Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons
A PREMEDITATED COLLISION
———
Frédéric looked up and recognized Dubourg; he was on the point of laughing outright, when his friend forestalled him by running toward him, exclaiming:
"I cannot be mistaken! What a fortunate meeting! It surely is Monsieur Frédéric de Montreville!"
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME X
SISTER ANNE
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.
SISTER ANNE
Contents
[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV, ] [XXVI, ] [XXVII, ] [XXVIII, ] [XXIX, ] [XXX, ] [XXXI]
I
A NOCTURNAL WALK.—MY AUNT'S FIVE HUNDRED FRANCS
The theatres had long since dismissed their audiences, the shops were closed, and the cafés were closing. Passers-by were becoming more and more infrequent, the cabs moved more rapidly, the street lights were burning, and the gas in the houses was disappearing; the streets of Paris, like the inhabitants thereof, were about to enjoy their brief hour of repose.
But repose, like fine weather, is never universal: when we are enjoying it in Paris, it may be that people are fighting in some other quarter of the globe; and while we are revelling in mild and delicious weather, within a hundred leagues of us a tornado may be destroying the crops, or a tempest submerging ships. Since peace and fine weather cannot be universal, let us try to make the most of them while they are in our possession, and let us not worry as to what sort of weather our neighbors are having.
A gentleman, who presumably had no desire to sleep, was walking through the streets of Paris, which had become almost silent. For more than an hour, he had been walking on the boulevards, from Rue du Temple to Rue Poissonnière; occasionally, without any very clear idea as to where he was going, he strayed into the faubourgs; but he soon stopped, looked about him, muttered between his teeth: "What the devil am I doing here?" and returned to the boulevards.
This gentleman seemed to be in the neighborhood of thirty years of age; he was of medium height, and rather stout than thin. His face was neither ugly nor handsome; his round eyes protruded overmuch, and his nose, while not exactly flat, had neither the nobility of the Grecian nor the charm of the aquiline type. By way of compensation, he had what is called expression, and possessed the art of forcing his features to depict the sentiment which he desired to seem to feel: an art no less valuable in society than on the stage; for we are actors everywhere, and there are at court, in the city, in palaces, in salons, in boudoirs, and even in the servants' hall, people of unexcelled skill in the art of counterfeiting what they do not feel.
Our promenader's costume was neither elegant nor shabby. He was dressed like one who is in the habit of going into society, but not for the purpose of exhibiting the cut of his coat or the color of his trousers. His bearing corresponded with his dress; it was not at all pretentious. You will say, perhaps, that a man does not select so late an hour of the night to adopt a swagger or a mincing gait; I shall, in that case, have the honor to reply that I am drawing the portrait of the man as he was under ordinary circumstances, and that I had made his acquaintance prior to the moment of his introduction to you.
Now that you have the means of forming an idea of this individual's appearance, you will perhaps be curious to know what business detained him on the boulevards, why he was walking there so late instead of going home to bed. In order to find out, let us listen to him for a moment talking to himself as he walks, with both hands in his pockets, and as unconcernedly as if it were only eight o'clock in the evening.
"I had a presentiment of what would happen to me. I didn't want to go to that little Delphine's. If I had stayed away, I should still have my five hundred francs in my pocket. But little Delphine is such a dear creature! she wrote me such a sweet little note! Am I still green enough to fall into such a trap? I, who know the world so well, especially women! If I had had sense enough to take only three hundred francs with me, I should have something left; but, no! I must needs play the millionaire! I played like a fool. That little man who won my money turned the king very often. Hum! it looks a little shady. But one thing is certain, and that is that I haven't a sou, and that my landlord turned me out of his house yesterday because I didn't pay him. For four paltry louis! the Arab! I was going to pay him yesterday, with the five hundred francs my old aunt sent me, when little Delphine's invitation came and upset all my virtuous plans. Poor Dubourg! you are incorrigible, my friend; and yet, you are beginning to be old enough to reform."
At this point, Dubourg—for now we know his name—took his snuff-box from his pocket, and paused to take a pinch.
"O my only comfort! my trusty companion!" he continued, gazing at his snuff-box with an expression that was almost sentimental; "it's very lucky that you are made of nothing more valuable than horn; if you had been, I should have parted with you long ago.—But let us reflect a little. What in the devil am I going to do? I have no employment; they are so ridiculous in these public offices! I earned only fifteen hundred francs, so it seemed fair to me that I shouldn't work any more than the deputy-chief who earned three thousand; strictly speaking, indeed, I ought to have worked only half as much. Now, as my deputy-chief never appeared till noon and went away at four o'clock, and passed that time reading the newspapers, cutting quill pens, chatting with his back to the stove in winter, and going out to take the air in summer, I saw no reason why I shouldn't get to the office as late as he did and go away as early; pass an hour reading the Moniteur, three-quarters of an hour on the Constitutionnel, and an hour and a quarter on the Débats; stare at my pen a long while before trimming the nib; look at the work before me without touching it; turn over a file of papers for an hour, and then put it back in its place, without the slightest intention of writing anything on it; and take as much time to go out to buy a roll as it would have taken me to go from Paris to Saint-Cloud. This conduct, dictated by a sense of justice, was not to the liking of my superiors; as they wanted to force me to work hard, so that they need do nothing, they didn't like it because I presumed to imitate them; they reported me to the minister, and I was kicked out. To be sure, they offered to take me back a little later, as a substitute, but I felt that I was unworthy of such an honor.
