 | CHAPTER XIV.
SCENE BETWEEN GOBIN AND THE TRUMPETER. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
SCENE BETWEEN GOBIN AND THE TRUMPETER.
When Renault left the presence of his mother, he
traversed, with a hasty step, the corridor to the broad
portal which led from the street to the inner court.
As he approached the passage, his horse, which stood
in a recess beside the closed gates ready saddled,
neighed a recognition of his approach, and pawed the
paved floor with impatient hoofs. An old slave at the
same time came forth from the lodge on the opposite
side, and, taking the animal by the head, led him out
into the arched passage, which was dimly illuminated
by a small lamp placed in a niche above the door.
“Has it struck one yet, Paul?” he asked of the aged
porter, as he received the rein from his hand, and
lightly leaped into the high-peaked saddle.
“It will 'fore you get to 'um barrier, young Mas
Renault. These is troublous times,” he added, shaking
his head, as if wishing to exchange opinions with
his master on the recent events, “when poor old African,
in his gray head, hab serbe de Spanis' king. I
nebber 'spec to come to dis!”
“Keep to the lodge, good Paul,” he said, smiling,
“and thou wilt scarce know the change till thou be
called to serve a greater king than he of France or
Spain. Take thy keys from thy belt, and let me forth.
Thou keepest all well and secure. 'Tis right, when citizens'
houses are stormed by ruffians in broad noon.”
“They made good four hours' work for the smith I
sent for,” said the old man, angrily; “and the iron
bar of the door is bent like a Comanchee's bow. But
I have had all made strong again, as you bade me,
Mas' Renault,” concluded Paul, as he unlocked the tall
folding gates of oak. But before removing the bar,
looked out, with the cautious scrutiny of a practised
doorkeeper.
“All is still in the street, Mas' Renault,” he said,
closing the window, and opening one half of the gate;
for this, like all other entrances in the houses of the
creoles, was a porte cochère, constructed to admit volantes,
the only carriage then in use, to pass from the
street into the quadrangle, around which were situated
the apartments of the mansion.
“Thou seest our new rulers keep a quiet town, nevertheless,”
said Renault, as he tightened the rein, and
settled himself firmly in his saddle; “I shall return in
a few hours. Let not the bolt be drawn, after thou
hast turned it behind me, for any one during my absence,
save to let thy mistress to mass, as thou valuest
thy head,” he added, with impressive authority; thus
plainly showing that it was his intention to hold the
young Spanish cavalier in another light than that of a
guest—as a prisoner. For such was the crisis of affairs
in the birth of a new dynasty, that it became the
foiled party to cling for protection to whatever held
out the prospect of being made available for personal
safety in the moment of personal danger.
Drawing his sword and laying it across his saddle-bow,
Renault then struck his spurs into the horse's
sides, and bounded through the dark arch into the
moonlit street just as the clock in the Cathedral tower
tolled one.
“I am full tardy! thou must make up for it, Baptiste,”
he cried to his steed, patting his arched neck;
then glancing an instant to the head of the street
which issued into the Place d'Armes, where he could
plainly descry the dark body of bivouacked troops,
relieved by the glistening arms as they caught and
flashed back the moonbeams, he added, in a half tone,
“There slumbers, like a tiger in his lair, our new
master. I will to-morrow look on this Osma, and see
if he be worthy to govern us; if so, he shall have my
allegiance and that of my friends. The ever-active
a sleuth hound upon his slimy track.”
Thus speaking, he gave rein to his horse, and galloped
down the long, narrow street towards a barrier
at its extremity. The windows of the dwellings were
all barricaded and dark, and his horse's hoofs alone
broke the profound stillness that reigned. He rode
on, without checking his speed, until he approached
the barrier, before the gate of which a sentinel was
pacing to and fro. When within a hundred yards of
him, and near a narrow avenue that led between a
double row of dilapidated old casas, with the gloomy
and deserted government-house at its extremity, he
reined up, and seemed to be deliberating whether to
continue on to the gate, or turn aside into the dark
lane.
“Quien là!” challenged the sentinel from the barrier,
in a stern tone, ringing his arquebuss on the
pavement. At the same instant an officer and several
soldiers issued from the guardhouse and formed
in a hostile attitude, while a tall, dark figure was seen
to glide from the shadow of the barrier along the low
wall, and disappear behind an angle of the buttress.
It instantly occurred to him that the form and height
resembled that of the mysterious being who had commanded
him to fly to the aid of the Spanish cavaliers,
and who afterward had been seen by Azèlie. Prompted
by the impulse of the moment, he instantly turned
his horse's head to purpose her.
