But presently, as they rode on, his thoughts took a fresh turn. They began to busy themselves, and fearfully, with the man before him, whose continued silence and cold reserve set a hundred wild ideas humming in his brain. What manner of man was he? Who was he? Why had he helped him? Jehan had heard of ogres and giants that decoyed children into forests and devoured them. He had listened to ballads of such adventures, sung at fairs and in the streets, a hundred times; now they came so strongly into his mind, and so grew upon him in this grim companionship, that by-and-by, seeing a wood before them through which the road ran, he shook with terror and gave himself up for lost. Sure enough, when they came to the wood, and had ridden a little way into it, the man, whose face he had never seen, stopped. “Get down,” he said sternly.
“JEHAN WENT TREMBLING AND FOUND THE HOLE” ().
Jehan obeyed, his teeth chattering, his legs quaking under him. He expected the man to produce a large carving-knife, or call some of his fellows out of the forest to share his repast. Instead, the stranger made a queer pass with his hands over his horse’s neck, and bade the boy go to an old stump which stood by the way. “There is a hole in the farther side of it,” he said. “Look in the hole.”
Jehan went trembling and found the hole, and looked. “What do you see?” the rider asked.
“A piece of money,” said Jehan.
“Bring it to me,” the stranger answered gravely.
The boy took it — it was only a copper sou — and did as he was bidden. “Get up!” said the horseman curtly. Jehan obeyed, and they went on as before.
When they had ridden half-way through the forest, however, the stranger stopped again. “Get down,” he said.
The boy obeyed, and was directed as on the former occasion — but not until the horseman had made the same strange gesture with his hands — to go to an old stump. This time he found a silver livre. He gave it to his master, and climbed again to his place, marvelling much.
A third time they stopped, on the farther verge of the forest. The same words passed, but this time the boy found a gold crown in the hole.
After that his mind no longer ran upon ogres and giants. Instead, another fancy almost as dreadful took possession of him. He remarked that everything the stranger wore was black: his cloak, his hat, his gauntlets. Even his long boots, which in those days were commonly made of untanned leather, were black. So was the furniture of the horse. Jehan noticed this as he mounted the third time; and connecting it with the marvellous springing up of money where the man willed, began to be seized with panic, never doubting but that he had fallen into the hands of the devil. Likely enough, he would have dropped off at the first opportunity that offered, and fled for his life — or his soul, but he did not know much of that — if the stranger had not in the nick of time drawn a parcel of food from his saddle-bag. He gave some to Jehan. Even so, the boy, hungry as he was, did not dare to touch it until he was assured that his companion was really eating — eating, and not pretending. Then, with a great sigh of relief, he began to eat too. For he knew that the devil never ate!
After this they rode on in silence, until, about an hour before noon, they came to a small farm-steading standing by the road, half a league short of the sleepy old town of Yvetot, which Beranger was one day to celebrate. Here the magician — for such Jehan now took his companion to be — stopped. “Get down,” he said.
The boy obeyed, and instinctively looked for a stump. But there was no stump, and this time his master, after scanning his ragged garments as if to assure himself of his appearance, had a different order to give. “Go to that farm,” he said. “Knock at the door, and say that Solomon Nôtredame de Paris requires two fowls. They will give them to you. Bring them to me.”
The boy went wide-eyed, knocked, and gave his message. A woman, who opened the door, stretched out her hand, took up a couple of fowls that lay tied together on the hearth, and gave them to him without a word. He took them — he no longer wondered at anything — and carried them back to his master in the road.
“Now listen to me,” said the latter, in his slow, cold tone. “Go into the town you see before you, and in the market-place you will find an inn with the sign of the Three Pigeons. Enter the yard and offer these fowls for sale, but ask a livre apiece for them, that they may not be bought. While offering them, make an excuse to go into the stable, where you will see a grey horse. Drop this white lump into the horse’s manger when no one is looking, and afterwards remain at the door of the yard. If you see me, do not speak to me. Do you understand?”
Jehan said he did; but his new master made him repeat his orders from beginning to end before he let him go with the fowls and the white lump, which was about the size of a walnut, and looked like rock-salt.
About an hour later the landlord of the Three Pigeons at Yvetot heard a horseman stop at his door. He went out to meet him. Now, Yvetot is on the road to Havre and Harfleur; and though the former of these places was then in the making and the latter was dying fast, the landlord had had experience of many guests. But so strange a guest as the one he found awaiting him he thought he had never seen. In the first place, the gentleman was clad from top to toe in black; and though he had no servants behind him, he wore an air of as grave consequence as though he boasted six. In the next place, his face was so long, thin, and cadaverous that, but for a great black line of eyebrows that cut it in two and gave it a very curious and sinister expression, people meeting him for the first time might have been tempted to laugh. Altogether, the landlord could not make him out; but he thought it safer to go out and hold his stirrup, and ask his pleasure.
“I shall dine here,” the stranger answered gravely. As he dismounted his cloak fell open. The landlord observed with growing wonder that its black lining was sprinkled with cabalistic figures embroidered in white.
