Part 1

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_LÉODGARD RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS_

_All the young men ran to meet Léodgard, for it was really he who was approaching. As they drew near him they were struck by his pallor and by the sinister gleam of his eyes, which avoided theirs._

NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME VII

THE BATH KEEPERS;

OR,

PARIS IN THOSE DAYS

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._

THE BATH KEEPERS;

OR,

PARIS IN THOSE DAYS

I

RUE COUTURE-SAINTE-CATHERINE

It was two o'clock on a cold, damp morning; the fine snow, which melted as soon as it touched the ground, made the streets slippery and dirty, and Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,--then called Couture-Sainte-Catherine,--although it was one of the broadest streets in Paris, was as black and gloomy as any blind alley in the Cité to-day.

But these things took place in the year one thousand six hundred and thirty-four; and I need not tell you that in those days no such devices for street lighting as lanterns, gas, or electric lights were known. The man who should have discovered the last-named invention, which, in truth, savors strongly of the magical, would surely have been subjected to the ordinary and extraordinary torture for a recompense.

Those were the good old times!

Everything new aroused suspicion; people believed much more readily in sorcerers, the devil, and magic, than in the results of study and learning and the reasoning of the human intellect.

Was it that men were too modest in those days? If so, they have reformed most effectually since then.

In those days, very few persons ventured to be out late in the streets of Paris, where the police was most inefficient and often worse.

The young noblemen sometimes indulged in the pastime of beating the watch; that diversion was permitted to the nobility. To-day, the prowlers about the barriers are the only class who undertake to beat the gendarmes from time to time; but the gendarmes are not so accommodating as the watch of the old days.

There were not then some thirty or more theatres open every evening for the entertainment of the people of the capital and of the strangers drawn thither by its renown. A single one had been founded and was patronized by Cardinal de Richelieu, who, unfortunately for his glory, had undertaken to add to his other titles thereto the title of author.

But all great men have had their weaknesses. Alexander drank too much, which was infinitely more reprehensible than to write wretched verses; Frederick the Great insisted that he was a talented performer on the flute; and Louis XIV danced in the comédies-ballets which Molière composed for him.

The farces which were then being performed by Turlupin, Gros-Guillaume, and Gauthier-Garguille ended with the daylight, their theatres being in the open air. People dined at noon and supped at six o'clock; and when a worthy bourgeois remained at a friend's house as late as nine o'clock, he looked upon it as a genuine revel, as a youthful escapade, and hurried home at the top of his speed, carrying a lantern, and shuddering with terror many a time as he passed through the lanes which were then called streets, and in which, if he should happen to meet any evil-minded person, he was certain of obtaining no assistance from any house or shop; for when the curfew had rung, everything must be closed, and you might not even have a light in your house, if you wished to read or work, or for any reason not to go to bed.

Why do we call that period "the good old time"?

That is a question I have often asked myself.

Is it because people were not entitled to go to bed, to work, to entertain their friends, to amuse themselves when they had the desire, the need, or the fancy so to do?

Is it because people broke their necks after dark in the streets? because thieves, then called _Truands_, _Mauvais Garçons_, _Tireurs de Laine_, or _Coupeurs de Bourses_, plied their trade in broad daylight on Pont Neuf and in other localities, laughing in your face if you ventured to remonstrate?

Was it because the shops were dark and filthy, devoid of taste and refinement?

Was it because duels were fought on street corners, or in the public squares, two or four or twelve a day, as unconcernedly as we go boating to-day; and the authorities took no steps to prevent this butchery?

Was it because edicts were promulgated every day whereby such a one was forbidden to wear silk, another to wear velvet, this woman to have a gilt girdle, another to dress in certain colors, which were too brilliant, too conspicuous for her walk in life?

O short-sighted politicians! O paltry critics! who anathematize luxury, who seek to restrict refinement, who censure coquetry, and who do not understand that by such theories you strike at our commerce, our manufacturers, our mechanics--in a word, all our _workers_!

In heaven's name, what harm is done if a plebeian who has money dresses fashionably, luxuriously even, if such be his taste, his caprice?

Are you afraid that he may eclipse you, who assume to belong to the beau monde? Try to make yourself distinguished by your manners, your bearing, your grace, your courtesy, your language; surely you must know that those are things that cannot be bought!

For my own part, I would be glad to see all the working girls in silk dresses, velvet bonnets, and lace-trimmed caps, and all the workingmen in patent-leather shoes and white gloves.

Where would be the harm?

Is not the picture of refinement more attractive than that of slovenliness, poverty, and want?

Does not the money that a man spends on his dress do him more honor than that which he throws away at the wine shop?

But let us return to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and to the period when the events that we are about to describe took place.

