"I am a soldier--I am determined to fulfil the duties of my profession."

"But, you devil of a stubborn block! Suppose you are killed, our house would then fall from the lance to the distaff."

"I promised you I would marry at forty--"

"But until then--think of it--these street fights are disgraceful--to die in the mud of the gutters, killed by a lot of beggars!"

"Before it came to that I would have treated myself to the sport of hewing several of them down with my saber," coolly replied the colonel.

"In that event it will not be difficult for you to find some st.u.r.dy Plouernel b.a.s.t.a.r.d of my own making--whom you will then adopt, uncle. He will perpetuate my name. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds often have brought good luck to great houses."

"Triple fool! To play with your life in that manner! And that at the very moment when the future smiles upon us as it never smiled before! At the moment when, after having been beaten, kicked and cuffed by the descendants of the men who for fourteen centuries were our va.s.sals and serfs, we are about to wipe out at a single stroke these last fifty years of shame! At the moment when, instructed by experience, and aided by the course of events, we are about to resume our power and become even mightier than we were in 1789! Go to--I pity you! You are right, races degenerate!" exclaimed the intractable old man, rising. "I would despair of our cause if all our people were like you."

The valet, stepping in again after rapping at the door, said to the Count of Plouernel:

"Monsieur Count, the linendraper of St. Denis Street has arrived. He is waiting in the ante-chamber."

"Take him to the salon of the portraits."

The valet left; the colonel said to the Cardinal, whom he saw angrily picking up his hat and moving towards the door:

"For G.o.d's sake, uncle, do not go away angry, in that way--"

"I am not going away angry; I am going away ashamed."

"Come, dear uncle, you will think better of me."

"Will you, yes or no, depart with me for England?"

"Impossible, uncle."

"Then go to the devil!" was the rather uncanonical shout with which the Cardinal furiously took his leave, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER VI.

JOEL AND NEROWEG.

Marik Lebrenn had been taken by order of the Count of Plouernel into a richly furnished salon. From the walls hung a number of family portraits.

Some wore the cuira.s.s of knights, others the white cross and red cloak of the Templars, others the civilian dress of n.o.blemen, still others the ermine of a peer of France, or the purple of the Princes of the Church.

It was likewise with the women. They wore monastic garbs, and court costumes. But, whether it was that each painter had scrupulously reproduced nature, or that they yielded to the requirements of a family who held it a point of honor to make manifest an uninterrupted racial affiliation in their line of descent, the generic type of the several faces was reproduced in all. Some in beauty, others in ugliness, all by the marked distance between the eyes, together with the p.r.o.nounced hook of the nose, recalled the bird of prey. Similarly, what by common accord has been called the Bourbon type, which bears some resemblance to the ovine breed, is visibly perpetuated in the house of the Capets.

Similarly, also, almost all the descendants of the house of Rohan had, it is said, an erect tuft of hair that was long spoken of as the Rohan crest.

As with almost all ancient family paintings, the Plouernel coat-of-arms and the name of the original represented in the picture were designed in a corner of the canvas. For instance, there were the names of Gonthram V, Sire of Plouernel; Gonthram IX, Count of Plouernel; Hildeberta, Lady of Plouernel; Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel; and so on, the names of the descendants, men and women, of the Plouernel lineage.

As he contemplated these family portraits Marik Lebrenn experienced a singular mixture of curiosity, bitterness, and sentiments rather sad than wrathful. He moved from one to the other of the portraits as if they awakened a thousand memories within him. His eyes would rest meditatively upon the motionless faces, mute as those of specters.

Several of the personages seemed to draw his attention violently. One of them, evidently painted from indications or traditions transmitted subsequent to the date--the year 297--that the portrait bore, must have been the founder of this old house. The corner of the canvas bore the name _Gonthram Neroweg_.

This personage was of colossal stature. His copper-red hair, combed back Chinese style and held together on the top of his head with a gold band, fell backward over his shoulders like the plume of a helmet. His cheeks and chin were closely shaven, but a long moustache, as red as his hair, drooped down to his chest, which was tattooed in blue and was partly covered by a species of plaid or mantle barred yellow and red. A more savage and ferocious face than that of this first of the Nerowegs can not be easily imagined.

Undoubtedly, at the sight of this portrait, cruel thoughts agitated the linendraper. After long contemplating it Marik Lebrenn could not refrain from shaking his fist at him. It was an involuntary and childish gesture, that he quickly felt ashamed of.