"Then I went into a banking-house. Gad! what a difference! There, my superiors set the example of working hard. From the head clerk to the office-boy, everyone came at eight o'clock and stayed till five, then came back at seven and stayed till ten; and during all that time, not a minute's rest; writing, or making figures all the time. If by chance a fellow could venture to say a word, it was only while he was copying a letter or opening an account. No holidays! Always a mail coming in or going out. A man couldn't do too much; and if I happened to leave the office a few minutes before ten, an infernal Dutchman, who had passed forty-five years of his life over a ledger, would always take out his watch and say: 'You're in a great hurry to-night!'
"Faith, I couldn't stand it! That animal life was ruining my health; and one fine morning, when they lectured me because I went out to get a glass of beer at a café near by, I took my hat and said good-bye to banking-houses and business.
"I tried being a notary, but I was too absent-minded: I mistook a death certificate for a marriage contract, and a power of attorney for a will; so I was politely advised to abandon that profession.
"Then I went into an old solicitor's office. Ah! I was in clover there for some little time. He had a wife who was past her prime; she was very fond of walking and driving, and she chose me for her escort. The husband, who was thus relieved of that duty, was very well pleased to have me escort her everywhere; I think he would have made me his first clerk, if I would have agreed to take madame to walk all my life. But I got tired of having always on my arm a costume à la Pompadour and the face of a country magistrate. I ceased to be attentive to madame, monsieur took offence and discharged me. O tempora! O mores!
"Thereupon I renounced the legal profession; I felt in my heart the impulses of a noble independence, an intense love of liberty. So I began to do nothing—a superb profession, within everybody's reach; and a delightful one when it is supported by investments in the funds. Unluckily, my name is not inscribed on the books of the State, but only on those of my tailor, bootmaker, et cetera. I am an orphan; my parents left me very little, and that little could not last long, especially with me, who am neither miserly, nor economical, nor prudent, and who have no desire for money except to have the pleasure of spending it. My father, an estimable Breton, practised medicine; he ought to have made a fortune! Probably in his day there weren't enough colds, fevers, and bad air. He left me nothing but a most honorable name, which, for all my follies, I shall never suffer to be disgraced, because a man can be a reprobate and still be honest.
"When I had spent my modest inheritance, I began to philosophize; I was tempted to write, as Seneca did, on contempt for wealth. But Seneca had a fortune of forty millions when he wrote that; so that he was better acquainted with his subject than I am, without a sou. So, as one should try to talk of nothing except what one knows about, I concluded not to talk about wealth, of which I know nothing.
"Luckily, I still have an old aunt, in the wilds of Bretagne, who has never married. The dear woman has only a modest fortune, and yet she has never deserted her nephew. To be sure, I have written her some very affecting letters. Poor, dear soul! she thinks I am married! Faith! as I couldn't think of any other possible way of getting money from her, in my last letter I made myself out, at one stroke, a husband and father; yes, and the father of triplets! That was what brought the five-hundred-franc note that I have just lost at écarté. O cursed écarté! I swore that I wouldn't gamble any more, as I am in hard luck this month. But how could I resist? I went to little Delphine's, who, since she left the stage, receives the best people in Paris: artists, authors, journalists, English, Russian, and Tartar noblemen. Tartars, yes! indeed, I fancy that little man I played with was something of a Greek.[A] To pass eighteen times in succession is a little too much! And that other idiot, who made a point of offering me punch every time I lost! as if I could drink five hundred francs' worth of it! Ah! my poor old aunt! if you knew what had become of your money! The worst of it all is that she won't send me any more for a long time. I can't have the wife I have taken to my bosom, to touch my aunt's heart, lie in every month; I have said she was sick twice already; I have credited my triplets with all the diseases children have, and have given myself inflammation of the lungs and jaundice. But that sort of thing will be played out sooner or later. No, my poor aunt, no, I won't pester you any more. No, I don't propose that you shall deprive yourself any longer of all the little comforts of life, for your scamp of a nephew. I have abused your goodness of heart too much. I blush to think how often I have appealed to it; I feel in my heart a noble pride; and when I think of your last remittance of five hundred francs! gone in four games! Gad! it's horrible!"