“Quien là!” repeated the soldier, still more sternly;
and, although Renault saw that the muzzles of a
dozen muskets were ready to cover his body, he rode
on in the direction the figure had taken.
“Quien là!” was loudly shouted a third time; and
the rattling of the muskets, as they were brought to
the shoulder, reached his ear. He turned back in time
to anticipate the word fire, which in the next instant
would have been given by the officer, and responded,
“Amigo.”
“Advance, and give the countersign!”
He galloped up to the post, touched his bonnet, and
saluted the captain of the guard in Spanish as courteously
as his impatient feelings would allow him to do.
“Buenos noches, señor! you are vigilant.”
“Servidor, señor!” returned the Spaniard, with dignified
courtesy, but not without the tone of suspicion. “The countersign, signor, if it please you?”
“Who was the person that just left the post as I
came up?”
“The countersign, signor?” repeated the officer,
decidedly.
“Orleans and Spain.”
“Bien! Pasé.”
“Nay, who left the barrier but now?”
“Whether man or woman, I know not. 'Tis a singular
messenger the captain-general has chosen to send
with a countermand of an order he had given out an
hour ago, to fire the town at dawn. A word or two
caught my eyes in the folds, and I opened it against
orders and learned this!”
“Surely such an order was never given out?”
“I received mine as captain of the posts on this side
of the city not half an hour since, and now this tall,
gray page of his excellency hath left this countermand.”
He handed to him, as he spoke, one of the orders written
by the Moor.
“Then Osma hath a devil's nature in him!” he exclaimed,
in creole French, as he perused the evidence
of such a sanguinary command having been issued by
the new governor, though afterward countermanded.
“If this figure was hers,” he said to himself, “she hath
been the instrument of this change of mind in him!
She hath saved the city, or I have no knowledge.
Nay, close the gate; I will not go forth now. Adieu,
signor!” he cried, and galloped onward in the direction
he had seen the figure vanish from his sight.
He rode a few moments rapidly along the street that
was bounded by the wall, and issued in an open space
among ruins and ravines, through which there was no
passage for a man on horseback, without discerning
rate at which he had ridden, he must have overtaken
any not absolutely running at the top of their speed.
He leaped from his horse, and, leaving him beside what
appeared to be an uninhabited hovel of stones on the
verge of the ruins, clambered over the broken walls
and descended into the ravine, in the shadow of which
he thought he described a moving object. He was
not deceived; for an instant afterward he beheld the
same tall, gray figure leave the outlet of the bayou
some distance from him, and proceed across a desolate
palce, bordered with a few scattered houses of the
meanest description, and take her course with swift but
equal strides towards the south barrier of the city.
Without hesitation he descended the ravine, rapidly
following it to its source, and issued on the level space
beyond; but he here again lost the figure in a clump
of India-trees that shaded the guardhouse on the opposite
side. He crossed the place at a rapid pace, and
in a few moments came upon the barrier.
“Quien là?” cried the startled sentinel, bringing his
arquebuss to his shoulder, and cocking it.
“Camarada,” he replied, advancing.
“The countersign?”
“Orleans and Spain.”
“Pasé.”
“Who crossed your post just now?” eagerly demanded
Renault of the sergeant of the guard, who
came forth with a paper in his hand.
“The devil, I believe; and left this countermanding
order from the general.”
“You are at the barrier early, sir.”
“Draw no bolt, soldier, I do not go forth,” said Renault,
seeing him preparing to let him out. “Which
way went the governor's messenger?” he asked.
“Three fathoms at a step towards the east,” answered
the sergeant, with a laugh.
“Gracias, señor!” returned Renault, and flew forward
in the direction indicated.
Twice he thought he saw the dim outline of a human
trees that was before him, and he followed it like the
wind. But, on reaching the spot, all was silent, and
the seemingly illusive object of his pursuit as far from
him as before. At length he came to the head of the
Rue Ursuline, down which, from the nature of the
ground, the pursued must have turned, and which, for
two squares, lay exposed to the moonlight; but all
was motionless. Not an object was visible in the
whole range of his vision. He was about to turn
back, and give up the vain pursuit in despair, when he
heard close to his ear the same voice that arrested
his steps as he was returning the previous evening
from the council-chamber.
“What seek you?” was the stern demand.
His blood retreated to his heart with the suddenness
of surprise rather than of fear, to which his bold spirit
was a stranger; and, looking round, he beheld, standing
within three feet of him, the tall, gray-hooded
figure which, not only from motives of curiosity, but
of intense personal feeling, he had been for the last
ten minutes so eagerly pursuing.
