Strange Marriage.

The key details of these events are so certain and faithful that there is no need to add any flourishes or literary arabesques. Every line of this story is true, and it would be pointless to alter it into something that is not. According to the records, on what was known as Green Thursday, two students from Oakhaven arrived at the Roseland inn about eighty-five years ago. They were traveling on foot to the neighboring county, Eldon, for their vacation and arrived at the aforementioned Roseland inn just after lunch. In those days, students were not as spoiled as they are today. Among the tools of education, the cane held pride of place, and among the means of transportation, their own two feet were paramount. Yet, the stomachs of students rumbled just as much back then, if not more so than today. The two students—each sporting a fine beard and mustache—wore very sour expressions upon hearing the pipe-smoking innkeeper’s wife declare that there was absolutely nothing to eat. “Well,” said the innkeeper, who himself understood a bit of culinary Latin, “bones for those who arrive late. If the young gentlemen had arrived an hour earlier, I had a stew so fine that even the lord palatine would have wiped the bowl clean after it.” “Couldn't the kind lady whip up something quickly?” asked one of the students, looking gently up at the woman. She blew a large cloud of smoke from her pipe, then spoke kindly: “I have a few young chickens out there. If you can manage to catch or strike down two of them, I’ll fry them up for you.” Well, of course they could. An Oakhaven student could catch a ghost, and a ghost has no body, whereas a chicken certainly does. Albeit, around Easter time, they were still rather light in weight and small in size. Regardless, the students went out into the yard and gave chase to the chickens, which scattered among various coops, crates, and woodpiles. In the middle of the yard stood a single vehicle, a light wooden cart with leather seats. The horses’ harnesses were unbuckled, and their heads were buried up to their ears in those feedbags so popular in the equine world, from which a steady crunching noise could be heard. Lying flat on his back on the cart seat, basking in the sunlight, was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, slender boy. To the left, an almond tree brushed against the cart. The tree was full of pale pink blossoms, dropping them one by one onto the boy, who picked them up and amused himself by inspecting and tearing them apart. The groom, busy around the horses, repeatedly asked the boy: “Won’t you get down, Julian?” “What for?” “Won’t you have a little wine?” “No.” However, the actions of the mustachioed Oakhaven students eventually aroused his curiosity. And why wouldn't they? Seeing an Oakhaven student was quite a spectacle in itself, let alone in the middle of a chicken-catching operation. He climbed down from the cart and followed them with his bright, intelligent eyes as they rushed after the flock of chickens, trying to corner them somewhere or strike them down with their walking sticks. Several people gathered in the yard to watch the merry commotion; neighbors peeked over the fences, and the maids, Agnes and Daisy, ran out from washing dishes, drawn by the two handsome young gentlemen. Agnes even recognized one of them. Furthermore, the magistrate's guard, George Smith, also looked into the yard. He had stumbled in precisely because of the laughter and noise. It would have been a pity to miss it, as it was great entertainment to see the hungry students chasing chickens. Hop, got it! Oh, no! The wretched creatures slipped out of their hands again. Laughter erupted every time. Well, it seemed the students knew nothing of this art; even a fox or a ferret knew better. The innkeeper himself came out, puffing heavily on his pipe just like his wife. They even looked alike, with the only difference being that one wore a skirt and the other wore trousers. “Hoho! Watch out with those sticks, gentlemen, or you might strike down my wife’s rooster, and that will cause great trouble. Hop, hop. Napoleon! Run, Napoleon!” Indeed, among the chased poultry lounged a large, crested, pheasant-colored rooster, with a long white feather curling up from its grand tail bearing the inscription: “Vivat Napoleon Bonaparte.” “You should strike down that young saffron-colored one or the white one over there!” shouted the innkeeper. "Look, it’s running toward the coops.” But the two older students could achieve no result, and their thrown sticks missed their marks. Seeing this, the younger boy pulled a slingshot from his pocket, placed a stone in it, whirled it through the air, and suddenly released one of the strings. The stone whistled like an arrow, flew through the air, and with a single spin, the chicken collapsed, its skull crushed. It met a swift, sudden death on the battlefield of the campaign against the chicken race. “Very well!” cheered the innkeeper. “Only God can shoot like that.” The young boy picked up another pebble and aimed at the white chicken, instantly separating it from its soul as well. “Do you need any more?” the boy asked with a touch of theatrical pride. One could have laughed at his vanity. Imagine that tiny youngster laughing at the older students: do you need any more? Fortunately, they did not even notice him. An Oakhaven law student was far too grand to pay attention to a younger schoolboy. Nevertheless, the stouter student, who was fair and round-headed, stepped up to the boy and patted him on the shoulder. “You did well, friend of virtue! Grow tall, my boy!” He could say no more to him, but the young lad took the advice to heart; he grew so immensely tall that twenty-five or thirty years later, the round-headed student’s jaw would drop when recalling him. “What is the boy’s name?” the student asked casually, walking past the groom who was beginning to remove the feedbags. “Julian Vance,” replied the groom. “A clever boy,” remarked the round-headed student simply. “A student, I assume?” “Indeed. In Highfield.” Meanwhile, the older student, who was of a fine, slender build with a gentle, thin face, gathered the fallen animals and carried them in triumph to the innkeeper’s wife. But on the way, the maid Agnes snatched them from his hands: “Give them here, young count, I have some hot water ready and will pluck them in a flash.” A great bustle began in the kitchen. Fat sizzled, breadcrumbs were grated, and eggs were cracked—a beautiful symphony to the ears of hungry students. But fate had decreed otherwise. It was written in the book of destiny that something should intervene. It was not a cat that interfered, but the chief magistrate himself—whom providence usually reserves for greater and more malicious pranks.