XI.—JONQUIL.
Blassemare, meanwhile, made his toilet elaborately, and by ten o'clock was in Paris. He stopped at the Hotel Secqville.
"Is the marquis yet risen?" he asked.
"No;" he was in his bed; he had not retired until very late, and must not be disturbed.
"But I must see him, my good friend; his happiness, indeed his safety, depends upon my seeing him immediately."
Blassemare was so very urgent, that at length the servant consented to deliver a note to his master.
Rubbing his eyes, and more asleep than awake, the marquis took the billet, and read—
"The Sieur de Blassemare, who had the honor of meeting the Marquis de Secqville last night at the Chateau des Anges, implores a few minutes conversation without one moment's delay; by granting which the marquis may possibly avert consequences the most deplorable."
Certain shocks are strong enough to restore a drunken man to sobriety in an instant, and, a fortiori, to dispel in a moment the fumes of sleep. In a few seconds the marquis, in slippers, and morning-gown, received Blassemare, with many apologies, in his dressing-room.
"A very slight acquaintance will justify a friendly interposition," said Blassemare, after a few little speeches of ceremony at each side; "and my visit is inspired by a friendly and charitable motive. The fact is—the fact is—my dear friend, that—your coat is torn."
"My coat torn!" repeated the marquis in surprise, visibly disconcerted, while he affected surprise.
"Yes, the coat you wore last night. Ah! there it is—this blue velvet, with diamond button. La! Yes, there is the place. It was caught—ha, ha, ha!—in that cursed door; and, egad, as one of Le Prun's confidential advisers has got the piece in his possession——"
"Psha! you are jesting. Why, there are more blue coats than one in the world."
"I know; but there is only one Marquis de Secqville. And as I happened, purely accidentally, upon my honor, to witness with my own eyes no inconsiderable part of his last night's adventure, it may be as well if he reverses his clever points of evidence for Monsieur Le Prun, should his suspicions chance to take an unfortunate direction."
"What adventure pray, sir, do you speak of?"
"Your interview with Madame Le Prun, your unfortunate descent from the balcony, your flight through the park-door, and the disastrous severance of a button and a specimen-bit of velvet from your coat—in short, my dear marquis, you may, if you please, affect a reserve, which, indeed, I should prefer to a frank confession, by which, although I have nothing to learn, I should, in some sort, be compelled to regard your secret as one of honor; as it is, you know, I am free——"
"No gentleman is free to compromise a lady's character by his insinuations."
"Nor by his conduct, my dear marquis. But should he be so unfortunate as to have done so, he ought, in prudence and generosity, to seal as many lips as he possibly can."
"It seems, sir, to me that you have come to me with a cock-and-a-bull story, to establish an imaginary connection between me and some stupid adventure, which occurred at the Chateau des Anges."
"And such being your belief, my dear marquis, I have, of course, only to make my adieux, and relieve you from so impertinent an intrusion."
"Stay, sir. You are a gentleman; there are, perhaps, circumstances of suspicion. It is very embarrassing to have a lady's name involved; and—and—in short, sir, I——"
He hesitated.
"What, sir?"
"I throw myself upon your honor!" said the marquis, with an effort, and extending his hand.
"You are right, my dear marquis," said Blassemare, accepting his proffered hand. "You know I am Le Prun's friend; and as there was no obligation of secrecy, till your own confidence imposed it, I should have been in a difficult position as respected him. I have now learned your secret from yourself—honor seals my lips; and so, having put you upon your guard, and enjoined the extremest caution, at least for the present, I commend you to your presiding planets, Mercury and Venus. But you had better burn that tell-tale coat; for here is not a shrewder fellow in all France than Le Prun, and 'gad you are not safe till it is in ashes."
"My dear Blassemare, be my friend; quiet his suspicions. I shall one day tell you all; only avert his suspicions from her."
"By my faith, that is more than I can do. Give me a line to her; I must direct her conduct, or she will ruin herself. I know Le Prun; it needs a skilful player to hide one's cards from him. I am a man of my word; and I pledge my honor that Le Prun shall not have hint of your secret."
"You are right, Blassemare. I can't see her without exposing her to risk; do all you can to protect her from jealousy."
"Well, give me my credentials."
Secqville wrote:—"Blassemare is the friend of Dubois; Lucille may trust him."
"She knew me first by that name; be careful not to risk losing the paper."
