CHAPTER XXXIII
IN WHICH ARNAULD DU THILL APPEARS ONCE MORE
Six weeks later than the events last described, on the 15th of June, 1558, the green vine which clung to the brown walls of the finest house in the village of Artigues, near Rieux, served as a background for a picture of rural domesticity which while somewhat homely in character was not entirely without significance.
A man who, to judge from his dusty boots, had been walking quite a considerable distance, was sitting upon a wooden bench, carelessly holding his feet toward a woman who was on her knees before him busily unlacing his boots.
The man was frowning, the woman smiling.
"Haven't you finished yet, Bertrande?" said he, crossly. "You are so clumsy and slow that you almost drive me out of my wits."
"There, it's all done, Martin," said the woman, softly.
"There, it's all done, is it?" growled the pretended Martin. "Now where are my other boots? I'll wager that you didn't even think to bring them to me, you fool. So I shall have to go barefoot until you fetch them."
Bertrande disappeared within the house, and in less than a second returned with another pair of boots, which she hastened with her own hands to draw on her lord and master's feet.
Doubtless these individuals have been recognized as Arnauld du Thill, still masquerading under the name of Martin-Guerre, and now as always domineering and brutal, and Bertrande de Rolles, infinitely softened and brought to her senses by bitter experience.
"Where is my glass of beer?" asked Martin, in the same surly tone.
"It is all ready, dear," said Bertrande, timidly, "and I am just going to get it for you."
"I always have to wait," said the other, stamping with impatience. "Come, be quick about it, or I'll—"
An expressive gesture completed his sentence. Bertrande went and came again with the swiftness of light. Martin took from her hands a brimming glass of beer, which he swallowed in one draught with evident satisfaction. "That's good," he condescended to say as he handed the empty glass to his wife.
"My poor love, are you warm?" she ventured to ask, wiping her rough-spoken spouse's forehead with her handkerchief. "Here, put on your hat, for fear of the draught. You are very tired, aren't you?"
"What!" growled Martin; "don't I have to fall in with the customs of this idiotic neighborhood, and on every anniversary of our wedding go round among all the villages hereabout to ask a pack of accursed relatives to dinner? Upon my word, I had forgotten this absurd custom, if you had not reminded me of it yesterday, Bertrande! However, I have made the rounds, and in two hours the whole tribe of hungry kinsfolk will be upon us."
"Thanks, dear," said Bertrande. "You are quite right; it is an absurd custom, but a peremptory one, to which we must submit, if we would not be looked upon as arrogant and scornful."
"Well reasoned," replied Martin, ironically. "And have you done your part, sluggard? Is the table laid in the orchard?"
"Yes, Martin, as you ordered."
"Have you been to invite the judge also?" asked the affectionate spouse.
"Yes, Martin; and he said that he would do his best to be present at the feast."
"Do his best!" cried Martin, angrily. "That isn't enough; he must come! You must have given the invitation wrong. I count upon gaining some influence over this judge, as you know perfectly well; but you always try to displease me. His presence was the only thing which reconciled me in the least to this tedious custom and the useless expense of this ridiculous anniversary."
"Ridiculous to celebrate the anniversary of our wedding!" rejoined Bertrande, while her eyes filled with tears. "Ah, Martin, to be sure, you are a learned man now; you have travelled much, and seen many things, and can afford to despise the old usages of the province; but no matter. This anniversary reminds me of a time when you were less harsh and more loving to your poor wife."
"Yes," said Martin, with a sardonic smile; "and when my wife was less loving and more of a termagant to me; when she even forgot herself so far sometimes as to—"
"Oh, Martin, Martin!" cried Bertrande, "do not recall those times; for they make me blush, and I find it hard now to explain my own actions."
"And so do I. When I think that I could ever have been such an ass as to put up with—Ah, ah! let us leave the subject! My disposition is much changed, and yours as well,—I am glad to do you that justice. As you say, Bertrande, I have seen a good deal since those days. Your unbearable temper, which drove me out into the world to get rid of you, also compelled me to gain experience; and when I returned here last year, I succeeded in rearranging matters in their proper order. To effect that result, I had only to bring with me another Martin, called 'Martin Club.' So now everything goes along to my satisfaction, and we certainly have a most united household."
