Under the Rose Part 33

It was a smoke-begrimed apartment, with tables next to the wall, and rough chairs and benches for the guests. Heavy pine rafters spanned the ceiling; the floor was sprinkled with sand; from a chain hung a wrought-iron frame for candles. Upon a shelf a row of battered tankards, suggesting many a bout, shone dully, like a line of war-worn troopers, while a great pewter pitcher, the worse for wear, commanded the disreputable array.

In this room was gathered a nondescript company: mountebanks and buffoons; rogues uncla.s.sified, drinking and dicing; a robust vagrant, at whose feet slept a performing boar, with a ring--badge of servitude--through its nose; a black-bearded, s.h.a.ggy-haired Spanish troubadour, with attire so ragged and worn as to have lost its erstwhile picturesque characteristics. This last far from prepossessing worthy half-started from his seat upon the appearance of fool and jestress; stared at them, and then resumed his place and the ballad he had been singing:

"Within the garden of Beaucaire He met her by a secret stair, Said Auca.s.sin, 'My love, my pet, These old confessors vex me so!

They threaten all the pains of h.e.l.l Unless I give you up, _ma belle_,'-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette."

Watching the nimble fingers of the shabby minstrel with pitiably childish expression of amus.e.m.e.nt, a half-imbecile morio leaned upon the table. His huge form, for he was a giant among stalwart men, and his great moon-shaped head made him at once an object hideous and miserable to contemplate. But the poor creature seemed unaware of his own deformities, and smiled contentedly and patted the table caressingly to the sprightly rhythm.

Gazing upon this choice a.s.semblage, the _plaisant_ was vaguely conscious that some of the curious and uncommon faces seemed familiar, and the picture of the Franciscan monk whom they had overtaken on the road recurred to him, together with the misgivings he had experienced upon parting from that canting knave. He half-expected to see Nanette; to hear her voice, and was relieved that the gipsy on this occasion did not make one of the unwonted gathering. The landlord, observing the fool's discriminating gaze, and reading something of what was pa.s.sing in his mind, rea.s.suringly motioned the new-comers to an unoccupied corner, and by his manner sought to allay such mistrust as the appearance of his guests was calculated to inspire.

"We have to take those that come," he said, deprecatorily. "The rascals have money. It is as good as any lord's. Besides, whate'er they do without, here must they behave. And--for their credit--they are docile as children; ruled by the cook's ladle. You will find that, though there be ill company, you will partake of good fare. If I say it myself, there's no better master of the flesh pots outside of Paris than at this hostelry. The rogues eat as well as the king's gentlemen.

Feasting, then fasting, is their precept."

"At present we have a leaning for the former, good host," carelessly answered the fool. "Though the latter will, no doubt, come later."

"For which reason it behooves a man to eat, drink and be merry while he may," retorted the other. "What say you to a carp on the spit, with shallots, and a ham boiled with pistachios?"

"The ham, if it be ready. Our appet.i.tes are too sharp to wait for the fish."

"Then shall you have with it a cold teal from the marshes, and I'll warrant such a repast as you have not tasted this many a day. Because a man lives in a retired spot, it does not follow he may not be an epicure," he went on, "and in my town days I was considered a good fellow among gourmands." His eyes twinkled; he studied the new-comers a moment, and then vanished kitchenward.

His self-praise as a provider of creature comforts proved not ill deserved; the viands, well prepared, were soon set before them; a serving lad filled their gla.s.ses from a skin of young but sound wine he bore beneath his arm, and, under the influence of this cheer, the young girl's cheek soon lost its pallor. In the past she had become accustomed to rough as well as gentle company; so now it was disdain, not fear, she experienced in that uncouth gathering; the same sort of contempt she had once so openly expressed for Master Rabelais, whipper-in for all gluttons, wine-bibbers and free-livers.

As the darkness gathered without, the merriment increased within. Over the scene the dim light cast an uncertain l.u.s.ter. Indefatigably the dicers pursued their pastime, with now and then an audible oath, or muttered imprecation, which belied that docility mine host had boasted of. The troubadour played and the morio yet listened. Several of a group who had been singing now sat in sullen silence. Suddenly one of them muttered a broken sentence and his fellows immediately turned their eyes toward the corner where were fool and jestress. This ripple of interest did not escape the young girl's attention, who said uneasily:

"Why do those men look at us?"

"One of them spoke to the others," replied the jester. "He called attention to something."

