Bunch Grass Part 37

"Another Wilkins," said I.

"Pooh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ajax.

"No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil's position and rank--he is a G.o.dson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord--would come to California without my knowledge," said the Consul.

The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how the Baron fared. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from the evil-smelling lake. Pa.s.sing the bungalow, we had noted that six weeks' uninterrupted suns.h.i.+ne had played havoc with the Baron's garden. The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted. The sun had sucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks. Of a sudden, old age had overtaken him.

He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed our holiday. We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn't mention the French Consul. Then, in our turn, we begged for such news as he might have. He replied solemnly--

"I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles. Old man Dumble ees a fraud.

_Moi_, I abominate frauds--_hein?_ He obtain my money onder false pretences, is it not so? Ah, yes; but I forgive 'im, because he is poor. But also, since you go, he obtain my secret--I haf a secret-- under false pretences. Oh, ze _canaille_! I tell 'im that if 'e were my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit 'im. Because 'e is _canaille_ I s-s-spit at 'im. _Voila!_"

The old fellow was trembling with rage and indignation. Ajax said gravely--

"We foreigners mustn't spit at free-born American citizens. What spitting is done here, they do themselves."

"You have right. Ze _canaille_ say to me, to _me_, 'Come,'

he say, 'come, Baron, I have one six-shooter, one shot-gun, two pitchfork, three spade, and one mowing-machine. Take your choice,' he say, 'and we can fight till ze cows come home!' He use zose words, _mes amis_, 'till ze cows come home!' _Tiens!_ Ze Frisian- Holstein cows, who go dry when zey do come home--_hein?_"

He was so furiously angry that we dared not laugh, but we were consumed with curiosity to know what secret Dumble had stolen. The Baron did not inform us.

Fortunately for our peace of mind, Dumble came to us early next morning. He went to the marrow of the matter at once.

"Boys," said he, "I want you to fix up things between me an' that crazy Frenchman. How's that? Your friend. Wal, he _is_ a Frenchy, an' he's crazy, as I'm prepared to prove. But I don't want no trouble with him. He's my neighbour, and there ought to be nothin' between me an' him."

"There'll always be a barbed wire fence," said Ajax.

"Boys, when that ther' pond o' the Baron's tuk to smellin' like dead cats, he come to me and asks me to find someone to take keer o' the bungalow. I undertook the job myself. I was to water them foreign plants o' his, do odd ch.o.r.es, and sleep in the house nights. He offered good pay, and I got a few dollars on account. I aimed to treat the Baron right, as I treat all my neighbours. I meant to do more, more than was agreed on. That's the right sperit--ain't it? Yas. An'

so, when I found out that there was a room in that ther' bungalow locked up, by mistake as I presoomed, and that the key o' the little parlour opened it, why, naterally, boys, I jest peaked in to see if everything was O.K. As for pryin' and spyin', why sech an idee never entered my head. Wal, I peaked in an' I saw----"

"Hold on," said Ajax. "What you saw is something which the Baron wished to be kept secret."

"I reckon so, though why in thunder----"

"Then keep it secret----"

"But, mercy sakes! I saw nothing, not a thing, boys, save two picters and a few old sticks of furniture. An' seeing that things was O.K., I shet the door, but doggone it! the cussed key wouldn't lock it. Nex'

morning the Baron found it open, and, Jeeroosalem! I never seen a man git so mad."

"And that's all?"

"That's all, but me an' the Baron ain't speakin'."

We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, on the Baron's account than for the sake of old man Dumble. Accordingly, we tried to persuade the Baron that his secret at any rate was still inviolate. He listened incredulously.

"He says he saw nothing--but some pictures and old furniture."

"_Mon Dieu!_ an' zey tell 'im nossing. _Saperlipopette!_ Come wiz me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret, too."

We followed him in silence up the path which led to the bungalow, and into the house. The Baron unlocked a door and unbolted some shutters.

We saw two portraits, splendid portraits of two handsome young men in uniform. Above the mantelpiece hung an emblazoned pedigree: the family tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France. The Baron laid a lean finger upon one of the names.

"I am Rene de Bourgueil-Crotanoy," he said.

We waited. When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was the voice of a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.

"My boys," said he, indicating the two young men, "zey are dead; no one of ze old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me--and I, as you see, am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor tell me so, always. I was--I am still--proud of my race, of my chateau. I was not permitted to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys. They went to Tonquin; I remained at home, thinking of ze day when zey would return, and marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. Zey did--not-- return. Zey died. One in battle, one of fever in ze hospital. What was left for me, _mes amis_? Could I live on in ze place where I had seen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Paris ze pitying eyes of friends?"

Years afterwards, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We paid a pilgrimage to the Chateau de Bourgueil-Crotanoy, and entered the chapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A mural tablet records the names, and the manner of death, of the two sons.

Also a line in Latin:

"'Tis better to die young than to live on to behold the misfortunes and emptiness of an ancient house."

XIV

JIM'S PUP

Jim Misterton was a quiet, reserved fellow, who had come straight to Paradise from a desk in some dingy London counting-house. He told us that something was wrong with his lungs, and that the simple life had been prescribed. He was very green, very sanguine, and engaged to be married--a secret confided to us later, when acquaintance had ripened into friends.h.i.+p. Every Sunday Jim would ride down to our ranch, sup with us, and smoke three pipes upon the verandah, describing at great length the process of trans.m.u.ting the wilderness into a garden. He built a small board-and-batten house, planted a vineyard and orchard, bought a couple of cows and an incubator. Reserved about matters personal to himself, he never grew tired of describing his possessions, nor of speculating in regard to their possibilities. If ever a man counted his chickens before the eggs had been placed in the incubator, Jim Misterton was he.

Ajax and I listened in silence to these outpourings. Ajax contended-- perhaps rightly--that Misterton's optimism was part of the "cure." He bade me remark the young fellow's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.

"He calls that forsaken claim of his Eden," said my brother. "Shall we tell him what sort of a Hades it really is?"

One day, some months after this, we rode up to Eden. It presented the usual heart-breaking appearance so familiar to men who have lived in a wild country and witnessed, year after year, the furious struggle between Man and Nature. Misterton had cleared and planted about forty acres, enclosed with a barb-wire fence. Riding along this, we saw that many of his fruit trees had been barked and ruined by jack-rabbits.

The month was September. A rainless summer had dried up a spring near his house, which, against our advice, he had attempted to develop by tunnelling. The new chicken-yards held no chickens.

Nevertheless, Jim welcomed us with a cheery smile. He had made mistakes, of course--who didn't? But he intended to come out on top, you bet your life! Western slang flowed freely from his lips. The blazing sun, which already had cracked the unpainted s.h.i.+ngles on his roof, had bleached the crude blue of his jumper and overalls. His sombrero might have belonged to a veteran cowboy. Jim wore it with a rakish list to port, and round his neck fluttered a small, white silk handkerchief. He looked askance at our English breeches and saddles.

Then he said pleasantly, "I've taken out my naturalisation papers."

After lunch, he told us about his Angela, and displayed her photograph.

"She's coming out," he added shyly, "as soon as I've got things fixed."

"Coming out?" we repeated in amazement.

"It's all settled," said Jim. "I'm to meet her in 'Frisco; we shall be married, and then I'm going to bring her here for the honeymoon. Won't it be larks?"

Ajax answered, without any enthusiasm, "Won't it?" and stared at the young, pretty face smiling up at him.

"Angela is as keen about this place as I am," continued the fond and beaming Jim. "It's going to be Eden for her too, G.o.d bless her!"

Ajax said thoughtfully, "Misterton, you're a lucky devil!"