In history they liken Achille Cazaio to Simon de Montfort, and the Gracchi, and other graspers at fruit as yet unripe; or, if the perfervid word of d'Avranches be accepted, you may regard him as "_le Saint-Jean de la Révolution glorieuse_." But I think you may with more wisdom regard him as a man of strong passions, any one of which, for the time being, possessed him utterly.
"I have never seen a woman one-half so beautiful, Dom Michel. I am more than ever in love with her."
"In that event," the Friar considered, "it is, of course, unfortunate she should have a brand-new husband. Husbands are often thought much of when they are a novelty."
"You bungled matters, you fat, mouse-hearted rascal. You could quite easily have killed him."
The Dominican spread out his hands, and afterward reached for the bottle. "Milanese armor!" said Dom Michel Frégose. [Footnote: The same ecclesiastic who more lately dubbed himself, with Maréchal de Richelieu's encouragement, l'Abbé de Trans, and was discreditably involved in the forgeries of Madame de St. Vincent.]
"Yet I am master of Poictesme," Cazaio thundered, "I have ten men to de Soyecourt's one. Am I, then, lightly to be thwarted?"
"Undoubtedly you could take Bellegarde--and the woman along with the castle,--if you decided they were worth the price of a little killing. I think they are not worth it, I strongly advise you to have up a wench from the village, to put out the light, and exercise your imagination."
Cazaio shook his head. "No, Dom Michel, you churchmen live too lewdly to understand the tyranny of love."
"--Besides, there is that trifling matter of your understanding with de Puysange,--and, besides, de Puysange will be here in two days."
Cazaio snapped his fingers. "He will arrive after the fair." Cazaio uncorked the ink-bottle with an august gesture.
As John Bulmer leisurely ascended from the village the birds were waking. Whether day were at hand or no was a matter of twittering debate overhead, but in the west the stars were paling one by one, like candles puffed out by the pretentious little wind that was bustling about the turquoise cupola of heaven; and eastward Bellegarde showed stark, as though scissored from a painting, against a sky of gray-and-rose. Here was a world of faint ambiguity. Here was the exquisite tension of dawn, curiously a-chime with John Bulmer's mood, for just now he found the universe too beautiful to put any actual faith in its existence. He had strayed into Faëry somehow--into Atlantis, or Avalon, or "a wood near Athens,"--into a land of opalescence and vapor and delicate color, that would vanish, bubble-like, at the discreet tap of Pawsey fetching in his shaving-water; meantime John Bulmer's memory snatched at each loveliness, jealously, as a pug snatches bits of sugar.