” the ruins, sir, are fine—indeed, the only thing that is fine at Taverney.”
“Yes; it was mine—or rather my ancestors'. They called it Maison-Rouge, which name has long been joined to Taverney —indeed, our barony is Maison Rouge; but, my dear guest, let us not talk of things no longer in being.”
“Allow me rather to make my excuses to you for your poor accommodation here. I told you beforehand what my house was.”
“I have been delighted with it.”
“A dog-kennel! a dog-kennel, sir! A very favorite place with the rats, since the foxes, lizards, and adders drove them from the other castle! Ah, pardieu! sir, you, who are a sorcerer or something very near it, you certainly ought to raise up with a stroke of your wand the old castle in its glory again—above all, not forgetting the two thousand acres which formerly surrounded it. I'll wager, however, that instead of thinking of doing me such a service, you have been so polite as to go to sleep in an execrable bed!”
“No—no—don't attempt to say anything in its favor! it is an execrable bed —it is my son's.”
“You must permit me to say, that such as the bed is, it appeared to me excellent. I cannot but feel ashamed of having intruded on you, and I am deeply indebted for the kindness with which you have received me. It would give me sincere pleasure to make a return, if it were in my power.”
“Well, there is an opportunity,” replied the old man, with a mocking smile, and pointing to La Brie, who was coming with a glass of water on a splendid plate of Dresden china, “just turn this into Burgundy, Chambertin, or any other good wine, and you will do me a most essential service.”
Balsamo smiled; the old man took the smile for a refusal, and at one draught swallowed the water presented to him.
“An excellent specific,” said Balsamo; “water is highest among the elements, for the Holy Spirit was borne on it before the creation of the world. Nothing can resist its action; it penetrates stone, and we may yet discover that the diamond can be dissolved by it.”
“I shall be dissolved by it, I fear,” replied the baron. “"Will you pledge me? The water has some advantages over my wine; it is in capital order, and it is not yet exhausted. It is not like my Maraschino.”
“If you had ordered a glass for me as well as for yourself, I might have been able to use it for your advantage.”
“Good; explain that for me—is it not still time?”
“Then tell your servant to bring me a glass of very pure water.”
“La Brie, do you hear, you old rascal?”
“How!” said the baron, turning to his guest, “does the glass of water which I drink every morning contain any properties, any secrets which are unknown to me? Have I for ten years been making chemical experiments, as Monsieur Jourdain made prose, without being aware of it?”
“I do not know what you have been doing;, but you shall see what I can do.”
“Thank you, my good fellow.” said Balsamo, taking the glass from La Brie, who had brought it with marvelous rapidity.
He held the glass on a level with his eyes, and seemed to interrogate the water which it contained; in the sunlight the little beads on its surface were bright as diamonds, and streaked with violet color.
“Oh, the deuce!” cried the baron, laughing, “can anything beautiful be seen in a glass of water?”
“Yes, baron, to-day, at least, something very beautiful.”
And Balsamo appeared doubly attentive in his occupation, the baron, in spite of himself, looking a little serious, and La Brie gazing with open mouth at what was going on.
“What do you see, pray?—I am bursting with impatience to know. A good estate for me? A new Maison-Rouge to set me on foot again?”
“I see something which induces me to beg you to be on the alert.”
“Ay!—am I going to be attacked?”
“No; but this morning you will receive a visit.”
“Then, you have yourself ordered some one to meet you here. That was wrong, sir, very wrong. There may be no partridges this morning—remember that!”
“I speak seriously, my dear baron, and what I say is most important —some one is at this moment on the way to Taverney.”
“Some one? What sort of a visitor, tell me, pray?—for I must confess (you must have perceived it from the rather reception I gave you) that every one annoys me who comes here. So, what sort of visitor? be precise, my dear sorcerer; if possible, be precise in your description.”
“I can very easily tell all you wish,” and Balsamo again raised the glass to his searching eye.
“I see everything distinctly.”
“Speak, oh speak. Sister Anne!”