A young man came out of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and passed the Hôtel de Carnavalet, before which artists and admirers of sculpture always paused to gaze at the waving lines of the great portal, and the masks and bas-reliefs that adorned the arches of the windows--the work of the immortal Jean Goujon.

Fortunate structure, which the genius of an artist was to make famous forever, and to which, at a later time, a woman of intellect was to add renewed lustre by making it her residence!

But at the period of which we write, Madame de Sévigné had not taken up her abode at the Hôtel de Carnavalet.

The hour was not propitious for halting in front of the mansion, for it was very near Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which at that time extended to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine; moreover, the person who came from the first-named street did not seem to be in that frame of mind which fits us to pass judgment on the objects of beauty we may meet on our road.

He was, as we have said, a young man. Twenty-five years was his age; he was tall, slender, and well built; there was in his carriage and in every movement the ease of bearing which denotes the man of the world, and the manners which point to familiarity with cultivated society, and which one does not lose, even in low company, when one has inherited them from a long line of ancestors.

In addition to grace of form, this young man possessed a handsome face and clean-cut features; his brow was lofty and proud; his black eyes were large and bright, and surmounted by very dense eyebrows which almost met, thus imparting at times a somewhat sombre expression to the organs of vision below them, which flashed fire when animated by wrath, but could, on occasion, assume an expression of gentleness and tenderness which it was difficult to resist; a small mouth, well supplied with teeth, and shaded by a small moustache; an oval chin adorned by a _royale_; and a forest of black hair which fell in thick curls over his neck and shoulders--such, physically, was Léodgard de Marvejols.

As for his moral character, this story will instruct us sufficiently therein.

Clad in a handsome doublet of crimson silk, slashed with white satin; knee-breeches of the same material, held in place by a white belt with silver fringe, to which was attached a long sword, with a hilt of the finest steel, ornamented with fringe and bows of ribbon; the young cavalier's feet and legs were encased in funnel-shaped top-boots of yellow leather, with buckles at the instep; spurs affixed to those light boots indicated that they seldom contributed to wear out the pavements. A broad collarette, trimmed with lace, served as a cravat, and a small velvet cloak was thrown over the shoulders and clasped on one side. Lastly, a hat with a pointed crown and broad brim, turned up in front, and surmounted by a long white plume attached by a steel button, was the young man's headgear; and it must be said that it was infinitely more graceful and refined than the hideous hats that we wear to-day.

We must do justice to the "good old times" in this respect: the costumes worn by men were much more graceful, more dignified, more attractive, than they now are; for we must, before everything, be impartial, and award praise as well as blame.

Léodgard de Marvejols walked rather quickly, but sometimes he stopped, like a person who is very much preoccupied, and to whom it matters little that it is two o'clock in the morning, and that the streets are deserted.

At these times he usually thought aloud, or talked to himself--a practice which is more common than is generally supposed; and as the young nobleman had supped very copiously, his monologues were quite as energetic as if he were still accompanied by boisterous revellers.

At this time Léodgard was very near the new convent of the _Annonciades Célestes_, or _Filles Bleues_, which one of the mistresses of Henri IV, the Marquise de Verneuil, had founded in the year 1626.

The blue girdle and cloak worn by the Annonciades had already caused them to be styled _Filles Bleues_; which fact did not prevent those saintlike women from being held in great veneration in their quarter; so that, in broad daylight, people would have been terribly scandalized to hear our young man swear roundly so near that asylum of repentance, and exclaim, as he leaned against the wall of the convent:

"Par la mordieu! if that Jarnonville had not left the game, I should have won twice as much, thrice as much; I was in luck; I should have won until morning. And that D'Artigues, and Cournac--to refuse to take the dice--when I offered them their revenge at lansquenet--that swindlers' game! and when I was losing! God damn me! I would stake my patrimony, my moustaches, my mistress, if anyone would give me anything on them, and my soul, if the devil would take it.--Let me see: how much did I win from them? five or six hundred pistoles at most; and even so, I am not sure that their rose crowns aren't clipped or counterfeit. A noble night's work, on my word! as if that would make up what I have lost! I know that I may continue to win to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow; that I may win as often as I have lost.--Ah! I will win! I must! I must win enough to buy another _petite maison_, as I have lost mine to that infernal De Montrevers.--Where in the devil am I to take my pretty courtesan, Camilla, to-morrow?--This is strange; I feel dizzy; that Jurançon wine was good, but it is heady.--Where in the devil shall I take my new conquest to-morrow? Cournac refused to lend me his _petite maison_, on the pretext that he was to have company there. The coxcomb! he boasts of it, but it is a lie; I know from his esquire that when he goes there he is always alone! However, we shall find some place of shelter to take our belle; I am in funds now, and with a well-filled purse one is welcomed cordially everywhere.--Apropos of my purse, let us be sure that I haven't lost it. By hell! I am quite capable of it, I am so dizzy!"