“What seekest thou?” was repeated, in a voice of
angry reproof.
“Thyself,” he answered, firmly; though he drew
back a step from the gaze of eyes that, from within
the shadow of a cowl, shone as did those that rested
on him.
“What wouldst thou have of me?”
“I would know who thou art, and wherefore thou
takest an interest in my sister.”
“Thou wilt know when the time is ripe for the
knowledge, not only of this, but of what else thou desirest
to learn of me.”
“Thou meanest the secret of thy wonderful power
over my mother?” he said, interrogatively.
“Thou shalt know all when next we meet.”
“When shall this be?”
“Seek not to know, and beware that my path be
not a second time chosen for thine! Thy steed awaits
there is no time for thee to idle away in vain curiosity,
to learn what is not yet for thee to know. To thy
rendezvous; and beware how thou dost lead those under
thee to give their allegiance to Spain, and beware
how thou tenderest thine own. There will be employment
yet for thee and a thousand spirits like thine in
thy country's cause! Remember and beware!”
Thus speaking, the sorceress strode past him; and,
entering a narrow defile between the convent and a
street wall he had not before observed, and from which
she had so suddenly appeared before him, was in a
few seconds lost to his eye in the black shadow cast
by the building.
He lingered a moment on the spot where she had
left him, and then, with his mind full of wonder, began
to retrace his devious way to the spot where he
had left his horse. In the mean while, this animal became
the object of the attention of two worthies who
have before made their appearance on the scene, with
more or less credit to themselves.
In the hovel, by the side of which Renault had hastily
secured his horse, and which, if he gave it a
thought, he supposed to be uninhabited, so rudely was
it constructed of the fragments of the edifice over
which he had climbed, were seated, when he dismounted
in pursuit of the gray figure, no less personages
than Gobin the First and his new friend and ally
Boviedo, the disgraced and unhorsed trumpeter of
the captain-general's guard. The room in which they
were seated was scantily furnished with a dislocated
chair having a leathern bottom, on which Gobin himself
sat gravely smoking a cigarillo; a low bench
with a high-back, filled by the paunchy bulk of Boviedo,
and a slenderly supported table, on which stood a
green bloated bottle half filled with a muddy claret,
which was represented by the purple contents of a
brace of tumblers that stood beside it, and which had
just been placed there by these bibulous brothers.
From their appearance, as well as from that of the
that had elapsed since their acquaintance commenced
in a way that reflected credit upon the hospitality of
Gobin, who, from the aspect of things, and the glimpse
of an old woman asleep in a low cot in an adjoining
room, was in his own castle. They had been conversing
upon the new occupation of the province, in
the course of which Gobin had given utterance to
much of the witless wisdom peculiar to him, which
must be lost to every ear but that of the edified trumpeter.
Wine and wassail had made the two fast
friends.
“What is thine office now, great governor that
was?” asked the trumpeter, blinking and hiccoughing
with the wine he had drunk, and pursuing the amicable
conversation with which they had mutually entertained
each other.
“Call me not governor now, gossip! for a title
without power is like learning without wisdom; it is
the bells that hang to a fool's cap, which without them
were a cardinal's. Call me gossip.”
“Gossip Gobin, then, what may be thine occupation
and calling?”
“I am a cavalier on the town—a promiscuous gentleman,”
answered Gobin, emptying his cup of muddy
claret with an air.
“Hast thou consideration with any honest caballero?”
“Caballero! that is Spanish! Translate me, gossip.
Give us the rendering o' it.”
“It meaneth partly a horse and partly a gentleman,”
answered Boviedo, with a learned philological
look.
“An amphibulous?” asked, or, rather, assented Gobin.
“Not an amphibulous, gossip. Caballo is for horse,
and caballero for cavalier!”
“Is ero Spanish for gentleman?”
“Nay, gossip, caballero is.”
“Then a Spanish cavalier is half orse. Wert
for another war-steed.”
The fat trumpeter rubbed his forefinger across his
obese forehead a few times, as if endeavouring to disentangle
the dilemma; but, finding it in vain with his
narrow compass of brains, he shook his thick head,
and again put his question as to Gobin's calling.
“As to my calling, I am called Gobin the fool; and
by some, the fool Gobin,” replied the jester, winking
within himself. “My occupation is as folly is in demand
and men's wit at discount; I daily served the
old governor with my counsel when he ruled; for as
diamond will only be cut by diamond, so a province
of fools, thought he (and he was a wise man), can
only be ruled by folly. If a priest wishes to send a
message to a fair penitent, it is Gobin that is the confidential
messenger thereof. If a maid would send
a token to her lover, who but Gobin is its bearer?
