Cyrano, p.3
Cyrano, page 3
“So,” he continued, “being compelled to use my intelligence, it is still possible that I might be required to take action. And in case of this emergency which we do not anticipate, it were very sad if I did not have anything to show that I held a cardinal higher in the scale than an abbot or a prior! As you so truly said, monsieur, one must risk a little if one desires to gain much.”
Père Carré regarded him half sourly, half admiringly, then broke into a slow smile.
“Upon my word, you should be a diplomat!”
“Thank you, monsieur. A diplomat requires rhythm, however; being a poet I have only rime.” And Cyrano twirled his mustache, his black eyes dancing and glowing.
The superior nodded amusedly, opened a drawer, and sat down at the table, quill in hand. The quick eyes of Cyrano perceived the paper to be some sort of ready-written form, which Père Carré was signing. Then, sanded and cleaned, the paper was folded, and with the aid of a candle already burning, the superior sealed it. From the drawer he took a purse and extended paper and purse to Cyrano.
“There, monsieur, this will serve your purpose should emergency arise. And His Eminence is not niggardly; this will serve your ordinary expenses. There is but one thing I require of you, M. de Bergerac, at all costs. At all costs, you comprehend?”
Thus speaking, Père Carré rose, and his gaze became piercingly intent.
“And this one thing?”
“Is that the impregnable western bulwark of our beloved France should not pass into hostile hands.”
Cyrano bowed.
Two minutes later he was in the saddle again, riding for the Pont Neuf, He was extremely satisfied with himself, as he well might be.
“Worthy father superior, how well the Marquis de Bergerac fitted into your purposes—and how well you fitted into his! Moreover, you expected to send forth a spy, and instead you dispatch an ambassador! I’m afraid M. de Richelieu would not be pleased to know you’d given me this little paper, whatever it is. Decidedly, you’ll never step into the shoes of that sly little Mazarin. So Cinq-Mars conspires, and Richelieu cannot catch him at it, but hopes to catch cousin Effiat, eh?”
The thought sobered him. Effiat, he knew well, was a powerful man; Cyrano was playing with fire there.
PRECISELY upon the stroke of noon the tavern behind the Palais Cardinal witnessed the meeting of two lordly gentlemen. Sieur d’Effiat, garbed in superb riding clothes, the Cross of St. Michel blazing on his cloak, had just arrived when the magnificent figure of M. de Bergerac swung into the courtyard and dismounted.
“Greetings, my friend, greetings!” exclaimed Cyrano gustily. “Would you believe it, that rascally lackey of mine has absconded with half of my effects? I’ve just seen the provost about it, and they’re astir at the Châtelet. There was a diamond worth above a thousand pistoles, a gift from His Eminence himself, not to mention certain jewels presented to me by grateful ladies, and a superb rapier which I had from the King of Hungary. Well, let be! I’m ready to ride with you to Mont St. Michel or the devil. Ho, there! Wine! The Barsac of ’35!”
Effiat settled down at table with him. The lackey Mervaut brought them wine and commanded dinner, and after an approving drink Effiat fell into talk. Cyrano’s grandiloquent personality quite fended off any doubts as to his estate; besides, his tale of service in armies abroad was plausible enough, and not uncommon.
“Monsieur,” said Effiat with a certain deliberation, “I understand from my cousin that you bear the Cardinal no great love.”
“Nor he me,” and Cyrano’s laugh rang out. “Mordious! That’s why I left Paris in the old days, just between ourselves! A question of a lady, who favored a handsome guardsman rather than a stingy minister of state—you comprehend?”
“Good,” and Effiat chuckled. “However, monsieur, I have a purpose in my westward journey which is not concerned with cardinals. We ride into the country to visit a lady who is a sorceress. She rides on with us—of her own will or against it. We carry her to my abbey of Mont St. Michel and talk pleasantly by the way. That is all.”
“All?” Cyrano’s jaw fell. “There is a sequel to that sort of comedy, monsieur, and it is not a comic sequel. Me, I do not care to be broken on the wheel for abduction!”
“Bah!” Effiat shrugged. “A sorceress has no protection from the law. And what’s the law to me?”
True enough, and Cyrano nodded. While Cinq-Mars was Grand Equerry, favorite of the king and most powerful man in France after Richelieu, what indeed was the law to his cousin Effiat!
