The world had evidently grown out of its superstitions; republicanism and socialism, and all the other free and easy notions by which men persuaded themselves that the rich are thieves, and the poor the just inheritors of the gains, had knocked down many a mock idol besides monarchy. Men no longer threw a pinch of salt over their left shoulder when they upset the salt-cellar; did n't pierce their egg-shell, lest the fairies might make a boat of it; and so, among many other remains of the custom of our ancestors abandoned, they sat down to dinner, careless whether the party were thirteen or thirty.
“I might as well try and revive astrology,” thought I, “as seek to trade upon superstition in this unbelieving age! I doubt if all Paris contains another quatorzième than myself; the old villain knew the trade was ruined, when he sold me his 'goodwill' of the business.”
I was in the very deepest and darkest abyss of these gloomy thoughts one evening, when a heavy down-pour of rain, and the sorrowful moan of a December wind, added melancholy to my wearied spirit. It was such a night that none would have ventured out who could have claimed the humblest roof to shelter him. The streets were perfectly deserted, and, early as it was, the shops were already closed for the night. The very lamps that swung to and fro with the wind, looked hazy and dim amid the sweeping rain, and the chains clanked with the dreary cadence of a gibbet.
I knew it was needless to go through the ceremony of dressing on such a night. “Better face all the imaginary terrors of a thirteen party than brave the real danger of a storm like this,”—so I reasoned; and, in all the freedom of my tattered dressing-gown, I paced my room in a frame of mind very little above despair. “And this in Paris,” cried I; “this the city where in some hundred gilded saloons,—at this very moment—are met men brilliant in all the gifts of genius, and women more beautiful and more fascinating than the houris of Paradise. Wit and polished raillery, bright glances and soft smiles, are now mingling amid the glitter of stars, and crosses, and diamonds; while some thousands, like me, are actually famishing with hunger,—too poor even to have a fire to thaw the icicles of despair that are gathering around the heart!”
Had it not been better for me if I had lived on in the same humble condition to which I was born, than have tasted of the fascinations of riches, to love and pine after them forever? No! this I could not agree to. There were some moments of my glorious prosperity that well repaid me for all I had, or all I could suffer for them; and to whatever depth of evil destiny I might yet be reserved, I should carry with me the delicious memory of my once happiness. Con Cregan—the light-hearted—was himself again! Con,—the vagrant, the passionate lover of whatever life offered of pleasure, of beauty, and of splendor,—who only needed a good cash account with Coutts to make his existence a “fairy tale”! I forgot for a moment that I lived in a mean chamber with a broken window, a fireless grate, a table that never was graced with a meal! a bed that resembled a “board,” and a chair, to sit upon which without smashing, required the dexterity of a juggler!
A sharp knocking at my door cut short these meditations, and a voice at the same time cried out my name. “Come in,” said I, authoritatively. I fancied it might be the landlord, and was not sorry to brave him—by the darkness. The door opened, and a figure, which even in the gloom I could perceive was that of a stranger, entered. “Monsieur de Corneille lives here?” said he.
“I have the humble honor to be that individual,” responded I.
“Have you got no light? I have smashed my shins across a confounded chair,” said he, querulously.
“You 're all safe now,” said I; “keep round by the wall, but take care of the rat-trap near the corner.”
“Let's have a light, mon cher,” said the other, half coaxingly.