Ah! I am in demand, gossip! If mischief is on foot,
Gobin is in it; prayers or plays, wedding or burying,
a brawl or a mass, Gobin hath a hand in all! Gobin
is the soul of the province! No Gobin, no government—no
weddings, no masses—no sins, no sinners—
no brawls, no fights—no mirth, no mourning—no burying,
no deaths! Put folly out o' the state, and it
would go lunatic. Too much wisdom maketh men
mad; 'tis a proper mixture, like the baser metal in
coin, that maketh the standard o' human wit. I could
carry out the figure to your great profit; but I see no
speculation in your eye, as the player hath it. Thou
hast more o' this alloy than the true metal in thee. I
marvel how I came to beget a friendship for such a
winesack. Fill thy glass again; it may sharpen, for it
cannot dull thee!”
“Nay, friend Gobin, I verily am in grief for the loss
of my horse and my disgrace with my master,” answered
Boviedo, sorrowfully, and heaving a sigh that,
with his words, instantly revived sympathy for his condition
in the breast of the fool.
“Cheer up, gossip! I will see that thou have a horse
encouragingly, pouring wine into his cup for
him. “I am latterly got in the graces o' a youth who
will win me with his sword a score o' steeds in an hour.
I have done him service ere now! I took to him because
his sister took to me, gossip. Not a maid in all
the province hath not smiled on Gobin. This you will
learn if you stay in it! I have done many an office
for her, and ne'er would take a penny. She always
smiled showers o' gold, and that was enough for Gobin.
She bade me do her brother all the service I could
ever, and I swore it; for she sent comforts and medics
to the old mother when she got the rheumatiz.”
“Who is this master o' thine? Is that myrtle sprig
i' thy cap his badge?”
“It is a gentleman's badge, gossip. There's a secret
in it.”
“Who dost serve?”
“Nay, dull trumpet-blower, I serve no master! I
conjoin with him as a friend—a sworn friend. By the
holy marrow! he will give thee a horse an' I say it, if
he have to get it from the new governor himself, by
pitching him to the ground.”
“Give me thy hand, good fool,” exclaimed the joyful
Boviedo. “Let us give a cup to this brave cavalier,
thy friend. What name and calling hath he?”
“Calling!” repeated Gobin, indignantly. “Dost
thou believe we provincials to be all craftsmen? We
are gentlemen cavaliers till found to be otherwise.
Hast thou ne'er heard of my cousin Renault the Quadroon?
He hath three hundred brave men at his beck
and bid for the freedom o' the state. There will be
doings, gossip, there will be doings the morn,” he
added, looking mysteriously; “let thy master look
warily to himself; for in that he hath gotten the city,
it argues not that he will hold it. Wait till the morn,
man. There will be events! Here's to cousin Renault
the Quadroon.”
“Being thy cousin, gossip, here is to him,” he said,
filling and emptying his glass. “Is it he who did the
fighting in the square and slew so many?”
“Nay, that was Black Jules, as men call him. A
devil-born gentleman, with a cutthroat's breeding.
He hath been in rebellion against the province because
he could not rule after his father. Save us all, gossip!
There would ne'er be found an honest man in his government.
He hath great show of virtue, and talks
loudly of patriotism. He hath a dark soul, with a
bloody hand to serve it. But his hand will scarce
wield sword again. It hath ended its mischief, and
hath the colour o' red it likes so well. Wouldst behold
a wicked man's hand?”
“Hath it more fingers than another man's?” asked
Boviedo, with sober inquiry.
“See for thyself,” said Gobin, taking from his bosom
a human hand cloven at the wrist, and laying it upon
the trumpeter's knee. Boviedo looked upon it with a
cold shudder of affright, and moved back aghast.
“There was a good blow,” he said, after Gobin, at
his trembling entreaty, had removed it from his person.
“Who dealt it, gossip?”
“My brave bon cousin Renault, who hath my blessing
for it. Is it not a proper hand—shapely and delicate?
It should have been his ears; for rogues' ears
fetch a price now. Rascas will have the more work
to do.”
“It hath a diamond in a green stone upon it,” said
Boviedo, Gobin's words rousing his cupidity.
“And thus it shall remain as the mark by which all
men will know it,” he answered, almost with fierceness.
