In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man “de quatre-vingt-dix ans,” who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she saw M. Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with the Seigneur flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, fresh-cheeked, with life beating high and all the impulses of youth panting to use, sitting at the head of the seigneury table. She saw herself in the great pew at Mass, stiff with dignity, old in the way of manorial pride—all laughter dead in her, all spring-time joy overshadowed by the grave decorum of the Manor, all the imagination of her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence of age, however kindly and quaint and cheerful.
She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man sang:
“He takes her by the hand,
And to her chamber fair—”
Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the feeble inquiry of her father’s eyes, the anxious look in Charley’s.
Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse to follow and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the medicine-man should sing of Rosette and a man of thirty, not ninety, years. The fight he had had all day with his craving for drink had made him feverish, and all his emotions—unregulated, under the command of his will only—were in high temperature. A reckless feeling seized him. He would go to Rosalie, look into her eyes, and tell her that he loved her, no matter what the penalty of fate. He had never loved a human being, and the sudden impulse to cry out in the new language was driving him to follow the girl whose spirit for ever called to him.
He made a step forward to follow her, but stopped short, recalled to caution and his danger by the voice of the medicine-man:
“I had a friend once—good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest chap I ever knew. Tremendous fop—ladies loved him—cheeks like roses—tongue like sulphuric acid. Beautiful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate—got any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? ‘who’s your tailor?’” he added, in the slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took off his hat. “I forgot,” he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic seriousness, “your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the friend of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was—I call him my friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,—didn’t mean to, but he did just the same,—he came to a bad end. But he was a great man while he lived. And what I’m coming to is this, the song he used to sing when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young friend over there”—he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was trying hard to preserve equilibrium—“Brown’s Golden Pectoral will cure that cough, my friend!” he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under which Charley Steele stood. “Well,” he went on, “I was going to say that my friend’s name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the roosters waked the morn was called ‘Champagne Charlie.’ He was called ‘Champagne Charlie’—till he came to a bad end.”
He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the baker, and began:
“The way I gained my title’s by a hobby which I’ve got
Of never letting others pay, however long the shot;
Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same;
Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne.
Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle,
But Moet’s vintage only satisfies this champagne swell.
What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick,
A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick.
Champagne Charlie is my name;
Champagne Charlie is my name.
Who’s the man with the heart so young,
Who’s the man with the ginger tongue?
Champagne Charlie is his name!”
Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him the dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his pocket and rolling almost to his own feet.