"That is true, thank God!" said Bertrande.
"Bertrande!"
"Martin!"
"Go at once," said he, with the tone of an absolute master,—"go back at once to the judge of Artigues, renew your invitation, and obtain his formal promise to be present at our feast; if he does not come, remember that I will wreak my disappointment on you alone."
"I will go at once," said Bertrande, suiting the action to the word.
Arnauld du Thill followed her retreating form for a moment with a satisfied expression; then, being left alone, he stretched himself lazily on the bench, drinking in the fresh air, and blinking with the selfish and disdainful comfort of a man happy in having nothing to fear and nothing to wish for.
He did not notice a man, apparently a traveller, who with the aid of a cane was walking laboriously along the road,—which was quite deserted, that being the hottest hour of the day. As the traveller saw Arnauld, he stopped in front of him.
"Pardon me, my friend," said the stranger. "Is there not, pray, in this village of yours an inn where I may rest and dine?"
"No, there is not," replied Arnauld, without moving; "you will have to go to Rieux, two leagues from here, before you will come across an innkeeper's signpost."
"Two leagues more!" exclaimed the wayfarer; "and I am quite exhausted now. I would willingly give a pistole for a chance to lie down, and for something to eat at this moment."
"A pistole!" said Arnauld, ever on the alert, as of old, when money was to be had. "Well, my good fellow, we can give you, if you wish, a bed in a corner here; and as for dinner,—why, we are going to have an anniversary feast to-day, and one guest more will make no difference. How does that suit you?"
"Perfectly," replied the stranger; "for, as I told you, I am almost fainting with fatigue and hunger."
"Very well; it's a bargain, then," said Arnauld; "you may remain here for a pistole."
"I will pay in advance," said the traveller.
Arnauld du Thill sat up to take the money, and at the same time raised his hat, which had concealed his eyes and his face.
The stranger was then able to see his features; and at the first glance he cried, recoiling in amazement,—
"My nephew, Arnauld du Thill!"
Arnauld looked carefully at him, and turned pale; but he soon collected himself.
"Your nephew?" said he. "Why, I don't know you! Who are you?"
"You don't know me, Arnauld?" exclaimed the stranger; "you don't know your old uncle, your mother's own brother, Carbon Barreau, to whom you have been the source of so much trouble,—as indeed you have been to the whole family?"
"By my faith, no!" said Arnauld, with an insolent laugh.
"What! do you deny me and yourself as well?" rejoined Carbon Barreau. "Tell me, do you mean to say that you did not cause your mother, who was my sister, to die of grief,—a poor, lone widow, whom you abandoned at Sagias ten years ago? Ah! you may not recognize me, hard heart; but I know you well."
"I have no idea what you mean," replied Arnauld, brazenly, entirely cool and collected. "My name is not Arnauld, but Martin-Guerre; and I am not from Sagias, but belong in Artigues. The old men in the neighborhood have known me from my birth, and will swear to my identity; and if you want to be laughed at, you have only to repeat your statement before my wife, Bertrande de Rolles, and all my kinsfolk."
"Your wife! your kinsfolk!" said Carbon Barreau, in bewilderment. "Pardon! Is it possible that I am mistaken? No; it cannot be! Such a resemblance—"
"At the end of ten years it is hard to verify," Arnauld interrupted. "Come, your sight is growing dim, my good friend! My real uncles and relatives you can see and talk with yourself very soon."
"Oh, very well! In that case," replied Carbon Barreau, who began to be convinced, "you may well boast of your resemblance to my nephew, Arnauld du Thill."
"I never heard of him except from you," said Arnauld, sneeringly, "and I never have boasted of it yet."
"Ah, when I said that you might boast of it," returned the good man, "I did not mean that there was any cause for pride in resembling such a rascal, far from it! I am in a position to say, since I am one of the family, that my nephew was the most infernal blackguard imaginable. And indeed when I reflect, it seems very improbable that he should still be alive, for the villain must have been hung long before this."
