Roads of
Destiny
I go to seek on
many roads
What
is to be.
True
heart and strong, with love to
light --
Will
they not bear me
in the fight
To order, shun or wield or mould
My
Destiny?
UNPUBLISHED
POEMS OF
DAVID
MIGNOT.
==========================
The
song was over. The words were
David's; the air, one of the countryside.
The company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young
poet paid for the wine. Only
the notary, M. Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines, for he was
a man of books, and he had not drunk with the rest.
David
went out into the village street, where the night air drove the wine vapor
from his head. And then he
remembered that he and Yvonne had quarreled that day, and that he had
resolved to leave his home that night to seek fame and honor in the great
world outside.
'When
my poems are on every man's tongue," he told himself, in a fine
exhilaration, "she will, perhaps, think of the hard words she spoke
this day."
Except
the roysterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed.
David crept softly into his room in the shed of his father's
cottage and made a bundle of his small store of clothing.
With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the road that
ran from Vernoy.
He
passed his father's herd of sheep huddled in their nightly pen-the sheep
he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he wrote verses on scraps
of paper. He saw a light yet
shining in Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden.
Perhaps that light meant that she rued, .sleepless, her anger, and
that morning might - But, no! His
decision was made. Vernoy was
no place for him. Not one
soul there could share his thoughts.
Out along that road lay his fate and his future.
Three
leagues across the dim, moonlit Champaign ran the road, straight as a
plowman's furrow. It was
believed in the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this
name the poet whispered often to himself as he walked.
Never so far from Vernoy
had David traveled before.
THE
LEFT BRANCH
T
hree leagues, then, the road
ran, and
turned into a puzzle. It joined with
another and a larger road at right angles.
David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the
road to the
left.
Upon
this more important highway were, imprinted in the dust, wheel tracks left
by the recent passage of some vehicle.
Some half an hour later these traces were verified by the sight of
a ponderous carriage mired in a little brook at the bottom of a steep
hill. The driver and
postilions were shouting and tugging at the horses' bridles.
On the road at one side stood a huge, black-clothed man and a
slender lady wrapped in a long, light cloak.
David
saw the lack of skill in the efforts of the servants. He quietly assumed control of the work. He directed the outriders to cease their clamor at the horses
and to exercise their strength upon the wheels.
The driver alone urged the animals with his familiar voice; David
himself heaved a powerful
shoulder at the rear of the carriage, and with one harmonious tug the
great vehicle rolled up on solid ground.
The outriders climbed to their places.
David stood for a moment upon one foot.
The huge gentleman waved a hand.
"You will enter the carriage,' he said, in a voice large, like
himself, but smoothed by art and habit.
Obedience belonged in the path of such a voice.
Brief as was the young poet's hesitation, it was cut shorter still
by a renewal of the command. David's
foot went to the step. In the
darkness he perceived dimly the form of the lady upon the rear seat.
He was about to seat himself opposite, when the voice again swayed
him to its will. "You
will sit at the lady's side.”
The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat.
The carriage proceeded up the hill.
The lady was shrunk, silent into her comer.
David could not estimate whether she was old or young, but a
delicate, mild perfume from her clothes stirred his poet's fancy to the
belief that there was loveliness beneath the mystery.
Here was an adventure such as he had often imagined.
But as yet he held no key to it for no word was spoken while he sat
with his impenetrable companions.
In
an hour's time David perceived through the window that the vehicle
traversed the street of some town. Then
it stopped in front of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion
alighted to hammer impatiently upon the door.
A latticed window above flew wide and a night-capped head popped
out.
"Who
are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night?
My house is closed. 'Tis
too late for profitable travelers to be abroad.
Cease knocking at my door, and be off.”
"Open!"
spluttered the postilion, loudly; "open for Monseigneur, the Marquis
de Beaupertuys."
"Ah!”
cried the voice above. "Ten
thousand pardons, my lord. I
did not know - the hour is so late - at once shall the door be opened, and
the house placed at my lord's disposal.”
Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flung
open. Shivering with chill
and apprehension, the landlord of the Silver Flagon stood, half clad,
candle in hand, upon the threshold.
David followed the marquis out of the carriage.
“Assist the lady,” he
was ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as he guided
her descent. "Into the house," was the next command.
The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table
ran down its length. The huge gentleman seated himself in a chair at the
nearer end. The lady sank
into another against the wall, with an air of great weariness.
David stood, considering how best
he might now take his leave and continue upon his way.
“My lord" said the landlord, bowing to the floor,
“h-had I expected this honor, entertainment would have been
ready. T-t-t-there is wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe---“
“Candles," said the marquis, spreading the fingers of
one plump white hand in
a gesture he had.
“Y-yes, my lord.” He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted
them, and set them upon the
table.
"If monsieur would perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy
- there is a cask - “
“Candles,” said the monsieur, spreading his fingers.
"Assuredly - quickly - I fly,
my lord."
A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall.
The great bulk of the marquis overflowed his chair.
He was dressed in fine black from head to foot save for the snowy
ruffles at his wrist and
throat. Even the hilt and scabbard of
his sword were black. His
expression was one of sneering
pride. The ends of his
moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.
The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was
young, and possessed a
pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled from the contemplation of her forlorn
loveliness by the booming
voice of the marquis.
“What
is your name and pursuit?”
"David
Mignot. I am a poet.”
The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes. “How do you live?"
“I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father’s flock,"
David answered, with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek.
