THE STUNG LION.
This was the scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and Blanche.
At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation difficult to describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and down, his handsome, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling with indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut hair that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count the pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his thick, black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike that which is seen in the visage of a raging lion.And even as the wounded lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible darts, walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon paced the floor of his room, as if bounding from side to side; sometimes he stooped, as though bending beneath the weight of his anger; sometimes, on the contrary, he paused abruptly, drew himself up to his full height, crossed his arms upon his vigorous chest, and with raised brow, threatening and terrible look, seemed to defy some invisible enemy, and murmur confused exclamations.Then he stood like a man of war and battle in all his intrepid fire.
And now he stamped angrily with his foot, approached the chimney-piece, and pulled the bell so violently that the bell-rope remained in his hand.
A servant hastened to attend to this precipitate summons."Did you not tell Dagobert that I wished to speak to him?" cried the marshal.
"I executed your grace's orders, but M.Dagobert was accompanying his son to the door, and--"
"Very well!" interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious gesture.
The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his left hand.This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport, who, seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him.At length the door opened, and Dagobert appeared."I have been waiting for you a long time, sirrah!" cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.
Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: "I beg your pardon, general, but I was letting out my son--"
"Read that, sir!" said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.
While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger, as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: "Thus, even in my own house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible perseverance.Well! have you read it, sir?"
"It is a fresh insult to add to the others," said Dagobert, coolly, as he threw the letter into the fire.
"The letter is infamous--but it speaks the truth," replied the marshal.
Dagobert looked at him in amazement.
"And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter" continued the marshal."One would think the devil had a hand in it--for it was your dog!"
"Spoil-sport?" said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.
"Yes," answered the marshal, bitterly; "it is no doubt a joke of your invention."
"I have no heart for joking, general," answered Dagobert, more and more saddened by the irritable state of the marshal; "I cannot explain how it happened.Spoil-sport is a good carrier, and no doubt found the letter in the house--"
"And who can have left it there? Am I surrounded by traitors? Do you keep no watch? You, in whom I have every confidence?"
"Listen to me, general--"
But the marshal proceeded, without waiting to hear him."What! I have made war for five-and-twenty years, I have battled with armies, I have struggled victoriously through the evil times of exile and proscription, I have withstood blows from maces of iron--and now I am to be killed with pins! Pursued into my own house, harassed with impunity, worn out, tortured every minute, to gratify some unknown, miserable hate!--When I say unknown, I am wrong--it is d'Aigrigny, the renegade, who is at the bottom of all this, I am sure.I have in the world but one enemy, and he is the man.I must finish with him, for I am weary of this--it is too much."
"But, general, remember he is a priest--"
"What do I care for that? Have I not seen him handle the sword? I will yet make a soldier's blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!"
But, general--"
"I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one," cried the marshal, with an accent of the most violent exasperation; "I tell you, that I mast find a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at once make an end of him!--They press upon me from all sides; they make my life a hell--you know it--and you do nothing to save me from these tortures, which are killing me as by a slow fire.Can I have no one in whom to trust?"
"General, I can't let you say that," replied Dagobert, in a calm, but firm voice.
"And why not?"
"General, I can't let you say that you have no one to trust to.You might end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would go through fire and water to serve you.I am one of them--and you know it."
These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable and generous character might from time to time be embittered by irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity.So, addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still much agitated: "You are right.I could never doubt your fidelity.But anger deprives me of my senses.This infamous letter is enough to drive one mad.I am unjust, ungrateful--yes, ungrateful--and to you!"
"Do not think of me, general.With a kind word at the end, you might blow me up all the year round.But what has happened?"
The general's countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly: "I am looked down upon, and despised!"
"You?"