Introduced to the public room, which was over the great stone porch and happened to be empty, the traveller lost none of his singularity. He paused a little way within the door, and stood as if suddenly fallen into deep thought. The landlord, beginning to think him mad, ventured to recall him by asking what his honour would take.
“There is something amiss in this house,” the stranger replied abruptly, turning his eyes on him.
“Amiss?” the host answered, faltering under his gaze, and wishing himself well out of the room. “Not that I am aware of, your honour.”
“There is no one ill?”
“No, your honour, certainly not.”
“Nor deformed?”
“No.”
“You are mistaken,” the stranger answered firmly. “Know that I am Solomon, son to Cæsar, son to Michel Nôtredame of Paris, commonly called by the learned Nostradamus and the Transcendental, who read the future and rode the Great White Horse of Death. All things hidden are open to me.”
The landlord only gaped, but his wife and a serving wench, who had come to the door out of curiosity, and were listening and staring with all their might, crossed themselves industriously. “I am here,” the stranger continued, after a brief pause, “to construct the horoscope of His Eminence the Cardinal, of whom it has been predicted that he will die at Yvetot. But I find the conditions unpropitious. There is an adverse influence in this house.”
The landlord scratched his head, and looked helplessly at his wife. But she was quite taken up with awe of the stranger, whose head nearly touched the ceiling of the low room; while his long, pale face seemed in the obscurity — for the day was dark — to be of an unearthly pallor.
“An adverse influence,” the astrologer continued gravely. “What is more, I now see where it is. It is in the stable. You have a grey horse.”
The landlord, somewhat astonished, said he had.
“You had. You have not now. The devil has it!” was the astounding answer.
“My grey horse?”
The stranger inclined his head.
“Nay, there you are wrong!” the host retorted briskly. “I’m hanged if he has! For I rode the horse
this morning, and it went as well and quietly as ever in its life.”
“Send and see,” the tall man answered.
The serving girl, obeying a nod, went off reluctantly to the stable, while her master, casting a look of misliking at his guest, walked uneasily to the window. In a moment the girl came back, her face white. “The grey is in a fit,” she cried, keeping the whole width of the room between her and the stranger. “It is sweating and staggering.”
The landlord, with an oath, ran off to see, and in a minute the appearance of an excited group in the square under the window showed that the thing was known. The traveller took no notice of this, however, nor of the curious and reverential glances which the womenfolk, huddled about the door of the room, cast at him. He walked up and down the room with his eyes lowered.
The landlord came back presently, his face black as thunder. “It has got the staggers,” he said resentfully.
“It has got the devil,” the stranger answered coldly. “I knew it was in the house when I entered. If you doubt me, I will prove it.”
“Ay?” said the landlord stubbornly.
The man in black went to his saddle-bag, which had been brought up and laid in a corner, and took out a shallow glass bowl, curiously embossed with a cross and some mystic symbols. “Go to the church there,” he said, “and fill this with holy water.”
The host took it unwillingly, and went on his strange errand. While he was away the astrologer opened the window, and looked out idly. When he saw the other returning, he gave the order “Lead out the horse.”
There was a brief delay, but presently two stablemen, with a little posse of wondering attendants, partly urged and partly led out a handsome grey horse. The poor animal trembled and hung its head, but with some difficulty was brought under the window. Now and again a sharp spasm convulsed its limbs, and scattered the spectators right and left.
Solomon Nôtredame leaned out of the window. In his left hand he held the bowl, in his right a small brush. “If this beast is sick with any earthly sickness,” he cried in a deep solemn voice, audible across the square, “or with such as earthly skill can cure, then let this holy water do it no harm, but refresh it. But if it be possessed by the devil, and given up to the powers of darkness and to the enemy of man for ever and ever to do his will and pleasure, then let these drops burn and consume it as with fire. Amen! Amen!”
With the last word he sprinkled the horse. The effect was magical. The animal reared up, as if it had been furiously spurred, and plunged so violently that the men who held it were dragged this way and that. The crowd fled every way; but not so quickly but that a hundred eyes had seen the horse smoke where the water fell on it. Moreover, when they cautiously approached it, the hair in two or three places was found to be burned off!
The magician turned gravely from the window. “I wish to eat,” he said.
None of the servants, however, would come into the room or serve him, and the landlord, trembling, set the board with his own hands and waited on him. Mine host had begun by doubting and suspecting, but, simple man! his scepticism was not proof against the holy water trial and his wife’s terror. By-and-by, with a sidelong glance at his guest, he faltered the question: What should he do with the horse?
The man in black looked solemn. “Whoever mounts it will die within the year,” he said.
“I will shoot it,” the landlord replied, shuddering.
“The devil will pass into one of the other horses,” was the answer.
“Then,” said the miserable innkeeper, “perhaps your honour would accept it?”
“God forbid!” the astrologer answered. And that frightened the other more than all the rest. “But if you can find at any time,” the wizard continued, “a beggar-boy with black hair and blue eyes, who does not know his father’s name, he may take the horse and break the spell. So I read the signs.”