The second portrait that likewise seemed to impress the linendraper keenly represented a woman clad in monastic garb. The picture bore the date of 729, and the name of Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel.

It seemed a singular detail, but this woman held, in one hand, an abbatial crosier, and, in the other, a naked and bloodstained sword, meant, undoubtedly, to convey the idea that the weapon did not always rest inactive in its sheath. The woman was handsome, but of a haughty and sinister beauty, a beauty that betrayed a violent temperament. Her features bore the stamp of that la.s.situde that excesses leave in their train. Her head was enveloped in long white and black veils. Her large grey-green eyes sparkled under their thick red brows. Her blood-red lips expressed at once wickedness and sensuousness. Finally, the crosier and the b.l.o.o.d.y sword in the hands of an abbess imparted to the portrait a weird, almost shocking appearance.

Lebrenn contemplated the image with disgust and horror, and muttered to himself:

"Oh, Meroflede! n.o.ble Abbess, consecrated by Satan! Messalina and Fredegonde were immaculate virgins beside you, Marshal Retz a lamb, and his infamous castle a sanctuary beside your d.a.m.nable cloister!"

Emitting a sigh of sorrow and raising his eyes to heaven as if invoking its mercy for the victims of Meroflede, he exclaimed:

"Poor Septimine! And you--ill-starred Broute-Saule!"

Lebrenn turned away his head in sadness, and long remained pensive. When he again raised his eyes they fell upon another portrait. That one was dated 1237. It represented a warrior with close-clipped hair, a long red beard, and armed cap-a-pie. From his shoulders hung the red cloak with the white cross of the Crusaders.

"Ah!" came from the linendraper with a fresh gesture of disgust and indignation--"the _Red Monk_!"

And he pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes as if to drive away the hideous vision.

Soon, however, Lebrenn's face brightened up. He heaved a sigh of relief, as if pleasant thoughts had succeeded the painful ones of just before.

His eyes rested delighted, almost moved with affection upon a portrait dated 1463, and bearing the name of Gonthram XII, Sire of Plouernel.

This portrait represented a young man of thirty years of age. He was clad in black velvet and wore the gold collar of the Order of St.

Michael. A more sympathetic face it would be difficult to conceive. The looks, and the smile that flitted over the lips of this personage, were expressive of touching melancholy.

"Oh!" said Lebrenn, "the sight of this one rests my mind--calms it--consoles it. Thanks to G.o.d, he is not the only one who fell short of the hereditary wickedness of his stock!"

Lebrenn's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the Count of Plouernel.

Lebrenn was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he started at the entrance of the Count into the hall. Despite his self-control, the linendraper, the descendant of Joel, whose family had, across the ages, so often encountered that of Neroweg in deadly feud, could not help betraying a certain degree of emotion at finding himself face to face with a descendant of this ancient family. Moreover, it should be stated that Lebrenn had been informed by Jeanike of the colonel's frequent peering through the gla.s.s windows of his shop. Nevertheless, so far from seeming concerned or irritated, Lebrenn a.s.sumed an air of naive and embarra.s.sed simplicity, which the Count of Plouernel attributed to the respectful deference that he would naturally inspire in a resident of St. Denis Street.

The Count, accordingly, addressed the merchant in an accent of patronizing familiarity, pointing him to an easychair, while he let himself down in another.

"Oh, monsieur," said Lebrenn, bowing clumsily, "indeed, you do me great honor--"

"Come, come; no ceremonies, my dear sir," interjected the Count, and he added interrogatingly; "my dear monsieur--Lebrenn--I believe?"

"Lebrenn," answered the merchant, with a bow. "Lebrenn, at your service."

"Very good. I yesterday had the pleasure of seeing Madam Lebrenn, and of mentioning to her a large order I have for linen goods for my regiment."

"Very happy, indeed, we are, monsieur, that you have honored our poor shop with your custom. I came to learn from you how many meters of linen you want, and of what quality. I have here some samples with me," he added, affecting to be busily engaged rummaging in his coat pockets after the samples. "Will it please you to choose--I shall give you the price, monsieur--the exact price--the lowest figure--"

"That's not necessary, dear Monsieur Lebrenn. I can tell you in a few words what I want. I have four hundred and fifty dragoons. I want a supply of four hundred and fifty shirts for them, of good quality. I also wish you to attend to the sewing. Your price shall be mine. You see, dear Monsieur Lebrenn, that I know you to be the very cream of honesty."