“Then
listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have blundered upon
to-night. This lady is my
niece, Mademoiselle Lucie de Varennes.
She is of noble descent and is possessed of ten thousand francs a
year in her own right. As to
her charms, you have but to observe for yourself.
If the inventory pleases your shepherd's heart, she becomes your
wife at a word. Do not
interrupt me. To-night I
conveyed her to the chateau of the Comte de Villemaur, to whom her hand
had been promised. Guests
were present; the priest was waiting; her marriage to one eligible in rank
and fortune was ready to be accomplished.
At the altar this demoiselle, so meek and dutiful, turned upon me
like a leopardess, charged me with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before
the gaping priest, the troth I had plighted for her.
I swore there and then, by ten thousand devils, that she should
marry the first man we met after leaving the chateau, be he prince,
charcoal burner, or thief. You,
shepherd, are the first. Mademoiselle
-must be wed this night. If
not you, then another. You
have ten minutes in which to make your decision.
Do not vex me -with words or questions.
Ten minutes, shepherd; and they are speeding.”
The
marquis drummed loudly with his white fingers upon the table.
He sank into a veiled attitude of waiting.
It was as if some great house had shut its doors and windows
against approach. David would
have spoken, but the huge man's bearing stopped his tongue.
Instead, he stood by the lady's chair and bowed.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, and he marveled to find his words flowing easily
before so much elegance and beauty. “You
have heard me say I was a shepherd. I
have also had the fancy, at times, that I am a poet. If it be the test of a poet to adore and cherish the
beautiful, that fancy is now strengthened.
Can I serve you in any way, mademoiselle?”
The
young woman looked up at him with eyes dry and mournful.
His frank, glowing face, made serious by the gravity of the
adventure, his strong, straight figure and the liquid sympathy in his blue
eyes, perhaps, also, her imminent need of long-denied help and kindness,
thawed her to sudden tears.
“Monsieur,'
she said, in low tones, "you look to be true and kind.
He is my uncle, the brother of my father, and my only relative.
He loved my mother, and he hates me because I am like her.
He has made my life one long terror.
I am afraid of his very looks, and never before dared to disobey
him. But to-night he would
have married me to a man three times my age.
You will forgive me for bringing this vexation upon you, monsieur.
You will, of course, decline this mad act he tries to force upon
you. But let me thank you for
your generous words, at least. I
have had none spoken to me in so long.”
There was now something more than generosity in the poet's eyes.
Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new
loveliness held him with its freshness and grace.
The subtle perfume from her filled him with strange emotions.
His tender look fell warmly upon her.
She leaned to it thirstily.
“Ten
minutes,” said David, "is given me in which to do what I would
devote years to achieve. I will not say I pity you, mademoiselle; it would not be true
- I love you. I cannot ask
love from you yet, but let me rescue you from this cruel man, and, in
time, love may come. I think
I have a future, I will not always be a shepherd.
For the present I will cherish you with all my heart and make your
life less sad. Will you trust
your fate to me, mademoiselle?”
"Ah, you would sacrifice yourself from pity?”
"From
love. The time is almost up,
mademoiselle.”
"You
will regret it, and despise me."
“I
will live only to make you happy, and myself worthy of you!”
Her
fine small hand crept into his from beneath her cloak.
I
will trust you," she breathed, “with my life. And - and love - may not be so far off as - you think.
Tell him. Once away
from the power of his eyes I may forget.”
David
went and stood before the marquis. The
black figure stirred, and the mocking eyes glanced at the great hall
clock.
"Two
minutes to spare. A shepherd
requires eight minutes to decide whether he will accept a bride of beauty
and income! Speak up,
shepherd, do you consent to become mademoiselle's husband?"
"Mademoiselle,"
said David, standing proudly, 'has done me the honor to yield to my
request that she become my wife.”
“Well
said!” said the marquis. "You
have yet the making of a courtier in you, master shepherd.
Mademoiselle could have drawn a worse prize, after all.
And now to be done with the affair as quick as the Church and the
devil will allow!”
He
struck the table soundly with his sword hilt.
The landlord came, knee-shaking, bringing more candles in the hope
of anticipating the great lord's whims.
“Fetch a priest,” said the marquis, “a priest; do you
understand? In ten minutes
have a priest here, or – “
The
landlord dropped his candles and flew.
The
priest came, heavy-eyed and muffled.
He made David Mignot and Lucie de Varennes man and wife, pocketed a
gold piece that the marquis tossed him, and shuffled out again into the
night.
"Wine,”
ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at the host.
“Fill
glasses,” he said, when it was brought.
He stood up at the head of the table in the candlelight, a black
mountain of venom and conceit, with something like the memory of an old
love turned to poison in his eye, as it fell upon his niece.
“Monsieur Mignot," he said, raising his wine-glass,
"drink after I say this to you: You have taken to be your wife one
who will make your life a foul and wretched thing.
The blood in her is an inheritance running black lies and red ruin.
She will bring you shame and anxiety.
The devil that descended to her is there in her eyes and skin and
mouth that stoop even to beguile a peasant.
There is your promise, monsieur poet, for a happy life.
Drink your wine. At
last, mademoiselle, I am rid of you."
The
marquis drank. A little grievous cry, as if from a sudden wound, came from
the girl's lips. David, with
his glass in his hand, stepped forward three paces and faced the marquis.
There was little of a shepherd in his bearing.
