G. P. R. James

A Chapter of mighty import, which may be read or not, as the Reader thinks fit, the Book being quite as well without it.

WITH the happy irregularity of all true stories, we must return, for a moment, to a very insignificant person,—the Woodman of Mantes. Indeed, I have to beg my reader’s pardon for saying so much about any one under the rank of a Chevalier at least; but all through this most untractable of all histories, I have been pestered with a set of shabby fellows in very indifferent circumstances. Woodcutters, robbers, gentlemen’s servants, and the like, who make themselves so abominably useful, that though we wish them at the Devil all the time, we can no way do without them. Let the sin not be attributed to me; for I declare, upon my conscience, that when first I undertook to record this tale, I attempted a thorough reform; I superseded a great number of subordinate characters, put others upon the retired list, and dismissed a great many as useless sinecurists; but when I had done, all was in confusion; and then, after considering matters for half an hour, and turning over a page or two in the book of Nature, I found, that the most brilliant actions and the greatest events were generally brought about from the meanest motives and most petty causes: I perceived, that women and valets de-chambre govern the world: I found that saur-kraut had disagreed with Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, made her insolent to Queen Anne, made Queen Anne threaten to box her ears, made England resign her advantages over France—placed the Bourbon dynasty on the throne of Spain, and changed the face of Europe even to the present day. So, if saur-kraut did all this, surely I may return to Philip, the woodman of Mantes.

Chavigni, as we have seen, cast his purse upon the ground, and rode away from the cottage of the Woodman, little heeding what so insignificant an agent might do or say. Yet Philip’s first thought was one which would have procured him speedy admission to the Bastille, had Chavigni been able to divine its nature. “The young Count shall know all about it,” said Philip to himself. “That’s a great rogue in Isabel and silver, for all his fine clothes, or I’m much mistaken.”

His next object of attention was the purse; and after various pros and cons, Inclination, the best logician in the world, reasoned him into taking it. “For,” said Philip, “dirty fingers soil no gold;” and having carefully put it into his pouch, the Woodman laid his finger upon the side of his nose, and plunged headlong into a deep meditation concerning the best and least suspicious method of informing the young Count de Blenau of all he had seen, heard, or suspected. We will not follow the course of this cogitation, which, as it doubtless took place in the French tongue, must necessarily suffer by translation, but taking a short cut straight through all the zig-zags of Philip’s mind, arrive directly at the conclusion, or rather at the consequences, which were these. In the first place, he commanded his son Charles to load the mule with wood, notwithstanding the boy’s observation, that no one would buy wood at that time of the morning, or rather the night; for, to make use of Shakspeare’s language, the Morn, far from being yet clad in any russet mantle, was snugly wrapped up in the blanket of the dark, and snoring away, fast asleep, like her betters.

Precisely in the same situation as Aurora, that is to say, soundly sleeping, till her ordinary hour of rising, was Joan, the Woodman’s wife. Philip, however, by sundry efforts, contrived to awaken her to a sense of external things; and perceiving that, after various yawns and stretches, her mind had arrived at the point of comprehending a simple proposition, “Get up, Joan, get up!” cried he. “I want you to write a letter for me; writing being a gift that, by the blessing of God, I do not possess.”

The wife readily obeyed; for Philip, though as kind as the air of spring, had a high notion of marital privileges, and did not often suffer his commands to be disputed within his little sphere of dominion. However, it seemed a sort of tenure by which his sway was held, that Joan, his wife, should share in all his secrets; and accordingly, in the present instance, the good Woodman related in somewhat prolix style, not only all that had passed between Chavigni and Lafemas in the house, but much of what they had said before they even knocked at his door.

“For you must know, Joan,” said he, “that I could not sleep for thinking of all this day’s bad work; and, as I lay awake, I heard horses stop at the water, and people speaking, and very soon what they said made me wish to hear more, which I did, as I have told you. And now, Joan, I think it right, as a Christian and a man, to let this young cavalier know what they are plotting against him. So sit thee down; here is a pen and ink, and a plain sheet out of the boy’s holy catechism,—God forgive me! But it could not go to a better use.”

It matters not much to tell all the various considerations which were weighed and discussed by Philip and his wife in the construction of this epistle. Suffice it to say, that like two unskilful players at battledoor and shuttlecock, they bandied backwards and forwards the same objections a thousand times between them, for ever letting them drop, and taking them up again anew, till such time as day was well risen before they finished. Neither would it much edify the world, in all probability, to know the exact style and tenor of the composition when it was complete, although Philip heard his wife read it over with no small satisfaction, and doubtless thought it as pretty a piece of oratory as ever was penned.

It is now unfortunately lost to the public, and all that can be satisfactorily vouched upon the subject is, that it was calculated to convey to the Count de Blenau all the information which the Woodcutter possessed, although that information might be clothed in homely language, without much perfection, either in writing or orthography.

