The White Plumes of Navarre: A Romance of the Wars of Religion Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE GOLDEN LARK IN ORLEANS TOWN

  "Now," said Jean-aux-Choux, "unless I go down and help at theturning-spit myself, we are further off dinner than ever. I will alsopump the lady dry of information in a quarter of an hour, which, in sucha Leaguer town, is always a useful thing. But stay where you are, mylady Claire, and keep the door open. You will smell burnt fat, but theFool of the Three Henries will be with you in as many jumps of agrasshopper whenever you want him. You have only to call, and lo, youhave me!"

  When Jean had disappeared to do double duty as spy and kitchen-drudgebeneath, Claire went to the window which looked out upon themarket-place. From beneath in the kitchen she could hear shouts oflaughter climb up and die away. She knew that Jean-aux-Choux was at histricks, and that, with five minutes' grace, he could get to windward ofany landlady that ever lived, let alone such a merry plump one as MadameCeleste.

  That dame indeed disliked all pretty women on principle. But she wasnever quite sure whether she preferred an ugly witty man who made herlaugh, or a handsome dull man who only treated her as a gentleman ought.But women--young women and pretty women--pah, she could not abide them!And by this we can guess her age, for not so long ago she had been youngand even pretty herself.

  The tide that comes in the affairs of men is not nearly so marked as theebb which comes in the affairs of women.

  Claire stood a long while meditating, her eyes following the movement ofthe market-place vaguely, but without any real care for what washappening. She truly mourned her father, but she possessed much of thatalmost exclusively masculine temperament which says after anycatastrophe, "Well, what is the next thing to be done?"

  "I care nothing about my mother's people," she meditated to herself,"but I would see her home, her land, her country."

  She had never seen her father's. But when he had spoken to her of thefresh winds, lashing rains, and driving snows, with nevertheless therose blooming in the sheltered corners about the old house on ChristmasDay, she had somehow known it all. But Collioure and its sand-dunes, thedeep sapphire of the southern sea, cut across by the paler blue line ofthe sky--she could not imagine that, even when the Professor and theAbbe John, with tears glittering in their eyes, spoke together in thestrange pathetic speech of _la petite patrie_.

  But she would like to see it--the strand where the little Colette hadplayed, the dunes down which she had slidden, and the gold and rose ofthe towers of Chateau Collioure, within which her mother was born.

  A noise without attracted her attention. A procession was entering thesquare. In the midst was a huge coach with six mules, imported, equipageand all, from Spain. An outrider in the episcopal livery was mounted oneach mule, while running footmen scattered the market-stalls andsalad-barrows like the passage of a sudden strong wind.

  There was also great excitement down below in the Golden Lark. Thekitchen emptied itself, and Madame Celeste stopped hastily to pin a bowof ribbons to her cap, unconscious that a long smear of sooty greasedecorated one side of her nose. The Bishop's carriage was coming instate to the Golden Lark! There could not be the least doubt of it. Andthe Bishop himself was within, that holy man who so much more willinglyhandled the sword-hilt than the crozier--Bishop Pierrefonds of Orleans,certain archbishop and possible cardinal, a stoop of the League in allthe centre of France.

  Yes, he was conveying home his guests in state. He stepped out and stoodon the pavement in front of the house, a right proper prelate, givingthem in turn his hand as they stooped to kiss his amethyst ring. Then,seeing over the Abbe John's bowed head the lady of the house, he calledout heartily to her (for he was too great to be haughty with any),"Mistress Celeste, mind you treat these gentlemen well. It is not everyday that our good town of Orleans holds at once the light of theSorbonne, its mirror of eloquence, and also the nephew of my LordCardinal of the Holy League, John d'Albret, claimant at only twentyremoves to the crown of France."

  "Pshaw," muttered the Abbe John wearily, "I wish the old fool would goaway and let us get to dinner!"

  For, indeed, at the Palace he had listened to much of this.

  The hostess of the Golden Lark conducted her two guests upstairs as ifto the sound of trumpets. She gathered her skirts and rustled like thepoplar leaves of an entire winter whisking about the little PlaceRoyale of Orleans. The Professor of the Sorbonne had suddenly sunk intothe background. Even the almighty Duke of Guise was no better than abird in the bush. While here--well in hand, and hungry for an honestGolden Lark dinner--was a real, hall-marked, royal personage, vouchedfor by a bishop, and still more by the bishop's carriage and outriders!It was enough to turn the head of a wiser woman than Madame CelesteGillifleur.

  "And is it really true?" demanded Claire Agnew.

  "Is what true, my dear lady?" said the Abbe John, very ungraciously forhim. For he thought he would have to explain it all over again.

  "That you are a near heir to the throne of France?"

