The Knight of Malta

CHAPTER XXVII. CONVERSATION

He wore the simple sailor costume which greatly enhanced his grace and beauty.

“Here comes our bashful lover, our modest wooer,” said Trimalcyon, seeing him.

As a reply, the young sailor, appreciative of this pleasantry, threw off his mantle, embroidered in jet-black silk, gave a kiss to Swan-skin, caressed Orangine’s chin, and, taking up a silver goblet from the table, extended it to Trimalcyon as he exclaimed:

“To the health of Reine des Anbiez, the future favourite of my harem!”

Pog threw a piercing glance on Erebus, and said, in a measured, hollow voice:

“These words come from his lips, his heart will give the lie to his language.”

“You are mistaken, Captain Pog; only land your demons on the beach of La Ciotat, and you will see if the brightness of the flames which will broil the French in their hole will prevent my following Hadji to the castle of that old Provençal.”

“And once in that castle, what will you do, my boy?” said Trimalcyon, with a mocking air. “Will you ask if the beautiful girl has not a skein of silk to wind, or if she will permit you to hold her mirror while she combs her hair?”

“Be quiet, Full-Bottle, I will employ my time well. I will sing for her the song of the emir, a song worthy of Beni-Amer, which that fox, Hadji, made her listen to so well.”

“And if the old Provençal finds your voice disagreeable, he will give you a leather strap, as if you were a badly taught child, my boy,” said Trimalcyon.

“I will reply to the old gentleman by seizing his daughter in my arms, and singing to him those verses of Hadji:

“And if the good man insists, you will give him, for your last word, your kangiar to end the conversation?” “That comes of course, Empty-Cup. Who carries off the daughter, kills the father,” added Erebus, with an ironical smile.

Trimalcyon wagged his head, and said to Pog, who seemed more and more absorbed in his gloomy thoughts: “The young peacock is laughing at us, he is jesting, he will do some shepherd-swain nonsense with that girl.” “Has the French spy returned from the islands?” asked Pog of Erebus.

“Not yet, Captain Pog,” replied the young sailor; “he departed with his stick and his wallet, disguised as a beggar. He will be here, without doubt, in an hour. I waited for him in vain. Seeing that he did not arrive, I came in my long-boat; the barge which landed him on the shore will bring him back here. But shall we attack La Ciotat or Marseilles, Captain Pog?”

“Marseilles, unless the report of the spy makes me change my opinion,” said Pog.

“And on our return, shall we not stop a moment at La Ciotat?” asked Erebus. “Hadji is expecting us.”

“And your beautiful maiden also, my boy. Ah! ah! you are more impatient to see her beautiful eyes than the gaping mouths of the cannon of the castle,” said Trimalcyon, “and you are right, I do not reproach you for it.”

“By the cross of Malta, which I abhor!” cried Erebus, with impatience, “I would rather never see that lovely girl in the cabin of my chebec than not to sound my war-cry at the attack of Marseilles. Captain Pog knows that in all our combats with the French or with the galleys of religion, my arm, although young, has dealt some heavy blows.”

“Be quiet! whether we attack Marseilles or not, you will be able to approach La Ciotat with your chebec and carry off your maiden. I will not allow you to lose this new chance of damning your soul, my dear child,” said Pog, with a sinister laugh.

“My soul? You have always told me, Captain Pog, that I had no soul,” replied the unhappy Erebus, with a bantering indifference.

“You do not see, my boy, that Captain Pog is jesting,” said Trimalcyon, “as far as the soul is concerned; but as for your beauty, by Sardanapalus! we will carry her off; the pains of Hadji and your mysterious gallantries shall not be lost, although, in my opinion, you were wrong to make yourself as romantic as an ancient Moor of Grenada, just to please this Omphale. A few more abductions, my dear child, and you will realise that it is far better to break a wild filly with violence than to tame her by dint of sweetness and petting. But your young palate requires milk and honey yet awhile. Later you will come to the spices.”