“Do you, by any chance, know the Tour de Gisy?” said Effiat.
There was a short silence. The home of Mlle. de Gisy! Effiat’s words stunned Cyrano, but he gave no sign of it.
“Hm!” he returned at length. “Wasn’t there some old scandal about Sieur de Gisy—he was a lover of Chevreuse, I think?”
“He is dead. His daughter, who is a sorceress, occupies his place. Now, she has inherited an old dispute with Mont St. Michel over certain lands which she and the abbey both claim. It may be that she will ride willingly with us, to settle this matter. In any case, I have ordered a coach to await us at Palaiseau, which is not far from the Tour de Gisy. Is it clear?”
“Not altogether,” said Cyrano. “If she’s not willing to come, how can we use force against a sorceress?”
Effiat looked at him, found Cyrano’s dark eyes twinkling, and broke into a laugh.
“Bah! Sorcery troubles me little, nor you! She lives there almost alone, and studies the stars. She has red hair, therefore is a sorceress. It’s simple.”
Cyrano shook his head. He waited until Mervaut had served their meal, then drained his winecup and turned to Effiat earnestly. As a matter of fact, he knew all the gossip about Marianne de Gisy; he knew that she studied the stars and was therefore reputed a witch.
“FROM a philosophic standpoint, the experiment of mating with a sorceress would be most interesting,” Cyrano observed, whereat Effiat smiled thinly. “But, monsieur, I gather that you are in love with this lady? Then, I assure you, reflect! You are making a grievous error.”
“Eh? In loving her?” demanded Effiat amused.
“No; in forcing her to ride with you. Now, then, suppose I ride to the Tower without you! For you to use force would be fatal; for me to use force, if need be, would in no way involve you. You might dispatch a courier at once, saying that you are sending me in your place, being forced to post for Mont St. Michel at once, and so forth. You comprehend?”
Effiat stared at him rather blankly.
“No; devil take me if I do!”
Cyrano broke into his hearty laugh, and stretched one hand across the table.
“Come! In me you have found a friend, a poet, a troubadour, a magician. I guarantee that if you leave the lady to me I can bring her willingly to Mont St. Michel. The land dispute; over and above that, a dozen other reasons—bah! It’s the easiest thing imaginable. Besides, the devil himself couldn’t make love in a coach.”
“True,” said Effiat with a laugh. “You think you can bring her willingly, eh?”
“Upon my honor! Of her own will, and in your coach. Come, my dear Effiat, have faith! Leave these matters to me. You see these seven stars of my escutcheon! I’m something of a sorcerer myself. We shall ride, she and I, take what comes, sun or rain or wind, love or hate! With a lady to serve, a road to ride, a lute to pluck, a sword to swing—devil take all buts and ifs! Leave the thing to me, and do you play the fine lover when the time comes. You want her at the Mont; I’ll have her there for you!”
The swift blaze of those dark eyes, the infectious burst of laughter, kindled a responsive spark in the cold gaze of Effiat. The brain of Cyrano went dancing on in a furious gust of eloquence, his eyes aflame, until Effiat checked him.
“Say no more, Bergerac! You have the right of it. I’ll give you a letter to the lady, telling her—”
“That I’m a student of the occult sciences,” cut in Cyrano.
“Eh?” Effiat grimaced. “You cannot trick her!”
“Nonsense! I know more about wizardy than she does, I warrant!” and Cyrano’s laugh filled the place like a trumpet blare. “There’s never been a Bergerac burned at the stake for magic; but all the same I’m not so simple. I learned a bit of it in Hungary, and more when I accompanied an embassy to the court of Poland. So why not?”
Effiat shrugged, then put out his hand and smiled as he gripped that of Cyrano.
“Good. I thank you, and am in your debt! Willy-nilly, you’ll bring her?”
“Upon my honor—if I must bundle her off neck and crop.”
Effiat rose. “Then I’ll to the Louvre. Wait here, and Mervaut will fetch you back the letter. He’ll also accompany you as lackey, since you have no man. The coach will await you at Palaiseau. You’re ready to ride? Good. You can reach Berny to-night, the Tour de Gisy some time to-morrow. Agreed?”
“With all my heart!”
