The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Ii Part 13

"Ah! but for all that, Father Chatelain, a doctor with a black face is enough to terrify any one--I should scream myself into fits if he were to come rolling up the great whites of his eyes at me."

"But is not this M. David the same person who cured Dame Anica of that dreadful wound in her leg, which had confined her to her bed for upwards of three years?"

"Yes, exactly so, Father Chatelain; he certainly did set old Dame Anica up again."

"Well, then, my child?"

"Nay, but only think!--a black man! and when one is ill, too! when one can so ill bear up against such horrid things. If he were only a little dark, or even deep brown, but quite, quite a black--all black--oh, Father Chatelain, I really cannot bring myself to think of it!"

"Tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite heifer Musette?"

"Oh, white--white as a swan, Father Chatelain; and such a milcher! I can say that for the poor thing without the least falsehood, a better cow we have not got on the farm."

"And your other favourite, Rosette?"

"Rosette? Oh, she is as black as a raven, not one white hair about her I should say; and, indeed, to do her justice, she is a first-rate milcher also. I hardly know which is the best, she or my pretty Musette."

"And what coloured milk does she give?"

"Why, white, of course, Father Chatelain; I really thought you knew that."

"Is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your snowy pet, Musette?"

"Every bit as good in colour and quality."

"Although Rosette is a black cow?"

"To be sure! why, Father Chatelain, what difference can it possibly make to the milk whether the cow that gives it is black, white, red, or brown?"

"How, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify whether a doctor has a black or white skin, or what his complexion may be?"

"Well," answered Claudine, fairly hunted into a corner from which no argument could rescue her,--"well, as regards what makes a black doctor not so good as a white one, it is--it is, because a black skin is so very ugly to look at, and a white one is so much more agreeable to one's eyes; I'm sure I can't think of any other reason, Father Chatelain, if I try for ever; but with cows the colour of the skin makes not the very least difference, of that you may be a.s.sured; but, then, you know there's a deal of difference between a cow and a man."

These not very clear physiognomical reflections of Claudine, touching the effect of light or dark skins in the human and animal race, were interrupted by the return of Jean Rene, blowing his fingers with animation as he had before blown his soup.

"Oh, how cold! how cold it is this night!" exclaimed he, on entering; "it is enough to freeze one to death; it is a pretty deal more snug and comfortable in-doors than out this bitter night. Oh, how cold it is!"

"Why,--

'The frost that cometh from North and East Biteth the most and ceaseth the least.'

Don't you know that, my lad?" said the old superintendent Chatelain.

"But who was it that rang so late?"

"A poor blind man and a boy who leads him about, Father Chatelain."

"And what does this poor blind man want?" inquired Chatelain.

"The poor man and his son were going by the cross-road to Louvres, and have lost themselves in the snow; and as the cold is enough to turn a man into an icicle, and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father has come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pa.s.s the night on the farm; he says he shall be for ever thankful for leave to lie on a little straw under a hovel, or in any out-building."

"Oh, as for that, I am quite sure that Madame Georges, who never refuses charity to any unfortunate being, will willingly permit them to do so; but we must first acquaint her with it; go, Claudine, and tell her the whole story." Claudine disappeared.

"And where is this poor man waiting?" asked Father Chatelain.

"In the little barn just by."

"But why in the barn? why put him there?"

"Bless you, if I had left him in the yard, the dogs would have eaten him up alive! Why, Father Chatelain, it was no use for me to call out 'Quiet, Medor! come here, Turk! down, Sultan!' I never saw dogs in such a fury. And, besides, we don't use our dogs on the farm to fly at poor folks, as they are trained to do at other places."

"Well, my lads, it seems that the 'share for the poor' has not been laid aside in vain to-night. But try and sit a little closer; there, that'll do; now put two more plates and knives and forks for this blind traveller and his boy, for I feel quite certain what Madame Georges's answer will be, and that she will desire them to be housed here for the night."

"It is really a thing I can't make out," said Jean Rene, "about the dogs being so very violent, especially Turk, who went with Claudine this evening to the rectory. Why, when I stroked him, to try and pacify him, I felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles of a porcupine.

Now, what do you say to that, eh, Father Chatelain--you who know almost everything?"

