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,” said the chevalier, “the recorder Isnard, who they say has no pity for poor people, came, in the company of lawyers, to inform himself of the number of arms and quantity of ammunition that Seigneur de Saint-Yves kept in his castle,—in short, to draw up an account of it, according to the orders of the Marshal of Vitry.”
The baron had just emptied his glass gloriously. He still held it between his thumb and the index finger of his right hand. When he heard these words he remained motionless, looking at Honorât with a bewildered expression, and wiping mechanically, with the back of his left hand, his white moustache, which was soaked in wine.
The chevalier, without remarking the baron’s astonishment, continued: “As the Seigneur de Saint-Yves hesitated to comply with the demand of the recorder, who insisted almost with threats, saying that he acted by order of the governor of the province, in the name of the cardinal, I wished to interpose between them, and—”
“What! Saint-Yves did not nail these crows by the feet and hands to the door of his manor, to serve as a scarecrow to the others!” cried the baron, purple with indignation, and setting his glass on the table so violently that it broke in pieces.
“Father!” said Reine, alarmed, as she saw the veins which furrowed the baron’s bald forehead, swollen to bursting, “Father, what does it matter to you? No doubt the Seigneur de Saint-Yves has acceded to the governor’s demands.”
“He! obey such orders!” shouted Raimond V., “he! if he could be guilty of such cowardice, and dared appear again at the next assembly of the nobility of Aix, I would seize him by the collar, and chase him out of the hall with blows of my sword-belt. What! a recorder must enter our houses to take account of our arms, our powder, and our balls, as a bailiff takes account of a merchant’s goods! Manjour! if it were the express and signed order of the King of France, our count, I would reply to such an order with good shots from musket and cannon.”
“But, sir,—” said Honorât.
“Visit our castles!” cried the baron, more and more exasperated. “Ah, it is not enough to have placed at the head of the old nobility of Provence a Vitry!—a hired assassin,—but this cardinal—may hell confound him; pray for him, abbé, for he has devilish need of it—must impose upon us the most humiliating obligations! Visit our houses, forsooth! Ah, Vitry, you wish to know how we can fire our muskets and cannon, and, by God’s death, come and lay siege to our castles and you shall know!” Then turning with eagerness to Honorât, he asked: “But what has Saint-Yves done?”
“Sir, at the time I left him, he was proposing to enter into an agreement to draw up, himself, the inventory demanded, and send it directly to the marshal.”
“Laramée,” said the baron, rising abruptly from the table, “have Mistraon saddled, mount five or six of my men and arm them well, and get ready yourself to follow me.”
“In the name of Heaven, father, what are you going to do?” cried Reine, taking one of the baron’s hands in her own.
“Prevent that good man, Saint-Yves, committing a cowardice which would dishonour the nobility of Provence. He is old and feeble, and he has not many persons around him; he will suffer himself to be intimidated. Laramée, my arms, and to horse, to horse!”
“This black night, over such bad roads—surely you will not dream of it,” said Honorât, taking the other hand of the baron.
“Did you hear me, Laramée!” shouted Raimond V.
“But, sir,—” said Honorât.
“Eh, Manjour, my young master, I do what you ought to have done! At your age, I would have thrown the recorder and his guards out of the window. God’s death! the blood of your fathers does not run in the veins of you young men! Laramée, my arms, and to horse!”
Honorât made no response to the baron’s reproaches. He looked at Reine and shook his head to make her understand her father’s injustice to his conduct.
The young girl understood the situation, and while Laramée was occupied in taking down his master’s arms from one of the panoplies which ornamented the dining-hall, she said:
“Laramée, have my nag saddled too; I will accompany monseigneur.”
“To the devil with such folly!” said the baron, shrugging his shoulders.
“Folly or not, I intend to accompany you, father.”
“No, no, a hundred times no. You shall not go with me; such roads, and at such an hour!”
“I will follow you, father. You know I am wilful and obstinate.”
“Certainly, as a goat, when you set your mind to it; but this time I hope you will yield to me.”
“I am going down-stairs to prepare for my departure,” said Reine. “Come, Honorât.”
“To the devil with such nonsense! She is capable of doing it as well as saying it Ah, there it is, I have been too good; I have been too indulgent to her; she abuses it!” cried the old gentleman, stamping his foot with anger. Then taking a milder tone, he said: “Let us see, Reine, my daughter, my dear daughter, be reasonable; just one dash of a gallop, and I am with Saint-Yves in time to drive away these wretches with blows of my whip, and I return.”
Reine made a step toward the door.
“But you may join me, Honorât; you are as unmoved as a worm.”
“Ah, father, do you forget that just now you stigmatised as cowardice his firm and prudent conduct in this affair?”
“He, Honorât, my son, a coward? I would cut anybody in the face who would dare say it If I said that, I was wrong,—it was anger that carried me away. Honorât, my son—”
Raimond V. opened his arms to Honorât, who embraced him, and said:
“Believe, me, sir, do not undertake this