“It shall be a sign that Orleans was made free
the very hour she was enslaved to Spain, when they
do see it nailed up in the broad day,” he added, with a
spark of that spirit occasionally emitted from his fitful
mind, betraying, amid a medley of wit and folly, the existence
of generous feelings, that held their empire independent
of the obliquity of his mind. His head, but
not his heart, was wrong; and when the latter, as it
often would, did obtain a momentary asendancy, there
was something in his character that commanded respect
while he remained under its brief influence. He
with a degree of enthusiasm that for the time endowed
him with new attributes, and caused the surprised Boviedo
to believe for the moment that his character had
hitherto been assumed.
“Thou art a valiant fool to be a fool, gossip Gobin!”
he said, looking upon him with surprise and doubt.
“Thou wilt soon learn that Gobin's brain is motley
like his costume,” said the fool, with a sad expression,
as if, by some wonderful operation of the mind, he had
become for a moment conscious of his inferiority.
“Poor Gobin, he hath no wit. Folly is his birthright.
Mother tells me I shall die one day, and God will give
me my soul back again! Dost know, gossip,” he said,
with a change-like thought to his former manner, “the
devil stole away my wits when I was born, lest Gobin
should be wiser than himself!” This was whispered
as a fearful secret in the ear of the trumpeter.
“Thou shouldst go to the pope! He'll have it out
o' his black clutches for thee, if he have to knock him
down with the key o' heaven to get it! Come with me
to Rome!” added Boviedo, patronisingly.
“Hast seen this key, gossip?” asked Gobin, with
simple curiosity, his ideas flying rapidly from subject
to subject, the lightest word acting upon his brain like
a revolution upon the phase of a kaleidoscope.
“Marry have I, gossip! It is a league and a half
long, and solid gold.”
“How big, then, is the pope?” asked the fool, very
sensibly.
“Seven leagues,” said the unblushing trumpeter,
whom Gobin's question rather staggered. But he had
the gift of lying, and got over it without stumbling.
“I have heard o' his boots,” said Gobin; “I would
not like to have the cleaning o' 'em.”
“He makes the devil do it for him,” answered Boviedo,
stoutly.
“And useth his tail for a brush, gossip, doth he
not?” asked Gobin, gravely.
“Verily, gossip, thou hast a brain and wisdom in't,”
said Boviedo, who saw the fool had taken his vein.
“Nay, gossip, it cometh by contagion. I do but
catch it from thee! The saints grant I take not thy lying
with it, which thou hast come by in the natural
way! It is by contagion I grow wiser than wise men
I hold discourse with, catching their wisdom while
they catch my folly to balance it. Thus do I make
wisdom out of folly. Marry, gossip! folly is a rare
capital i' the world.”
“Thou art scholarly, good fool! Hath thy mother,
who snoreth in her bed like an ill-keyed bugle, taught
thee what thou knowest?”
“Nay. How got thy trumpet hacked so, gossip?”
“I' the wars.”
“Thou hast thyself done it to swear by!”
“Nay, an' it were not done in fair battle, I will eat
it.”
“Then wilt thou have as much brass in thy belly
as in thy face.”
“Thou art witty! Come thou to Spain, and I will
make thee tutor to the king's son.”
“Art thou in favour at court?”
“None higher; the king hath nodded to me.”
“I know thou art a courtier, then, by thy lying.”
“'Tis true,” said Boviedo, roundly.
“The lie?” asked Gobin, mischievously.
“That I am a courtier!”
“Then the lie is true.”
“Thou hast, methinks, somehow the better o' me,
gossip,” said Boviedo, after endeavouring to make his
dull brain comprehend the subtlety of his speech.
“I will puzzle thy scull anon; dost thou know what
is a paradox?”
“Is it a tune?”
“A gamut for thy wit.”
“Ne'er heard of it, good fool, as I am a courtier.”
“I'll prove thee no courtier by thine own mouth.”
“Thou art challenged.”
“Are not all courtiers liars? Confess.”
“Liars most villanous,” answered Boviedo, stoutly.
“But thou sayest thou art a courtier?”
“Yea! gossip Gobin.”
“Therefore what thou sayest is not true, and therefore
thou art no courtier.”
“By the blessed Saint Jude, thou hast rogue's wit.
I am no courtier, as sure as my cup is empty. Here's
to thy devil's scholarship, Master Gobin,” he said, with
an amazingly perplexed air, as he turned over in his
mind the classical Gobin's paradox.
“I will prove thee a courtier again by thine own
lips.”
“Do it, and I will make thee a present of a new
jerkin, thine being something worn,” said the trumpeter,
with animation, fixing his dull eyes upon the playful
visage of the jester with mystified wonder.