"Just
now," he said calmly, "you did me the honor to call me
'monsieur.' May I hope, therefore, that my marriage to mademoiselle has
placed me somewhat nearer to you in - let us say, reflected rank - has
given me the right to stand more as an equal to monseigneur in a certain
little piece of business I have in my mind?"
"You
may hope, shepherd," sneered the marquis.
"T'hen,"
said David, dashing his glass of wine into the contemptuous eyes that
mocked him, "perhaps you will condescend to fight me."
The
fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse like a blast from a
horn. He tore his sword from
its black sheath; he called to the hovering landlord: "A sword there,
for this lout!" He turned to the lady, with a laugh that chilled her
heart, and said: "You put much labor upon me, madame.
It seems I must find you a husband and make you a widow in the same
night."
“I
know not sword-play,” said David. He
flushed to make the confession before his lady.
“I
know not sword-play,” mimicked the marquis.
“Shall we fight like peasants with oaken cudgels?
Hola! Francois, my pistols!”
A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented with
carven silver from the carriage holsters.
The marquis tossed one upon the table near David's hand.
"To the other end of the table," he cried; "even a
shepherd may pull a trigger. Few
of them attain the honor to die by the weapon of a De Beaupertuys.”
The
shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of the long table.
The landlord, in an ague of terror, clutched the air and stammered:
"M-M-Monseigneur, for the love of Christ! not in my house! - do not
spill blood - it will ruin my custom --- “ The look of the marquis,
threatening him, paralyzed his tongue.
“Coward,"
cried the lord of Beaupertuys, “cease chattering your teeth long enough
to give the word for us, if you can."
Mine
host's knees smote the floor. He
was without a vocabulary. Even
sounds were beyond him. Still,
by gestures he seemed to beseech peace in the name of his house and
custom.
“I will give the word,” said
the lady, in a clear voice. She
went up to David and kissed him sweetly.
Her eyes were sparkling bright, and color had come to her cheek.
She stood against the wall and the two men leveled their pistols
for her count.
"Un-deux-trois!"
The
two reports came so nearly together that the candles flickered but once.
The marquis stood, smiling, the fingers of his left hand resting,
outspread, upon the end of the table.
David remained erect, and turned his head very slowly, searching
for his wife with his eyes. Then, as a garment falls from where it is hung, he sank,
crumpled, upon the floor.
With
a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and stooped above
him. She found his wound, and
then looked up with her old look of pale melancholy.
"Through his heart," she whispered.
"Oh, his heart!"
“Come,"
boomed the great voice of the marquis, "out with you to the carriage
Daybreak shall not find you on my hands.
Wed you shall be again, and to a living husband, this night.
The next we come upon, my lady, highwayman or peasant.
If the road yields no other, than the churl that opens my gates.
Out with you to the carriages.”
The
marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in the mystery of her
cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons - all moved out to the waiting
carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rolling away echoed through the
slumbering village. In the
hall of the Silver Flagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above
the slain poet’s body, while the flames of the four and twenty candles
danced and flickered on the table.
THE
RIGHT BRANCH
Three leagues, then, the road
ran, and turned into a puzzle. It
joined with another and a larger road at right angles.
David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the
road to the right.
Whither
it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vern far behind that
night. He traveled a league
and then passed a large chateau which showed testimony of recent
entertainment. Lights shone
from every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery of wheel
tracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests.
T'hree
leagues farther and David was weary.
He rested and slept for a while on a bed of pine boughs at the
roadside. Then up and on
again along the unknown way.
Thus for five days he traveled the great road, sleeping upon
Nature's balsamic beds or in peasants' ricks, eating of their black,
hospitable bread, drinking from streams or the willing cup of the
goat-herd.
At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within the
smiling city that has crushed or crowned more poets than all the rest of
the world. His breath came
quickly as Paris sang to him in a little undertone her vital chant of
greeting-- the hum of voice and foot and wheel.
High
up under the eaves of an old house in the Rue Conti, David paid for lodging, and set himself, in a wooden chair,
to his poems. The street,
once sheltering citizens of import and consequence, was now given over to
those who ever follow in the wake of decline.
The
houses Were tall and still possessed of a ruined dignity, but many of them
were empty save for dust and the spider.
By night there was the clash of steel and the cries of brawlers
straying restlessly from inn to inn.
Where once gentility abode was now but a rancid and rude
incontinence. But here David
found housing commensurate to his scant purse. Daylight and candlelight found him at pen and paper.
One
afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to the lower world, with
bread and curds and a bottle of thin wine.
Halfway up his dark stairway he met -
or rather came upon, for she rested on the stair - a young woman of
a beauty that should balk even the justice of a poet's imagination.
A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a rich gown beneath.
Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade of thought.
Within one moment they would be round and artless like a child's,
and long and cozening like a gypsy's.
One hand raised her gown, undraping a little shoe, high-heeled,
with its ribbons dangling, untied. So
heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified to charm and command!
Perhaps she had seen David coming, and had waited for his help
there.
Ah,
would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but the shoe! - the
naughty shoe! Alas! It would not remain tied.
Ah! if monsieur would
be so gracious!
The
poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons.
Then he would have fled from the danger of her presence, but the
eyes grew long and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him.
He leaned against the balustrade, clutching his bottle of sour
wine.
"You
have been so good,” she said, smiling.
"Does monsieur, perhaps, live in the house?"
"Yes,
madame. I-I think so,
madame.”
"Perhaps
in the third story, then?"
"No,
madame; higher up."
The
lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of impatience.
“Pardon.
Certainly I am not discreet in asking.