The landlord cried out that such a person was not to be met with in a lifetime. But before he had well finished his sentence a shrill voice called through the keyhole that there was such a boy in the yard at that moment, offering poultry for sale.
“In God’s name, then, give him the horse!” the stranger said. “Bid him take it to Rouen, and at every running water he comes to say a paternoster and sprinkle its tail. So he may escape, and you, too. I know no other way.”
The trembling innkeeper said he would do that, and did it. And so, when the man in black rode into Rouen the next evening, he did not ride alone. He was attended at a respectful distance by a good-looking page clad in sable velvet, and mounted on a handsome grey horse.
CHAPTER III.
MAN AND WIFE.
It is a pleasant thing to be warmly clad and to lie softly, and at night to be in shelter and in the day to eat and drink. But all these things may be dearly bought, and so the boy Jehan de Bault soon found. He was no longer beaten, chained, or starved; he lay in a truckle bed instead of a stable; the work he had to do was of the lightest. But he paid for all in fears — in an ever-present, abiding, mastering fear of the man behind whom he rode: who never scolded, never rated, nor even struck him, but whose lightest word — and much more, his long silences — filled the lad with dread and awe unspeakable. Something sinister in the man’s face, all found; but to Jehan, who never doubted his dark powers, and who shrank from his eye, and flinched at his voice, and cowered when he spoke, there was a cold malevolence in the face, an evil knowledge, that made the boy’s flesh creep and chained his soul with dread.
The astrologer saw this, and revelled in it, and went about to increase it after a fashion of his own. Hearing the boy, on an occasion when he had turned to him suddenly, ejaculate “Oh, Dieu!” he said, with a dreadful smile, “You should not say that! Do you know why?”
The boy’s face grew a shade paler, but he did not speak.
“Ask me why! Say, ‘Why not?’”
“Why not?” Jehan muttered. He would have given the world to avert his eyes, but he could not.
“Because you have sold yourself to the devil!” the other hissed. “Others may say it; you may not. What is the use? You have sold yourself — body, soul, and spirit. You came of your own accord, and climbed on the black horse. And now,” he continued, in a tone which always compelled obedience, “answer my questions. What is your name?”
“Jehan de Bault,” the boy whispered, shivering and shuddering.
“Louder!”
“Jehan de Bault.”
“Repeat the story you told at the fair.”
“I am Jehan de Bault, Seigneur of — I know not where, and Lord of seventeen lordships in the County of Perigord, of a most noble and puissant family, possessing the High Justice, the Middle, and the Low. In my veins runs the blood of Roland, and of my forefathers were three marshals of France. I stand here, the last of my race; in token whereof may God preserve my mother, the King, France, and this Province.”
“Ha! In the County of Perigord!” the astrologer said, with a sudden lightening of his heavy brows. “You have remembered that?”
“Yes. I heard the word at Fécamp.”
“And all that is true?”
“Yes.”
“Who taught it you?”
“I do not know.” The boy’s face, in its straining, was painful to see.
“What is the first thing you can remember?”
“A house in a wood.”
“Can you remember your father?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
“No — yes — I am not sure.”
“Umph! Were you stolen by gypsies?”
“I do not know.”
“Or sold by your father’s steward?”
“I do not know.”
“How long were you with the man from whom I took you?”
“I do not know.”
“I do,” the astrologer answered, in the same even tone in which he had put the questions. And the boy never doubted him. “Beware, therefore,” the man in black continued, with a d
readful sidelong glance, “how you seek to deceive me! You can fall back now. I have done with you for the present.”
I say “the boy never doubted him.” This was not wonderful in an age of spells and diablerie, when the wisest allowed the reality of magic, and the learned and curious could cite a hundred instances of its power. That La Brosse warned Henry the Great he would die in his coach, and that Thomassin read in the stars the very day, hour, and minute of the catastrophe, no man of that time questioned. That Michel Nôtredame promised a crown to each of Catherine de Medici’s three sons, and that Sully’s preceptor foretold in detail that Minister’s career, were held to be facts as certain as that La Rivière cast the horoscope of the thirteenth Louis while the future monarch lay in his cradle. The men of the day believed that the Concini swayed her mistress by magic; that Wallenstein, the greatest soldier of his time, did nothing without his familiar; that Richelieu, the greatest statesman, had Joseph always at his elbow. In such an age it was not wonderful that a child should accept without question the claims of this man: who was accustomed to inspire fear in the many, and in the few that vague and subtle repulsion which we are wont to associate with the presence of evil.
Beyond Rouen, and between that city and Paris, the two companions found the road well frequented. Of the passers, many stood to gaze at the traveller in black, and some drew to the farther side of the road as he went by. But none laughed or found anything ridiculous in his appearance; or if they did, it needed but a glance from his long, pale face to restore them to sobriety. At the inn at Rouen he was well received; at the Grand Cerf at Les Andelys, where he seemed to be known, he was welcomed with effusion. Though the house was full, a separate chamber was assigned to him, and supper prepared for him with the utmost speed.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 118