by Willa Cather
On all the matters that were discussed the Frenchman seemed the best versed man present, even touching the most minute details of the English court. At last the viscount, who was visibly surprised, turned upon him sharply.
“Have you been presented at court, monsieur?”
“Not in England, count, but I have seen something of your king in Hanover; there, I think, on the banks of the stupid Leine, is his proper court, and ’t is there he sends the riches of your English. But in exchange I hear that he has brought you his treasure of Herrenhausen in her private carriage with a hundred postilions to herald her advent.”
His eyes were fixed keenly on my lord’s face, but Fairfax only asked coldly:
“And where, monsieur, have you gained so perfect a mastery of the English tongue?”
“At Madras, your lordship, under Bourdonnais, where I fought your gallant countrymen, high and low, for the empire of the Indes. They taught me the sound of English speech well enough, and the music of English swords.”
“Faith,” broke in the viscount, “then they taught you better than they know themselves, though it’s their mother tongue. You’ve seen hot service there, I warrant?”
“Well, what with English guns sweeping our decks by sea, and the Indian sun broiling our skin by land, and the cholera tearing our entrails, we saw hot service indeed.”
“Were you in the Indian service after the return of Governor Bourdonnais to France, M. Maurepas?”
“After his return to the Bastile, you mean, my lord. Yes, I was less fortunate than my commander. There are worse prisons on earth than the Bastile, and Madras is one of them. When France sends a man to the Indes she has no intention that he shall return alive. How I did so is another matter. Yes, I served afterward under Duplix, who seized Bourdonnais’ troops as well as his treasure. I was with him in the Deccan when he joined his troops with Murzapha Jung against the Nabob of the Carnatic, and white men were set to fight side by side with heathen. And I say to you, gentlemen, that the bravest man in all that melée was the old Nabob himself. He was a hundred and seven years old, and he had been a soldier from his mother’s knee. He was mounted on the finest elephant in the Indian army, and he led his soldiers right up into the thick of the fight in full sweep of the French bullets, ordering his bodyguard back and attended only by his driver. And when he saw his old enemy, Tecunda Sahib in the very midst of the French guards, he ordered his driver to up and at him, and he prodded the beast forward with his own hand. When the beast came crashing through our lines a bullet struck the old man in the breast, but still he urged him on. And when the elephant was stopped the driver was gone and the old Nabob was stone dead, sitting bolt upright in his curtained cage with a naked scimetar in his hand, ready for his vengeance. And I tell ye now, gentlemen, that I for one was right sorry that the bullet went home, for I am not the man who would see a brave soldier balked of his revenge.”
It is quite impossible with the pen to give any adequate idea of the dramatic manner in which he related this. I think it stirred the blood of more than one of us. The viscount struck the table with his hand and cried:
“That’s talking, sir; you see the best of life, you French. As for us, we are so ridden by king-craft and statecraft we are as good as dead men. Between Walpole and the little German we have forgot the looks of a sword, and we never hear a gun these times but at the christening of some brat or other.”
The clergyman looked up reproachfully from his preserved cherries, and Lord Fairfax, who seldom suffered any talk that savored of disloyalty, rose to his feet and lifted his glass.
“Gentlemen, the king’s health.”
“The king’s health,” echoed we all rising. But M. Maurepas sat stiff in his chair, and his glass stood full beside him. The viscount turned upon him fiercely.
“Monsieur, you do not drink the king’s health?”
“No, sir; your king, nor my king, nor no man’s king. I have no king. May the devil take them one and all! And that’s my health to them.”
“Monsieur,” cried my lord sternly, “I am surprised to hear a soldier of the king of France speak in this fashion.”
“Yes, my lord, I have been a soldier of the king, and I know the wages of kings. What were they for Bourdonnais, the bravest general who ever drew a sword? The Bastile! What were they for all my gallant comrades? Cholera, massacre, death in the rotting marshes of Pondicherry. Le Diable! I know them well; prison, the sword, the stake, the recompense of kings.” He laughed terribly and struck his forehead with his hand.
“Monsieur,” said my lord, “It may be that you have suffered much, and for that reason only do I excuse much that you say. Human justice is often at fault, and kings are but human. Nevertheless, they are ordained of heaven, and so long as there is breath in our bodies we owe them loyal service.”
The Frenchman rose and stood, his dark eyes flashing like coals of fire and his hands trembling as he waved them in the air. And methought the prophets of Israel must have looked so when they cried out unto the people, though his words were as dark blasphemy as ever fell from human lips.
“I tell you, sir, that the day will come and is now at hand when there will be no more kings. When a king’s blood will be cheaper than pot-house wine and flow as plentifully. When crowned heads will pray for a peasant’s cap, and princes will hide their royal lineage as lepers hide their sores. Ordained of God! Look you, sir, there is a wise man of France, so wise indeed that he dares not dwell in France, but hides among the Prussians, who says that there is no God! No Jehovah with his frying pan of lost souls! That it is all a tale made up by kings to terrify their slaves; that instead of God making kings, the kings made God.”
