Who on the outskirts of a certain village
Owned a neat garden with a bit of tillage.
He made a quickset hedge to fence it in,
And there grew lettuce, pink and jessamine,
Such as win prizes at the local show,
Or make a birthday bouquet for Margot.
One day he called upon the neighbouring Squire
To ask his help with a marauding hare.
“The brute,” says he, “comes guzzling everywhere,
And simply laughs at all my traps and wire.
No stick or stone will hit him—I declare
He’s a magician.” “Rubbish! I don’t care
If he’s the Deuce himself,” replied the other,
“I warrant he shan’t give you much more bother.
Miraut, in spite of all his cunning,
Won’t take much time to get him running.”
“But when?” “Tomorrow, sure as here I stand.”
Next morning he rides up with all his band.
“Now then, we’ll lunch! Those chickens don’t look bad.
The luncheon over, all was preparation,
Bustle and buzz and animation,
Horns blowing, hounds barking, such a hullabaloo,
The good man feared the worst. His fear came true!
The kitchen-garden was a total wreck
Under the trampling, not a speck
Of pot or frame survived. Goodbye
To onion, leek, and chicory,
Goodbye to marrows and their bravery,
Goodbye to all that makes soup savoury!
The wretched owner saw no sense
In this grand style of doing things;
But no one marked his mutterings.
The hounds and riders in a single trice
Had wrought more havoc in his paradise
Than all the hares in the vicinity
Could have achieved throughout infinity.
So far the story—now the moral:
Each petty Prince should settle his own quarrel.
If once he gets a King for an ally,
He’s certain to regret it by and by.
This reading was followed by a long silence. The Prince paced up and down the cabinet, after going himself to put the volume back in its place.
“Well, Signora,” said the Princess, “will you deign to speak?”
“No, indeed, Ma’am, until such time as His Highness shall appoint me his Minister; by speaking here, I should run the risk of losing my place as Grand Mistress.”
A fresh silence, lasting a full quarter of an hour; finally the Princess remembered the part that had been played in the past by Marie de’ Medici, the mother of Louis XIII: for the last few days the Grand Mistress had made the lettrice read aloud the excellent History of Louis XIII, by M. Bazin. The Princess, although greatly annoyed, thought that the Duchessa might easily leave the country, and then Rassi, who filled her with mortal terror, might quite well imitate Richelieu and have her banished by her son. At this moment the Princess would have given everything in the world to humiliate her Grand Mistress; but she could not. She rose, and came, with a smile that was slightly exaggerated, to take the Duchessa’s hand and say to her:
“Come, Signora, give me a proof of your friendship by speaking.”
“Very well! Two words, and no more: burn, in the grate there, all the papers collected by that viper Rassi, and never reveal to him that they have been burned.”
She added in a whisper, and in a familiar tone, in the Princess’s ear:
“Rassi may become Richelieu!”
“But, damn it, those papers are costing me more than 80,000 francs!” the Prince exclaimed angrily.
“Prince,” replied the Duchessa with emphasis, “that is what it costs to employ scoundrels of low birth. Would to God you could lose a million and never put your trust in the base rascals who kept your father from sleeping during the last six years of his reign.”
The words “low birth” had greatly delighted the Princess, who felt that the Conte and his friend had too exclusive a regard for brains, always slightly akin to Jacobinism.
During the short interval of profound silence, filled by the Princess’s reflections, the castle clock struck three. The Princess rose, made a profound reverence to her son, and said to him: “My health does not allow me to prolong the discussion further. Never have a Minister of low birth; you will not disabuse me of the idea that your Rassi has stolen half the money he has made you spend on spies.” The Princess took two candles from the brackets and put them in the fireplace in such a way that they should not blow out; then, going up to her son, she added: “La Fontaine’s fable prevails, in my mind, over the lawful desire to avenge a husband. Will Your Highness permit me to burn these writings?” The Prince remained motionless.
“His face is really stupid,” the Duchessa said to herself; “the Conte is right: the late Prince would not have kept us out of our beds until three o’clock in the morning, before making up his mind.”
The Princess, still standing, went on:
“That little attorney would be very proud, if he knew that his papers stuffed with lies, and arranged so as to secure his own advancement, had occupied the two greatest personages in the State for a whole night.”
The Prince dashed at one of the portfolios like a madman, and emptied its contents into the fireplace. The mass of papers nearly extinguished the two candles; the room filled with smoke. The Princess saw in her son’s eyes that he was tempted to seize a jug of water and save these papers, which were costing him eighty thousand francs.
“Open the window!” she cried angrily to the Duchessa. The Duchessa made haste to obey; at once all the papers took light together; there was a great roar in the chimney, and it soon became evident that it was on fire.
The Prince had a petty nature in all matters of money; he thought he saw his Palace in flames, and all the treasures that it contained destroyed; he ran to the window and called the guard in a voice completely altered. The soldiers in a tumult rushed into the courtyard at the sound of the Prince’s voice, he returned to the fireplace which was sucking in the air from the open window with a really alarming sound; he grew impatient, swore, took two or three