Monsieur will forgive me? It
is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he lodges:'
"Madame,
do not say so. I live in the
– “
“No, no, no; do not tell me.
Now I see that I erred. But
I cannot lose the interest I feel in this house and all that is in it.
Once it was my home. Often I
come here but to dream of those happy days again.
Will you let that be my excuse?”
“Let
me tell you, then, for you need no excuse," stammered the poet.
"I live in the top floor -the small room where the stairs
turn."
“In
the front room?" asked the lady, turning her head sidewise.
"The
rear, madame.”
The
lady sighed, as if with relief.
“I will detain you no longer, then, monsieur,” she said,
employing the round and artless eye.
"Take good care of my house.
Alas! only the memories of it are mine now. Adieu, and accept my thanks for your courtesy.”
She
was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet perfume.
David climbed the stairs as one in slumber.
But he awoke from it, and the smile and the perfume lingered with
him and never afterward did either seem quite to leave him. This lady of
whom he knew nothing drove him to lyrics of eyes, chansons of swiftly
conceived love, odes to curling hair, and sonnets to slippers on slender
feet.
Poet
he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new loveliness
held him with its freshness and grace.
The subtle perfume about her filled him with strange emotions.
On
a certain night three persons were gathered about a table in a room on the
third floor of the same house. Three
chairs and the table and a lighted candle upon it was all the furniture.
One of the persons was a huge man, dressed in black.
His expression was one of sneering pride.
The ends of his upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking
eyes. Another was a lady,
young and beautiful, with eyes that could be round and artless, like a
child's, or long and cozening, like a gypsy's, but were now keen and
ambitious, like any other conspirator's.
The third was a man of action, a combatant, a bold and impatient
executive, breathing fire and steel.
He was addressed by the others as Captain Desrolles.
his
man struck the table with his fist, and said, with controlled violence:
"To-night. To-night as
he goes to midnight mass. I
am tired of the plotting that gets nowhere. I am sick of signals and ciphers and secret meetings and such
baragouin. Let us be honest
traitors. If France is to be
rid of him.- let us kill in the open, and not hunt with snares and traps.
To-night, I say. I back my words. My
hand will do the deed. To-night,
as he goes to mass.”
The lady turned upon him a cordial look.
Woman, however wedded to plots, must ever thus bow to rash courage.
The big man stroked his upturned moustache.
"Dear
captain," he said, in a great voice, softened by habit, “this time
I agree with you. Nothing is
to be gained by waiting. Enough
of the palace guards belong to us to make the endeavor a safe one."
"To-night,"
repeated Captain Desrolles, again strikng the table. "You have heard me, marquis; my hand will do the
deed."'
"But
now,” said the huge man, softly, “comes a question. Word must be sent to our partisans in the palace, and a
signal agreed upon. Our
staunchest men must accompany the royal carriage.
At this hour what messenger can penetrate so far as the south
doorway? Ribout is stationed
there; once a message is placed in his hands, all will go well..”
"I
will send the message," said the lady.
"You,
countess?" said the marquis, raising his eyebrows.
'Your devotion is great, we know, but –“
“Listen!"
exclaimed the lady, rising and resting her hands upon the table; "in
a garret of this house lives a youth from the provinces as guileless and
tender as the lambs he tended there.
I have met him twice or thrice upon the stairs.
I questioned him, fearing that he might dwell too near the room in
which we are accustomed to meet. He
is mine, if I will. He writes
poems in his garret, and I think he dreams of me.
He will do what I say. He
shall take the message to the palace.” The marquis rose from his chair
and bowed. "You did not
permit me to finish my sentence, countess,”
he said. "I would
have said: “Your devotion is great,
but your wit and charm are infinitely greater."'
While
the conspirators were thus engaged, David was polishing some lines
addressed to his amorette
d'escalier. He heard a
timorous knock at his door, and opened it, with a throb, to behold her
there, panting as one in straits, with eyes wide open and artless, like a
child's.
“Monsieur," she breathed,
“I come to you in distress.
I believe you to be good and true, and I know of no other help.
How I flew through the streets among the swaggering men! Monsieur,
my mother is dying. My uncle
is a captain of guards in the palace of the king.
Some one must fly to bring him.
May I hope –“
“Mademoiselle,"
interrupted David, his eyes shining with the desire to do her
service, "your hopes shall be my wings.
Tell me how I may reach him.”
The
lady thrust a sealed paper into his hand.
“Go
to the south gate - the south gate, mind - and say to the guards there,
“The falcon has left his nest.” They will pass you, and you
will go to the south entrance to the palace.
Repeat the words, and give this letter to the man who will reply,
“Let him strike when he will.” This
is the password, monsieur, entrusted to me by my uncle, for now when the
country is disturbed and men plot against the king's life, no one without
it can gain entrance to the palace grounds after nightfall.
If you will, monsieur, take him this letter so that my mother may
see him before she closes her eyes."
“Give
it me," said David, eagerly. "But
shall I let you return home through the streets alone so late?
I----“
“No,
no - fly. Each moment is like a precious jewel. Some time," said the lady, with eyes long and cozening,
like a gypsy's, “I will try to thank you for your goodness.”
The poet thrust the letter into his breast, and bounded down the
stairway. The lady, when he
was gone, returned to the room below.
The
eloquent eyebrows of the marquis interrogated her.
“He
is gone," she said, "as fleet and stupid as one of his
own
sheep, to deliver it."