“You flatter me, Trimalcyon, by comparing me to a Moor of Grenada,” said Erebus, with bitterness. “They were noble and chivalrous, and not real robbers like us.” “Robbers? Do you hear him, Captain Pog? He is yet not more than half out of his shell, and he comes talking of robbers! And who in the devil told you we were robbers? That is the way they impose upon youth, the way they deceive it and corrupt it. Why, speak to him, I pray you, Captain Pog! Robbers! Give me something to drink, Swan-skin, to help me swallow that word! Zounds! Robbers!”

Erebus seemed very little impressed by the grotesque anger of Trimalcyon.

Captain Pog raised his head slowly and said to the young man, with bitter irony:

“Well, well, my dear child, you are right to blush for our profession. Upon my return to Tripoli, I will buy you a shop near the port, – it is the best mercantile quarter. There you can sell in peace and quietness white morocco-leather, Smyrna carpets and tapestry, Persian silks and ostrich feathers. That is an easy and honest calling, my dear child. You will be able to amass some money and afterward go to Malta, and establish yourself in the Jewish quarter. There you can lend your money at fifty per cent, to the chevaliers who are in debt. Thus you can avenge yourself on those who cut your father’s and mother’s throats, by pocketing their money. It is more lucrative and less dangerous than taking your revenge in blood.”

“Captain!” cried Erebus, his cheeks flaming with indignation.

“Captain Pog is right,” said Trimalcyon, “the vampire that sucks the blood of his sleeping prey with impunity is better than the bold falcon that attacks him in the sun.”

“Trimalcyon, take care!” cried the young man, in anger.

“And who knows,” continued Pog, “if chance may not cause the chevalier who massacred your poor mother and noble father to fall under your usurious hand?”

“And see the avenging hand of Providence!” cried Trimalcyon. “The orphan becomes the creditor of the assassin! Blood and murder! Death and agony! This son, the avenger, at last gluts his rage by making the murderer of his family put on the yellow robe of insolvent debtors!”

At this last sarcasm, the anger of Erebus exceeded all bounds, and he seized Trimalcyon by the throat and drew on him a knife that he had taken from the table. But for the iron grasp of Pog, which held the youth’s hand like a vice, the fat pirate would have been dangerously wounded, if not killed.

“By Eblis and his black wings! Captain, take care! If you are provoked at the blow I was about to give that hog, then I will address myself to you!” cried Erebus, trying to free himself from Pog’s hands.

Swan-skin and Orangine escaped, shrieking with terror.

“See what it is to spoil children,” said Pog, with a disdainful smile, as he released the hand of Erebus.

“And to allow them to play with knives,” replied Trimalcyon, picking up the knife that Erebus had let fall in the struggle.

A look from Pog warned him that he must not push the young man too far.

“Do you wish to kill the one who has brought you up, dear child?” said Pog, sarcastically. “Come, you have your dagger in your belt, strike.”

Erebus looked at him with a surly air, and said, with an angry sneer:

“It is in the name of gratitude, then, that you ask me to spare your life? Then why have you preached to me the forgetfulness of benefits and the remembrance of injuries?”

Notwithstanding his impudence, Trimalcyon looked at Pog in amazement, not knowing how his companion would reply to that question.

Pog gave Erebus a look of withering contempt, as he said to him:

“I wished to test you, when I spoke of gratitude. Yes, the truly brave man forgets all benefits, and only remembers injuries. I offered you the most outrageous insult, I told you that you did not have the courage to avenge the death of your parents. You ought to have struck me at once, – but you are a coward.”

Erebus quickly drew his dagger and raised it over the pirate before Trimalcyon could take a step.

Pog, calm and unmoved, opened his breast without a sign of emotion.

Twice Erebus raised his arm, twice he let it fall again. He could not make up his mind to strike a defenceless man. He bowed his head with a sorrowful air.

Pog sat down again and said to Erebus, in a severe and imperious voice:

“Child, do not quote maxims whose meaning perhaps you may comprehend, but which your weak heart will not let you put in practice. Listen to me, once for all. I received you without pity. I feel as much hatred and contempt for you as I do for all other men. I have trained you to pillage and murder, as I would have amused myself in training a young wolf for slaughter, that some day I might be able to hurl you against my enemies. I have killed all the chevaliers of Malta who have fallen into my hands, because I have a terrible vengeance to wreak on that order. I have taught you that your family was massacred by them, in the hope of exciting your rage, and turning it against those whom I execrate. You have already served my purpose; you have killed two caravanists with your own hand, in one combat. I know you had no pleasure in it, you thought you were avenging your father and mother. I deal with you as a man deals with his war-horse; as long as he serves him, he spurs him and urges him to the fray; when he becomes feeble, he sells him. Do not feel bound in any respect to me; kill me if you can. If you dare not strike before my face, act as a traitor, – you will succeed, perhaps.”