When it had been read, and re-read, and twisted up according to the best conceit of the good couple, it was intrusted to Charles, the Woodman’s boy, with many a charge and direction concerning its delivery, For his part, glad of a day’s sport, he readily undertook the task, and driving the laden mule before him, set out, whistling on his way to St. Germain’s. He had not, however, proceeded far, when he was overtaken by Philip with new directions; the principal one being to say, if any one should actually see him deliver the note, and make inquiries, that it came from a lady. “For,” said Philip,—and he thought the observation was a shrewd one,—“so handsome a youth as the young Count must have many ladies who write to him.”

Charles did not very well comprehend what it was all about, but he was well enough contented to serve the young Count, who had given him many a kind word and a piece of silver, when the hunting-parties of the court had stopped to water their horses at the abreuvoir. The boy was diligent and active, and soon reached St. Germain. His next task was to find out the lodging of the Count de Blenau: and, after looking about for some time, he addressed himself, for information, to a stout, jovial-looking servant, who was sauntering down the street, gazing about at the various hotels, with a look of easy nonchalance, as if idleness was his employment.

“Why do you ask, my boy?” demanded the man, without answering his question.

“I want to sell my wood,” replied the Woodman’s son, remembering that his errand was to be private. “Where does he lodge, good Sir?”

“Why, the Count does not buy wood in this hot weather,” rejoined the other.

“I should suppose the Count does not buy wood, himself, at all,” replied the boy, putting the question aside with all the shrewdness of a French peasant; “but, perhaps, his cook will.”

“Suppose I buy your wood, my man,” said the servant.

“Why, you are very welcome, Sir,” answered Charles; “but if you do not want it, I pray you, in honesty, show me which is the Count de Blenau’s hotel.”

“Well, I will show thee,” said the servant; “I am e’en going thither myself, on the part of the Marquise de Beaumont, to ask after the young Count’s health.”

“Oh, then, you are one of those who were with the carriage yesterday, when he was wounded in the wood,” exclaimed the boy. “Now I remember your colours. Were you not one of those on horseback?”

“Even so,” answered the man; “and if I forget not, thou art the Woodman’s boy. But come, prithee, tell us what is thy real errand with the Count. We are all his friends, you know; and selling him the wood is all a tale.”

Charles thought for a moment, to determine whether he should tell the man all he knew or not; but remembering the answer his father had furnished him with, he replied, “The truth then is, I carry him a note from a lady.”

“Oh, ho! my little Mercury!” cried the servant; “so you are as close with your secrets as if you were an older politician. This is the way you sell wood, is it?”

“I do not know what you mean by Mercury,” rejoined the boy.

“Why he was a great man in his day,” replied the servant, “and, as I take it, used to come and go between the gods and goddesses; notwithstanding which, Monsieur Rubens, who is the greatest painter that ever lived, has painted this same Mercury as one of the late Queen’s[A] council, but nevertheless he was a carrier of messages, and so forth.”

“Why, then, thou art more Mercury than I, for thou carriest a message, and I a letter,” answered Charles, as they approached the hotel of the Count, towards which they had been bending their steps during this conversation. Their proximity to his dwelling, in all probability, saved Charles from an angry answer; for his companion did not seem at all pleased with having the name of Mercury retorted upon himself; and intending strongly to impress upon the Woodman’s boy that he was a person of far too great consequence to be jested with, he assumed a tone of double pomposity towards the servant who appeared on the steps of the hotel. “Tell Henry de La Mothe, the Count’s page,” said the servant, “that the Marquise de Beaumont has sent to inquire after his master’s health.”

The servant retired with the message, and in a moment after Henry de La Mothe himself appeared, and informed the messenger that his master was greatly better. He had slept well, he said, during the night; and his surgeons assured him that the wounds which he had received were likely to produce no farther harm than the weakness naturally consequent upon so great a loss of blood as that which he had sustained. Having given this message on his master’s account, Henry, on his own, began to question the servant concerning many little particulars of his own family; his father being, as already said, Fermier to Madame de Beaumont.

Charles, the Woodman’s son, perceiving that the conversation had turned to a subject too interesting soon to be discussed, glided past the Marchioness’s servant, placed the note he carried in the hand of the Count’s Page, pressed his finger on his lip, in sign that it was to be given privately, and detaching himself from them, without waiting to be questioned, drove back his mule through the least known parts of the forest, and rendered an account to his father of the success of his expedition.

“Who can that note be from?” said the Marchioness de Beaumont’s servant to Henry de La Mothe. “The boy told me, it came from a lady.”

“From Mademoiselle de Hauteford, probably,” replied the Page, thoughtfully. “I must give it to my master without delay, if he be strong enough to read it. We will talk more another day, good friend;”—and he left him.

“From Mademoiselle de Hauteford!” said the man. “Oh, ho!”—and he went home to tell all he knew to Louise, the soubrette.