The Baron

Among the many odd characters who settled in the brush-covered hills near our ranch, none caused more gossip than the Baron. The squatters called him the Baron. He signed his name—I had to witness his signature—as Réné Bourgueil.

The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking a pretty lake that dried up in summer and smelled foul. He also spent money planting a vineyard and an orchard and creating a garden. What he didn't know about ranching in Southern California would have filled an encyclopedia, but what he knew about nearly everything else filled us and our neighbors with ever-growing amazement and curiosity.

Why would such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San Lorenzo County?

Moreover, he was past middle age—at least sixty-five—not a sportsman, not a naturalist, but clearly a gentleman, with the manners of someone used to the finest society.

Of society, however, he spoke sharply.

"Society in Europe today," he said to me shortly after his arrival, "is a big monkey-house, and all the monkeys are pulling each other's tails. I pull no tails, myself, and I let no one take liberties with me."

About a month later, the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

"My dear fellow, the monkeys in your backwoods are more—devil!—much more aggressive than the monkeys in the old world."

"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well—eh?"

The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed foot and ankle.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble: he pulled my leg."

The Dumbles were neighbors of the Baron, and their barren acres adjoined his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good as—or better than—his bond, but neither was taken at face value. It was said he preferred to take cash for a lie rather than credit for the truth. We knew Dumble had sold the Baron a horse and saddle, a Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees, the cow dried up within a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs perfectly, but wouldn't hatch them.

"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.

The next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and started to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte who would be charmed to meet him.

"San Francisco? Never, never in my life!"

"Come with us to Del Monte?"

"Del Monte?"

We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel set in lovely gardens that ran down to the sea.

"Never—never," repeated the Baron.

"We don't like leaving you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," said Ajax.

"You are right. I do not get along with old man Dumble."

We went home deeply puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private, strong reasons for keeping away from San Francisco and Del Monte. And as Ajax said, it was telling that a man who could talk so admirably about art, politics, and literature never said a word about himself.

At Del Monte, we happened to meet the French Consul. From him we learned there was a certain Réné, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy. The château of Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as Chaumont or Chénonceau. The Consul possessed an Almanach de Gotha. From it we gleaned two more facts: Réné, Comte de Bourgueil, had two sons and no other kin.

"Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be someone—you say he's someone—well, someone else!"

"Another Wilkins," said I.

"Nonsense!" Ajax burst out.

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

On the day after our return to the ranch, we rode over to see how the Baron was doing. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from the evil-smelling lake. Passing the bungalow, we noticed that six weeks of uninterrupted sunshine had wreaked havoc on the Baron's garden. The man himself seemed to have wilted. The sun had drained the color from his eyes and cheeks. Suddenly, 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 turn, we asked for any news he might have. He replied solemnly:

"I no longer speak with the Dumbles. Old man Dumble is a fraud. I abominate frauds—eh? He got my money under false pretenses, didn't he? Ah, yes; but I forgive him, because he is poor. But also, since you went, he obtained my secret—I have a secret—under false pretenses. Oh, the scoundrel! I told him that if he were my equal, I would spit him with my sword. Because he is scum, I spit at him. There!"

The old fellow trembled 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 are right. The scoundrel said to me, to me, 'Come,' he said, 'come, Baron, I have a six-shooter, a shotgun, two pitchforks, three spades, and a mowing machine. Take your pick,' he said, 'and we can fight till the cows come home!' He used those words, my friends, 'till the cows come home!' Indeed! The Frisian-Holstein cows, which go dry when they come home—eh?"

He was so furious we dared not laugh, but we burned with curiosity to know what secret Dumble had stolen. The Baron didn't enlighten us.

Fortunately for our peace of mind, Dumble came to us early the next morning. He got straight to the point.

"Boys," he said, "I want you to fix things between me and that crazy Frenchman. How's that? Your friend. Well, he is a Frenchy, and he's crazy, as I'm ready to prove. But I don't want any trouble with him. He's my neighbor, and there shouldn't be any bad blood between us."

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

"Boys, when that pond of the Baron's started smelling like dead cats, he came to me and asked me to find someone to take care of the bungalow. I took the job myself. I was to water those foreign plants of his, do odd chores, and sleep in the house at night. He offered good pay, and I got a few dollars in advance. I meant to treat the Baron right, as I treat all my neighbors. I meant to do more, more than agreed. That's the right spirit—ain't it? Yes. And so, when I found there was a locked room in that bungalow—by mistake, as I presumed—and that the key to the little parlor opened it, why, naturally, boys, I just peeked in to see if everything was okay. As for prying or spying, why, such an idea never crossed my mind. Well, I peeked in and I saw—"

"Hold on," said Ajax. "What you saw is something the Baron wanted kept secret."

"I suppose so, though why in thunder—"

"Then keep it secret."

"But for heaven's sake! I saw nothing, not a thing, boys, except two pictures and a few old sticks of furniture. And seeing things were okay, I shut the door, but darn it! the blasted key wouldn't lock it. Next morning the Baron found it open, and Jerusalem! I've never seen a man get so mad."

"And that's all?"

"That's all, but me and the Baron aren't speaking."

We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, for the Baron's sake than for old man Dumble's. So we tried to persuade the Baron that his secret was still safe. He listened skeptically.

"He says he saw nothing—just some pictures and old furniture."

"Good heavens! And they told him nothing. Rats! Come with me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret too."

We followed him in silence up the path 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 mantel hung an emblazoned pedigree: the family tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France.

The Baron laid a thin finger on one of the names.

"I am Réné 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, pitifully weak.

"My boys," he said, gesturing to the two young men, "they are dead; no one of the old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me—and I, as you see, am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor told me so, always. I was—I am still—proud of my race, of my château. I was not allowed to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys.

They went to Tonkin; I stayed at home, thinking of the day they would return, marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. They did not return. They died. One in battle, one of fever in the hospital. What was left for me, my friends? Could I go on living in the place where I had seen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Paris the pitying eyes of friends?"

Years later, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We made a pilgrimage to the Château de Bourgueil-Crotanoy and entered the chapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A wall tablet records the names and manner of death of the two sons. Also a line in Latin:

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