Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “There is,” said a voice at Pantaloon’s elbow, “no such thing as communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s vast domain. This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send their beasts to graze here.”

  Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre-Louis in his shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed.

  “God of God!” swore Pantaloon. “But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr!”

  “I have told you already what I think of him,” said Andre-Louis. “As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of their kind.” And without waiting for Pantaloon’s consent, Andre-Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee. He had realized that here boldness alone could save him.

  When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, Andre-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.

  In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: “Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?”

  “Yes... that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader.” And he jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of earshot in the background. “What is your pleasure, captain?”

  “My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for this, all the pack of you.” His voice was loud and bullying. It carried across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought them all to stricken attention where they stood. The lot of strolling players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.

  “But how so, my captain? This is communal land free to all.”

  “It is nothing of the kind.”

  “Where are the fences?” quoth Andre-Louis, waving the hand that held the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.

  “Fences!” snorted the sergeant. “What have fences to do with the matter? This is terre censive. There is no grazing here save by payment of dues to the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”

  “But we are not grazing,” quoth the innocent Andre-Louis.

  “To the devil with you, zany! You are not grazing! But your beasts are grazing!”

  “They eat so little,” Andre-Louis apologized, and again essayed his ingratiating smile.

  The sergeant grew more terrible than ever. “That is not the point. The point is that you are committing what amounts to a theft, and there’s the gaol for thieves.”

  “Technically, I suppose you are right,” sighed Andre-Louis, and fell to combing his hair again, still looking up into the sergeant’s face. “But we have sinned in ignorance. We are grateful to you for the warning.” He passed the comb into his left hand, and with his right fumbled in his breeches’ pocket, whence there came a faint jingle of coins. “We are desolated to have brought you out of your way. Perhaps for their trouble your men would honour us by stopping at the next inn to drink the health of... of this M. de La Tour d’ Azyr, or any other health that they think proper.”

  Some of the clouds lifted from the sergeant’s brow. But not yet all.

  “Well, well,” said he, gruffly. “But you must decamp, you understand.” He leaned from the saddle to bring his recipient hand to a convenient distance. Andre-Louis placed in it a three-livre piece.

  “In half an hour,” said Andre-Louis.

  “Why in half an hour? Why not at once?”

  “Oh, but time to break our fast.”

  They looked at each other. The sergeant next considered the broad piece of silver in his palm. Then at last his features relaxed from their sternness.

  “After all,” said he, “it is none of our business to play the tipstaves for M. de La Tour d’Azyr. We are of the marechaussee from Rennes.” Andre-Louis’ eyelids played him false by flickering. “But if you linger, look out for the gardes-champetres of the Marquis. You’ll find them not at all accommodating. Well, well — a good appetite to you, monsieur,” said he, in valediction.

  “A pleasant ride, my captain,” answered Andre-Louis.

  The sergeant wheeled his horse about, his troop wheeled with him. They were starting off, when he reined up again.

  “You, monsieur!” he called over his shoulder. In a bound Andre-Louis was beside his stirrup. “We are in quest of a scoundrel named Andre-Louis Moreau, from Gavrillac, a fugitive from justice wanted for the gallows on a matter of sedition. You’ve seen nothing, I suppose, of a man whose movements seemed to you suspicious?”

  “Indeed, we have,” said Andre-Louis, very boldly, his face eager with consciousness of the ability to oblige.

  “You have?” cried the sergeant, in a ringing voice. “Where? When?”

  “Yesterday evening in the neighbourhood of Guignen...”

  “Yes, yes,” the sergeant felt himself hot upon the trail.

  “There was a fellow who seemed very fearful of being recognized ... a man of fifty or thereabouts...”

  “Fifty!” cried the sergeant, and his face fell. “Bah! This man of ours is no older than yourself, a thin wisp of a fellow of about your own height and of black hair, just like your own, by the description. Keep a lookout on your travels, master player. The King’s Lieutenant in Rennes has sent us word this morning that he will pay ten louis to any one giving information that will lead to this scoundrel’s arrest. So there’s ten louis to be earned by keeping your eyes open, and sending word to the nearest justices. It would be a fine windfall for you, that.”

  “A fine windfall, indeed, captain,” answered Andre-Louis, laughing.

  But the sergeant had touched his horse with the spur, and was already trotting off in the wake of his men. Andre-Louis continued to laugh, quite silently, as he sometimes did when the humour of a jest was peculiarly keen.

  Then he turned slowly about, and came back towards Pantaloon and the rest of the company, who were now all grouped together, at gaze.

  Pantaloon advanced to meet him with both hands out-held. For a moment Andre-Louis thought he was about to be embraced.

  “We hail you our saviour!” the big man declaimed. “Already the shadow of the gaol was creeping over us, chilling us to the very marrow. For though we be poor, yet are we all honest folk and not one of us has ever suffered the indignity of prison. Nor is there one of us would survive it. But for you, my friend, it might have happened. What magic did you work?”

  “The magic that is to be worked in France with a King’s portrait. The French are a very loyal nation, as you will have observed. They love their King — and his portrait even better than himself, especially when it is wrought in gold. But even in silver it is respected. The sergeant was so overcome by the sight of that noble visage — on a three-livre piece — that his anger vanished, and he has gone his ways leaving us to depart in peace.”