"Why, my lad, I, 'who know everything,' say just this, that the beasts know far more than I do, and can see farther. I remember, in the autumn, when the heavy rains had so swollen the little river, I was returning with my team-horses one dark night--I was riding upon Cuckoo, the old roan horse, and deuce take me if I could make out any spot it would be safe to wade through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a pit.

Well, I threw the bridle on old Cuckoo's back, and he soon found what, I'll answer for it, none of us could have discovered. Now, who taught the dumb brute to know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let me ask you?"

"Ay, Father Chatelain, that's what I was waiting to ask you. Who taught the old roan to discover danger and escape from it so cleverly?"

"The same Almighty wisdom which instructs the swallow to build in our chimneys, and guides the marten to make his nest among the reeds of our banks, my lad. Well, Claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bearing on her arms two pairs of snowy white sheets, from which an odoriferous smell of sage and thyme was wafted along,--"well, I make no doubt but Madame Georges has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind man and his child, to sleep here, has she not?"

"These sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the little room at the end of the pa.s.sage," said Claudine.

"Go and bid them come in, then, Jean Rene; and you, Claudine, my good girl, put a couple of chairs near the fire--they will be glad of a good warm before sitting down to table."

The furious barking of the dogs was now renewed, mingled with the voice of Jean Rene, who was endeavoring to pacify them; the door of the kitchen was abruptly opened, and the Schoolmaster and Tortillard entered with as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit from some dangerous foe.

"For the love of heaven, keep off your dogs!" cried the Schoolmaster, in the utmost terror; "they have been trying to bite us!"

"They have torn a great bit out of my blouse," whined Tortillard, s.h.i.+vering with cold and pale with fear.

"Don't be frightened, good man," said Jean Rene, shutting the door securely; "but I never before saw our dogs in such a perfect fury--it must be the cold makes them so spiteful; perhaps, being half frozen, they fancied biting you would serve to warm them--there is no knowing what mere animals may mean by what they do."

"Why, are you going to begin, too?" exclaimed the old farmer, as Lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly happy in the radiance of the glowing fire, started up, and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at the strangers. "This old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must do the same.

Will you lie down and be quiet, you old brute? Do you hear, sir? lie down!"

At these words from Father Chatelain, accompanied by a significant motion of the foot, Lysander, with a low, deep growl of dissatisfaction, slowly returned to his favourite corner by the hearth, while the Schoolmaster and Tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door, as though fearful of approaching farther. The features of the ruffian were so hideous, from the frightful effects produced by the cold, that some of the servants in the kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others recoiled in disgust; this impression was not lost on Tortillard, who felt rea.s.sured by the terrors of the villagers, and even felt proud of the repulsiveness of his companion. This first confusion over, Father Chatelain, thinking only of worthily discharging the duties of hospitality, said to the Schoolmaster:

"Come, my good friend--come near the fire and warm yourself thoroughly, and then you shall have some supper with us; for you happened to come very fortunately, just as we were sitting down to table. Here, sit down, just where I have placed your chair. But what am I thinking about?"

added the worthy old labourer. "I ought to have spoken to your son, not you, seeing that it has pleased G.o.d to take away your eyesight--a heavy loss, a heavy loss; but let us hope all for your good, my friend, though you may not now think so. Here, my boy, lead your father to that snug place in the chimney-corner."

"Yes, kind sir," drawled out Tortillard, with a nasal tw.a.n.g and canting, hypocritical tone; "may G.o.d bless you for your charity to the poor blind! Here, father, take my arm; lean on my shoulder, father; take care, take care, gently;" and, with affected zeal and tenderness, the urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they reached the indicated spot. As the pair approached Lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise; but as the Schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious animal had full scent of his garments, he broke out into one of those deep howls with which, it is a.s.serted by the superst.i.tious, dogs frequently announce an approaching death.

"What, in the devil's name, do all these cursed animals mean by their confounded noise?" said the Schoolmaster to himself. "Can they smell the blood on my clothes, I wonder? for I now recollect I wore the trousers I have on at present the night the cattle-dealer was murdered."

"Did you notice that?" inquired Jean Rene of Father Chatelain. "Why, I vow that, as often as old Lysander had caught scent of the wandering stranger, he actually set up a regular death-howl."