Quentin Durward. Вальтер Скотт

the sound, if you please.”

      “I have not the least intention to offend,” said the old man; “but I was about to say, since you like your present meal so well, that the Scottish Archers of the guard eat as good a one, or a better, every day.”

      “No wonder,” said Durward; “for if they be shut up in the swallows’ nests all night, they must needs have a curious appetite in the morning.”

      “And plenty to gratify it upon,” said Maitre Pierre. “They need not, like the Burgundians, choose a bare back, that they may have a full belly – they dress like counts, and feast like abbots.”

      “It is well for them,” said Durward.

      “And wherefore will you not take service here, young man? Your uncle might, I dare say, have you placed on the file when there should a vacancy occur. And, hark in your ear, I myself have some little interest, and might be of some use to you. You can ride, I presume, as well as draw the bow?”

      “Our race are as good horsemen as ever put a plated shoe into a steel stirrup; and I know not but I might accept of your kind offer. Yet, look you, food and raiment are needful things, but, in my case, men think of honour, and advancement, and brave deeds of arms. Your King Louis – God bless him, for he is a friend and ally of Scotland – but he lies here in this castle, or only rides about from one fortified town to another; and gains cities and provinces by politic embassies, and not in fair fighting. Now, for me, I am of the Douglases’ mind, who always kept the fields, because they loved better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak.”

      “Young man,” said Maitre Pierre, “do not judge too rashly of the actions of sovereigns. Louis seeks to spare the blood of his subjects, and cares not for his own. He showed himself a man of courage at Montl’hery.”

      “Ay, but that was some dozen years ago or more,” answered the youth – “I should like to follow a master that would keep his honour as bright as his shield, and always venture foremost in the very throng of the battle.”

      “Why did you not tarry at Brussels, then, with the Duke of Burgundy? He would put you in the way to have your bones broken every day; and, rather than fail, would do the job for you himself – especially if he heard that you had beaten his forester.”

      “Very true,” said Quentin; “my unhappy chance has shut that door against me.”

      “Nay, there are plenty of daredevils abroad, with whom mad youngsters may find service,” said his adviser. “What think you, for example, of William de la Marck?”

      “What!” exclaimed Durward, “serve Him with the Beard – serve the Wild Boar of Ardennes – a captain of pillagers and murderers, who would take a man’s life for the value of his gaberdine, and who slays priests and pilgrims as if they were so many lance knights and men at arms? It would be a blot on my father’s scutcheon for ever.”

      “Well, my young hot blood,” replied Maitre Pierre, “if you hold the Sanglier [Wild Boar] too unscrupulous, wherefore not follow the young Duke of Gueldres?”

      [Adolphus, son of Arnold and of Catherine de Bourbon… He made war against his father; in which unnatural strife he made the old man prisoner, and used him with the most brutal violence, proceeding, it is said, even to the length of striking him with his hand. Arnold, in resentment of this usage, disinherited the unprincipled wretch, and sold to Charles of Burgundy whatever rights he had over the duchy of Gueldres and earldom of Zutphen… S.]

      “Follow the foul fiend as soon,” said Quentin. “Hark in your ear – he is a burden too heavy for earth to carry – hell gapes for him! Men say that he keeps his own father imprisoned, and that he has even struck him – can you believe it?”

      Maitre Pierre seemed somewhat disconcerted with the naive horror with which the young Scotsman spoke of filial ingratitude, and he answered, “You know not, young man, how short a while the relations of blood subsist amongst those of elevated rank;” then changed the tone of feeling in which he had begun to speak, and added, gaily, “besides, if the Duke has beaten his father, I warrant you his father hath beaten him of old, so it is but a clearing of scores.”

      “I marvel to hear you speak thus,” said the Scot, colouring with indignation; “gray hairs such as yours ought to have fitter subjects for jesting. If the old Duke did beat his son in childhood, he beat him not enough; for better he had died under the rod, than have lived to make the Christian world ashamed that such a monster had ever been baptized.”

      “At this rate,” said Maitre Pierre, “as you weigh the characters of each prince and leader, I think you had better become a captain yourself; for where will one so wise find a chieftain fit to command him?”

      “You laugh at me, Maitre Pierre,” said the youth, good humouredly, “and perhaps you are right; but you have not named a man who is a gallant leader, and keeps a brave party up here, under whom a man might seek service well enough.”

      “I cannot guess whom you mean.”

      “Why, he that hangs like Mahomet’s coffin [there is a tradition that Mahomet’s coffin is suspended in mid air Without any support, the most generally accepted explanation being that the coffin is of iron and is placed between two magnets] (a curse be upon Mahomet!) between the two loadstones – he that no man can call either French or Burgundian, but who knows to hold the balance between them both, and makes both of them fear and serve him, for as great princes as they be.”

      “I cannot guess whom you mean,” said Maitre Pierre, thoughtfully.

      “Why, whom should I mean but the noble Louis de Luxembourg, Count of Saint Paul, the High Constable of France? Yonder he makes his place good with his gallant little army, holding his head as high as either King Louis or Duke Charles, and balancing between them like the boy who stands on the midst of a plank, while two others are swinging on the opposite ends.”

      [This part of Louis XI’s reign was much embarrassed by the intrigues of the Constable Saint Paul, who affected independence, and carried on intrigues with England, France, and Burgundy at the same time. According to the usual fate of such variable politicians, the Constable ended by drawing upon himself the animosity of all the powerful neighbours whom he had in their turn amused and deceived. He was delivered up by the Duke of Burgundy to the King of France, tried, and hastily executed for treason, A. D. 1475. S.]

      “He is in danger of the worst fall of the three,” said Maitre Pierre. “And hark ye, my young friend, you who hold pillaging such a crime, do you know that your politic Count of Saint Paul was the first who set the example of burning the country during the time of war? and that before the shameful devastation which he committed, open towns and villages, which made no resistance, were spared on all sides?”

      “Nay, faith,” said Durward, “if that be the case, I shall begin to think no one of these great men is much better than another, and that a choice among them is but like choosing a tree to be hung upon. But this Count de Saint Paul, this Constable, hath possessed himself by clean conveyance of the town which takes its name from my honoured saint and patron, Saint Quentin” [it was by his possession of this town of Saint Quentin that the Constable was able to carry on those political intrigues which finally cost him so dear. S.] (here he crossed himself), “and methinks were I dwelling there, my holy patron would keep some look out for me – he has not so many named after him as your more popular saints – and yet he must have forgotten me, poor Quentin Durward, his spiritual godson, since he lets me go one day without food, and leaves me the next morning to the harbourage of Saint Julian, and the chance courtesy of a stranger, purchased by a ducking in the renowned river Cher, or one of its tributaries.”

      “Blaspheme not the saints, my young friend,” said Maitre Pierre. “Saint Julian is the faithful patron of travellers; and, peradventure, the blessed Saint Quentin hath done more and better for thee than thou art aware of.”

      As he spoke, the door opened, and a girl rather above than under fifteen years old, entered with a platter, covered with damask, on which was placed a small saucer of the dried plums which have always added to the reputation of Tours, and a cup of the curiously chased plate which the goldsmiths of that city were anciently famous for executing