  “Ah, true! He said we must decamp. About it, my lads! Come, come...”

  “But not until after breakfast,” said Andre-Louis. “A half-hour for breakfast was conceded us by that loyal fellow, so deeply was he touched. True, he spoke of possible gardes-champetres. But he knows as well as I do that they are not seriously to be feared, and that if they came, again the King’s portrait — wrought in copper this time — would produce the same melting effect upon them. So, my dear M. Pantaloon, break your fast at your ease. I can smell your cooking from here, and from the smell I argue that there is no need to wish you a good appetite.”

  “My friend, my saviour!” Pantaloon flung a great arm about the young man’s shoulders. “You shall stay to breakfast with us.”

  “I confess to a hope that you would ask me,” said Andre-Louis.

  CHAPTER II. THE SERVICE OF THESPIS

  They were, thought Andre-Louis, as he sat down to breakfast with them behind the itinerant house, in the bright sunshine that tempered the cold breath of that November morning, an odd and yet an attractive crew. An air of gaiety pervaded them.
They affected to have no cares, and made merry over the trials and tribulations of their nomadic life. They were curiously, yet amiably, artificial; histrionic in their manner of discharging the most commonplace of functions; exaggerated in their gestures; stilted and affected in their speech. They seemed, indeed, to belong to a world apart, a world of unreality which became real only on the planks of their stage, in the glare of their footlights. Good-fellowship bound them one to another; and Andre-Louis reflected cynically that this harmony amongst them might be the cause of their apparent unreality. In the real world, greedy striving and the emulation of acquisitiveness preclude such amity as was present here.

  They numbered exactly eleven, three women and eight men; and they addressed each other by their stage names: names which denoted their several types, and never — or only very slightly — varied, no matter what might be the play that they performed.

  “We are,” Pantaloon informed him, “one of those few remaining staunch bands of real players, who uphold the traditions of the old Italian Commedia dell’ Arte. Not for us to vex our memories and stultify our wit with the stilted phrases that are the fruit of a wretched author’s lucubrations. Each of us is in detail his own author in a measure as he develops the part assigned to him. We are improvisers — improvisers of the old and noble Italian school.”

  “I had guessed as much,” said Andre-Louis, “when I discovered you rehearsing your improvisations.”

  Pantaloon frowned.

  “I have observed, young sir, that your humour inclines to the pungent, not to say the acrid. It is very well. It is I suppose, the humour that should go with such a countenance. But it may lead you astray, as in this instance. That rehearsal — a most unusual thing with us — was necessitated by the histrionic rawness of our Leandre. We are seeking to inculcate into him by training an art with which Nature neglected to endow him against his present needs. Should he continue to fail in doing justice to our schooling... But we will not disturb our present harmony with the unpleasant anticipation of misfortunes which we still hope to avert. We love our Leandre, for all his faults. Let me make you acquainted with our company.”

  And he proceeded to introduction in detail. He pointed out the long and amiable Rhodomont, whom Andre-Louis already knew.

  “His length of limb and hooked nose were his superficial qualifications to play roaring captains,” Pantaloon explained. “His lungs have justified our choice. You should hear him roar. At first we called him Spavento or Epouvapte. But that was unworthy of so great an artist. Not since the superb Mondor amazed the world has so thrasonical a bully been seen upon the stage. So we conferred upon him the name of Rhodomont that Mondor made famous; and I give you my word, as an actor and a gentleman — for I am a gentleman, monsieur, or was — that he has justified us.”

  His little eyes beamed in his great swollen face as he turned their gaze upon the object of his encomium. The terrible Rhodomont, confused by so much praise, blushed like a schoolgirl as he met the solemn scrutiny of Andre-Louis.

  “Then here we have Scaramouche, whom also you already know. Sometimes he is Scapin and sometimes Coviello, but in the main Scaramouche, to which let me tell you he is best suited — sometimes too well suited, I think. For he is Scaramouche not only on the stage, but also in the world. He has a gift of sly intrigue, an art of setting folk by the ears, combined with an impudent aggressiveness upon occasion when he considers himself safe from reprisals. He is Scaramouche, the little skirmisher, to the very life. I could say more. But I am by disposition charitable and loving to all mankind.”

  “As the priest said when he kissed the serving-wench,” snarled Scaramouche, and went on eating.

  “His humour, like your own, you will observe, is acrid,” said Pantaloon. He passed on. “Then that rascal with the lumpy nose and the grinning bucolic countenance is, of course, Pierrot. Could he be aught else?”

  “I could play lovers a deal better,” said the rustic cherub.

  “That is the delusion proper to Pierrot,” said Pantaloon, contemptuously. “This heavy, beetle-browed ruffian, who has grown old in sin, and whose appetite increases with his years, is Polichinelle. Each one, as you perceive, is designed by Nature for the part he plays. This nimble, freckled jackanapes is Harlequin; not your spangled Harlequin into which modern degeneracy has debased that first-born of Momus, but the genuine original zany of the Commedia, ragged and patched, an impudent, cowardly, blackguardly clown.”

