XIII
THE BARON
Of the many queer characters who took up land in the brush hills nearour ranch none excited greater tongue-wagging than the Baron. Thesquatters called him the Baron. He signed his name--I had to witnesshis signature--Rene Bourgueil.
The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking apretty lake which dried up in summer and smelled evilly. Also, hespent money in planting out a vineyard and orchard, and in making agarden. What he did not know about ranching in Southern Californiawould have filled an encyclopaedia, but what he did know about nearlyeverything else filled us and our neighbours with an ever-increasingamazement and curiosity.
Why did such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San LorenzoCounty?
More, he was past middle-age: sixty-five at least, not a sportsman,nor a naturalist, but obviously a _gentilhomme_, with the mannersof one accustomed to the best society.
Of society, however, he spoke mordant words--
"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival,"ees a big monkey-house, and all ze monkeys are pulling each ozer'stails. I pull no tails, _moi_, and I allow no liberties to betaken wiz my person."
About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded himof what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more--_diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze oldworld."
"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well--eh?"
The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formedfoot and ankle.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg."
The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acresmarched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or betterthan his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him thathe preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit fortelling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horseand saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddlegave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees,the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs toperfection, but it wouldn't incubate them.
"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.
Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, weadvised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant,hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, whowould be charmed to make his acquaintance.
"San Francisco? _Jamais, jamais de la vie!_"
"Come with us to Del Monte?"
"Del Monte?"
We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovelygardens which ran down to the sea.
"_Jamais--jamais_," repeated the Baron.
"We don't like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," saidAjax.
"You have right. I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble."
We went home sorely puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private reasons,and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte. Andit was significant--as Ajax said to me--that a man who could talk soadmirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a wordconcerning himself.
At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul. From him welearned that there was a certain Rene, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy.The Chateau Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous asChaumont or Chenonceau. The Consul possessed an _Almanack deGotha_. From this we gleaned two more facts. Rene, Comte deBourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever.
"Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be somebody--you say heis _somebody_--well, somebody else!"
"Another Wilkins," said I.
"Pooh!" ejaculated Ajax.
"No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil's position and rank--he is agodson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord--would come to Californiawithout my knowledge," said the Consul.
The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how theBaron fared. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible fromthe evil-smelling lake. Passing the bungalow, we had noted that sixweeks' uninterrupted sunshine had played havoc with the Baron'sgarden. The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted. The sun hadsucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks. Of a sudden, old age hadovertaken him.
He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed ourholiday. We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn'tmention the French Consul. Then, in our turn, we begged for such newsas he might have. He replied solemnly--
"I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles. Old man Dumble ees a fraud._Moi_, I abominate frauds--_hein?_ He obtain my money onderfalse pretences, is it not so? Ah, yes; but I forgive 'im, because heis poor. But also, since you go, he obtain my secret--I haf a secret--under false pretences. Oh, ze _canaille_! I tell 'im that if 'ewere my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit 'im. Because 'e is_canaille_ I s-s-spit at 'im. _Voila!_"
The old fellow was trembling with rage and indignation. Ajax saidgravely--
"We foreigners mustn't spit at free-born American citizens. Whatspitting is done here, they do themselves."
"You have right. Ze _canaille_ say to me, to _me_, 'Come,'he say, 'come, Baron, I have one six-shooter, one shot-gun, twopitchfork, three spade, and one mowing-machine. Take your choice,' hesay, 'and we can fight till ze cows come home!' He use zose words,_mes amis_, 'till ze cows come home!' _Tiens!_ Ze Frisian-Holstein cows, who go dry when zey do come home--_hein?_"
He was so furiously angry that we dared not laugh, but we wereconsumed with curiosity to know what secret Dumble had stolen. TheBaron did not inform us.
Fortunately for our peace of mind, Dumble came to us early nextmorning. He went to the marrow of the matter at once.
"Boys," said he, "I want you to fix up things between me an' thatcrazy Frenchman. How's that? Your friend. Wal, he _is_ a Frenchy,an' he's crazy, as I'm prepared to prove. But I don't want no troublewith him. He's my neighbour, and there ought to be nothin' between mean' him."
"There'll always be a barbed wire fence," said Ajax.
"Boys, when that ther' pond o' the Baron's tuk to smellin' like deadcats, he come to me and asks me to find someone to take keer o' thebungalow. I undertook the job myself. I was to water them foreignplants o' his, do odd chores, and sleep in the house nights. Heoffered good pay, and I got a few dollars on account. I aimed to treatthe Baron right, as I treat all my neighbours. I meant to do more,more than was agreed on. That's the right sperit--ain't it? Yas. An'so, when I found out that there was a room in that ther' bungalowlocked up, by mistake as I presoomed, and that the key o' the littleparlour opened it, why, naterally, boys, I jest peaked in to see ifeverything was O.K. As for pryin' and spyin', why sech an idee neverentered my head. Wal, I peaked in an' I saw----"
"Hold on," said Ajax. "What you saw is something which the Baronwished to be kept secret."
"I reckon so, though why in thunder----"
"Then keep it secret----"
"But, mercy sakes! I saw nothing, not a thing, boys, save two pictersand a few old sticks of furniture. An' seeing that things was O.K., Ishet the door, but doggone it! the cussed key wouldn't lock it. Nex'morning the Baron found it open, and, Jeeroosalem! I never seen a mangit so mad."
"And that's all?"
"That's all, but me an' the Baron ain't speakin'."
We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, on theBaron's account than for the sake of old man Dumble. Accordingly, wetried to persuade the Baron that his secret at any rate was stillinviolate. He listened incredulously.
"He says he saw nothing--but some pictures and old furniture."
"_Mon Dieu!_ an' zey tell 'im nossing. _Saperlipopette!_Come wiz me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret, too."
We followed him in silence up the path which led to the bungalow, andinto the house. The Baron unlocked a door and unbolted some shutters.We saw two portraits, splendid portraits of two handsome young men inuniform. Above the mantelpiece hung an embla
zoned pedigree: thefamily tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France. The Baron laida lean finger upon one of the names.
"I am Rene de Bourgueil-Crotanoy," he said.
We waited. When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was the voiceof a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.
"My boys," said he, indicating the two young men, "zey are dead; noone of ze old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me--and I, as you see,am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor tell me so,always. I was--I am still--proud of my race, of my chateau. I was notpermitted to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys. Theywent to Tonquin; I remained at home, thinking of ze day when zey wouldreturn, and marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. Zey did--not--return. Zey died. One in battle, one of fever in ze hospital. What wasleft for me, _mes amis_? Could I live on in ze place where I hadseen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Parisze pitying eyes of friends?"
* * * * *
Years afterwards, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We paid apilgrimage to the Chateau de Bourgueil-Crotanoy, and entered thechapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A muraltablet records the names, and the manner of death, of the two sons.Also a line in Latin:
"'Tis better to die young than to live on to behold the misfortunesand emptiness of an ancient house."
Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch Page 15