The table shook again from the batter of Captain Desrolles's fist.
"Sacred
name!" he cried; "I
have left my pistols behind! I
can trust no others.”
"Take this,”said the marquis, drawing from beneath his cloak
a shining, great weapon, ornamented with carven silver.
"There are none truer. But
guard it closely, for it bears my arms and crest, and already I am
suspected. Me, I must put
many leagues between myself and Paris this night.
Tomorrow must find me in my chateau.
After you, dear countess."
The
marquis puffed out the candle. The
lady, well cloaked, and the two gentlemen softly descended the stairway
and flowed into the crowd that roamed along the narrow pavements
of the Rue Conti.
David sped. At the
south gate of the king's residence a halberd was laid to his breast, but
he turned its point with the words: "The falcon has left his nest.”
“Pass,
brother,” said the guard,
“and go quickly.”
On the south steps of the palace they moved to seize him, but again
the mot de passe charmed the
watchers. One among them
stepped forward and began: "Let him strike -----“ But a flurry among the guards told of a surprise.
A man of keen look and soldierly stride suddenly pressed through
them and seized the letter which David held in his hand.
"Come with me,' he said, and led him inside the great hall.
Then he tore open the letter and read it.
He beckoned to a man uniformed as an officer of musketeers, who was
passing. "Captain
Tetreau, you will have the guards at the south entrance and the south gate
arrested and confined. Place
men known to be loyal in their places." To David he said: “Come
with me.” He conducted him
through a corridor and an anteroom into a spacious chamber, where a
melancholy man, somberly dressed, sat brooding in a great leather-covered
chair. To that man he said:
“Sire, I have told you that the palace is as full of
traitors and spies as a sewer is of rats.
You have thought, sire, that it was my fancy.
This man penetrated to your very door by their connivance. He bore a letter which I have intercepted.
I have brought him here that your majesty may no longer think my
zeal excessive."
"I
will question him," said the king, stirring in his chair.
He looked at David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque film.
The poet bent his knee.
"From
where do you come?'” asked the king.
“From
the village of Vernoy, in the province of Eure-et-Loir, sire.”
"What
do you follow in Paris?"
“I-I
would be a poet, sire.”
"What
did you in Vemoy?”
“I
minded my father's flock of sheep.”
The
king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eyes.
"Ah!
in the fields?"
"Yes,
sire.”
"You
lived in the fields; you went out in the cool of the morning and lay among
the hedges in the grass. The
flock distributed itself upon the hillside; you drank of the living
stream; you ate your sweet brown bread in the shade; and you listened,
doubtless, to blackbirds piping in the grove.
Is not that so, shepherd?"
“It
is, sire," answered David, with a sigh; "and to the bees at the
flowers, and, maybe, to the grape gatherers singing on the hill.”
"Yes,
yes,” said the king, impatiently; "maybe to them; but surely to the
blackbirds. They whistled
often, in the grove, did they not?"
“Nowhere,
sire, so sweetly as in Eure-et-Loir.
I have endeavored to express their song in some verses that I have
written.”
"Can
you repeat those verses?" asked the king, eagerly.
"A long time ago I listened to the blackbirds.
It would be something better than a kingdom if one could rightly
construe their song. And at
night you drove the sheep to the fold and then sang in peace and
tranquillity, to your pleasant bread.
Can you repeat those verses, shepherd?"
"They
run this way, sire," said David, with respectful ardor:
“Lazy
shepherd, see your lambkins
Skip,
ecstatic, on the mead;
See the firs dance in the
breezes,
Hear
Pan blowing at his reed.
"Hear
us calling from the tree-tops,
See us swoop upon your flock;
Yield us wool to make our nests
warm
In the branches of
the-------“
“If
it please your majesty," interrupted a harsh voice, “I will ask a
question or two of this rhymester. There
is little time to spare. I
crave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your safety offends.”
“The
loyalty," said the king, “of the Duke d'Aumale is too well proven
to give offense.” He sank
into his chair, and the film came again over his eyes.
“First,”
said the duke, "I will read you the letter he brought:
“To-night
is the anniversary of the dauphin's death.
If he goes, as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul
of his son, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade.
If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the
southwest comer of the palace, that the falcon may take heed."
"Peasant,”
said the duke, sternly, "you have heard these words.
Who gave you this message to bring?'
“My lord duke,” said David, sincerely, "I will tell you.
A lady gave it me. She
said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetch her uncle to
her bedside. I do not know
the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beautiful and
good.”
"Describe
the woman," commanded the duke, "and how you came to be her
dupe.”
“Describe
her!" said David with a tender smile.
"You would command words to perform miracles.
Well, she is made of sunshine and deep shade.
She is slender, like the alders, and moves with their grace.
Her eyes change while you gaze into them; now round, and then half
shut as the sun peeps between two clouds.
When she comes, heaven is all about her; when she leaves, there is
chaos and a scent of hawthorn blossoms.
She came to me in the Rue Conti, number twenty-nine."
“It
is the house,” said the duke, turning to the king, “that we have been
watching. Thanks to the
poet's tongue, we have a picture of the infamous Countess Quebedaux."
“Sire
and my lord duke," said David, earnestly, 'I hope my poor words have
done no injustice. I
have looked into that lady's
eyes. I will stake my life
that she is an angel, letter or no letter."
The duke looked at him steadily.
"I will put you to the proof,' he said, slowly.
"Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend mass in his
carriage at midnight. Do you
accept the test?"
David
smiled. "I have looked into her eyes," he said.