  “Each one of us, as you perceive,” said Harlequin, mimicking the leader of the troupe, “is designed by Nature for the part he plays.”

  “Physically, my friend, physically only, else we should not have so much trouble in teaching this beautiful Leandre to become a lover. Then we have Pasquariel here, who is sometimes an apothecary, sometimes a notary, sometimes a lackey — an amiable, accommodating fellow. He is also an excellent cook, being a child of Italy, that land of gluttons. And finally, you have myself, who as the father of the company very properly play as Pantaloon the roles of father. Sometimes, it is true, I am a deluded husband, and sometimes an ignorant, self-sufficient doctor. But it is rarely that I find it necessary to call myself other than Pantaloon. For the rest, I am the only one who has a name — a real name. It is Binet, monsieur.

  “And now for the ladies... First in order of seniority we have Madame there.” He waved one of his great hands towards a buxom, smiling blonde of five-and-forty, who was seated on the lowest of the steps of the travelling house. “She is our Duegne, or Mother, or Nurse, as the case requires. She is known quite simply and royally as Madame. If she ever had a name in the world, she has long since forgotten it, which is perhaps as well. Then we have this pert jade with the tip-tilted nose and the wide mouth, who is of course our soubrette Columbine, and lastly, my daughter Climene, an amoureuse of talents not to be matched outside the Comedie Francaise, of which she has the bad taste to aspire to become a member.”

  The lovely Climene — and lovely indeed she was — tossed her nut-brown curls and laughed as she looked across at Andre-Louis. Her eyes, he had perceived by now, were not blue, but hazel.

  “Do not believe him, monsieur. Here I am queen, and I prefer to be queen here rather than a slave in Paris.”

  “Mademoiselle,” said Andre-Louis, quite solemnly, “will be queen wherever she condescends to reign.”

  Her only answer was a timid — timid and yet alluring — glance from under fluttering lids. Meanwhile her father was bawling at the comely young man who played lovers— “You hear, Leandre! That is the sort of speech you should practise.”

  Leandre raised languid eyebrows. “That?” quoth he, and shrugged. “The merest commonplace.”

  Andre-Louis laughed approval. “M. Leandre is of a readier wit than you concede. There is subtlety in pronouncing it a commonplace to call Mlle. Climene a queen.”

  Some laughed, M. Binet amongst them, with good-humoured mockery.

  “You think he has the wit to mean it thus? Bah! His subtleties are all unconscious.”

  The conversation becoming general, Andre-Louis soon learnt what yet there was to learn of this strolling band. They were on their way to Guichen, where they hoped to prosper at the fair that was to open on Monday next. They would make their triumphal entry into the town at noon, and setting up their stage in the old market, they would give their first performance that same Saturday night, in a new canevas — or scenario — of M. Binet’s own, which should set the rustics gaping. And then M. Binet fetched a sigh, and addressed himself to the elderly, swarthy, beetle-browed Polichinelle, who sat on his left.

  “But we shall miss Felicien,” said he. “Indeed, I do not know what we shall do without him.”

  “Oh, we shall contrive,” said Polichinelle, with his mouth full.

  “So you always say, whatever happens, knowing that in any case the contriving will not fall upon yourself.”

  “He should not be difficult to replace,” said Harlequin.

  “True, if we were in a civilized
land. But where among the rustics of Brittany are we to find a fellow of even his poor parts?” M. Binet turned to Andre-Louis. “He was our property-man, our machinist, our stage-carpenter, our man of affairs, and occasionally he acted.”

  “The part of Figaro, I presume,” said Andre-Louis, which elicited a laugh.

  “So you are acquainted with Beaumarchais!” Binet eyed the young man with fresh interest.

  “He is tolerably well known, I think.”

  “In Paris, to be sure. But I had not dreamt his fame had reached the wilds of Brittany.”

  “But then I was some years in Paris — at the Lycee of Louis le Grand. It was there I made acquaintance with his work.”

  “A dangerous man,” said Polichinelle, sententiously.

  “Indeed, and you are right,” Pantaloon agreed. “Clever — I do not deny him that, although myself I find little use for authors. But of a sinister cleverness responsible for the dissemination of many of these subversive new ideas. I think such writers should be suppressed.”

  “M. de La Tour d’Azyr would probably agree with you — the gentleman who by the simple exertion of his will turns this communal land into his own property.” And Andre-Louis drained his cup, which had been filled with the poor vin gris that was the players’ drink.

  It was a remark that might have precipitated an argument had it not also reminded M. Binet of the terms on which they were encamped there, and of the fact that the half-hour was more than past. In a moment he was on his feet, leaping up with an agility surprising in so corpulent a man, issuing his commands like a marshal on a field of battle.

  “Come, come, my lads! Are we to sit guzzling here all day? Time flees, and there’s a deal to be done if we are to make our entry into Guichen at noon. Go, get you dressed. We strike camp in twenty minutes. Bestir, ladies! To your chaise, and see that you contrive to look your best. Soon the eyes of Guichen will be upon you, and the condition of your interior to-morrow will depend upon the impression made by your exterior to-day. Away! Away!”