“Art thou not a liar? Confess.”
“Yea, gossip! I confess I have lied in my life
twice.”
“Twice in a minute!”
“Nay, in an hour.”
“Then thou art a courtier; and being a liar if thou
sayest thou art a courtier, then thou art not a courtier.
So thou art both a courtier and no courtier.”
“Thou hast got the better o' me in some sort,
friend Gobin,” said the trumpeter, staring in his face
with inebriate wonder, and looking ludicrously bewildered.
“Save in round lies, I can square with thee over a
bottle, gossip. We must finish the jug, then I will
put thee to bed; for state matters call me to be
abroad. I have great affairs on hand, brother, of
which, if thou hadst the tenth to do, thy head would
be top-heavy, but not with good wine, as it now is.
Didst play on thy bugle before the king?”
“Till he hath fainted with the delight o' it”
“Till thou didst affright him with thy braying discord.
If mother weren't asleep, thou shouldst give
me a note or two o' thy skill.”
“I'll do it, gossip,” said Boviedo, briskly; “if she
wake not at her own nose, she will scarce hear my
bugle.”
“Nay, let her sleep; she is a poor creature, and
hath not had an idea since she gave birth to me. It
took her whole stock to furnish me out, gossip.”
“I would thou hadst heard me play before the king,
Gobin.”
“Verily, brother gossip,” said Gobin, with a sage
nod, “it is a wisdom that hath kept cousin Don Carlos
from turning his crown into a cap and bells if he
listened to thee.”
“He hath the art o' fooling by begetting, I have
been told. He needeth not to go to school to learn
folly.”
“Let us drink his health, comrade mine,” said the
trumpeter, stoutly. “He is a brave king, and carrieth
a long sword.”
“Then be he henceforward dubbed cousin Long-sword,”
said the jester, quickly; “but, if he hath bravery,
saints bless us! he should inoculate some of his
warriors. I wot of some that have more wind than
valour.”
“That's a well spoken, and hath a moral to it,
gossip Gobin; I'm a coward an' it haven't.”
“It hath, and thou art a coward, nuncle Pauncho.”
“Nay, sayest thou I am a coward, gossip?”
“By this green-bellied monster, that is thy twin
brother, I swear it,” answered Gobin, flourishing the
globular-shaped jug, and bringing it down again upon
the table with an emphasis.
“There lieth wit in that, gossip, an' I could dig
it out,” said Boviedo, with a tipsy, knowing look.
“Wherefore am I twin brother with that green bottle?”
“Because thou art a wineskin, a liquor puncheon,
a leviathan claret-bottle.”
“Prove me green! prove me green, gossip!”
“I can prove thee green till thou art blue, from
which thou art not far off. Thou art green in wit,
and green to lose thy horse, and greener to trust thyself
to me, not knowing me to be an honest man.”
“Nay, gossip Gobin, thou carriest it in thy visage.”
“Then my countenance giveth me the lie in my
face. Doth my nose look virtuous, gossip?”
“Yea, as an icicle.”
“And thine is a most modest nose; verily, it blusheth
like a pomegranate.”
“Nay, gossip Gobin, I will swear a pleasant jest
lieth in the kernel of that speech, an' I could come at
it.”
“Make a hammer of thy head, gossip, and crack
it.”
“By my valiancy, thou art a humorous fool,” said
the thick-sculled trumpeter.
“And thou a bragging coward.”
“Call me not coward, comrade.”
“Thou art an arrant coward, a white-livered coward,
a chicken coward! Dost thou deny?”
“Nay, I am a coward were I a fighting soldier, an
it like thee, gossip; yet, being a trumpeter, I am no
coward.”
“Prove me that, and I will help thee to a steed.”
“A soldier, gossip, hath his valour in his arm, his
occupation being to lay on blows stoutly.”
“Nay, his valour lieth in his soul.”
“A soldier, worthy Gobin, hath no soul but the captain's
word to go and come; to do this or to do that.
He hath no soul, being one in the ranks. His courage,
therefore, like a smith's strength, lieth in his
strokes. Now, if he lay them on thick and fast, it is
courage.”
“Bravo, gossip; now to thy second-part.”
“The trumpeter, friend Gobin, not being, as thou
knowest, a soldier to deal blows withal, but to blow
the trumpet, being, as it were, the smith's man at the
bellows, his courage lieth not in his arm, but in his
wind; and the longer his wind, the more courage hath
he; and the larger his abdomen, the greater his wind.”