As Erebus heard these frightful words, he seemed to be in a dream.

If he had never been deceived as to the tenderness of Pog, he believed that the man had at least an interest in him, the interest that a poor, abandoned child always inspires in one who has the care of him. The brutal confession of Pog left him no longer in doubt. These detestable maxims he had just uttered were too much in accord with the rest of his life to allow the young man to question their reality.

The feelings of his own heart were inexplicable. He seemed to have fallen into some deep and bloody abyss. The thoughts which rushed upon him drove him to frenzy. His tender and generous instincts thrilled painfully, as if an iron hand had torn them from his heart.

After the first moment of dejection, the detestable influence of Pog regained the ascendency. Erebus wished to vie with this man in cynicism and barbarity. He lifted up his pale face, and said, as a sarcastic smile played upon his lips:

“You have enlightened me, Captain Pog; until now, the hatred of the soldiers of Christ had never entered into my heart; until now, I only wished their death because they had killed my father and mother; if I showed them no mercy, I fought them, sword to sword, galley to galley. But now, captain, armed or disarmed, young or old, fairly or basely, I will kill as many as I can kill, – do you know why, captain? Say, do you know why, captain?”

“He is out of his head!” whispered Trimalcyon.

“No, he says what he feels,” replied Pog. “Ah, well, then, my child, tell me why?” added he.

“Because in making me an orphan, they put me in your power, and you have made me what I am.”

There was in the expression of the features of Erebus something which revealed a hatred so implacable, that Trimalcyon whispered to Pog:

“There is blood in his look!”

Erebus, although exasperated beyond measure by the contemptuous hatred of Pog, did not dare avenge himself, because he was dominated by an involuntary sentiment of gratitude toward the man who had reared him, and with an air of desperation he went out of the chamber.

“He is going to kill himself!” cried Trimalcyon.

Pog shrugged his shoulders.

Some moments after, while the two companions sat in gloomy silence, they heard the sound of oars striking the water.

“He is going back to his chebec,” said Trimalcyon.

Without replying, Pog went out of the chamber and walked to the prow.

It was late. The wind had grown somewhat calm; the galley-slaves were sleeping on their benches.

Nothing was heard but the regular step of the spahis who walked their rounds on the vessel.

Pog, leaning over the guards, looked at the sea in silence.

Trimalcyon, in spite of his depravity, had been moved by this scene. Never had the cruel monomania of Pog shown itself in such a horrible light. He felt a certain embarrassment in engaging in conversation with his silent friend. At last, approaching him with several “Hem – Hems,” and numerous hesitations, he said: “The weather is very fine this evening, Captain Pog.”

“Your remark is full of sense, Trimalcyon.”

“Come to the point now, and shame to the devil! I do not know what to say to you, Pog, but you are a terrible man; you will make that poor starling insane. How in the devil can you find pleasure in tormenting the young fellow so? Some fine day he will leave you.”

“If you were not a man incapable of understanding me, Trimalcyon, I would tell you that what I feel for this unfortunate youth is strange,” said Pog. “Yes, it is strange,” continued he, talking to himself. “Sometimes I feel furious anger rising in me against Erebus, a resentment as implacable as if he were my most deadly enemy. Again I have the indifference of a piece of ice. Other times I feel for him a compassion, I would say affection if that sentiment could enter my soul. Then, the sound of his voice – yes, especially the sound of his voice – and his look awaken in me memories of a time which is no more.”

As he uttered these last words, Pog spoke indistinctly. Trimalcyon was touched by the accent of his usually morose companion. The voice of Pog, ordinarily hard and sarcastic, softened almost to a lamentation.

Trimalcyon, amazed, approached Pog to speak to him; he recoiled in fright as he saw him suddenly raise his two fists toward Heaven in a threatening manner, and heard him utter such a painful, despairing cry that there seemed nothing human in it.