"I had my proof there. Take
yours how you will."
Half
an hour before twelve the Duke d'Aumale, with his own hands, set a red
lamp in a southwest window of the palace.
At ten minutes to the hour, David,
leaning on his arm, dressed as the king, from top to toe, with his
head bowed in his cloak, walked slowly from the royal apartments to the
waiting carriage. The duke
assisted him inside and closed the door.
The carriage whirled away along its route to the cathedral.
On
the qui vive in a house at the
comer of the Rue Esplanade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to
pounce upon the conspirators when they should appear.
But
it seemed that, for some reason, the plotters had slightly altered their
plans. When the royal
carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue
Esplanade, forth from it burst Captain Desrolles, with his band of
would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage.
The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature
attack, descended and fought valiantly.
The noise of conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau, and
they came pelting down the street to the rescue.
But, in the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the
door of the king's carriage, thrust his weapon against the body of the
dark figure inside, and fired.
Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries
and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away.
Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet,
slain by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de
Beaupertuys.
THE
MAIN ROAD
Three
leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a
puzzle. It joined with
another and a larger road at right angles.
David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest
upon its side.
Whither those roads led he knew not.
Either way there seemed to lie a great world full of chance and
peril. And then, sitting
there, his eye fell upon a bright star, one that he and Yvonne had named
for theirs. That set him
thinking of Yvonne, and he
wondered if he had not been too hasty.
Why should he leave her and his home because a few hot words had
come between them? Was love
so brittle a thing that jealousy, the very proof of it, could break it?
Mornings always brought a cure for the little heartaches of
evening. There was yet time
for him to return home without any one in the sweetly sleeping village of
Vernoy being the wiser. His
heart was Yvonne's; there where he had lived always he could write his
poems and find his happiness.
David
rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood that had tempted him.
He set his face steadfastly back along the road he had come.
By the time he had re-traveled the road to Vernoy, his desire to
rove was gone. He passed the
sheepfold, and the sheep scurried, with a drumming flutter, at his late
footsteps, warming his heart by the homely sound.
He crept without noise into his little room and lay there, thankful
that his feet had escaped the distress of new roads that night.
How well he knew woman's heart!
The next evening Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young
congregated in order that the cure might have business.
The corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit her
set mouth seemed unrelenting. He
saw the look, braved the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a
kiss as they walked homeward together.
Three
months afterward they were married. David's
father was shrewd and prosperous. He
gave them a wedding that was heard of three leagues away.
Both the young people were favorites in the village. There was a procession in the streets, a dance on the green;
they had the marionettes and a tumbler out from Dreux to delight the
guests.
Then
a year, and David's father
died. The sheep and the
cottage descended to him. He
already had the seemliest wife in the village.
Yvonnes milk pails and her brass kettles were
bright – ouf!
they blinded you
in the sun when you passed that way.
But you must keep your eyes upon her yard, for her flower beds were
so neat and gay they restored to you your sight.
And you might hear her sing, aye, as far as the double chestnut
tree above Pere Gruneau's blacksmith forge.
But a day came when David drew out paper from a longshut drawer,
and began to bite the end of a pencil.
Spring had come again and touched his heart.
Poet he must have been, for now Yvonne was well-nigh forgotten.
This fine new loveliness of earth held him with its witchery and
grace. The perfume from her
woods and meadows stirred him strangely.
Daily had he gone forth with his flock, and brought it safe at
night. But now he stretched
himself under the hedge and pieced words together on his bits of paper. The sheep strayed, and the wolves, perceiving that difficult
poems make easy mutton, ventured from the woods and stole his lambs.
David's stock of poems grew larger and his flock smaller.
Yvonne's nose and temper waxed sharp and her talk blunt.
Her pans and kettles grew dull, but her eyes had caught their
flash. She pointed out to the
poet that his neglect was reducing the flock and bringing woe upon the
household. David hired a boy
to guard the sheep, locked himself in the little room in the top of the
cottage, and wrote more poems. The
boy, being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet in the way
of writing, spent his time in slumber.
The wolves lost no time in discovering that poetry and sleep are
practically the same, so the flock steadily grew smaller.
Yvonne's ill temper increased at an equal rate.
Sometimes she would stand in the yard and rail at David through his
high window. Then you could
hear her as far as the double chestnut tree above Pere Gruneau's
blacksmith forge.
M. Papineau, the kind, wise, meddling old
notary, saw this, as he saw everything at which his nose pointed.
He went to David, fortified himself with a great pinch of snuff,
and said:
“Friend
Mignot, I affixed the seal upon the marriage certificate of your father.
It would distress me to be obliged to attest a paper signifying the
bankruptcy of his son. But
that is what you are coming to. I
speak as an old friend. Now,
listen to what I have to say. You
have your heart set, I perceive, upon poetry.
At Dreux, I have a friend, one Monsieur Bril - Georges Bril.
He lives in a little cleared space in a house-ful of books. He is a learned man; he visits Paris each year, he himself
has written books. He will
tell you when the catacombs were made, how they found out the names of the
stars, and why the plover has a long bill.
The meaning and the form of poetry is to him as intelligent as the
baa of a sheep is to you. I
will give you a letter to him, and you shall take him your poems and let
him read them. Then you will
know if you shall write more, or give your attention to your wife and
business.'
“Write the letter,” said David.
“I am sorry you did not speak of this sooner.”
At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux with the
precious roll of poems under his arm.