We were all struck with horror, and the viscount rose to his feet again and threw himself into an attitude of attack, while Mr. Courtney, whose place it was to speak, cowered in his seat and continued to look wistfully at the cherries.
“Stop, sir,” bawled the viscount, “we have not much faith left in England, thanks to such as Mr. Courtney here, but we’ve enough still to fight for. Little George may have his faults, but he’s a brave man and a soldier. Let us see whether you can be as much.”
But the Frenchman did not so much as look at him. He was well sped with wine, and in his eyes there was a fierce light as of some ancient hatred woke anew. Staggering down the hall he pointed to the canvas which had so interested him in the afternoon.
“My lord, I wonder at you, that you should dare to keep that picture here, though three thousand miles of perilous sea, and savagery, and forests, and mountains impassable lie between you and Hampton Court. If you are a man, I think you have no cause to love the name of king. Yet, is not your heart as good as any man’s, and will not your money buy as many trinkets? I tell you, this wilderness is not dark enough to hide that woman’s face! And she carries a lily in her hand, the lilies of Herrenhausen! Justice de Dieu—” but he got no further, for my lord’s hand had struck him in the mouth.
It all came about so quickly that even then it was but a blur of sudden action to me. We sprang between them, but Fairfax had no intention of striking twice.
“We can settle this in the morning, sir,” he said quietly. As he turned away M. Maurepas drew himself together with the litheness of a cat, and before I could catch his arm he had seized the long knife from his belt and thrown it after his host. It whizzed past my lord and stuck quivering in the oak wainscoating, while the man who threw it sank upon the floor a pitiable heap of intoxication. My lord turned to his man, who still stood behind his chair. “Henry, call me at five; at six I shall kill a scoundrel.”
With that he left us to watch over the drunken slumbers of the Frenchman.
In the morning they met on the level stretch before the court. At my lord’s request I stood as second to M. Maurepas. My principal was much shaken by his debauch of last night, and I thought
when my lord looked upon him he was already dead. For in Lord Fairfax’s face was a purpose which it seemed no human will could thwart. Never have I seen him look the noble, Christian gentleman as he looked it then. Just as the autumn mists were rising from the hills, their weapons crossed, and the rising sun shot my lord’s blade with fire until it looked the sword of righteousness indeed. It lasted but a moment. M. Maurepas, so renowned in war and gallantry, who had been the shame of two courts and the rival of two kings, fell, unknown and friendless, in the wilderness.
* * * *
Two years later, after I had been presented and, through my father, stood in favor at court, I once had the honor to dine with his majesty at Hampton Court. At his right sat a woman known to history only too well; still brilliant, still beautiful, as she was unto the end. By her side I was seated. When the dishes were removed, as we sat over our wine, the king bade me tell him some of the adventures that had befallen in my own land.
“I can tell you, your majesty, how Lord Fairfax fought and killed M. Maurepas about a woman’s picture.”
“That sounds well, tell on,” said the monarch in his heavy accent.
Then upon my hand under the table I felt a clasp, cold and trembling. I glanced down and saw there a white hand of wondrous beauty, the thumb ornamented with a single emerald. I sat still in amazement, for the lady’s face was smiling and gave no sign.
The king clinked his glass impatiently with his nail.
“Well, go on with your story. Are we to wait on you all day?”
Again I felt that trembling pressure in mute entreaty on my hand.
“I think there is no story to tell, your majesty.”
“And I think you are a very stupid young man,” said his majesty testily, as he rose from the table.
“Perhaps he is abashed,” laughed my lady, but her bosom heaved with a deep sigh of relief.
So my day of royal favor was a short one, nor was I sorry, for I had kept my friend’s secret and shielded a fair lady’s honor, which are the two first duties of a Virginian.
THE PRINCESS BALADINA—HER ADVENTURE
The Princess Baladina sat sullenly gazing out of her nursery window. There was no use in crying any more for there was no one there to see and pity her tears, and who ever cries unless there is some one to pity them? She had kicked at the golden door until it became evident that she was much more discomforted than the door, and then she gave it up and sat sullenly down and did nothing but watch the big bumblebees buzzing about the honeysuckles outside the window. The Princess Baladina had been shut up in her nursery for being naughty. Indeed, she had been unusually naughty that day. In the first place she had scratched and bitten the nurse who had combed her golden hair in the morning. Later, while she was playing about the palace grounds, she had lost in the moat one of the three beautiful golden balls which her father had bought for her of an old Jewish magician from Bagdad who was staying at the court, and who bought up the queen’s old dresses and loaned the courtiers money on their diamonds. Then she had been so rude to her fairy godmother who came to luncheon with them that her mother had reprimanded her twice. Finally, when she poured custard in her fairy godmother’s ear-trumpet, she was sent up to her nursery. Now she sat locked up there and thinking how cruelly her family had used her. She wondered what she could do to make them repent of their harsh behavior and wish they had been kinder to their little Princess Baladina. Perhaps if she should die they would realize how brutal they had been. O yes, if she were to die, then they would grieve and mourn and put flowers on her grave every day, and cry for their little Baladina who would never gather flowers any more. Baladina wept a little herself at the pathetic picture she had conjured up. But she decided not to die, that was such a very decisive thing to do; beside, then she could not see the remorse of her family, and what good is it to have your family repent if you cannot have the satisfaction of seeing them reduced to sackcloth and ashes? So the Princess cast about for another plan. She might cut off her beautiful golden hair, but then she had no scissors; besides, if a young Prince should happen to come that way it would be awkward not to have any golden hair. Princesses are taught to think of these things early. She began thinking over all the stories she had read about Princesses and their adventures, until suddenly she thought of the story of the Princess Alice, who had been enchanted by a wizard. Yes, that was it, that would be the best revenge of all, she would be enchanted by a wizard, and her family would be in despair; her father would offer his kingdom to the knight who should free her, and some young Prince would come and break the spell and bear her triumphantly off to his own realm, on his saddle bow. Then her unfeeling parents would never see her any more, and her sisters and brothers would have no dear sweet little Princess to wait on.