“Captain Pog, what is the matter with you? What is the matter with you?” cried Trimalcyon.

“What is the matter with me!” cried Pog, in a delirium, “what is the matter with me! Then you do not know that this man who stands here before you, who roars with pain, who pushes cruelty to madness, who dreams only of blood and massacre; that this man was once blessed with all, because he was good, kind, and generous. You do not know, oh, you do not know the evil that must have been done to this man to excite in him the rage which now possesses him!”

Trimalcyon was more and more amazed at this language, which contrasted so singularly with the habitual character of Pog.

He tried to enlighten himself by carefully examining the countenance of his old comrade.

After a long silence he heard the dry, strident laugh of the pirate ring through the galley. “Eh, eh! comrade,” said Pog, in the tone of irony natural to him, “it is quite right to say that at night mad dogs bark at the moon! Have you understood one word of all the nonsense I have just uttered to you? I would have been a good actor, on my faith I would; do you not think so, comrade?”

“I have not understood much, to tell the truth, Captain Pog, except that you have not been always what you are now. We are alike in that. I was a servant in a college before being a pirate.”

Pog, without making a reply, made a gesture of his hand commanding silence. Then, listening with attention on the side next to the sea, he said: “It seems to me I hear a boat.”

“Without doubt,” said Trimalcyon.

One of the watchmen on the rambade uttered three distinct cries, the first separated from the two last by quite a long interval; the last two, however, were close together.

The patron of the boat replied to this cry in the opposite manner; that is to say, he uttered at first two short, quick cries, followed by a prolonged cry.

“Those are persons from the chebec, and the spy, no doubt,” said Trimalcyon.

In fact the long-boat was already at the first seat of the rowers. The spy climbed to the deck of the galley.

“What news from Hyères?” said Pog to him.

“Bad for Marseilles, captain; the galleys of the Marquis de Brézé, coming from Naples, anchored there yesterday.”

“Who told you that?” asked Pog.

“Two bargemasters. I entered a hostelry to beg an alms, and these bargemasters were talking about it. Some mule-drivers, coming from the west, heard the same thing at St. Tropez.”

“And what rumour on the coast?”

“They are alarmed at La Ciotat.”

Pog waved his hand, and the spy retired.

“What is to be done, Captain Pog?” cried Trimalcyon. “There are only blows to be gained at Marseilles; the squadron of the Marquis de Brézé protects the port. To attack an enemy unseasonably is to do him good instead of harm; we can do nothing at Marseilles.”

“Nothing,” said Captain Pog.

“Then La Ciotat invites us; the swine, those citizens, are alarmed, it is true, but, Sardanapalus! what does that matter? The little birds tremble when they see the hawk ready to pounce upon them; but do their terrors make his claws any the less sharp, or his beak less cutting? What do you say to it, Captain Pog?”

“To La Ciotat, to-morrow at sunset, if the wind ceases. We will surprise these people in the midst of a feast; we will change their cries of joy into cries of death!” said Pog, in a hollow voice.

“Sardanapalus! these citizens, they say, have hens on golden eggs hidden in their houses. They say that the convent of the Minimes brothers is filled with costly wines, without counting the money of the farm-rent that the farmers bring to these rich do-nothings at Christmas. We will find their cash-box well furnished.”

“To La Ciotat,” said Pog; “The wind may change in our favour. I am going to return on board the Red Galleon; at the first signal, follow my manoeuvre.”

“So be it, Captain Pog,” replied Trimalcyon.

While the pirates, ambushed in that solitary bay, are preparing to surprise and attack the inhabitants of La Ciotat, we will return to Cape l’Aigle, where we left the watchman occupied in drawing up the defence of the coast.

CHAPTER XXVIII. HADJI

Although the fear of the Barbary pirates had kept the city and the coast in alarm for several days, the people began to feel safe from attack.

The north wind had lasted so long and had blown with such violence that they did not suppose the pirate vessels dared put to sea in such weather, and it seemed still less probable that they would anchor in a harbour on their seashore, which was exactly what Pog and Trimalcyon had done.

The security felt by the inhabitants was fatal to them.

