My beard, however, proved interesting. With infinite pains I trimmed it to a courtly point, and decided it would pass muster. It was not unlike my uncle’s—and the Sieur de Briart was ever, in my eyes, an example of all that was to be admired. The success of my efforts was attested by the woman’s growing respect. She now recognized me for a gentleman, and brought me a dish of curds, and bustled with civilities till I went.
I arrived back at the cave in such good fettle that I felt another day would see me ripe for any venture. But I was tired, and slept so soundly that I knew not when my host came in.
In the morning he was there, getting ready a savory breakfast. When I proposed my enterprise for the day, he said, very wisely:
“If you think you’re fit to-day, perhaps you may almost be so to-morrow. Wait. Don’t bungle a great matter by a little haste!”
So I curbed my chafing eagerness, and waited. He rested at home all day, and we talked much. What was said, however, was for the most part not pertinent to this record. Only one short reach of the conversation lives in my memory—but that is etched with fire.
It came in this way. One question had led to another, till at last I asked:
“Why do _you_ so hate La Garne?” and was abashed at my boldness in asking.
He sprang up and left the cave; and left me cursing my stupidity. It was an hour ere he came back, but he was calm, and seated himself as if nothing had happened.
“I had thought,” said he, in an even voice, “that if I were to speak of that the walls of this cave would cry out upon me for vengeance delayed. But I have considered, and a little I will tell you. You must know; for the hour will come when you will help me in my vengeance, and you might weaken, for you do not comprehend the mad sweetness of hate. You are born for a great happiness or a great sorrow, and either destiny may make one blunt to hate.
“I was a poor gentleman of Blois, part fop, part fantastical scholar, a dabbler in magic, and a lover of women. My nature pulled two ways. I was alone in the world, save for a little sister, beautiful, just come to womanhood, whom I loved as daughter and sister both. She thought me the wonderful among men. It chanced that at last I knew another love. A woman, the wife of a witless pantaloon of the neighbourhood, ensnared all my wits, till I saw life only in her eyes. Her husband came upon us in her garden—and for his reproaches I beat him cruelly. But he, though not a man, was not all fool. For loving his wife he could not punish me—I being stronger and more popular than he; but he knew that for theft the law would hang a man. He hid a treasure of jewels, and with a nice cunning fixed the crime upon me. It was clear as daylight, so that almost myself believed myself guilty. In a foul, reeking cell in the city wall I awaited judgment and the penalty.