[A] Greek, i.e., "sharper."
Dubourg began to walk a little more rapidly; he took his hands from his pockets, as if he were furious to find nothing in them; but in a moment he became calm again, resumed his former gait, and once more exclaimed:
"But what in the deuce am I going to do?"
At that moment, he passed one of those individuals who wander about the streets at night, with a bag on their back and a hooked stick in their hand, and halt in front of places which we avoid during the day.
"That's a last resort, to be sure," said Dubourg, glancing at the man with the lantern; "but I confess that I don't as yet feel courageous enough to employ it; and although a famous author has said: 'It is not the trade that honors the man, but the man should honor the trade,' I doubt whether I should be held in high esteem if I should take to that little hooked stick; even though I possessed with it the wisdom of Cato, the clemency of Titus, and the virtues of Marcus Aurelius.
"However, I have some talents of my own, and I am not reduced to that yet. I love the arts; ah! I adore them! I was born to be an artist. I don't know how to draw, I cannot play on any instrument, I do not write poetry with great facility; but, for all that, I love painting, music, and poetry. If I should go on the stage, I believe I should make a success of it. But to make one's début at thirty years—that's rather late in life. And then, the idea of the son of a doctor at Rennes going on the stage! But why not? Louis XIV did it; he acted before his court; and if I had been in Racine's place, I certainly would have written some splendid parts for him, instead of trying to turn aside his inclination. Our present-day authors wouldn't be so stupid; consequently they are rich, whereas in Racine's time they were not.
"But I can't begin to-morrow, and yet I must dine to-morrow: a desperate plight to be in when one has neither money nor credit. Come, come, Dubourg! come, my fine fellow, don't be downcast, retain that lightness of heart, that sang-froid which has never failed you thus far. Remember that it is a glorious thing to be able to endure misfortune; that it is in disaster that a brave heart manifests its courage. Oh! yes; it's easy enough for me to say all this now, while my stomach is still full of Mademoiselle Delphine's cakes and sweetmeats and punch; but when I am hungry, I am afraid I shall be a wretched philosopher.
"In misfortune, one has recourse to one's friends; but one has no friends when one is unfortunate. But sometimes men aren't so selfish as they are said to be. Let me think! Frédéric! yes, he alone can be useful to me. Frédéric is only twenty; he still looks upon the world as a young man is likely to do at that age, when he has been, up to eighteen, under his father's eye and under the care of a tutor. Frédéric is kind-hearted, generous, easily moved—too easily, indeed; but it is not for me to blame him for following too readily the impulses of his heart. He has accommodated me several times; but, no matter; I am sure that he'll do it again, if he can. Let us go to see Frédéric."
Dubourg mechanically put his hand to his fob, to see what time it was; then he sighed, and murmured:
"Unlucky dog that I am! I have never been able to keep one a week. Ah! my poor aunt! If I only had your five hundred francs!"
The weather was becoming threatening, and a few drops of rain fell. The cabs had ceased to break the silence of the night; the street lanterns cast only a faint and flickering light.
"It must be very late," said Dubourg, glancing about. "Frédéric lives with his father, Monsieur le Comte de Montreville. How can I venture to go there at this time of night? The count is inclined to be strict; he's not one of your stage fathers, with whom you can do whatever you choose. On the contrary, they say that he demands the most absolute obedience from his son, and that his son trembles before him. But I have no doubt that his severity is exaggerated; at all events, he hardly knows me. I have been to the house several times, but he has seen me only once or twice. Frédéric's apartment is in a different wing from his, so we will try our luck."
And Dubourg, leaving at last the circle to which he had confined his steps for so long, walked rapidly toward Rue de Provence, where the Comte de Montreville's mansion was situated.
As he drew nearer to Frédéric's abode, his hope of seeing him before the next day became fainter and fainter. Ought he to turn the whole house upside down in the middle of the night? If he woke the son, he would wake the father too; and it was a decidedly ill-advised method of improving his acquaintance with Monsieur de Montreville, to call at his house between two and three o'clock in the morning.
But Dubourg walked on, even while he reflected thus; like a lover, who has sworn never to see his faithless one again, but who prowls constantly about her abode and always ends by going in, still repeating: "I will never see her again!"—At such time, reason speaks, but passion guides our footsteps. Poor mortals! is it your fault, pray, that passion so often carries the day?
As he approached the house, Dubourg's eyes were agreeably surprised by the appearance of a double row of private carriages, whose lanterns lighted a large part of the street. He quickened his pace; the carriages were most numerous in front of the Comte de Montreville's house, and the courtyard was filled with coupés, landaus, and vis-à-vis. The coachmen were talking together, the footmen swearing impatiently; servants hurried to and fro across the courtyard. Lamps on the carriage-stones and on the broad steps banished the darkness, and delicious strains of music floated out through the windows of the beautiful salon, brilliantly lighted by thousands of candles, forming a strong contrast with the depressing silence that reigned a short distance away.