Forty hours at least were required for the galley of the commander to sail from Cape Corsica to La Ciotat. The tempest had ceased only the evening before, and Pierre des Anbiez had been compelled to wait until Christmas morning to put to sea.

On the contrary, the galleys of the pirates were able to reach La Ciotat in three hours; the island of Port-Cros, where they had taken refuge, was only about six leagues distant.

But, as we have said, fear was no longer felt along the coast; besides, they reckoned upon the well-known vigilance of the watchman, Master Peyrou.

He would give the alarm in case of danger; two signals, corresponding with the sentry-box on Cape l’Aigle, had been established, one at a point opposite the bay, the other on the terrace of Maison-Forte.

At the slightest alarm all the men of La Ciotat, capable of bearing arms, were to assemble in the town hall, there to take orders from the consul, and hasten to the point which might be attacked.

A chain had been extended across the entrance of the port, and several large fishing-boats, armed with swivel-guns, were anchored a short distance from this chain. Finally, two coxswains of a long-boat, occupied a whole morning in exploring the environage, had upon their return increased the general feeling of security by announcing that not a sail was to be seen for a distance of three or four leagues.

It was about two hours after midday. A sharp wind from the east had taken the place of the north wind of the preceding days. The sky was clear, the sun bright for a winter day, and the sea beautiful, although there was a gentle swell.

A child carrying a basket on his head began to climb, singing all the while, the steep rocks which led to the house of the watchman.

Suddenly, hearing the moaning of a dog, the child stopped, looked around him with curiosity, saw nothing, and went on his way.

The cry was repeated, and this time it seemed nearer and more pitiful.

Raimond V. had been hunting all day on that side, and thinking that one of the baron’s dogs had fallen into some quagmire, the child set his basket down on the ground, climbed up a large piece of a huge rock which projected some distance over the road, and listened with attention.

The cries of the dog grew fainter, yet sounded more plaintive than before.

The child hesitated no longer. As much to do something which would please his master as to merit a small recompense, he began diligently to search for the poor animal, and soon disappeared among the tall rocks.

The dog seemed sometimes nearer, and sometimes more distant; at last the cries suddenly ceased.

The child had left the path. While he was listening, calling, crying, and whistling, Hadji, the Bohemian, appeared behind a rock.

Thanks to his skill as a juggler, he had imitated the cries of the dog, so as to distract the child from his duty and take him away from his basket. For three days he had been wandering in the midst of this solitude. Not daring to appear again at Maison-Forte, he was expecting every day the arrival of the pirates, who had been instructed by his second message.

Knowing that every morning provisions were carried to Peyrou, Hadji, who had been watching some hours for the purveyor, employed, as we have said, this stratagem to make him abandon his basket.

The Bohemian opened the bottle-case carefully provided by the majordomo Laramée, took out a large bottle covered with straw, and poured in it a small quantity of a white powder, – a powerful soporific, whose effects had already been felt by the worthy Luquin Trinquetaille.

The Bohemian had lived for two days on the small amount of food he had carried away from Maison-Forte; but, fearing to excite suspicion, he had the courage not to touch the appetising viands intended for the watchman. He restored the bottle to its place and disappeared.

The child, after having searched for the stray dog in vain, returned, took up his basket, and finally arrived at the summit of the promontory.

Master Peyrou passed for such a formidable, mysterious being, that his young purveyor did not dare say a word about the cries of the dog; he deposited the basket on the edge of the last stone of the steps, and saying, in a trembling voice, “The good God keep you, Master Peyrou,” descended as fast as his legs could carry him, holding his cap in both hands.

The watchman smiled at the child’s fear, rose from his seat, went for the basket, and set it down near him. The provisions inside smacked of the Christmas festivity.

First, there was a very fine roast turkey, a necessary dish at the solemn feast of Christmas; then a cold fish pie, some honey cakes and oil, and a basket of grapes and dried fruit done up in the style of a Christmas present; finally, two loaves of white bread with a golden brown crust, and a large bottle, containing at least two pints of the finest Burgundy wine from the cellar of Raimond V., completed his repast.

The good watchman, lonely philosopher as he was, did not appear insensible to these good things. He entered his house, took his little table, set it before his door, and there placed his preparations for his Christmas feast. Yet he was saddened by melancholy thoughts.