“I see a lady of great consequence coming.”
“Bah! indeed!—coming without being invited?”
“She has invited herself —your son brings her.”
“She is brought by my son? The great lady brought by my son.”
“And my son at this moment is—
“My dear sir, he is in garrison at Strasbourg, and unless he has deserted, which he has not, I can swear, he is bringing nobody hither.”
“He is bringing a great lady hither —a very exalted personage. Ah, hold! there is one thing I ought to tell you—you had better keep out of sight that little rogue with the horn at her fingerends.”
“Because her features resemble those of the lady who is coming.”
“A great lady resemble Nicole!—that is absurd!”
“Why so? I bought a slave once who resembled Cleopatra so much that there was some idea of sending her to Rome to pass for that queen in Octavius's triumph.”
“Ah! another attack of your old malady!”
“You must surely see, my dear baron, that this matter cannot concern me—I only speak for your own good.”
“But why should Nicole's resemblance to the great lady offend her? ”
“Suppose you were the king of France, which I am far from wishing, or the dauphin, which I wish still less, should you be flattered, on entering a house, to find among the servants one whose face was a counterpart of your august visage?”
“Oh, the devil!—that would be a sad dilemma! So, then, you think—
“I think that the most high and mighty lady who is coming would not be pleased to see her living image in a short petticoat and cotton handkerchief.”
“Oh, well,” said the baron, still laughing, “we must see about it; but, after all, my dear baron, what delights me most in this affair is, that my son is coming—that dear Philip!—without giving us a note of warning,” and he laughed louder than before.
“So you are pleased with my prediction?” said Balsamo gravely.
“I am glad of it; but in your place I should set about giving some orders.”
“I shall think of it, my dear guest, I shall think of it.”
“No one could be more serious. If you wish to receive the great personage who does you the honor of visiting you properly you have not a minute to lose.”
“Yon still doubt?” asked Balsamo.
“I warn you, you have to do with a most confirmed skeptic.” And just then he turned to call his daughter, in order to communicate his guest's prediction to her, as we have before related. We have seen how the young girl replied to her father's invitation, and how Balsamo's gaze had drawn her, as if by fascination, to the window.
Nicole stood looking with amazement at La Brie, who was making signs to her, and trying to understand what had been said.
“I am dreadfully hard of belief,” repeated the baron, “and unless I saw—”
“Then, since you must see, look there,” said Balsamo, pointing to the avenue, where a horseman appeared galloping toward them.
“Ha!” cried the baron, “there indeed is—”
“Monsieur Philip!” said Nicole, standing on tiptoe.
“My young master!” exclaimed La Brie joyfully.
“My brother, my brother!” cried Andree, stretching out her arms at the window.
“Is it your son, my dear baron?” asked Balsamo, in a careless tone.
“Yes; pardieu! it is!” exclaimed he, stupefied with astonishment.
“This is but the beginning,” said Balsamo.
“You are positively a sorcerer, then,” said the baron, more submissively than before.
A triumphant smile hovered on the stranger's lips.
The horse came on at full speed, reeking with moisture, passed the last rows of trees, and, while still in motion, the rider leaped to the ground, and hastened to embrace his father, who only muttered, “What the devil! what the devil!”
“It is really I,” said Philip, who saw his father's perplexity; “it is indeed.”
“Doubtless—I see that plainly enough; but what brought you hither at this time?”
“Father, a great honor awaits our house!”
The old man looked up inquiringly.
Philip went on; “In an hour Marie Antoinette Josephe, archduchess of Austria and dauphiness of France, will be here.”
The baron looked as deeply humbled as he had before looked sarcastic, and, turning to Balsamo, said only, “Pardon me!”
“Sir,” returned Balsamo, “I leave you with your son; it is long since you have met, and you must have much to say to each other.”
Bowing to Andree, who, full of joy at the arrival of her brother, had hastened down to meet him, he retired, making a sign to Nicole and La Brie, which they doubtless understood, for they disappeared with him among the trees of the avenue.
