“But the figures?” said Pittrino, in despair; for he felt that young Cropolé was right. “I should not like to lose the fruit of my labor.”
“And I should not wish you to be thrown into prison, and myself into the oubliettes.”
“Let us efface ‘Medici,’ ” said Pittrino, supplicatingly.
“No,” replied Cropolé, firmly. “I have got an idea, a sublime idea—your picture shall appear, and my legend likewise. Does not ‘Medici’ mean doctor, or physician, in Italian?”
“Yes, in the plural.”
“Well, then, you shall order another sign-frame of the smith; you shall paint six physicians, and write underneath ‘Aux Medici’ which makes a very pretty play upon words.”
“Six physicians! impossible! And the composition?” cried Pittrino.
“That is your business—but so it shall be—I insist upon it—it must be so—my macaroni is burning.”
This reasoning was peremptory—Pittrino obeyed. He composed the sign of six physicians, with the legend; the échevin applauded and authorized it.
The sign produced an extravagant success in the city, which proves that poetry has always been in the wrong, before citizens, as Pittrino said.
Cropolé, to make amends to his painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs of the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropolé blush every time she looked at it, when she was undressing at night.
This is the way in which the pointed-gable house got a sign; and this is how the hostelry of the Medici, making a fortune, was found to be enlarged by a quarter, as we have described. And this is how there was at Blois a hostelry of that name, and had for painter-in-ordinary Master Pittrino.
6
The Unknown
Thus founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master Cropolé held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity.
It was not an immense fortune that Cropolé had in perspective; but he might hope to double the thousand louis d’or left by his father, to make another thousand louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length to live happily like a retired citizen.
Cropolé was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at the news of the arrival of Louis XIV.
Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon all the inhabitants of the dovecote, the poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches; so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama.
Cropolé had, at the time, but one single traveler in his house.
This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, austere, or rather melancholy, in all his gestures and looks.
He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white collar, as plain as that of the severest Puritan, set off the whiteness of his youthful neck; a small dark-colored mustache scarcely covered his curled, disdainful lip.
He spoke to people looking them full in the face, without affectation, it is true, but without scruple; so that the brilliancy of his black eyes became so insupportable, that more than one look had sunk beneath his, like the weaker sword in a single combat.
At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided, thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the gentleman and the commoner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the white—at this time, we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched could not fail of being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class. To ascertain this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his hands, long, slender, and white, of which every muscle, every vein, became apparent through the skin at the least movement, and eloquently spoke of good descent.
This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropolé’s house. He had taken, without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal apartment which the hotelier had pointed out to him with a rapacious aim, very praiseworthy, some will say, very reprehensible will say others, if they admit that Cropolé was a physiognomist, and judged people at first sight.
This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient triangular house; a large salon, lighted by two windows on the first stage, a small chamber by the side of it, and another above it.
Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had scarcely touched any repast that had been served up to him in his chamber. He had spoken but two words to the host, to warn him that a traveler of the name of Parry would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown up to him immediately.
He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropolé was almost offended, so much did he prefer people who were good company.
This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his salon, seated upon the ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but persistently on both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, for the arrival of the traveler he had mentioned to the host.
In this way he had seen the little cortège of Monsieur return from hunting, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the street, absorbed in his own expectations.
All at once the movement of the crowd going to the meadows, couriers setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household, gabbling, scampering shop-boys, chariots in motion, hairdressers on the run, and pages toiling along, this tumult and bustle had surprised him, but without losing any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives to the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious.
Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the hasty steps
