I go to seek on many roads
What is to
be.
True heart and strong, with love to light—
Will they not
bear me in the fight
To order, shun or wield or mould
My Destiny?
Unpublished Poems of David
Mignot.
The song was over. The words were David's; the air, one of the countryside.
The company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young poet paid for
the wine. Only the notary, M. Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines,
for he was a man of books, and he had not drunk with the rest.
David went out into the village street, where the night air drove the wine
vapour from his head. And then he remembered that he and Yvonne had quarrelled
that day, and that he had resolved to leave his home that night to seek fame and
honour in the great world outside.
"When my poems are on every man's tongue," he told himself, in a fine
exhilaration, "she will, perhaps, think of the hard words she spoke this
day."
Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed. David crept
softly into his room in the shed of his father's cottage and made a bundle of
his small store of clothing. With this upon a staff, he set his face outward
upon the road that ran from Vernoy.
He passed his father's herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly pen—the sheep
he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he wrote verses on scraps of
paper. He saw a light yet shining in Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook his
purpose of a sudden. Perhaps that light meant that she rued, sleepless, her
anger, and that morning might—But, no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no
place for him. Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out along that road
lay his fate and his future.
Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straight as a
ploughman's furrow. It was believed in the village that the road ran to Paris,
at least; and this name the poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never
so far from Vernoy had David travelled before.
THE LEFT BRANCH
Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined
with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain, for a
while, and then took the road to the left.
Upon this more important highway were, imprinted in the dust, wheel tracks
left by the recent passage of some vehicle. Some half an hour later these traces
were verified by the sight of a ponderous carriage mired in a little brook at
the bottom of a steep hill. The driver and postilions were shouting and tugging
at the horses' bridles. On the road at one side stood a huge, black-clothed man
and a slender lady wrapped in a long, light cloak.
David saw the lack of skill in the efforts of the servants. He quietly
assumed control of the work. He directed the outriders to cease their clamour at
the horses and to exercise their strength upon the wheels. The driver alone
urged the animals with his familiar voice; David himself heaved a powerful
shoulder at the rear of the carriage, and with one harmonious tug the great
vehicle rolled up on solid ground. The outriders climbed to their places.
David stood for a moment upon one foot. The huge gentleman waved a hand. "You
will enter the carriage," he said, in a voice large, like himself, but smoothed
by art and habit. Obedience belonged in the path of such a voice. Brief as was
the young poet's hesitation, it was cut shorter still by a renewal of the
command. David's foot went to the step. In the darkness he perceived dimly the
form of the lady upon the rear seat. He was about to seat himself opposite, when
the voice again swayed him to its will. "You will sit at the lady's side."
The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat. The carriage
proceeded up the hill. The lady was shrunk, silent, into her corner. David could
not estimate whether she was old or young, but a delicate, mild perfume from her
clothes stirred his poet's fancy to the belief that there was loveliness beneath
the mystery. Here was an adventure such as he had often imagined. But as yet he
held no key to it, for no word was spoken while he sat with his impenetrable
companions.
In an hour's time David perceived through the window that the vehicle
traversed the street of some town. Then it stopped in front of a closed and
darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammer impatiently upon the door. A
latticed window above flew wide and a nightcapped head popped out.
"Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My house is
closed. 'Tis too late for profitable travellers to be abroad. Cease knocking at
my door, and be off."
"Open!" spluttered the postilion, loudly; "open for Monsiegneur the Marquis
de Beaupertuys."
"Ah!" cried the voice above. "Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did not
know—the hour is so late—at once shall the door be opened, and the house placed
at my lord's disposal."
Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flung open.
Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of the Silver Flagon stood,
half clad, candle in hand, upon the threshold.
David followed the Marquis out of the carriage. "Assist the lady," he was
ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as he guided her
descent. "Into the house," was the next command.
The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table ran down
its length. The huge gentleman seated himself in a chair at the nearer end. The
lady sank into another against the wall, with an air of great weariness. David
stood, considering how best he might now take his leave and continue upon his
way.
"My lord," said the landlord, bowing to the floor, "h-had I ex-expected this
honour, entertainment would have been ready. T-t-there is wine and cold fowl and
m-m-maybe—"
"Candles," said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one plump white hand in
a gesture he had.
"Y-yes, my lord." He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted them, and set them
upon the table.
"If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy—there is a
cask—"
"Candles," said monsieur, spreading his fingers.
"Assuredly—quickly—I fly, my lord."
A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great bulk of the marquis
overflowed his chair. He was dressed in fine black from head to foot save for
the snowy ruffles at his wrist and throat. Even the hilt and scabbard of his
sword were black. His expression was one of sneering pride. The ends of an
upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.
The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young, and
possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled from the
contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis.
"What is your name and pursuit?"
"David Mignot. I am a poet."
The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes.
"How do you live?"
"I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father's flock," David answered, with his
head high, but a flush upon his cheek.
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