IT was, speaking accurately, a year and a half since Raymond, Theodore, and Giulio parted in the little osteria on the Campagna; then the earth was thrilling under the last heats of the summer sun; now the fair Provencal hills and valleys are budding once more into life beneath the first kisses of the spring. But to Raymond the interval seemed brief, partly because it was filled with earnest work, still more because he was happy.
The University of Montpellier had now greatly declined from the high position it occupied during the earlier Middle Ages, principally as a school of medicine. But Theodore’s great abilities as a teacher, both of medicine and philosophy, perhaps also his bold speculations, which were flavored with that slight suspicion of heresy daring spirits find rather attractive than otherwise, had given it a strong though temporary impulse. Those who profited largely by this impulse, both in purse and reputation, were eager to welcome the brilliant young Greek, who might do for the Humanities what his friend was doing for the Sciences. “Now,” said the heads of the university, “we too shall have our Greek from Constantinople, as good as Chrysolaurus, or Argyropoulos, or Lascaris, or any other distinguished ornament of learning.” Nor was Raymond’s value, as an attraction to the lecture halls of Montpellier, lessened by Me noble birth, or by the persecutions he had endured on account of his attachment to literature, while it was greatly increased by his ability to reproduce the teaching of Pomponius, and to lecture upon the Latin classics with as much facility as upon those of his forefathers. Moreover, he was young, handsome, genial, unassuming. Altogether the university had secured a prize, and was happily conscious of the fact; while as yet there was not time for the smoldering envy of jealous colleagues to break out.
Meanwhile youth and love and hope were transforming a gloomy but substantial dwelling-house in the quaint old city into a genuine home, where all sweet domestic ties and affections might take root and grow. Viola was its presiding spirit; the sunshine of prosperity had ripened her into as near an approach as could readily be found to the poet’s ideal of the―
“Perfect woman, nobly planned,
To guide, to counsel, to command.”
At least there was one, besides Raymond, who considered her perfect. That was Raymond’s mother. Could more be said for the young wife?
Lately a new inmate had come to that home― “out of the everywhere into the here,” a precious gift of God, and at once, an object. of deepest love and a source of pride to the whole household, but the last especially to the aged Manuel, who thought the birth of a Dauphin of France an event of trifling importance compared with that of an heir to the house of Chalcondyles.
The young professor was now almost as lighthearted as the schoolboy who went singing from the academy of Venice to his home in Murano, and he was far more truly happy. Yet, strange to say, the one sorrow that lay in the depths of the man’s heart―veiled indeed with many a flower, but still there―was the very same that in those old days spoiled the artless pleasures of the boy. “Mother,” he said, when the name of his firstborn came to be discussed, “let me have my will this time. My father’s shade will forgive me. I must needs call my boy Theodore.”
He had his will, all the more easily because Theodore chanced to be a good and much-used Greek name, which had been borne by some of his mother’s kindred.
It seemed as though the christening of the child was destined to bring a joy long wished for in. vain. A few days after the important event the little family were seated together at their evening meal, when Manuel opened the door and announced, in a tone almost as quiet and ordinary as though it had been merely one of their very frequent student visitors, “Dr. Theodore Benedetto.”
The grave, middle-aged physician, for such he looked now, was greeted by all affectionately, by Raymond with emotion he could scarcely conceal. Theodore had long since by letter resigned his post at the university, so that his appearance was the more unexpected and surprising. His manner was kind, and his look and voice unusually gentle; but now, as ever, he shrank from manifestations of feeling.
In answer to many an eager question, he gave, very quietly and naturally, an account of himself since their parting. “I found my father out of health and depressed by many cares,” he said. “Both as son and as physician I could be of use to him. My brother Gaetano had not been fortunate or prudent, and his affairs caused him much anxiety. But now at last all is happily settled. I brought Gaetano with me to Marseilles and established him there in a good business. As for myself, the roving instinct has come over me again; and Giulio also wished to revisit Languedoc.”
“Then he is with you?”
“Yes; I left him at the Inn.”
“Can you suppose for a moment that you, or he, are going to stay there? Manuel shall fetch him at once, and shall give directions to have your baggage brought also.”
Theodore began to make some opposition, but apparently recollecting himself, yielded. As Viola was about to leave the room “on hospitable cares intent,” he detained her, and inquired for the child of his friend.
“I will bring him,” said Viola.
While she did so, Raymond asked for Giacomo. “He seems to have grown young again since he found a brother in Giulio,”
Theodore answered. “The two are the closest of friends. He has just completed a picture which is much and deservedly praised in Venice. The best judges say it is equal to anything produced by either of the Gentili brothers. The subject is ‘Christ Healing a Blind Man.’”
Then the wonder and treasure of the house was exhibited, and Theodore performed the homage expected from him sufficiently, and even gracefully. “Of course he is another Raymond?”
“No,” Raymond answered. “We have named him after the dearest friend we have ever had, or shall have, Theodore.”