  The Abbe John clapped his hands together with a gesture of despair.

  "Just as much as I am the Abbe John and a holy man," he cried; "itpleases them to call me so. Thank God, I am no priest, nor ever will be.And as for the crown of France--Henry of Valois is not dead, that ever Iheard of. And if he were, I warrant his next heir and my valiant cousin,Henry of Navarre, would have a word to say before he were passed over!"

  "But," said the Professor of Eloquence, smiling, "the Pope and our wiseSorbonne have loosed all French subjects from paying any allegiance to aheretic!"

  "By your favour, sir," said the young man, "I think both made a mistakefor which they will be sorry. Also I heard of a certain professor whovoted boldly for the Bearnais in that Leaguer assembly, and who found itconvenient to go see his mother next day, lest he should find himselfone fine morning shortened by a head, all for the glory of God and theHoly League!"

  Doctor Anatole laughed at his pupil's boldness.

  "You are out of disciplinary bounds now," he said, "and as you are tooold to birch, I must e'en let you chatter. But what is the meaning ofthe Bishop's sudden cordiality?"

  "Oh," said the Abbe John, with a sigh of resignation, "these Leaguersare always getting maggots in their brains. If my mother had been myfather--if I had been a Bourbon instead of a d'Albret--if Henry theBearnais had been in my shoes and I in his--if--if--any number of'ifs'--then there might be something in this heir-to-the-crown business.But the truth is, they are at their wits' end (which is no long distanceto travel). The Demon of the South, our good, steady-going King ofSpain, drives them hard. They dare not have him to rule over them, withhis inquisitors, his blazing heretic fires, and the rest of it. Yet itis a choice between him and the Huguenot, unless they can find a trueCatholic king. The Cardinal Bourbon is manifestly too old, though oneday even he may serve to stop a gap. The Duke of Guise may be descendedfrom the Merovingians or from Adam, but in either case his family-treeis not convincing. It has too many branches--too few roots! So theplotters--my good uncle among them--are looking about for some one--anyone--that is, not a Guise nor yet a Huguenot, who may serve their turn.His Grace of Orleans thinks I may do as well as another. That isall--only one Leaguer maggot the more."

  "And must we, then, always say 'Your Royal Highness' or 'Your Serenity'when we kiss your hand--which shall it be?" Claire asked the questiongravely.

  "I had much rather kiss yours," said the heir to a throne, bowing withequal gravity; "and as for a name--why, I am plain John d'Albret, atyour service!"

  He doffed his cap as he spoke, and the Professor noted for the firsttime, with a touch of jealousy, that he was a comely lad enough--thatis, if he had not been so ludicrously young. The Professor (who was nota philosopher for nothing) noted the passing twinge of jealousy as asign that he was growing old. Twenty years ago he might have beentempted to break his pupil's head for a presumptuous jackanapes, orchallenge him to a bout at the small swords, but jealousy--pah, AnatoleLong thought himself as good as any man--always excepting theBearnais--where the sex was
concerned.

  It was a good and substantial supper to which they sat down. The cookerydid credit to the handicraft of Madame Celeste, especially the salmonsteaks done in parsley sauce, and the roast capon stuffed with butter,mint, and bread-crumbs. The wine, a white Cote Rotie, went admirablywith the viands. The Professor and Claire had but little appetite, butthe eyes of the landlady were now upon the Abbe John alone. His platewas scarce empty before it was mysteriously refilled. His wine-glassfound itself regularly replenished by the fair plump hands of MadameCeleste herself. All went merry as a marriage-bell, and Jean-aux-Choux,seated a little way below the salt, and using his dagger as an entiretable equipment, worked his way steadily through everything within hisreach. For though the Fool of the Three Henries held nothing in heavenor earth sacred from his bitter tongue when in the exercise of hisprofession, he equally let nothing in heaven or earth (or even under theearth) interfere with his appetite. He explained the matter thus:

  "I have heard of men living from hand to mouth," he told Claire; "fortwenty years I have lived from table to mouth--always the same mouth,seldom twice the same table. There was you, my little lady, to beserved first. And a hundred times your father and I went hungry that youmight eat your milk-sop hot-a-nights. While, if I could, I would cheatmy master as to what remained, his being the greater need."

  "Good Jean!" said Claire, gently reaching out to pat his shaggy head.The long-armed jester shook a little and went pale under her touch,which was the stranger, seeing that with a twist of his shoulders hecould throw off the clutch of a strong man.

  Such were the three with whom Claire travelled southward, in anexceeding safety, considering the disturbed time. For any of them wouldhave given his life to shield her from harm, though as yetJean-aux-Choux was the only one of the three who knew it. And with himit was a matter of course.