“Who taught thee logic, gossip?” asked the fool.
“An' logic be a note on the bugle, I got it by induction!”
“Is induction a tune?”
“I will play it for thee, then thou shalt judge.
There is ne'er a tune thou canst name I have not
from his belt.
“There be braggato, braggadocioso, liaralto! Dost
play 'em, gossip?”
“I have them all three at my fingers' ends.”
“Thou hast them at thy tongue's end, I will swear,
gossip: play me logic.”
“I will do it, so thou wilt ne'er come to listen to
music again, if thou canst not hear mine.”
“To it, to it, gossip; I would have a touch of thy
windy valour.”
The doughty and half-tipsy trumpeter, whose brain
and abdomen were of nearly equal mental calibre,
placed his brazen bugle to his lips, and, distending his
scarlet cheeks like a pair of bagpipes, wound a low,
preparatory note, and then blew a long, clear blast.
It was instantly answered from without by the loud,
martial neighing of a horse, which caused them both
to start from their seats.
“El diablo,” shouted the astonished Gobin.
“It is a horse!” cried the trumpeter, on whose
brain the image of a horse had been painted from the
moment of his disgrace, while his wits had been ever
busy to divine some means of making himself master
of one, although his faith in Gobin's often-promised
assistance was firm. In his eagerness to reach the
door, he threw over bench and table, while Gobin, with
a doubtful look, seized the bottle by the neck, and followed
close in his rear.
When he opened the tottering door, they beheld,
within a few feet of it, a finely-limbed white horse,
standing with his ears erect, his neck arched, and his
whole attitude that of a war-charger, who “smelleth
the battle afar off, and cries among the trumpets,
`Aha, aha!' ”
“It is the horse I promised thee, gossip,” cried Gobin,
with ready quickness, instantly recognising Renault's
steed. “Mount him and ride. Wo! ho! Baptiste.”
“I fear me he hath a wicked spirit,” said Boviedo,
his startled eye and spirited attitude.
“Thou wilt ne'er be restored to thy condition of
trumpeter, gossip, if thou falter. See, he knoweth
me! Lay thy hand upon his mane.”
“But he knoweth not me; I have a misgiving of
him.”
“If thou do not get on him, thou art an ass. Hast
thou not won him by thy valour, as thy master bade
thee do, else not come before him?”
“Nay, I have not struck a blow for him,” said the
fat Boviedo, eying the animal askance.
“Doth not thy valour lie in thy wind, and did not
the blast o' the trumpet bring him?”
“Thou shouldst ha' remembered my flesh, gossip,
and got me a quiet beast. He hath a devil in him.”
“He hath spirit: climb to his back, and spur.
When thou hast returned to favour, speak a good word
for Gobin to thy master.” Boviedo, seeing that the animal
remained passive, and permitted the fool to touch
his bit, grew confident, and, placing one foot in the
stirrup, essayed to mount. At this instant, the cunning
and ever-watchful Gobin chanced to see the
plume of Renault waving above the ruined wall; and,
prompted by the subtlety and mischief inherent in his
nature, instantly vanished behind a projection of the
ruin, and left his fat companion to the tender mercies
of the animal's master. The broad back of the unfortunate
trumpeter was turned towards the direction
from which Renault was approaching, and he was,
moreover, too busily engaged in the achievement of
getting into the saddle to give heed to anything but
his own footing, the while most tenderly soothing the
horse, with many a Spanish diminutive of kindness,
to induce him to remain quiet. Suddenly he felt the
grasp of a strong hand upon his shoulder, and before
his eye gleamed a sharp steel weapon.
“Mercy, in the name of the mother of Heaven!”
he cried, taking his foot from the stirrup, and dropping
bodily on his knees.
“Who art thou I find in the act of robbing me of
my steed?” demanded Renault, with a slight smile, his
hostile manner at once changing on seeing the fat, oily
body of Boviedo. “Speak, or thou diest! By thy
speech thou art a Spaniard, and art taken to thieving
early after thy coming!”
“Nay, I am no thief, signor,” he said, seeing the
change in his manner; “ask Master Gobin, whom I
have drunk with; he knoweth me to be an honest
man.”
“Nay, cousin Renault, he is the greatest rogue in
all Spain, and hath been sent to the provinces lest he
should corrupt the kingdom with his iniquities and diabolities,”
cried Gobin, suddenly making his appearance
on hearing this appeal. “He hath married seven
wives, all living, and hath sinned other ways. See
his lusty fat! He hath got drunk on the church's
wine, and kissed a holy nun of seventy through the
grate; look at his lecherous lips! He hath robbed the
king's treasury, and slept in his pew of a Sunday fore-noon;
hath he not a godless look! He hath killed a
monk, trod on a cardinal's great toe, and twice sworn
by the queen's beard, which is heresy! Moreover,
he hath been a courtier, which were a summing up
and a crowning of his enormities!”