Greatly moved, Theodore turned aside, and no more was said until the child was borne away by Viola, the Lady Erminia following. Even then the words were few.
“Theodore, you have pardoned?”
“What there was to pardon,” Theodore answered with a hand clasp that said more than words. “You, too, had something to forgive.”
“Nothing, except benefits.”
“Thrown to you as bones to a dog. Raymond, if yours had not been the sweetest of natures, you would have hated me bitterly. I was proud then, for I had not learned my own need of pardon. I am wiser now, I hope. At least I know now how far from wise I was, and am.”
“Dear Theodore, why not return here, where you are so loved and longed for? Your splendid successes as a teacher are in every one’s mouth; and everyone marvels at your abandoning prospects such as yours.”
“Raymond, I could no longer expound Averroës. I am changed in many things. What of your buried treasure, my friend?”
“Circumstances have made me a laggard in the very matter you would have expected me to pursue most eagerly. First, I had to establish myself here, to give a home to my wife and mother, and so forth. Then, I had to ascertain particulars about the locality, and to arrange my plana. Just as all that was finished, a new student arrived here, a gay and gallant Provencal, who attracted me at once, and who proved on inquiry to be no other than the present Lord of Vaudelon.”
“Why should that hinder you?”
“The boy has attached himself to me; he follows me everywhere like my shadow. In short, he renders me the same kind of homage we used to render in old times to Pomponius Laetus. The incense is sweet, Theodore.”
“I too have found it so.”
“But embarrassing, in this instance. How, on the one hand, can I say to him, ‘My dear boy, your broad acres belonged to my forefathers, from whom yours have taken them by robbery and violence’? How, on the other, can I creep like a thief into his domains, and dig up his garden without asking his leave?”
“We shall see that,” said Theodore, changed indeed in many things, as he said, but prompt and resolute as ever.
A few days afterward Theodore, Raymond, and Giulio were spurring gaily over the plains of Languedoc, on their way to the hills of St. Peray, where was the Castle of Vaudelon. The young lord of Vaudelon, who was fully aware of their errand and much interested in its results, had warmly recommended them to the hospitality of his mother and sisters.
Thus it happened that Raymond actually entered the rose garden under the guidance of a fair lady, as in the dream of his childhood; only he always believed that the lady of his dream wore the features of Viola. This lady was the widowed chatelaine, a dignified personage, who, attended by a bower-maiden of gentle blood, sat in the arbor, and watched the proceedings of Raymond and his friends.
The fragment of parchment in Raymond’s reliquary had been carefully studied beforehand, and the measurements it contained were now accurately marked off. Then came the anxious moment. Raymond took the spade first, then Giulio relieved him.
“There is nothing, I am sure,” Raymond said at length with a half sigh. A formidable heap of clay had been thrown up without any result.
“Do not despair yet,” interposed Theodore, who was leaning on his cane. “Take care, Giulio; you will break that spade.”
“I have struck it against a stone,” said Giulio. “No. Wait. I verily believe we have found it!”
What looked like a mass of rotten leaves was soon brought to light and laid upon the grass. Within the leaves were many wrappings of skin, half-decayed; and when these were torn off or cut away, a box appeared, made of some dark-colored wood and clamped with iron. It was about two feet square and of considerable weight, although, Raymond thought, scarcely heavy enough to contain gold.
There was no lock, only a kind of rude clasp, which Raymond with much difficulty succeeded in unfastening, while Theodore, Giulio, and the two ladies watched him in silence. At last he drew out a great MS. volume and laid it on the grass. “That is all!” he said, turning to Theodore with a long sigh of disappointment.
He was a brave man, but he could not resign the vague, yet cherished, hope of years without a pang. Better to have left his treasure still in the border land between dream and expectation! “No doubt books were very precious in those benighted days,” he said rather bitterly. “Still, I marvel at the words of my ancestor, that lands and castle were well lost for this, and little worth without it.”
Giulio meanwhile threw himself on the grass and began carefully to examine the book. Presently he cried out in a kind of rapture, “It is the Bible, the whole Bible! God’s own Word, from Genesis to Revelation! God be praised!”
He was right. The Old Testament was in Latin, in fact it was only a copy of the Vulgate; but the New had been translated into the Provencal of the twelfth century, the Langue d’Oc, the tongue of the Troubadours. Both were complete; and enriched with many notes. “Signor Count,” he said to Raymond, “you may be proud of your ancestors. They were amongst God’s hidden suffering people. The law of His mouth was dearer unto them than thousands of gold and silver. For their sakes, no doubt, He hath a favor unto you.”
It was to Raymond’s honor that, after a thoughtful pause, he stooped and took up the volume, reverently pressing it to his heart. “Since God has sent it to me in so strange a way,” he said, “He must have something to teach me through its pages. Pray for me, good and true friends, that what He teaches my soul may be ever open to learn.”