“Then au revoir, until we meet at the Mont. Mervaut! Follow me.”
And, bowing to Cyrano, Sieur d’Effiat departed in all haste.
“SOUR devil—and I must ride with you, eh?” muttered Cyrano, eying the lurching back of Mervaut. He filled his cup again and drained it, set it down, felt in his pocket, and drew forth the crumpled letter he had written on the preceding day. “Come, this will bear copying, and while he’s writing his precious epistle I’ll be doing mine.”
Writing materials were brought by the waiter, and Cyrano set about copying out his letter which had been addressed to Marianne de Gisy. Nor was it the first letter he had ever written her, though she had seen none of them. When he had finished he leaned back and inspected it.
“Ah, sublime!” he murmured admiringly. “Better than the others—and this seems like to be delivered, for a miracle! Curious that it should come about so. I see a face pass in the street, and straightway become a fool! Well, I may not find her so pleasant on closer acquaintance. Probably her teeth will be bad or her person foul-smelling—it’s usually so. Alas! Must a sorceress lose the love of Cyrano because she does not use perfume?”
He broke into a peal of harsh laughter which betrayed the irony in his words and in his heart toward all the world, including himself. Undoubtedly the ancestors of Cyrano in their native isle had eaten of that Sardinian herb which engenders bitterness of spirit.
His letter pocketed, his meal finished, his horse fed, Cyrano applied himself to the bottle until Mervaut returned to the tavern, riding a good horse. He dismounted and gave Cyrano a sealed letter addressed to Mlle. de Gisy.
“You are riding with me?” demanded Cyrano.
“Yes, M. le Marquis,” said Mervaut respectfully.
“I perceive you’re well trained, Mervaut. See that you don’t forget it; because if you do I’ll take a stick to your back in proper fashion. You comprehend?”
“Certainly, M. le Marquis!”
“To horse, then!” and Cyrano rose from the table and called for his own mount.
Chapter III
—DELIVERS A LETTER.
THE Tour de Gisy was an ancient, half ruined keep, where had once been a great château and open park; house and trees had the air of things blasted. In past years the pride of Gisy had indeed been smitten to the quick, and the place now stood uncared for, looking at the world from blank eyes; despite the presence of a woman, it still bore the bitter and fiercely aloof aspect of its dead master. Solitary amid its few trees, the tower stood bleak and black, shunning men and shunned by men.
The woman dwelt here alone, with her father’s two old servants; rumor said she was a sorceress from Brittany, whence came the family, and where the family lands lay. That she had the evil eye was no secret. Thus the Tour de Gisy assumed a still blacker hue in the sight of men.
There were no tenants. Those who must needs come this way of an eventide looked at the lone dark turret against the sky and signed themselves as they scurried past. The only hamlet was two miles away; hereabouts was a lonely countryside, scarred by the wars of the League.
Upon a late spring afternoon, Marianne de Gisy sat in the sunlight upon the flat roof of the old tower. At one side stood a covered telescope on its stand. Before her was a table, piled with huge tomes; she was working over a volume, copying out the figures of some long dead student of the stars. About the roof ran a parapet, breast-high.
The heiress of Gisy, to a casual eye, might have been twenty-six, or forty; as for beauty, that was a matter of opinion. The king detested red hair, and the king set the fashion. Common folk saw no beauty in hair like raw gold, shimmering with a halo in the sunlight. The face below was not lovely; it was sad and strong and weary in repose—all but the eyes. These leaped out in quick lightning blue, transformed the whole face; and when they fell into sleepy reflection the vivid eagerness was lost.
Few men sensed the peculiar wise sweetness of this face, its grave kindliness, nor even the fair rippling womanliness of the body below; they saw the mass of flaming hair, and swiftly looked away, and that was the end of it.
A startled cry from somewhere caused Marianne to lift her head sharply, staring at the opening of the stairs that ran down to the entrance court. The cry came again; then a clatter of wooden shoes on the stairs, and at the opening was revealed the head of an old woman.
“Ma’m’selle! They have come back, those men who were here! I said they were bad ones. Pierre has gone out to send them away, but they are bad ones, those!”
Marianne came to her feet and went to the parapet of the roof. She knew that a rabble of disbanded soldiers had passed that same morning, but any trouble was, to her, inconceivable. And yet, as she looked down, she beheld the incredible come to pass under her very eyes. Absorbed as she had been in her work, it was all as sudden and sharp as the bursting of a summer storm.
Out there in front of the tower was Pierre, her father’s old servant, running, staggering, hand pressed to side as he made for shelter of the entrance. And close behind him half a dozen ragged figures pursued with shouts and curses. The afternoon sun flashed on steel. Pierre faltered. One of the ragged men leaped and struck, and Pierre fell. The others were upon him like wolves, and their blades took the life out of him. Far behind, two men on horses were just coming into sight.
THE woman, watching, uttered a swift, piercing cry. Then they looked up and saw her there at the parapet.
“Sorceress!” The yell leaped up at her, wolfish in its intensity. They shook their fists, brandished crimsoned weapons, leaped in the air and hurled imprecations. “Come down to us, sorceress! Come down and play with us!”
Marianne shrank back from those faces, all aflame with passion, with greed, with cruelty, with lust. So they had heard tales of her! They meant to pillage and slay—
The hollow crash of the iron-bound portals weakened her, caused her to turn hastily to the stairway. The old crone had swung the massive doors shut; a few moments gained, at least! Marianne was down the stone stairs lightly as a dancing flame, and, in passing, snatched from the wall her father’s sword.
She came into the lower hall, where the old dame now crouched in moaning terror. Outside they were smashing at the sturdy doors, hammering, yelling maudlin curses. Drunk, then! This explained it. They had obtained liquor and had come back here to seek her out.
Abruptly, the blows and voices fell silent. There was a new voice, ringing loud and clear; then a sharper, keener yell swept up from the pack. A pistol crashed out, followed by a second. A man screamed. What was going on out there? Without hesitation, Marianne leaped at the door and swung away its massive bar; the old servant protested wildly, frantically, but she wrenched open one of the doors, unheeding.
Outside— She remembered the two cavaliers now. One of them was sitting his horse, looking around, laughing, a pistol in his hand. Three silent figures lay sprawled before the entrance. The others were running, in wild flight, pursued by the second horseman. Now Cyrano, putting up his pistol, dismounted. He turned and saw Marianne standing there in the opening.
He caught his breath sharply; the sight of her burst upon him like a vision. For an instant he stared at her, eyes wide, and before his ardent, quivering eagerness a slow tide of red crept up her face. Then he swung off his hat and swept its plume in the dust with a low bow.
“Surely this is Mme. Thessala, she whom Horace sung, whose beauty drew down the moon!” he exclaimed. “Daughter of the sun, gloriously crowned with fire and ruddy gold, I salute you! I came hither, seeking no goddess, but a mortal woman, one Mme. de Gisy—”
“Who stands before you,” broke in Marianne, “and who owes you gratitude, monsieur.” If the grandiloquence of Cyrano tempted a smile to her lips, it was banished by his very earnestness, by his astonishing and impulsive ardor. He produced a sealed paper and handed it to her.
“Here are my credentials, mademoiselle. M. d’Effiat prayed me to stop and make you his compliments and to place myself at your service. I am indeed honored that our arrival was timely. My lackey is attending to those rogues.”
Marianne regarded him for a moment, then smiled.
“Ah! I had a courier from M. d’Effiat last night,” she replied. “You are, then, M. le Marquis de Bergerac?”
“True, dear lady!” broke in Cyrano, a sonorous ring to his voice. “I cannot look into your eyes and live a lie! No, I’m called Marquis de Bergerac indeed, but my name is Cyrano. By the seven stars, Cyrano is name enough! And if it must bear title, then in God’s love a title o’ some meaning! Marquis of Poesy—Duke of Wine-bibbing—Prince of the Seven Stars. Aye, there it is! Marquis of the Seven Stars, mademoiselle, at your eternal service!”
If Marianne did not comprehend the mad words, at least she perceived a certain wild earnestness behind them, and with a quiet smile, held out her hand to Cyrano.
“Enter, monsieur,” she said. “The house is yours; make yourself at home. I pray you, excuse me a space until I get my old nurse calmed. I have no other servants.”
She vanished inside. Cyrano turned, as Mervaut approached, and ordered the lackey to take care of the horses, remove the bodies, and make himself useful. Then he followed Marianne into the building.