At that thought, the young man hastily put his hand to his belt; but his eyes almost immediately resumed a serene expression, as he felt his purse, which was round and full. He could not resist the desire to take it in his hands and feel the weight of it, saying to himself:

"At last, I am not going home with an empty purse. Ten thousand devils! it is a long time since that has happened to me!"

And Léodgard was about to restore the purse to his belt, when a person who had drawn near to him, quietly and unperceived, caught his arm, saying:

"It is unnecessary; don't give yourself the trouble to put it back."

II

A ROBBER

The man who had halted in front of Léodgard was tall and strong, and seemed rather young than old; he was so strangely attired, that, after meeting him once, it would be difficult not to remember him.

A black doublet fitted close to his body, like a silk shirt; he wore laced half-boots; a leather belt, in which were thrust pistols and a poniard; and a broad baldric, from which hung a short sabre--a sort of dagger with a very broad blade. All this part of his costume was concealed by an ample caftan of olive-green cloth, which had a hood of the same material, and which we may compare to a modern _caban_.[A] His head was covered with a red cap, trimmed with long wild boar's hair. This cap was pulled down so far that one could hardly see his eyes; only a long, thin nose could be distinguished, the lower part of the face being completely hidden by moustaches and a heavy beard of the same color as the hair on his cap.

[A] A thick woollen cloak, with a hood.

All these details formed a most unprepossessing whole, and gave the man the aspect of a porcupine.

But one was taken by surprise when there came from that bearded face, instead of a harsh and threatening voice, a soft, almost melodious sound; there was in the bandit's speech something mellow and vibrating, which, with a rather pronounced Italian accent, gave it a decided charm.

Léodgard raised his head and was completely taken aback when he saw this individual standing in front of him; but, instead of complying with his suggestion and refraining from putting his purse away, he instantly withdrew his arm, replaced the gold in his belt, and, stepping back, scrutinized the robber; who stood quietly in his place and submitted to the examination, like one who was in no hurry at all and was content to await the convenience of the traveller he proposed to plunder.

"Pardieu! I cannot be mistaken," cried Léodgard, after a moment; "you are the famous Giovanni, the Italian robber, but lately arrived in France, who has already filled Paris with the fame of his exploits, his audacity, and, above all, his address!"

The man in the olive-green caftan bent his head slightly, replying in a flute-like voice, as if highly flattered by the compliment:

"Yes, signor, I am he."

"Ah! By my faith, I do not regret the meeting! Since the beginning of the winter, I have heard so much of you and your prowess, Master Giovanni, that I have more than once longed to make your acquaintance. For you are no ordinary robber--everybody does you that justice; you are ceremonious and well-mannered, and, it is said, very agreeable to the persons you rob. That is a decided change for us; our French thieves are so vulgar, such pitiful wretches! Come, since chance has served me so well to-night, let us talk a little. Have you a few moments to give me before we decide the fate of this purse?"

"I shall be very glad to talk with you, signor; I have time enough, for yours is the last business I shall do to-night."

"And it will not be the most profitable for you, I warn you, Giovanni; for I am not in the mood to give up my purse to you; it is too well filled for that!"

The robber's only reply was a satirical laugh.

Léodgard de Marvejols had found a stone, on which he seated himself; Giovanni remained standing with arms folded, and the conversation began.

"Why did you leave your beautiful Italy to come to France? Would you not be more at ease in the vast plains that surround Rome, or on the slopes of the Pausilippo, or lying lazily beside the blue sea that bathes the feet of Naples, than in this dark and filthy street, beneath this gray sky, in this cold mist which chills us to the bone as it clings to our garments?"

"The sky of Italy is beautiful, signor, but love of change lies deep in the heart of man."

"That is true; I grant you that. Moreover, since the days of Queen Catherine de' Medici, of sinister memory, it seems that all Italians have agreed to meet in Paris. We see your compatriots everywhere--at court, in the city, in exalted positions, in the finances. The Italians have brought us poisons,--with the way to make use of them,--the art of telling fortunes by cards, of reading the stars, of learning the future.--I try in vain to think what they have given us in exchange for all this----"

"Music, signor."

"Ah! to be sure: music! They do, in fact, sing better than we do; but, frankly, I do not think that that makes the balance even. I should have supposed that Concini's tragic end would have allayed to some extent the ardor of your compatriots for living in Paris. But I see that it is not so, and that we have not yet seen the last of the Italians."

"One finds much to entertain one in France, signor."

"That must needs be so, since everybody desires to come here!--But tell me,--for your manners and language seem to denote a man of some education, and that you are not such a devil as you seek to appear, with that shocking cap, in which you probably disguise yourself for a purpose,--what train of events has led you to adopt the hazardous profession in which you are now so famous? Do you feel disposed to tell me?--For my own part, I confess that I am very curious to know your adventures, assuming that you are not resolved to keep them secret."

