So much for the labor and practice of realities of the life of the millionaire. We must not conclude our sketch without rounding off the romance of that life which is the starting-point in the strange career pursued by him for forty years, with such ascetic severity and undeviating fidelity. What became of the betrothed of the gay and wealthy young American, from whom he had experienced the shock and disappointment that threw so much gloom over and produced such a thorough change in his future life? She had left with her gallant young husband, in bright hopes of a brilliant future. For some years their life in Paris was one of gayety, pleasure, and joyfulness. In the course of a few years, the dissipations of Paris began to pall upon the taste of the young couple. With unbounded wealth and means of enjoyment, they grew ennuyéed, discontented, and finally contentious. Jealousy, like a serpent, stole into their household, and involved the mind of the husband in her snaky embrace. Rumors reached his ear which nourished this passion, until it exploded in a violent and irreconcilable quarrel. One of the chief instigators of the young Count, in this quarrel with his high-spirited wife, was his own father, who, in the retirement of a chateau near Paris, grew daily more morose and misanthropic. He had heard that his son had been dishonored, and his rage and bitterness were unbounded. The son abandoned his wife's hotel, and repaired to his father's chateau, where the two lived in seclusion and gloom. After they had been separated for some time, the Countess was either enticed by lures thrown out by the elder Pontalba, or of her own accord resorted to the chateau, for the purpose of consulting the Count relative to certain dispositions of their joint property, or certain arrangements for the education of their children, of whom there were three. The son was not at home; but the father, receiving her in the hall, invited her into his study. In a few moments afterward, the servants in the chateau were aroused by the report of a pistol, followed by the scream of a woman, and by another report; then all was silent. Rushing toward the study of Mr. Pontalba, they forced the door open—it had been locked on the inside—and there a terrible spectacle was presented. The Countess lay on the floor, bathed in blood, which gushed in torrents from a large wound in her breast, whilst her dress was burning from the nearness of the shot by which the wound had evidently been inflicted. But a still ghastlier object lay near. It was the body of the elder Pontalba, her husband's father, who had blown off the top of his skull with a large dragoon's pistol, which he still grasped in his hand. Though insensible, it was discovered that the Countess was not quite dead. A surgeon was soon obtained, and on examination it was discovered that though her wound was a terrible one—three buck-shot and one large bullet having entered her breast—yet there was some hope for her. After incredible suffering and long confinement, she recovered; though to the day of her death she will feel the effects of the terrible wound, to which was added the mutilation of her hand, which caught the bullet.
The causes and circumstances of that tragedy were never unveiled to the world. Nor is there any great desire to penetrate the mystery. The Countess got well, and continued her fashionable life, appropriating a large portion of her great rental in New-Orleans to the purchase of property and the improvement of her elegant hotel in Paris. The Revolution of 1830 found the Countess a fierce Bourboniste, and produced such apprehension of confiscation, and danger to her life and liberty, that she concluded to return to New-Orleans. Here she found that her property had greatly augmented in value, and after a short sojourn in her native city, discovering that Louis Philippe's dynasty was an unproscriptive one, she returned to Paris, where she resided until the Revolution of 1848 again filled her with alarm for her large possessions. Beside, she was well known to be a conspicuous Legitimiste of the party of Henry V. Again she returned to New-Orleans, full of horror of Red Republicanism and Socialism, and with disgust for the fickleness of the French.
Directing her attention, with characteristic energy and ardor, to the improvement of her property which incloses Jackson Square, the principal public place in New-Orleans, she built some forty elegant houses, and then assuming the government of the municipality, she succeeded in inducing the authorities to cut down the old trees on the square, and to have it laid off in the parterre style. The 'Woodman spare that tree' sentiment strongly opposed this reform; but it was vain to resist the Countess. The trees obstructed the view of her fine rows of houses, and down they must come, and down they did come, very much to the improvement of the city, and to the full justification of the taste and good sense of the Countess.
After thus improving her property, and augmenting her resources, the Countess thought she might trust herself again in Paris, though a parvenu filled the throne which, in her view, was justly the property of the elder branch of the Bourbons.
But before she left, an incident occurred which must close this desultory sketch. It happened one day, while the Countess was in a notary's office, for the purpose of signing some deeds, that a tall, grave, and eccentric-looking old gentleman entered, and seeing the notary engaged, took his seat to wait his turn. After completing her signature of the deeds, the Countess, raising her eyes from the parchment, perceived that she was the object of close and keen observation of the eccentric old gentleman with the very brilliant and piercing eyes. A single glance served to bring that face and form distinctly back to her memory. Rushing up to the old gentleman, she threw her arms around his neck, in an affectionate embrace, exclaiming:
'Oh! Mr. McDonogh, is it you? I have not forgotten you during our long separation.' And after a pause, her emotions checking her utterance, she continued: 'We were once betrothed; it would have been better for both if we had married. Is it too late to repair that fatal error?'
For the first time for forty years, the old man was deeply affected by a tender and human feeling. The ancient love was aroused from the deep recess of his heart, where it had kin dormant and forgotten, and for a moment triumphed over the passion which had been growing and expanding for the half of his lifetime, until it had gained the entire mastery of his soul. Greatly moved by this penitence of his once-loved betrothed, Mr. McDonogh begged to be permitted to consult his better judgment, and tearing himself from the bewitchments of the Countess, he repaired instantly to the office of his lawyer. Walking in with the appearance of great excitement, he paced the office of the lawyer in an anxious and excited manner for some time, to the profound astonishment of his ancient counselor. At last the cause of this emotion was explained, when, turning to his lawyer, Mr. McDonogh confessed that he was under a great excitement, produced by meeting his old love, the Countess. 'And what would you think now, R——, if I were to marry her?'
'I should think,' replied the unsentimental counselor, 'that you had become crazy.'
'Ah?' replied the millionaire interrogatively, and then pausing thoughtfully, he continued: 'And you would think right—you would think right; so let us to business.'