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Updated: June 22, 2025
There is nothing like a map to show one "where he is at," to quote Archer's phrase, and the boys followed with great interest as Melotte penciled the course of the Rhine and the places which he wished to emphasize in the southern part of Alsace. "Here at Norne lives my comrade, Blondel," he said. "Two years we work togezzer at Passake you know? In ze great silk mills."
Blondel shook his head. "Or Messer Baudichon?" "I called him but now a fat hog!" It was Basterga's turn to shake his head. "He is not one to forget," he said gravely. "I fear you will hear of that again, Messer Blondel. I fear it will make trouble for you. But if these will not, is there any man in Geneva, any man you can name, who would give his life for you?" "Do men give life so easily?"
Blondel was himself a native of the south of France, singing his songs in the soft language of Languedoc.
The effect was so evident indeed that it bewildered Claude and so completely diverted his attention from Grio, the real target, that when the bully, who had listened stupidly to the exchange of wit, proved by a brutal oath his comprehension of the reference to himself, the young man scarcely heard him. "The Syndic Blondel?" Basterga muttered after a pregnant pause. "What know you of him, pray?"
That is what I want to know!" "Credentials? Oh, something formal! I don't know what," Blondel replied rudely. He looked to the secretary who sat at the foot of the table. "Do you know?" he asked. "No, Messer Syndic," the man replied.
The words were Petitot's. "I? No! I have not let him escape, but those who forced my hand!" Blondel retorted in passion, so real, or so well simulated, that it swept away the majority of his listeners. "They have let him escape! Those who had no patience or craft! Those whose only notion of statesmanship, whose only method of making use of the document we had under our hand was to tear it up.
The singer ceased. But the harp still kept up its rhythmic humming; and presently, muffled by distance and winding passages, as it seemed out from the very stones of the rugged tower, in a voice, harsh, strong, yet cultivated, came the second verse of that love-song, sung with a full heart, throbbing with a newborn hope, sung as never before had it been rendered in the old days when Blondel had taught it to Richard in sun-scorched Palestine!
Did you not send me a dozen bottles this morning, Monsieur Tanrade? Come, confess!" He turned and shrugged his shoulders. "Impossible! I cannot remember. I am so absent-minded, madame," and he bent and kissed her hand. "Where's Blondel?" cried Clamard, as he extracted a thin cigarette-case from his waistcoat. "He'll be here presently," I explained.
He was right; the troubadours were his most devoted friends; Bertram de Born was bewailing him, and Blondel de Nesle, guided by his faithful heart, sang his King's own favorite lays before each keep and fortress, until the unfinished song was taken up and answered from the windows of the Castle of Triefels.
One moment, if you please!" Blondel stopped and turned to him. Outwardly the Syndic was cool, inwardly he was at a white heat that at any moment might impel him to the wildest action. "Well?" he said. "What is it, M. Baudichon?" "I want to know " "Of course!" The sneer was savage and undisguised. "What, this time, if I may be so bold?"
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