"What do you suppose it was?" she asked curiously.

"_Gladius gemmatus!_" ["The jeweled sword."]

Whence came the voice? Near the couple, in a shadow, sat a woebegone looking man who had been holding a book so close to his eyes as to conceal his face. Now he permitted the volume to fall and the jester uttered an exclamation of surprise, as he looked upon those pinched, worn, but well-remembered features.

"The scamp-student!" he said.

Immediately the reader buried his head once more behind the book and spoke aloud in Latin as though quoting some pa.s.sage which he followed with his finger; "Did you understand?"

"Yes," answered the _plaisant_, apparently speaking to the jestress, whose face wore a puzzled expression.

The scamp-student laid the volume on the table. "These men are outlaws and intend to kill you for your jeweled sword," he continued in the language of Horace.

"Why do you tell me this?" asked the fool in the same tongue, now addressing directly the scholar.

"Because you spared my life once; I would serve you now."

"What's all this monk's gibberish about?" cried an angry voice, as the master of the boar stepped toward them.

"A discussion between two scholars," readily answered the scamp-student.

"Why don't you talk in a language we understand?" grumbled the man.

"Latin is the tongue of learning," was the humble response.

"I like not the sound of it," retorted the other, as he retired. From a distance, however, he continued to cast suspicious glances in their direction. Bewildered, the girl looked from one of the alleged controverters to the other. Who was this starveling the jester seemed to know? Again were they conversing in the language of the monastery, and their colloquy led to a conclusion as unexpected as it was startling.

"What if we leave the inn now?" asked the jester.

"They would prevent you."

"Who is the leader?"

"The man with the boar," answered the scamp-student. "But it is the morio who usually kills their victims."

The jester glanced at the colossal monster, repugnant in deformity, and then at the girl, who was tapping impatiently on the table with her white fingers. The fool's color came and went; what human strength might stand against that frightful prodigy of nature?

"Is there no way to escape?" he asked.

"Alas! I can but warn; not advise," said the scholar. "Already the leader suspects me."

A half-shiver ran through him. In the presence of actual and seemingly a.s.sured death he had appeared calm, resigned, a Socrates in temperament; before the mere prospect of danger the apprehensive thief-and-fugitive elements of his nature uprose. He would meet, when need be, the grim-visaged monster of dissolution with the dignity of a stoic, but by habit disdained not to dodge the shadow with the practised agility of a filcher and scamp. So the lower part of his moral being began to cower; he glanced furtively at the company.

"Yes; I am sure I have put my own neck in it," he muttered. "I must devise a way to save it. I have it. We must seem to quarrel." And rising, he closed his book deliberately.

"Fool!" he said in a sharp voice. "Your argument is as scurvy as your Latin. Thou, a philosopher! A bookless, shallow dabbler! So I treat you and your reasonings!"

Whereupon, with a quick gesture, he threw the dregs of his gla.s.s in the face of the jester. So suddenly and unexpectedly was it done, the other sprang angrily from his seat and half drew his sword. A moment they stood thus, the fool with his hand menacingly upon the hilt; the scamp-scholar continuing to confront him with undiminished volubility.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He threw the dregs of his gla.s.s in the face of the jester.]

"A smatterer! an ignoramus! a dunce!" he repeated in high-pitched tones to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the company.

"Make a ring for the two monks, my masters," cried the man with the boar. "Then let each state his case with bludgeon or dagger."

"With bludgeon or dagger!" echoed the excited voice of the morio, whose appearance had undergone a transformation. The indescribable vacancy with which he had listened to the minstrel was replaced by an expression of revolting malignity.

The jestress half-arose, her face once more white, her dark eyes fastened on the fool. But the latter, realizing the purpose of the affront, and the actual service the scamp-student had rendered him, unexpectedly thrust back his blade.

"I'll not fight a puny bookworm," he said, and resumed his seat, although his cheek was flushed.

"You bear a brave sword, fool, for one so loath to draw," sneered the master of the boar.

Disappointed at this tame outcome of an affair which had so spirited a beginning, the company, with derisive scoffing and muttered sarcasm, resumed their places; all save the morio, who stood glaring upon the jester.

"Stab! stab!" he muttered through his dry lips, and at that moment the troubadour played a few chords on his instrument. The pa.s.sion faded from the creature's face; quietly he turned and sought the chair nearest to the minstrel.