At noon he wiped the dust from his feet at the door of Monsieur
Bril. That learned man broke
the seal of M. Papineau's letter, and sucked up its contents through his
gleaming spectacles as the sun draws water. He took David inside to his study and sat him down upon a
little island beat upon by a sea of books.
Monsieur Bril had a conscience.
He flinched not even at a mass of manuscript the thickness of a
finger length and rolled to an incorrigible curve.
He broke the back of the roll against his knee and began to read.
He slighted nothing; he bored into the lump as a worm into a nut, seeking for a kernel.
Meanwhile, David sat, marooned, trembling in the spray of so much
literature. It roared in his
ears. He held no chart or
compass for voyaging in that sea. Half
the world, he thought, must be writing books.
Monsieur Bril bored to the last page of the poems.
Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them with his
handkerchief.
"My
old friend, Papineau, is well?" he asked.
"In
the best of health," said David.
“How
many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?"
'Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday.
The flock has had ill fortune. To
that number it has decreased from eight
hundred and fifty."
“You have a wife and a home, and lived in comfort. The sheep brought you plenty.
You went into the fields with them and lived in the keen air and
ate the sweet bread of contentment. You
had but to be vigilant and recline there upon nature's breast, listening
to the whistle of the blackbirds in the grove.
Am I right thus far?"
“It
was so," said David.
“I have read all your verses," continued Monsieur Bril, his
eyes wandering about his sea of books as if he conned the horizon for a
sail. "Look yonder,
through that window, Monsieur Mignot; tell me what you see in that
tree.”
“I
see a crow," said David, looking.
“There is a bird," said Monsieur Bril, "that shall
assist me where I am disposed
to shirk a duty.
You know that bird, Monsieur Mignot;
he is the philosopher of the air.
He is happy through submission to his lot.
None so merry or full-crawed as he with his whimsical eye and
rollicking step. The fields
yield him what he desires. He
never grieves that his plumage is not gay, like the oriole's.
And you have heard, Monsieur Mignot, the notes that nature has
given him? Is the nightingale
any happier, do you think?'
David rose to his feet. The
crow cawed harshly from his tree.
“I
thank you, Monsieur Bril," he said, slowly. “There was not, then, one nightingale note among all those
croaks?”
“I
could not have missed it.” said Monsieur Bril. with a sigh.
“I read every word. Live
your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more."
"I
thank you," said David, again. "And
now I will be going back to my sheep."
"If
you would dine with me,' said the man of books, “and overlook the smart
of it, I will give you reasons at length!'
"No,"
said the poet, "I must be back in the fields cawing at my
sheep."
Back
along the road to Vernoy he trudged with his poems under his arm.
When he reached his village he turned into the shop of one Zeigler,
a Jew out of Armenia, who sold anything that a came to his hand.
“Friend," said David, "wolves from the forest harass my
sheep on the hills. I must
purchase firearms to protect them. What have you?"
"A
bad day, this, for me, friend Mignot” said Zeigler, spreading his hands,
"for I perceive that I must sell you a weapon that will not fetch a
tenth of its value. Only last week I bought from a peddler a wagon full of goods
that he procured at a sale by a commissionaire
of the crown. The ale was
of the chateau and belongings of a great lord - I know not his title -
who has been banished for conspiracy against the king.
There are some choice firearms in the lot.
This pistol - oh, a weapon fit for a prince -it shall be only forty
francs to you, friend Mignot - if I lost ten by the sale.
But perhaps an arquebus - "
"This
will do," said David, throwing the money on the counter.
"Is it charged?"
"I
will charge it," said Zeigler. "And,
for ten francs more, add a store of powder and ball."
David
laid his pistol under his coat and walked to his cottage.
Yvonne was not there. Of
late she had taken to gadding - much among the neighbors.
But a fire was glowing in the kitchen stove.
David opened the door of it and thrust his poems in upon the coals.
As they blazed up they made a singing, harsh sound in the flue.
“The song of the crow!” said the poet.
He went up to his attic room and closed the door.
So quiet was the village that a score of people heard the roar of the great pistol.
They flocked thither, and up the stairs where the
smoke, issuing, drew their notice.
The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed, awkwardly arranging
it to conceal the torn
plumage of the poor black crow.
The women chattered in a luxury of zealous pity.
Some of them
ran to tell Yvonne.
M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first,
picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingled
air of connoisseurship and grief.
“The arms," he explained, aside, to the cure’
“and crest of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys."
-------------------------------------------
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Commentary
Roads
carried great significance to Bill Porter. He returned to this topic
often and with much obviously studied introspection.
One of his
collected volumes carried the title "Roads of Destiny".This
story is similarly entitled. Moreover, he also wrote two other 'road'
stories: one he called "Roads We Take" and a third
entitled "Lonesome Road".
"Roads
of Destiny" and "Roads We
Take" are especially significant, inasmuch as either or both of
them might be viewed as something of an outline for a much more
ambitious undertaking.
While Porter
never wrote a book as such, in the opinion of this reviewer,
he must have been giving serious consideration to a book
when he structured "Roads of Destiny" and "Roads We
Take" he did. clearly working outlines for much more lengthy
treatment.
Such
presumed plans, however, were not to be realized. William Sidney Porter
was cut down at age 48, when it might be judged that he was just coming
into his best years as a writer.
His untimely
death just added one more twist of fickle fate to the trail of tragedy
that relentlessly dogged the life and times of America's father of the
'short story'.