"Mon Dieu! signor, I am ready to gratify you: the events of my life are very simple--like those that come to multitudes of young men in all lands. I am the son of a most respectable physician of Florence; indeed, my father had amassed some wealth; he desired to make me a _dottore_ like himself, but I had not the slightest calling for the medical profession. By way of compensation, I had a decided calling for gambling, the joys of love, and of the table. I played, and contracted debts. At first, my father paid them; but in time he tired of paying money for me; he besought me to abandon the sort of life I was leading. _Que diavolo!_--it was too late, the twig was bent! I allowed myself to be led astray by fellows to whom all means of procuring money were justifiable. I left Florence, I changed my name, from regard for my family, and I followed the current. One travels rapidly on that road! As I was dexterous and fearless, I soon left behind all those whose imitator I had been. I became famous at Naples, at Rome, at Milan, throughout Italy. But my description was spread broadcast, and, in spite of the care with which I concealed my features, I was obliged to leave my native land. Then it was that I came to France, to Paris, where I have been plying my trade for six months, in the teeth of the watch, and despite the efforts of the police and of monsieur le cardinal's bloodhounds. However, I will confess to you in confidence that I have as yet found no one among all your lovely Frenchwomen comparable to the pretty girls of Florence and Milan. I have left some tender memories in those cities. Indeed, I would stake my head that I am not yet entirely forgotten there; and on my own part--but, pardon me! I am too loquacious, I abuse your patience.--That is my story, signor; as you see, there is nothing very extraordinary in it."

While listening to the robber, Léodgard had become gloomy and pensive; his head had fallen on his breast, and it was difficult to say whether he was still listening or was lost in thought.

Giovanni, having for some moments refrained from disturbing the silence of the young man to whom he had related his adventures, said at last:

"I beg pardon, signor; I have told you what you wished to know, but the night is hastening, and I must soon think of returning to my lair. So, give me your purse, and I will take leave of you."

"Have you any companions, any confederates?" asked Léodgard abruptly, without answering the robber.

"No, indeed; I am no such fool! I work alone, and I am the better for so doing. If I had had confederates, I should have been caught long ago! As you must know, in all ranks of society, a man is never betrayed, except by his own people. Come, my young gentleman, let us finish our business. I know that this street abounds in memories, and that it is well worth while to pause and consider it. A few steps from here, during the night of June 13, 1392, the Connétable Olivier de Clisson, coming from the Hôtel Saint-Pol, where he had supped with the king, was treacherously assaulted and murdered by Pierre de Craon, chamberlain and favorite of the Duc d'Orléans, brother of King Charles VI. By a most fortunate chance, Clisson wore a coat of mail under his clothes; he received more than sixty sword and knife thrusts which did not reach his body; but he was finally wounded in the head and thrown from his horse; he fell against the door of a baker's shop, which was ajar, and his assassins took flight."

"Malpeste! Giovanni, so you know our history too!" said Léodgard, apparently taking pleasure in listening to the brigand.

"And why not, signor? I have told you that I am the son of a _dottore_!--And that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which you have just left--I have been following you for some time, you see--that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois will always figure in your annals. There it was that two miserable wretches lived toward the close of the last century--two poor brothers, beggars, in short, who possessed the talent of imitating perfectly the baying of a pack of hounds and the notes of a number of hunting horns. Certain leaders of the League formed the plan of using those beggars to lead your King Henri IV into a trap, knowing his passion for the chase. One day when the king was enjoying that sport in the forest of Vincennes, the noise of a pack of hounds, of horns, and of hunters, very distant at first, suddenly drew near; a black man, forcing his way through the underbrush, appeared before Henri IV and said to him in an awe-inspiring voice: 'Did you hear me?'--But neither the king nor any one of his train ventured to follow that man, who, it is said, was to have hurled a lance at the king if he had tried to come up with him. And all this was the work of the Leaguers and of the two beggars from Rue des Francs-Bourgeois!"

"By my faith, Master Giovanni, you have told me something that I did not know!--Pray go on; I see that one cannot fail to profit by your conversation."

"I am extremely sorry, my young gentleman, but I can talk no longer. As I reminded you just now, the hastening night forces me to retire, for I know that my description is so well known that it is impossible for me to show myself by daylight in this costume."

"Aha! that means that you have another for the sunlight? Pardieu! you are wise, for this one is very well known. Those persons who have had dealings with you have not failed to draw your portrait. I have already heard of this olive-green robe de chambre, so to speak, and of this horrible hairy cap."

"In that case, signor, you will understand that it is time for me to disappear."

"Very well! go! what prevents you? You have been too courteous to me for me to seek to cause your arrest. No, no! that would be a downright felony on my part!"

"In that case, signor, add to your complaisance the favor of handing me your purse, and I will go at once."