CHAPTER XVI
THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE PEOPLE
In the center walked a man, dressed as a mountebank, who bent forward,laden with various properties--a bag that contained a miscellany ofspurious medicines and drugs, to be sold from a stand, and variousdolls for a small puppet theater he carried on his back. It was notfor the Governor's daughter, or the old woman, however, his call hadbeen intended. "Way there!" he repeated to those in front of him.
But they, yet seeking to detain, called out: "Give the piece here!"
CHAPTER XVI
THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE PEOPLE
In the center walked a man, dressed as a mountebank, who bent forward,laden with various properties--a bag that contained a miscellany ofspurious medicines and drugs, to be sold from a stand, and variousdolls for a small puppet theater he carried on his back. It was notfor the Governor's daughter, or the old woman, however, his call hadbeen intended. "Way there!" he repeated to those in front of him.
But they, yet seeking to detain, called out: "Give the piece here!"
Like a person not lightly turned from his purpose, he, strolling-playeras well as charlatan, pointed to the Mount, and, unceremoniouslythrusting one person to this side and another to that, stubbornlypushed on. As long as they were in sight the girl watched, but whenwith shouts and laughter they had vanished, swallowed by the shiftinghost, once more she turned to the crone. That person, however, hadwalked on toward the shore, and indecisively the Governor's daughtergazed after. The woman's name she had not inquired, but could find outlater; that would not be difficult, she felt sure.
Soon, with no definite thought of where she was going, she began toretrace her steps, no longer experiencing that earlier over-sensitiveperception for details, but seeing the picture as a whole--a vagueimpression of faces; in the background, the Mount--its golden saintever threatening to strike!--until she drew closer; when abruptly theuplifted blade, a dominant note, above color and movement, vanished,and she looked about to find herself in the shadow of one of the rock'sbulwarks. Near by, a scattering approach of pilgrims from the sandsnarrowed into a compact stream directed toward a lower gate, and,remembering her experience above, she would have avoided the generalcurrent; but no choice remained. At the portals she was jostledsharply; no respecters of persons, these men made her once more feelwhat it was to be one of the great commonalty; an atom in the rank andfile! At length reaching the tower's little square, many of themstopped, and she was suffered to escape--to the stone steps swingingsharply upward. She had not gone far, however, when looking down, shewas held by a spectacle not without novelty to her.
In the shadow of the Tower of the King stood the mountebank she hadseen but a short time before on the sands. Now facing the peoplebefore his little show-house, which he had set up in a convenientcorner, he was calling attention to the entertainment he proposedgiving, by a loud beating on a drum.
Rub-a-dub-dub! "Don't crowd too close!" Rub-a-dub-dub! "Keep orderand you will see--"
"Some trumpery miracle mystery!" called out a jeering voice.
"Or the martyrdom of some saint!" cried another.
"I don't know anything about any saint," answered the man,"unless,"--rub-a-dub-dub!--"you mean my lord's lady!"
And truly the piece, as they were to discover, was quite barren of thatantique religious flavor to which they objected and which stillpervaded many of the puppet plays of the day. _The Petit Masque of theWicked Peasant and the Good Noble_, it was called; an odd designationthat at once interested the Lady Elise, bending over the stonebalustrade the better to see. It interested, also, those officialguardians of the peace, a number of soldiers and a few officers fromthe garrison standing near, who, unmindful of the girl, divided theirattention between the pasteboard center of interest and the peoplegathered around it.
Circumspectly the little play opened; a scene in which my lord, in awaistcoat somewhat frayed for one of his station, commands the lazypeasant to beat the marsh with a stick that the croaking of the frogsmay not disturb at night the rest of his noble spouse, seemed designedprincipally to show that obedience, submission and unquestioning fealtywere the great lord's due. On the one hand, was the patrician born torule; on the other, the peasant, to serve; and no task, howeveronerous, but should be gladly welcomed in behalf of the master, or hisequally illustrious lady. The dialogue, showing the disinclination ofthe bad peasant for this simple employment and the good lord's noblesolicitude for the nerves of his high-born spouse, was both nimble andwitty; especially those bits punctuated by a cane, and the sentiment:"Thus all bad peasants deserve to fare!" and culminating in anexcellent climax to the lesson--a tattoo on the peasant's head thatsent him simultaneously, and felicitously, down with the curtain.