========
Commentary
Roads of
Destiny
As a writer, Bill Porter (the
“familiar” form of address that he preferred) was a well-located and
refreshingly uncomplicated man.
Well-located, in terms of the
placement of his stories. The
reader almost always knew where a given story was taking place.
It might be in New York City, New Orleans, Summit or
“Coralio” –but wherever, and whether a real location or an
invented one, the locus for the story was firmly established early on.
Uncomplicated, (maybe
“straightforward” is a better word) by virtue of letting his
characters tell the story with their own dialogue, insofar as it was
possible to do that. Bill
Porter clearly didn’t put much stock in the “explanatory
paragraph,” that altogether too often is a device by which a lesser
story-teller seeks to escape, after having painted himself into a
narrative corner.
Porter’s characters act and
react, declare, argue, cajole, boast, crack verbal jokes and make puns.
We readers listen to what they have to say and garner all of the
information we need to minutely follow the account, from beginning to
end. Great!
There are some exceptions to
this demanding writing
discipline, especially as Porter neared the end of his career, and at
which time his alcoholism and related
infirmities were
clearly taking their toll of both his creative and workmanship skills.
He was also a very
“private” man. How much
of this reticence to expose the inner-being of himself dated back to his
shame for having served time as a jail-bird, and how much of it grew out
of a natural reluctance to
engage in literary exhibitionism, are questions we can only guess at. It has often been posited that “all fiction is
autobiographical..” And
often the declaration is too obvious to be missed.
But not so with Porter. He
kept his secrets.
The most glaring example to
the contrary is in his mini-trilogy,
“Roads
of Destiny.”
He wrote this 3-in-1 story
near the end of his life. The
date generally accepted is late 1908, or early 1909.
Which is to say that he was to be dead within another 12 to 18
months after having
completed this work. Moreover,
knowing something of the combination of infirmities that would carry him
away, it can be safely stated that he was a very sick man; and most
likely felt like a very sick
man.
In
view of his background as a pharmacist, and the proximity of this
profession to that of medicine, it
can also be assumed that he had more than a mere glimmer of the gravity
of his afflictions.
At this point in time Bill
Porter was looking into the end of his life and what had to appear to be
a devastating confluence of private and public failures.
Consider:
His nom-de-plume was no mere option.
It had been adopted originally, and maintained, to hide the fact
that he was an ex-convict.
He had abandoned his wife and
daughter when he fled to Honduras to avoid prosecution, and returned
only when the death of his beloved
Athol was imminent.
He began drinking
“seriously” (that’s his word) as soon as he was released
from prison, and never stopped until the day he died.
Try as he might, he just
couldn’t seem to get his hands on any ‘important’ money. But, at the same time, he had to live with the knowledge that
a combination of his writing skills and his abysmal performance as a
businessman was making other people wealthy right under his nose!
Witness: One of his cell-mates in prison had given Porter the rough
outline of an unlikely story
about an ex-con safe-cracker, that he eventually turned into “A Retrieved Reformation.” He
sold the story and all rights for $500!
“A Retrieved Reformtion” was
rewritten into a stage play, and presented on the boards as “Alias
Jimmy Valentine.” Before
the play had finished its first run, it had earned more than $100,000 in
royalties, and had made Paul Armstrong’s name famous from one end of
the theater district to the other.
Bill Porter was living with
this knowledge while he cranked out his “yarns” for a weekly
stipend, and absorbed the tirades from editors who were waiting for
stories - paid for, but still undelivered!
It was out of this mix of
professional pressure, financial pressure, deteriorating health and
familial estrangements, that Will Porter sat down to write ”Roads of Destiny.” It
turned out to be one of his
least acceptable efforts, and for several sound reasons:
Porter’s setting for
“Roads of Destiny,” was
France, near the end of the reign of
Luis-XIV. Porter had
never set foot in France, and, truth to tell, his narration would lead
one to believe he hadn’t even read very extensively in the locale and
the period. He had never
before undertaken a “period piece” like this.
Taken all together, it was a
setting, a period and a narrative vehicle with which he had had
absolutely no prior experience! Predictably,
the result was disastrous.
However, if one accepts the
effort as an allegory based on Bill Porters own self-vision at that
stage of his life, (as I always have) it is most instructive:
On the left branch,
Porter’s protagonist finds both comfort and wealth and within his
grasp but, due to his own intemperance, he loses everything, including
his life.
On the right branch,
“David” is betrayed by his love for a faithless woman, and pays for
his blind trust
with his life.
On the main road, “David”
has to face the awful realization that
even his art is a delusion: He
has no talent to set him apart from the “crows.”
So Porter’s protagonist
(or his stand-in) dies by his own hand - with the symbolic weapon of his
most intransigent enemy. And
we can only conjecture about who - or
what - the Marquis de Beaupertuys
represents.
Now the thoughtful reader
must ask, is “Roads of
Destiny” autobiographical? Had
Bill Porter already seen the bleak vision of his finis
when he put these grim scenes on paper?
He was probably 47- years of age.
His books were being collected in hard covers and his readers
numbered in the millions. All
of the superficial trappings of a
popular writer’s success were his.
But he was almost a pauper.
He was certainly a
“burned-out” writer. He
was a “drunk.” Worst of all, he had “lost
his muse.”
So which of these images did
he take to bed with him at
night? When he looked into
the mirror, what did he see?
I have always believed that
“Roads of Destiny”
comes closer to giving us some of those answers than anything else
Bill Porter ever put down on paper.
LDB
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