Again they bid farewell, and Blassemare departed.
Blassemare's head was as full of strange images as the steam of a witch's caldron. He had his own notions of honor—somewhat fantastic and inconsistent, but still strong enough to prevent his betraying to Le Prun the secret of which he had just made himself completely master. He was mortified intensely by the discovery of a successful rival where he had so coolly and confidently flattered himself with a solitary conquest. He looked upon himself as the dupe of a young girl and her melancholy lover. His vanity, his spleen, and his guilty fancy, which, with the discovery of his difficulties, expanded almost into a passion, all stimulated him to continue the pursuit, and his brain teemed with schemes for outwitting them both, supplanting his rival, and gaining his point.
Full of these, he reached the Chateau des Anges—a sage, trustworthy, and virtuous counsellor for old Le Prun to lean on in his difficulties!
"You did wrong, in my opinion, to unmask your suspicions to old Charrebourg," said Blassemare, after he and Le Prun had talked over the affair.
"But he has not seen my wife since, and she, therefore, knows nothing of them."
"Were I in your place, notwithstanding, I should see him again, undo the effect of what I had said, and so prevent his putting Madame Le Prun on her guard."
"You are right for once. I thought of doing so myself."
Le Prun generally acted promptly; and so he left Blassemare to his meditations. Framing his little speech of apology as he went along, he traversed several passages, descended a stair in one of the towers, and found himself at last at the lobby of the Visconte's suite of rooms. It was now night—and these apartments lying in the oldest part of the chateau, and little frequented, were but very dimly lighted. There was nobody waiting in the anteroom—the servant had probably taken advantage of his master's repose, or reverie, to steal away to the gay society of his brother domestics; and these sombre and magnificently constructed rooms were as deserted as they were dim.
Having called in vain, the Fermier-General lighted a candle at the murky lamp, and entered the Visconte's apartment. His step was arrested by a howling from the inner chambers that might have spoken the despair of an evil spirit.
"Charrebourg! Visconte! Charrebourg!"
No answer—There was a silence—then another swelling howl.
"Psha!—it is that cursed old cur. I had forgotten him. Jonquil, Jonquil! come here, boy."
The old dog came scrambling along, and looking up into Le Prun's face, yelped strangely.
"What!—hungry? They have forgotten you, I dare say. What! not a scrap, not a bone! But where is your master?"
Le Prun entered the inner room, and the dog, preceding him, ran behind the fauteuil that stood at the table; and then running a step or two towards Le Prun, raised a howl that made him jump.
"Hey! what's the matter? But, sacre! there is something—what is this?"
There was a candle burning on the table, and writing materials. The Visconte de Charrebourg, who had evidently been writing, had fallen forward upon the table—dead. Le Prun touched him, he was quite cold. He raised the tall lank figure as well as he could, so that it leaned back in the chair; a little blood came from the corner of the mouth, the eyes were glazed, but the features wore, even in death, a character of sternness and dignity. He had fallen forward upon the fingers that held the pen, and the hand came stiffly back along with the body, still holding the pen in the attitude in which the chill of death had stiffened them. In this attitude he looked as if he only awaited a phrase or a thought of which he was in search to resume his writing.
"Dead—dead—a long time dead! how the devil has all this happened?"
And he looked for a moment at the old hound that was sniffing and whimpering in his master's ears, as if he could answer him. Poor Jonquil! he has shared his master's fortune fairly—the better and the worse; for years his humble comrade in the sylvan solitudes of Charrebourg, and here the solitary witness of his parting moment. Who can say with what more than human grief that dumb heart is swelling! He will not outlive his old friend many days—Jonquil is past the age for making new ones.
Le Prun glanced at the letter, a few lines of which the dead man had traced when he was thus awfully interrupted. "Sir," it began, "the family of Charrebourg, of which I am the unworthy representative, have been remarkable at all times for a chivalric and honorable spirit. They have maintained their dignity in prosperity by great deeds and princely munificence—in adversity, by encountering grief with patience, and insolence with defiance. Insult has never approached them unexpiated by blood; and I, old as I am, in consequence of what this morning——" here the summons had interrupted him.
"Intended for me!" said Le Prun, with an ugly sneer. "Well, he can't now put his daughter on her guard, or inflame her with the magnificent spirit of the beggarly Charrebourgs."
And so saying, he surrendered the chamber to the dead Visconte and his canine watcher.