The Knight of Malta

“Worthy recorder, worthy deputy of the worthy Marshal of Vitry, and of the worthy Cardinal Richelieu, – God save the king, our count, from his Eminence, – we, Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, and master of this poor mansion, we authorise you to complete your mission. You see that door there on the left, on which is nailed the sign-board, ‘Arms and Artillery,’ – open it, and perform the duties of your office.”

As he said these words the old gentleman and his guests sat with their elbows on the balcony railing, as if they had prepared themselves for the enjoyment of an interesting and unusual spectacle.

Master Isnard had followed with his eyes the gesture of the baron, which indicated to him the mysterious magazine.

It was a door of medium size, on which could easily be read the newly painted words, “Arms and Artillery.” This door was situated in the middle of the left wing, which was largely made up of rooms for the servants.

Without being able to account for his repugnance, the recorder looked at the door of the magazine with suspicion, and said to Raimond V., with an air almost arrogant:

“Send some one of your people to open that door!” The old gentleman’s face became purple with anger; he was on the point of flying into a passion, but restrained himself and replied:

“One of my people, Master Recorder? Alas, I do not have them any longer. The good old man who received you is my only servant; the taxes imposed by your worthy cardinal, and the tribute he exacts from us, have reduced the Provençal nobility to beggary, as you see! You are accompanied by two companions with halberds, and a fellow with a serge mantle,” – here the clerk made a respectful bow, – “your own people are more than enough to put your orders in execution.”

Then, seeing the Bohemian at the foot of the balcony, Raimond called to him: “Eh, you man there with the red cap, who in the devil are you? What are you doing there? Do you belong to this band?”

The wanderer approached the balcony, and said: “Monseigneur, I am a poor travelling artisan, who lives by his work. I come from Bany. I was on my way to La Ciotat, and I entered to see if I could get work at the castle.”

“Manjour!” exclaimed the baron, “you are my guest; do not stay in the court.”

At this remarkable invitation, the men of the law looked frightened, and at the same instant the Bohemian, with a wonderful agility, climbed up one of the granite pillars which supported the balcony, as quick as a wildcat, and seated himself at the feet of the baron, outside of the balustrade, on a little slab projecting from the balcony floor.

The ascension of the Bohemian was so rapid, and done so cleverly, that it excited the admiration of the guests.

The baron, laughingly seizing one of his long black locks of hair, said to him: “You climb too well to travel in the main road; it is my opinion, fellow, that windows are your doors, and roofs serve you as a place to promenade. Come in the house, boy; Laramée will give you something to drink.”

With a light bound the Bohemian jumped over the railing of the balcony, and entered the gallery, which served as dining-room on important occasions, where he found the remains of the abundant dinner of which the baron’s guests had just partaken.

The recorder remained in the court with his escort, not knowing upon what course to resolve.

He looked at the unlucky door with a vague disquietude, while the old gentleman and his friends betrayed some impatience as they waited for the end of this scene.

Finally, Master Isnard, wishing to get out of an embarrassing position, turned to the baron and said, with a solemn air:

“I call to witness the people who accompany me if anything unbecoming happens to me, and you will answer, sir, for any dangerous and secret ambuscade which could hurt the dignity of the law or of justice, or our honourable person.”

“Eh, Manjour! what are you crowing about? Nobody here wishes to interfere with your office; my arms and my artillery are there: enter, examine, and count; the key is in the door!”

“Yes, yes, go in, the key is in the door,” repeated the chorus of guests, with a sneer which seemed a sinister omen to the recorder. Exasperated beyond measure, but keeping himself at a respectful distance from the door, the recorder said to his scribe:

“Clerk, go and open this door; let us make an end of – ”

“But, Master Isnard – ”

“Obey, clerk, obey,” said the recorder, still drawing back.

The poor scribe showed the register which he held in one hand, and the pen that he held in the other.

“My hands are not free. I must be ready to draw up an official report. If some sorcery bursts out of that door, ought I not, on the very instant, enter it upon my verbal process?”

These reasons appeared to make some impression on the recorder.

“Little John, open that door,” said he to the lackey.

“Oh, master, I dare not,” replied Little John, getting behind the recorder.

“Do you hear me, you wretch?”

“Yes, sir, but I dare not; there is some sorcery there.”

“But, on my oath, if you – ”

“If the salvation of my soul depended on it, sir, I would not open it,” said Little John, in a resolute tone.

“Come, come!” said the recorder, overcome with vexation, as he addressed the halberdiers, “it will be said, my brave fellows, that you alone acted as men in this stupid affair! Open that door, and put an end to this ridiculous scene.”

The two guards retreated a step, and one of them said:

“Listen, Master Isnard, we are here to give you assistance as far as we are able, if any one rebels against your orders, but no one forbids you to enter. The key is in the door; enter alone, if you wish to do so.”

“What, an old pandour like you afraid!”

The halberdier shook his head, and said:

“Listen, Master Isnard, halberds and swords are worth nothing here; what we need is a priest with his stole, and a holy water sprinkler in his hand.”

“Michael is right, Master Isnard,” said the other guard; “it is my opinion that we will have to do what was done to exorcise the dolphins that infested the coast last year.”

“If that dog of a Bohemian had not run away like a coward,” said the recorder, stamping his foot with rage, “he might have opened the door.”

Then, happening to turn his head, the recorder discovered several men and women standing at the windows of Maison-Forte; they were partially hidden by the basement, but were looking curiously into the court.

More from self-esteem than courage, Master Isnard, seeing that he was observed by so many persons, walked deliberately to the door, and put his hand on the key.

At that moment his heart failed him.

He heard in the magazine a rumbling noise and extraordinary excitement, which he had not detected before.

The sounds were harsh, with nothing human in them.

A magic charm seemed to fasten the recorder’s hand to the key in the door.

“Come, recorder, my boy, go on! there you are! go on!” cried one of the guests, clapping his hands.

“I wager he is as warm as if it were the month of August, although the wind is blowing from the north,” said another.

“Give him time to invoke his patron and make a vow,” said a third.

“His patron is St. Coward,” said the lord of Signerol; “no doubt he is making a vow never to brave another danger if he delivers him from this one.”