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It was the evening of Tuesday, January 12th, in the year 1744. By six o'clock the gray of afternoon had deepened to the blackness of night, and a heavy rain began to fall, so that the Sèvres road, a mile beyond the Paris barrier, was shortly thick with mud. The only light here visible came from the window of a wretched tavern at the way-side; and by this mine host, had he been watching, would have had some difficulty in perceiving the two riders who came to an uncertain halt by his door. "It is late, du Plessis, and we have still three miles to go. More than that, 'tis the worst cabaret in France." "And you would be no more of a Jean-Jacques than necessary to-night—eh, Claude?" returned the other good-humoredly. "I should prefer drowning or to perish of a rheum by the way than be poisoned by the liquor to be had here," returned the other, flicking his saddle restlessly with his riding-whip. "So be it, then. Come, we waste time. Mordi! A little gently there, I beseech! It is raining mud." A dig of the spur in the thoroughbred's flank, a spattering of drops from the puddle in which they had stood, a quick apology, and the landlord had lost his guests, illustrious guests, who paid never a sou too much for their wine, but could make a drinking-place the fashion for weeks by five minutes' presence within it. The two rode for some minutes in silence, though no one of the finest apperception could have felt any enmity existent between them. The night lowered. The rain pelted coldly from the starless sky; and horses and riders alike shrank from the raw, streaming atmosphere. When the silence was again broken the lights of Paris were visible in the distance. This time it seemed that du Plessis—the Duc de Richelieu—addressed his companion's secret thoughts as though he had been reading them for some time past.
It was mid-April: a sunny afternoon. A flood of golden light, borne on gusts of sweet, chilly air, poured through the open windows of the Castle into a high-vaulted, massively furnished bedroom, hung with tapestries, and strewn with dry rushes. A heavy silence that was less a thing of the moment than a part of the general atmosphere hovered about the room; and it was not lessened by the unceasing murmur of ocean waves breaking upon the face of the cliff on which the Castle stood. This sound held in it a note of unutterable melancholy. Indeed, despite the sunlight, the sparkle of the waves, and the fragrance of the fresh spring air, this whole building, the culminating point of a long slope of landscape, seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of loneliness, of sadness, of lifelessness, that found full expression in the attitude of the black-robed woman who knelt alone in the high-vaulted bedroom. Eleanore was kneeling at her priedieu. Madame Eleanore knelt at her priedieu, and did not pray. Nay, the great grief, the unvoiced bitterness in her heart, killed prayer. For, henceforth, there was one near and unbearably dear to her who must be praying for evermore. And it was this thought and the vista of her future lonely years that denied her, even as she knelt, the consolation of religion. To the still solitude of her bedchamber, and always to the foot of her crucifix, the chatelaine of Le Crépusculewas accustomed to bring her griefs; and there had been many griefs and some very bitter ones in the thirty-four years that she had reigned as mistress over the Castle. But this last was one that, trained though she was in the ways of sorrow, defied all comfort, denied the right of consolation, and forbade even the relief of an appeal to the All-merciful. Laure, her daughter, the star of her solitude, the youth and the joy of her life, the object of all the blind devotion of which her mother-soul was capable, had this morning entered upon her novitiate at the convent of the Virgins of the Magdalen. Although Madame Eleanore’s family was celebrated for its piety, though many a generation of Lavals and Crépuscules had rendered a daughter to the eternal worship of God, there were still no records left in either family of a great mother-grief when the daughter left her home. But madame, Laval as she was, Crépuscule as she had learned to be, could not find it in her heart to praise God for the loss of her child. Once again, after many years, years that she could look back upon now as filled with broad content, she was alone. Not since, many, many years ago, she had come to the Castle as a girl-bride, wife of a military lord, had such utter desolation held her in its bonds,—such desolation as, after the coming of her two children, she had thought never to feel again. In the days after the Seigneur’s first early departure for Rennes, without her, she had felt as now. It came back very vividly to her memory, how he had ridden away for the capital, the city of war, of arms, of glittering shield and piercing lance, of tourney and laughter and song; how she had longed in silence to ride thither at his side; how she had wept when he was really gone; how she had watched bitterly, day after day, for his return up the steep road that came out of the forest on the edge of the sand-downs below. Clearly indeed did her youth return to Eleanore as she knelt here, in the barred sunlight, alone with her unheeding crucifix. And intertwined with this memory was the new sense of blinding sorrow, the loss of Laure.
The sun was setting over the Narmáda plain. In the midst of long stretches of sunburnt farm land the waters of the great river rolled and flashed with light. The barren millet-fields were illumined with long streaks of yellow sunshine that ran to the base of Mandu, an immense plateau, rising sheer from the lowlands to a height of some three or four hundred feet. Between it and the nearest of the Vindhyas is a deep chasm, a quarter of a mile or more in width, bridged over by a miracle of man, a stone causeway, many centuries old even on the day of September 6, in the year of the Christian Lord 1205, and of the Hejira 601. This causeway, a vast, stone bridge, supported on piers built up from the rocks below, balustraded to a height of five feet, and finished on each corner by watch-towers in which lookouts were always stationed, made the single approach to the otherwise impregnable plateau which formed in itself the entire principality of Mandu. Remarkable among Indian ruins to-day are those that crown the deserted height of this unique spot: temples, houses, and vast palaces of the most ancient times; and at the period of which we speak, the opening years of the thirteenth century, Mandu was in the heyday of its Indian glory, renowned throughout the West for its wealth, its power, and the righteousness of its rulers. The rice harvest was just beginning, and the inhabitants of Mandu—Brahman, Vaisya, Sudra, and Pariah alike—were busily engaged in this toil of peace. The Kshatriyas, or warrior part of the population, were not in the minds of their fellows to-day; for at the end of the rains they had marched to the north on an expedition against an army of Mohammedans by whom their neighbors of Dhár were beset. The great causeway was deserted save for its lookouts and a fakir who had chosen to light a harvest Ishti on the stones near the southwest tower. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the silence was broken by a sudden screaming of birds and monkeys in the wooded mountain gorge beyond the bridge. Two of the guards stretched themselves and looked out along the pass—looked, and were transfixed. Shrill trumpet-notes and the faint beating of hoofs along a rocky road became suddenly audible. The glint of spear-heads shone among the trees. Lastly came the tapping of the tiny saddle-drums. Two of the soldiers shouted together: “Avalu! They are coming!” and, leaping down to the bridge, started at breakneck pace toward the fields, crying as they ran: “The army! The soldiers! Lord Rajah! They are here! They have returned!” The other two guards made no move to leave their advantageous posts. The Brahman, also, abandoning his invocation to Agni, mounted the nearest tower, to watch the arrival of his earthly ruler. He had scarcely taken up his position when the vanguard of returning warriors rode out upon the bridge, a glittering company, headed by the stateliest of figures, at whose approach the guards all but knelt in salute to their ruler, Rai-Khizar-Pál, Rajah of Mandu in the country of Malwa, a brave and noble king. Slightly behind him rode two other richly dressed men, mounted on beautiful horses, each of whom came in for some share of the acknowledgments of the guards,—Puran, captain of the troops, and Ragunáth, confidential adviser of the Rajah. Slowly, for the horses were fagged with long marching, the three passed over the bridge, followed by a lengthening train of officers and men, horse and foot, over whose robes of crimson and white and green played the last beams of the setting sun, sending off a dazzle of light from the rubies that fastened a long spray of white feathers to the turban of the Rajah.
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This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
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