“Gobin, did I not give thee a message to bear to
Charleval? Wherefore art thou here?” demanded
Renault, when Gobin had finished his testimony to the
astounded Boviedo's honesty.
“I would ha' done it, but this bale o' swine's flesh
tempted me to go iniquitizing with him. Should I tell
thee, cousin, what loose questions he put to me respecting
certain temptations o' the town, ere we had
been acquainted ten minutes, thou would stick him
with thy dagger—though, by'r lady! there be laid six
inches o'fat to go through ere it draw blood! Out upon
him, to get me to vouch for his honesty! Marry! was
he not in the very act of stealing thy horse? an' thy
dagger be seven inches long, give him one inch o' it
aneath his ribs.”
“Do it not, good youth; heed him not; he is brainless
and thin witted! I am an honest man and true, as
I am a Christian.”
“He is a pagan, and worshippeth his belly. Stick
him, cousin.”
“Nay, Gobin, thou art at thy mischief. Thou art
a companion of his, and, spite of the character thou
hast given him, I will let him go, and shall make thee,
he being a Spaniard, surety for his good behaviour.
Thou hast an errand to do: delay it not!” he added,
in a tone of authority. “Spaniard, wert thou stealing
my horse?”
“No, signor, as I am a poor devil trumpeter! It
were this graceless gentleman fool, who calleth himself
cousin to your excellency's worship, bade me mount
and ride, I having been discomfited of my own, he
averring on the Gospels that he were himself the owner
of it.”
“Take heed, Gobin, what thou doest! Rise, signor!
I think I can divine the cause of your discomfiture.
Be patient, and thou mayst get thy steed once more.”
“May the blessed saints bless your excellency,” said
Boviedo, embracing his knees. “If I get not my horse
again, I shall break my heart of grief.”
“An' thou hadst got on Baptiste, thou wouldst ha'
broke thy neck,” said Gobin, shaking at the same time
his head at him, as if he intended to have his revenge
for what the trumpeter had said of him.
“See thou follow me,” cried Renault to Gobin, as he
mounted his horse. “I have something for thee to do
ere the dawn. Adios, señor! If thou wouldst mount
thyself again, trust not to Gobin's ownership, lest thou
escape less easily than thou hast now done!” Thus
speaking, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped away
in the direction of the barrier he had first approached.
“Thank Heaven, nuncle Pauncho, that thou art
standing beside me safely on thy two short legs, instead
o' being astride that flying horse's back,” said
Gobin, in as amicable and confident a way as if he had
not defamed his friend.
“He would ha' broke my neck,” said Boviedo, instinctively
moving his head to see if it worked right on
his shoulders, likewise showing in his voice and manner
no ill-will towards Gobin for his charitable backing
of his character.
“Thy neck will one day be broken, gossip,” answered
Gobin; “but it will be by hemp, and not by
horse. In with thee, cousin Spain, and drink or sleep,
as thou wilt; I have matters to keep me abroad; and
see thou stir not forth till I come back.”
“The bottle is wellnigh emptied, worthy Gobin,”
insinuated Boviedo, taking the capacious jug from the
ground, where the fool had dropped it on seeing Renault,
and holding it up between his face and the moon.
“Thou wilt find another aneath the table. In with
thee, cousin! If mother wake up, quick clap the bottle
to her mouth, and she will be soon off again. Adios,
señor,” he added, after the manner of the quadroon;
“when next thou choosest a friend, see that he hath
less brain than thyself, which, by'r lady! thou'rt ne'er
like to do till thou find one of thine own or thy father's
begetting.” Thus speaking, he bounded away like a
harlequin.
“Good wine is too precious for an old woman,” soliloquized
the trumpeter, entering the house; “it shall
ne'er be said Boviedo Pauncho e'er poured wine down
an old woman's throat. This Gobin hath a rare wit
—a rare wit hath he, an' I could get to the top and
bottom o' it. Natheless he is rare, and hath wit.”
Here, taking a long look after his late companion,
who was gliding swiftly along the wall of the street in
the direction taken by Renault, he closed the door behind
him and disappeared within the ruinous tenement.
| CHAPTER XIV.
SCENE BETWEEN GOBIN AND THE TRUMPETER. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |