CHAPTER XLI.
"AND LAZARUS CAME FORTH!"
This was all of the most cheerful for John d'Albret. To be loved withwet glad eyes by the woman for whom you have done brave deeds is the joyof life. Only to taste its flavour, she herself must tell you of it. AndJohn d'Albret was very far from the Mas of the Mountain of Barbentane.He did not feel the dry even rush of the high mistral, steady and broadas a great ocean current--yet how many times more swift. The wind thatfanned his heated temples was the warm day wind of Africa, coming instifling puffs as from an oven, causing the dust to whirl, and liftingthe frilled leaves of the palms like a woman's garments. At night, onthe contrary, the humid valley-winds stealing down from the Canigou madehim shiver, as he crouched in the ancient sheepfolds and rude cane-builtshelters where he had expected to find Jean-aux-Choux.
But these were deserted, the charge of his troop taken over by another.The house of La Masane had been put to sack--partly by those who hadcome to take away the more portable furniture for the _tartana_ boundfor Les Santes Maries, and also in part at a later date by the retainersof the Lord of Collioure. Several times, from his hiding-place on themountain, John d'Albret had observed Raphael Llorient wandering idlyabout the abandoned house of La Masane, revolving new plots or broodingon the manner in which the old had been foiled.
As Jean-aux-Choux did not return, the Abbe John waxed quickly weary ofthe bare hillside, where also he was in constant danger of discoveryfrom some of Jean-aux-Choux's late comrades. These, however, contentedthemselves chiefly with surveying their flocks from convenienthill-tops, or at most, in launching a couple of swift dogs in the tracksof any wanderers. But John knew that these very dogs might easily at anymoment lead to his discovery, if they smelt out the reed-bed in which itwas his habit to lie hid during the day.
Meantime the Abbe, with needle and thread drawn from Jean-aux-Choux'sstores, had busied himself in repairing the ravages prison-life had madein his apparel. And with his habitual handiness, begun in the Bedouintents of the Latin quarter, and continued in the camps of the Bearnais,he achieved, if not complete success, at least something which suggestedrather a needy young soldier, a little battered by the wars, than arunaway prisoner from the dungeons of the Holy Office.
His aspect was rendered still more martial by Jean-aux-Choux's longValaisian sword (with "Achille Serre, of Sion" engraved upon the blade),which hung from a plain black leather waist-belt, broad as the palm ofthe hand. The Abbe John, regarding himself at dawn in the spring nearthe chapel of the Hermitage, remarked with pleasure that during hissojourn upon the mountain his moustache had actually attained quiterespectable proportions. As for his beard, it still tarried by the way,though he was pleased to say that in order to be respectable he mustseek out a hostelry and find there refreshment and a razor--"If" headded, "mine host does not handle the blade himself"--an accomplishmentwhich was not at all uncommon among the Bonifaces of Roussillon.
So leaving the town and castle of Collioure away to the left, and farbelow him, John d'Albret struck across the tumbled rocky country wherethe last bastions of the Pyrenees break down to meet the chafe of theMidland sea. He travelled by night, and as it was moonlight, made goodenough going. It was pleasant and dry. The mountain wind cooled him, andmany a time he paused to look down from the grey-white rocks upon thesweep of some little bay, pebbly-beached, its fringe of sand and surfdazzling white beneath the moon. He heard the sough and rattle as thewater arched, foamed a moment, plashed heavily, and then retired,dragging the rounded stones downward in its suck.
John d'Albret meant to strike for Rosas, where he knew he might alwayshope to find some French boats come in from the pilchard and sardinefisheries about Ivitza and the Cape of Mallorca. He hoped for shelter onone of these. There would certainly be countrymen of his, drinking andrunning at large on the beach of Rosas. With them he would make hisbargain in money or love, according to the province from which theyhailed--the Norman for money, the Gascon for love, and the Provencal fora little of both.
There was also an inn at Rosas--the Parador of the Chevelure d'Or. Somefew _ventas_ were scattered along the sea-front, hard to bedistinguished from the white fishermen's cottages, save for the eveningnoises which proceeded from them when the crews of the vessels in thebay came ashore to carouse. Altogether no better place for getting awayfrom the realms of King Philip seemed possible to John d'Albret.
The Bay (or Gulf) of Rosas is one of the noblest harbours in theworld--fifteen Spanish leagues from horn to horn, when you follow theindentations of the coast. So at least avers the Geographer-Royal. Butit is to be suspected that his legs either wandered or that he measuredsome of the course twice over. The Bay of Rosas could contain all thenavies of the world. A notable harbour in peace or war, with itswatch-tower at either side, and its strong castle in the midst, it wasno inconsiderable place in the reign of the Golden Philip.
Even in these last years when the gold was becoming dim, when its latearray of war-ships had mostly found a resting-place on the rockyskerries of Ireland or the Hebrides, there were sometimes as many as sixor eight king's ships in the bay--a fact which John d'Albret had omittedto reckon in his forecast of chances concerning the harbourage of Rosas.
The landlord of the Parador was a jovial, bustling man--a type notSpanish but purely Catalan. In the rest of Spain, your landlord showshimself little, if at all. Generally you serve yourself, and if you wantanything you have not brought, you buy it in the town and descend to thekitchen to cook it. But the host of the Inn of Rosas was omnipresent,loquacious, insistent, not to be abashed or shaken off.
He met the Abbe John on the doorstep, and taking in at a glance hisfrayed court suit, his military bearing, and the long sword that swungat his heels, the landlord bowed low, yet with vigilant eyes aslant tomeasure the chances of this young ruffler having a well-filled purse.
"Your Excellency," he cried, "you do honour to yourself, whoever you maybe, by coming to seek lodgings at the hostel of La Cabeladura d'Oro, aswe say in our Catalan. Doubtless you have come seeking for a place andpay from Philip our king. A place you may have for the asking--the paynot so surely. It behooves me therefore to ask whether you desire to eatin my house at the Table Solvent or at the Table Expectant?"
"I do not gather your meaning, mine host," said John d'Albret haughtily.
"Nay, I am a plain man," said the landlord, "and you may read my nameabove my door--Sileno Lorent y Valvidia. That tells all about me.Therein, you see, you have the advantage of me. I know nothing aboutyou, save that you arrive at my door with a cocked bonnet and a longsword."
John d'Albret felt that it was no time to resent this Catalan_brusquerie_. Indeed, he himself was enough of a Gascon to respect theman's aplomb. For what would be rudeness intentional in a Castilian, ina man of Catalonia is only the rough nature of the borderer coming out.So the Abbe John answered him in kind, using the Languedocean speechwhich runs like a kind of _Lingua Franca_ from Bayonne to Barcelona.
"I am for the Table Solvent. Bite on that, Master Sileno, and the nexttime be not so suspicious of a soldier who has fought in many campaigns,and hopes to fight in many another! Now, by my beard which is yet to be,give me a razor and shaving-tackle, that I may make myself fit to callupon the Governor--while do you, Master Sileno, be off and get a gooddinner ready!"
The landlord pocketed the coin as an asset towards the lengthy bill hesaw unrolling in his mind's eye.
"Our Lord Governor the Count of Livia is at present with the King inMadrid," he said, "so I fear that you will be compelled to await hisreturn, that is, if your business be with him, or has reference to anyof the ships in the harbour, or is connected with supplies or storesmilitary."
Senor Don Sileno, of the Chevelure d'Or, felt that he had given hisguest quite sufficient latitude for entering into an explanation. Butthe Abbe John only thrust the hilt of his sword hard down, till thepoint cocked itself suggestively under the landlord's nose as he turnedhis back upon him.
"My business is with the
Governor," he said shortly, "and if your houseprove a good one and your table well supplied, I may indeed be contentto await his return!"
"This bantling mayoral," muttered the landlord, "keeps his mask up. Verywell--so much the better, so long as he pays. None gives himself airs inthe house of Don Sileno Lorent y Valvidia, hosteller of Rosas, withoutpaying for it! That is the barest justice. But, methinks this youngboaster of many campaigns and the long sword, might have a new suit ofclothes to go and see the Governor withal. Yet I am not sure--fightingis a curious trade. A good cook is not always known by the cleanlinessof his apron."
At this moment the Abbe John roared down the stairs for the hot water.
"Coming, your Excellency!" answered the host, making a wry face; "allthat you desire shall be in your chamber as fast as my scullions' legscan bring it."
Shaved, reorganised as to his inner man, daintied as to his outer, theAbbe John looked out of the window of the Golden Chevelure upon thesleeping sea. The Parador was a little house with a trellisedflower-garden running down to the beach, and sheltered from the heat ofthe sun by vine-leaves and trembling acacias.
"That is a strange name you have given your inn," said the Abbe John,taking some oil from the salad-bowl and burnishing the hilt of his swordwith a rag, as became a good cavalier. He had the sign of the GoldenTresses held by Sileno Lorent y Valvidia under his eyes as he spoke.
"You think so, sir?" said the landlord, his former _brusquerie_returning as soon as it was a question of property; "that shows you areunacquainted with the history of the country in which you desire topractise your trade of war!"
"I am none so entirely ignorant of it as you suppose," said Johnd'Albret.
"Yes, as ignorant as my carving-fork," said the landlord, pointing withthat useful and newly-invented piece of cutlery to the sign below. "Nowif you are a man of the pen as well as of the sword, what would you drawfrom that sign?"
"Why," said the Abbe John, smiling, "that you are named, curiouslyenough, Sileno--that your father's name was Lorent and your mother'sValvidia--that you are tenant of a well-provisioned inn called withequal curiosity the Golden Chevelure, and that you lodge (as you put it)both 'on horseback or on foot.' That is a good deal of printing to payfor at a penny a letter!"
"As I foretold, your Excellency knows nothing of the matter--and indeed,how should you? For by your tongue I would wager that you are from theNavarrese provinces--therefore a speaker of two languages and a wandererover the face of the earth--your sword your bedfellow, a sack of fodderfor your beast your best couch, and the loot of the last town taken byassault the only provender for your purse----"
"Let my purse alone," quoth the Abbe John, "you will find that there isenough therein to pay you, and--for a bottle of good wine on occasionfor the pleasure of your company."
This mixture of hauteur and familiarity appeared to enchant thelandlord, and he laid down on the bed the dishes he was carrying.
"I will explain," he said; "it is not every day that you can hear such atale as mine for nothing."
"Bring a bottle of your best!" said John, who was disposed to talk,hoping that by-and-by he might receive also the best of informations asto the ships in the harbour, their incomings and outgoings, theircaptains and merchandises, together with the ports to which they sailed.
The wine was brought, and the host began his tale.
"This hostelry of mine was my father's also, and his father's before himfor many generations. They were of noble blood--of the Llorients ofCollioure, though the rolling of vulgar tongues has shortened it alittle in these days. And my mother's name was Valvidia, being of one ofthe best houses of Spain. I am therefore of good blood on eitherside--you hear, Senor the Soldier?"
The Abbe John nodded. There was nothing remarkable in that. EverySpaniard counts himself so born, and it must be owned, so far at leastas politeness is concerned, comports himself as such.
But the Chevelure d'Or, its carefully-mixed wine, and the tale theretoattached proved so soporific, that when John d'Albret awoke, he foundhimself chained to a bench in a long, low, evil-smelling place. A hugeoar-handle was before him, upon which he was swaying drunkenly to andfro. He had on his left two companions who were doing the work of therowing, and, erected upon a bench behind, a huge man with a fiercecountenance walked to and fro with a whip in his hand.
"Where am I?" said John d'Albret feebly, his voice appearing to himselfto come from an infinite distance, and sounding through the buzzing andracking of many windmills, like those of Jean-Marie the Miller-Alcaldewhen upon their beams and sails the mistral does its bitter worst.
"Hush!" whispered his neighbour, "the _comite_ will flog you if you talkwhen at work. You are on the King of Spain's galley _Conquistador_,going south from Rosas to Barcelona. And as for me, I am afellow-sufferer with you for the religion. I am Francis Agnew, theScot!"
The White Plumes of Navarre: A Romance of the Wars of Religion Page 42