caught me upand ran with me along the court, kissing me. And there, at the door,was my mama, and behind her Duke Philip and his son, and, to my joy, thethief in short breeches. There was much to say as to how my father hadmade believe he was the Duke, to give us a chance to escape a search,and how, long before the miscreant's death, he had been released throughthe help of Fouquier, and came home to find us all gone. It was, infact, the day after we fled from the cave that he was put in possessionof his house. When the municipal who went with him as a matter of formcame into the sitting-room where now we are, my father said, 'Wait andlet me give you a glass of good wine. I will fetch it.' So saying, hetook a lantern and went across the garden in deadly terror and anxiety,not dreaming but what he would find us in the lower cave. When he sawthe trap open in the floor of the plant-house, he was filled with dread,and quickly descended to the upper wine-cellar. There was the municipalthe Duke had wounded, lying dead in a great pool of blood and wine; forthe ball had gone through him and tapped a great cask of wine, of which,indeed, I think I spoke. My father then opened the trap in the floor ofthe cellar, and went down the steps. A great wind came through theopening in the wall, to his surprise. He called, but none answered. Atthe foot of the stone stair lay the naked body of the municipal whom theDuke killed outright with his first pistol. Imagine my father'sperplexity on finding the gap in the wall leading into the great darklabyrinth of the catacombs, and the rush of damp, malodorous air, andthe black gulf beyond, and the answerless silence when he called.
"He came up at once with a bottle, and made fast the traps and coveredthem with rubbish. Then he gave the officer his drink and a handful ofassignats, which may have been five francs, and after that sat down tothink. _Eh bien!_ it is a long tale, and here comes supper.
"Another day you shall hear how my father carried the dead officers intothe catacombs and left them there, and of two dangerous quests he madein those caves in search of us, and of a strange adventure which befellhim. On Sunday week come and dine, and hear it all."
"It is most interesting," I said.
"And this is the house, and we were in the cave," said Pierce.
"And," said I, "that was your mother's glove we saw moldering on thecask, where she left it?"
"Yes. A few years ago we found in a corner the baby's rattle. Thelittle fellow died last June, an old man, and the mother and the good,brave Duke are gone. And now you will sup with his son and grandson."
"Ah," exclaimed young St. Maur. "Here is Francois and supper." Uponthis the long, lean man who had admitted us said, "Monsieur is served.I shall carry in the wine." And he added, to me, "Monsieur may have letfall his handkerchief," and, so saying, he returned it, lying on asalver. Upon this the Duke and the rest of them laughed outright, butmade haste to explain at once.
"Francois," said Des Illes, "will you never be old enough to acquire alittle virtue? My dear M. Michel, we have had our good thief Francoiswith us all these days, ever since that adventure in the cave. He hasmoney in bank, but to steal a handkerchief now and then he cannotresist. I must say, he always returns it."
"Monsieur will have his little jest," said Francois. "The supperwaits." With this he left us.
"What a delightful character!" said Pierce. "And did he really pick myfriend's pocket?"
"Assuredly," said the Duke. "For many years he used now and then to aska holiday. He commonly came back rather forlorn, and apt for a while tokeep the house and be shy of gendarmes. It was our belief that he wentoff to get a little amusement in his old fashion. I suspect that he gotinto serious trouble once, but Des Illes is secretive."
"And how old is he?" said I.
"That no man knows," returned our host, rising. "To be asked his age isthe one thing on earth known to annoy him. He says time is the onlythief without honor among other thieves."
"Queer, that," said I, as our host rose. "The old have commonly astrange pride in their age."
"I have none," laughed the Duke.
"This way," said Des Illes, and we followed him into a prettydining-room, and sat down below a half-dozen canvases of men and womenof the days of the Regency.
It was a delightful little supper, with clarets of amazing age and inperfect condition. Toward the close, Des Illes retired for a few minutesto add the last charm to what the younger St. Maur called the toiletteof the salad. When we had praised it and disposed of it, Des Illes saidto me: "Monsieur, our good fortune has brought you here to-night, on theevening when once in each year we sup together in the mourning costumewhich may have excited your curiosity."
To this we both confessed, and Des Illes added: "On this day we, who areamong the few who remember the Terror, meet because it is January thetwenty-first. On this day died Louis Sixteenth. You will join us, Itrust, in a glass of older wine in remembrance of our dead King." Thusspeaking, he rose and himself took from the mantel-shelf a bottle. "Itis of the vintage of 1793, an old Burgundy. Its name I do not know, but,as you see, each bottle was marked by my father with a black ribbon."
Standing beside me, he filled our glasses, the Duke's, that of St. Maur,and last his own. Pierce and I rose with the rest. The Duke said, "TheKing, to his memory." and threw the glass over his shoulder, that nomeaner toast might be drunk from it. I glanced at Pierce, and we did asthey had done.
"It shows its age." said Des Illes, "but still holds its bouquet.Fading--fading!"
"One would scarce know it for the wine we knew when it and we wereyoung," said the Duke.
"Know it?" said Des Illes. "Ah me, dear Duke, if you yourself, agedtwenty-five, were to walk in just now and say, '_Bon jour_, Duke, how ismyself,' would you know him, think you?"
"_Pardie_, my friend; you have ghostly fancies. Give us some youngerwine and a gayer jest."
"With all my heart," said Des Illes.
"Let it be the Clos Vougeot of '20," said the younger St. Maur. "It waswith that wonderful vintage that I made my first entry into the highestsociety of the great wines."
"A fine seigneur is that," said Des Illes.
"It reminds me rather of some grande dame," returned St. Maur. "Thereis something haughty about the refinement of a high-caste Burgundy: acombination of decisive individual quality with good manners."
"How pretty that is!" said Pierce. "The good manners of a wine!"
"And is n't champagne just a bit like a grisette?" laughed the Duke."But a Margaux like this, or the Romance I see yonder, are grandees, asmy friend has said; and there might be more to say of them, but I leavethe rest to your fancy. A little more Burgundy, Monsieur?"
As is, alas, true concerning most of the pleasant meals I remember, Ican recall but faint reminiscences of the bright talk of that memorablesupper.
The younger St. Maur told us a pretty story of a vineyard wooing; athing so delicate and idyllic that I shall not dare to take it out ofits social frame for you. Later, Des Illes stood up and in a queer,creaky tenor sang (and by no means ill) the song the girls sing whenthey trample out the juice of the grapes in the great vats. Upon thisPierce quoted:
Pink feet that bruise The gold-green grapes of Andalouse.
I rashly tried to put it into French, and was much complimented uponwhat I knew to be a sorry failure.
I have a misty recollection of what came after, of old-time jests, oflevities as to the Corsican, and, too, a pretty story the Duke told usof the fairy vineyards near to Dijon, which only a woman who loves hasever seen. I seem now, as I write of this delightful night, to see itall again: the little old gentleman; the clear-cut face of the Duke; hisson, cynical and handsome; the sheen of jet; the somber, picturesquedresses; thief Francois behind Des Illes's chair, ruddy, gaunt, not lessthan ninety, with a smile of the same age. As I try to recall it, Iremember--do I remember?--the flavor of that Clos Vougeot, and hearagain the courteous voice of the Duke: "A little more Burgundy,Monsieur?"
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