"Do you think so?" retorted Arnauld, not without bitterness.
"I am sure of it, Monsieur Martin-Guerre," said Carbon Barreau, with an air of conviction. "However, it doesn't offend you, does it, to have me speak in such terms of the scoundrel, since you are not he, my good host?"
"Not in the least," said Arnauld, decidedly ill at ease, however.
"Ah, Monsieur," continued the uncle, who was rather inclined to chatter, "how many times have I congratulated myself, in speaking to his poor weeping mother, on having remained unmarried, and having had no children to dishonor my name and ruin my life, as that vile good-for-nothing did for her."
"Let me see; that is true," said Arnauld to himself. "Uncle Carbon had no children,—no heirs, that is to say."
"What are you thinking, Master Martin?" asked the stranger.
"I was thinking," Arnauld replied in his sweetest tones, "that in spite of your assertions to the contrary, Messire Carbon Barreau, you would be very happy to-day if you had a son, or even, in default of a son, this same evil-disposed nephew, whom you seem to regret so little, but who would at least be something for you to love, and somebody to whom you could hand down your property when you die."
"My property?" said Carbon Barreau.
"Yes, to be sure, your property," replied Arnauld. "You who scatter pistoles around with so lavish a hand cannot be poor; and this Arnauld, whom I resemble, would be your heir, I suppose. Pardieu! I am inclined to regret to a certain extent that I am not he."
"Arnauld du Thill, if he is not hung, would really be my heir," returned Carbon Barreau, gravely. "But he will derive no great advantage from that fact, for I am not rich. I offer a pistole for the privilege of resting a while and for a little refreshment, because I am overborne with weariness and hunger; but that does not prevent my purse from being light,—too light, alas!"
"Hum!" said Arnauld, incredulously.
"Don't you believe me, Master Martin-Guerre? As you please. It is no less true that I am now on my way to Lyons, to see the President of the Parliament, where I acted as usher for twenty years, who offers me shelter and sustenance for the rest of my days. He sent me twenty-five pistoles to pay my few small debts, and the expenses of the journey, large-hearted man that he is! But what I have left of that sum is all that I own in the world. Therefore my heritage is too trifling a matter for Arnauld du Thill, even were he alive, to take the trouble to claim it. That is why—”
"Enough of this, dotard!" Arnauld du Thill rudely interrupted him, in high ill-humor. "Do you suppose I have time to listen forever to your twaddle? Just give me your pistole and go into the house, if you choose. You shall dine in an hour's time, and can sleep after that, and then we shall be quits. That does not require so much talk."
"But it was you who questioned me," said Carbon Barreau.
"Come, come! Do you propose to go in, fellows or not? See, some of my guests are already arriving, and with your leave I will quit you to receive them. Go in. I treat you without ceremony, and do not escort you."
"So I see," said Carbon Barreau, as he entered the house, grumbling at his host's sudden changes of humor.
Three hours later the company was still at the table under the elms. The number of the guests was complete, and the judge of Artigues, whose favor Arnauld meant to win, had the place of honor.
Good wine and pleasant talk were circulating. The younger people talked of the future and the graybeards of the past, while Uncle Carbon Barreau had been able to make sure that his host was really called Martin-Guerre, and was recognized and treated by all the inhabitants of Artigues as one of themselves.
"Do you remember, Martin-Guerre," said one of them, "the Augustinian monk, Brother Chrysostom, who taught us both to read?"
"Yes, I remember him," said Arnauld.
"Do you remember, Cousin Martin," asked another, "that it was on your wedding-day that cannon were first fired at a merry-making in the province?"
"Yes, I remember," replied Arnauld.
And, as if to refresh his memory, he embraced his wife, who was sitting at his side, the picture of happy pride.
"Since your memory is so exceedingly good, my good Master," suddenly exclaimed a clear, firm voice behind the guests, addressing Arnauld du Thill, "since you remember so many things, perhaps you may remember me, as well!”