"What think you of it?" At my lady's elbow one of the officers turnedto a companion.
"Amusing, but--" And his glance turned dubiously toward the people.Certainly they did not now show proper appreciation either for theliterary merits of the little piece or the precepts it promulgated infairly sounding verse.
"The mountebank!" From the crowd a number of discontented voices rose."Come out, Monsieur Mountebank!"
"Yes, Monsieur Mountebank, come out; come out!"
With fast-beating heart the Lady Elise gazed; as in a dream had shelistened--not to the lines of the puppet play; but to avoice--strangely familiar, yet different--ironical; scoffing; laughing!She drew her breath quickly; once more studied the head, in its white,close-fitting clown's covering; the heavy, painted face, with red,gaping mouth. Then, the next moment, as he bowed himselfback--apparently unmindful of a missile some one threw and which struckhis little theater--the half-closed, dull eyes met hers; passed,without sign or expression!--and she gave a nervous little laugh. Whata fancy!
"Act second!" the tinkling of a bell prefaced the announcement, andonce more was the curtain drawn, this time revealing a marsh and thebad peasant at work, reluctantly beating the water to the _Song of theStick_.
"Beat! beat! At his lordship's command; For if there's a croak, For you'll be the stroke, From no gentle hand."
A merry little tune, it threaded the act; it was soon interrupted,however, during a scene where a comical-looking devil on a broomstick,useful both for transportation and persuasion, came for something whichhe called the peasant's soul. Again the bad peasant protested; wouldcheat even the devil of his due, but his satanic Majesty would not beset aside.
"You may rob your master," he said, in effect; "defraud him of_banalite_, _bardage_ and those other few taxes necessary to hisdignity and position; but you can't defraud _Me_!" Whereupon heproceeded to wrest what he wanted from the bad peasant by force--andthe aid of the broomstick!--accompanying the rat-a-tat with awell-rhymed homily on what would certainly happen to every peasant whosought to deprive his lord of feudal rights. At this point a growingrestiveness on the part of the audience found resentful expression.
"That for your devil's stick!"
"To the devil with the devil!"
"Down with the devil!"
The cry, once started, was not easy to stop; men in liquor and ripe formischief repeated it; in vain the mountebank pleaded: "My poor dolls!My poor theater!" Unceremoniously they tumbled it and him over; a few,who had seen nothing out of the ordinary in the little play took hispart; words were exchanged for blows, with many fighting for the sakeof fighting, when into the center of this, the real stage, appearedsoldiers.
"What does it mean?" Impressive in gold adornment and consciousauthority, the commandant himself came down the steps. "Who dares makeriot on a day consecrated to the holy relics? But you shall pay!" asthe soldiers separated the belligerents. "Take those men into custodyand--who is this fellow?" turning to the mountebank, a mournful figureabove the wreckage of his theater and poor puppets scattered,haphazard, like victims of some untoward disaster.
"It was his play that started the trouble," said one of the officers.
"_Diable!_" the commandant frowned.
"What have you to say foryourself?"
"I," began the mountebank, "I--" he repeated, when courage and wordsalike seemed to fail him.
The commandant made a gesture. "Up with him! To the top of the Mount!"
"No, no!" At once the fellow's voice came back to him. "Don't take methere, into the terrible Mount! Don't lock me up!"
"Don't lock him up!" repeated some one in the crowd, moved apparentlyby the sight of his distress. "It wasn't his fault!"
"No; it wasn't his fault!" said others.
"Eh?" Wheeling sharply, the commandant gazed; at the lowering facesthat dared question his authority; then at his own soldiers. On thebeach he might not have felt so secure, but here, where twenty,well-armed, could defend a pass and a mob batter their heads in vainagainst walls, he could well afford a confident front. "Up with you!"he cried sternly and gave the mountebank a contemptuous thrust.
For the first time the man's apathy seemed to desert him; his arm shotback like lightning, but almost at once fell to his side, while anexpression, apologetically abject, as if to atone for that momentaryfierce impulse, overspread his dull visage. "Oh, I'll go," he said inaccents servile. And proceeded hurriedly to gather up the remains ofhis theater and dolls. "I'm willing to go."
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