But the next question was where to find a wizard. The Princess went over all the gentlemen of her acquaintance, but could not think of one who belonged to that somewhat complicated profession. Never mind, she would find one, she had heard of Princesses wandering away from their palaces on strange missions before. She waited through all the hot afternoon, and when the nurse brought her tea she took two of the buns and a piece of raisin cake and did them up carefully in a handkerchief, and said her prayers and let them put her to bed. She lay awake for a time, half hoping that her mother would come up to see her and relieve her from the obvious necessity of running away. But there was a court ball that night and no one came, so listening to the tempting strains of music and feeling more aggrieved and forgotten than ever, the little Princess fell asleep.
As soon as she had breakfasted in the morning, she took the buns tied up in the handkerchief and went down into the yard.
She waited awhile until there was no one looking and then slipped out through one of the rear gates. Once fairly outside, she drew a long breath and looked about her; yes, there was the green meadow and the blue sky, just as they always were in the Princess books. She started off across the meadow, keeping a little under the shadow of the wild crab hedge to better screen herself from the palace windows. She saw some little peasant children down by the pool watching some white things that must be sheep. O yes, they were sheep and the boys were shepherds’ sons, thought Baladina. She approached them and greeted them politely.
“Kind shepherds, why keep ye your sheep so near the town?”
“These are not sheep, but geese, Silly,” replied the biggest boy surlily.
“That is not the way to speak to a Princess,” said Baladina angrily.
“Princess, so that’s what you call yourself, Miss Stuck Up?” cried the big boy, and with that he set the geese on her.
The Princess fled in the wildest alarm, with the squawking geese after her, while the little peasant children rolled over and over on the grass, screaming with merriment. The chase did not continue long, for the Princess’ long silk gown tripped her and she fell, covering her eyes with her hands and screaming with fright, expecting to feel the sharp beaks of the geese in her face at any moment. But just then a chubby curly-headed boy rode up on a donkey. He chased the geese away with his staff, and sliding down from his beast picked up the little Princess and brushed the dust from her hair.
“Who are you, little girl?” he asked.
“I am the Princess Baladina, and those naughty boys set their geese on me because I corrected them for being rude. They don’t believe I’m a Princess; you believe it, don’t you?”
“If you say so, of course I do,” returned the boy, looking wonderingly at her with his big blue eyes and then doubtfully at his bare feet and rough clothes. “But what are you doing out here?”
“I want to find a wizard, do you know of one?”
“O yes, there’s Lean Jack, he lives back of the mill. If you’ll get on my donkey I’ll walk and lead him and we’ll get there in no time.”
The Princess accepted this homage as her due and was soon on the donkey,
while the boy trotted along beside her.
“What do you want of a wizard anyway, a spell to cure something?” he asked curiously.
“No,” said Baladina. “I wish to become enchanted because my family have been unkind to me. And then I want some Prince to come and free me. You are not a Prince in disguise, I suppose?” she added hopefully.
The boy shook his head regretfully. “No, I am only the miller’s son.”
When they came to Lean Jack’s house, they found the old man out in his garden hoeing melon vines. They approached slowly and stood still for some time, Baladina expecting him to at once perceive her and cast his spell. But the old man worked on until the braying of the donkey attracted his attention.
“Well, youngsters, what is it?” he asked, leaning on his spade and wiping his brow.
“I believe you are a wizard, sir?” inquired Baladina politely.
He nodded. “So they say, what can I do for you?”
“I have come,” said Baladina, “to allow you to cast a spell upon me, as my family are very unkind to me and if I am enchanted some Prince will come and free me from your power and carry me off to his own country.”
The wizard smiled grimly and returned to his hoeing. “Sorry I can’t accommodate you, but I can’t leave my melons. There is a fat wizard who lives in a little red house over the hill yonder, he may be able to give you what you want.”
“Dear me,” sighed Baladina as they turned away, “how very rude everyone is. Most wizards would be glad enough to get a chance to enchant a Princess.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be enchanted at all. It must be very uncomfortable, and I should’nt like to see you changed into an owl or a fox or anything,” said the miller’s boy as he trotted beside her.
“It must be;” said Baladina firmly, “all Princesses should be enchanted at least once.”