Dubourg no longer walked: he ran, he leaped, he flew. The sight of the lanterns, the noise made by so numerous a company, and the strains of the contra-dances within, drove from his mind the serious thoughts which had begun to monopolize it.
"There's a party going on," he cried, "a ball! Idiot that I am! to forget that this was Thursday, monsieur le comte's reception day; and they say he gives delightful parties. Frédéric has invited me several times; he said he wanted to introduce me to his father. Hum! it rested only with me to go into the best society, to make acquaintances who would have given me a boost in the world. But, no; it isn't in my power to be sensible and leave those damned billiard-tables! Ah! I recognize that tune; it's by Rossini; a three-step. I danced to it at Vauxhall, with the stout blonde."
Dubourg was already in the courtyard, threading his way among carriages, coachmen, and footmen. No one had paid any attention to him; and, if he had been suitably dressed, he might have entered the salons, and, perhaps, have played cards and danced, without attracting the notice of the host; for at such large functions, it not infrequently happens that the master of the house fails to see and speak with all of his guests.
But Dubourg stopped under the windows of the salon on the first floor, where dancing was in progress. In order to keep in the background, he had walked away from the brilliantly lighted steps and taken his stand in the shadow of a huge berlin, whence he could see the ball and distinguish the dancers.
He was tempted for a moment to enter the salon; but, upon glancing down at his dress, he realized that it was not an opportune moment to appear before monsieur le comte, who was a great stickler for etiquette. His coat was blue, with metal buttons; he wore high boots and a black cravat. That was a very suitable costume in which to play écarté and talk nonsense at Mademoiselle Delphine's, but it would have been exceedingly out of place at Monsieur de Montreville's reception.
"Ah! if I had kept my aunt's five hundred francs," he muttered again, as he turned his eyes from his costume to the ballroom, "I should have outshone all those fine clothes!"
As he watched the dancing and eyed the ladies through the windows, most of which were open because of the heat, Dubourg spied a table with a green cloth in a smaller salon, at which two middle-aged men had just taken their seats. They were soon surrounded by onlookers, and the table was covered with gold.
In order to obtain a better view of the small salon, Dubourg climbed up behind the carriage by which he was standing; there he could watch the game perfectly, and could see the hand of one of the players, who was sitting with his back to the window.
"How lucky they are!" he thought; "they are playing écarté. The deuce! it's a warm old game; at least thirty louis a side! If I still had my aunt's money, I could bet from here. What am I saying? If I ever touch cards again, may I be damned! Ah! there's the same hand that I lost my last game on; and I ought to have won it; I played according to rule. Well! what the devil is he doing? He's going to ask for cards!"
And Dubourg, oblivious of the fact that he was on top of a carriage in the courtyard, shouted:
"Don't take any cards! Play your hand, play it, I tell you! I'll answer for the point!"
The voice surprised the players beyond words. They turned and stared, and questioned each other.
"Who was that who undertook to advise me?" demanded the old man whose turn it was to play. "Has he got more at stake than I have, to give him the right to talk like that? Why don't you answer, messieurs?"
"The voice came from the courtyard," said a young man near the window.
"From the courtyard! from the courtyard! Do you mean to say that those rascally footmen presume to watch us play and to make remarks?"
And the old gentleman with the powdered head left his seat and looked into the courtyard. Dubourg jumped down from the carriage, and the shock woke the horses; whereupon they began to prance, and tried to run. The drowsy coachmen rubbed their eyes, thinking that the ball was over; those who were talking hurried to their seats, and those in the street, observing the commotion in the courtyard, did the same; while the coachman and footmen of the carriage on which Dubourg had perched struggled to pacify the horses.
Meanwhile, Dubourg had slunk away by the side of the house.
"It seems that I must always put my foot in it!" he muttered. "Here are thirty coachmen and as many footmen all stirred up, and a pair of horses have nearly trampled on me, just because I attempted to advise that old fellow who doesn't know how to play the game and was going to ask for cards when he ought to take every trick! That's the last time I'll ever meddle in other people's business."
As Dubourg crept along by the wall, he came to a door just as a servant came out to ascertain the cause of the noise in the courtyard. Dubourg recognized Frédéric's valet, and instantly accosted him.
"Where is your master, Germain?"
"Ah! is it you, monsieur?" said the servant, who had often seen Dubourg with his young master. "Have you come to the ball?"
"No, no; I have no desire to dance. Where is your master, I ask you?"
"Oh! Monsieur Frédéric is dancing. There are some beautiful women inside, and he's an amateur, you know."
"The deuce! I would like to speak with him; I have something very important to say to him, but I don't want to disturb him, or to go into the salon; I am not dressed."
"If you wish, monsieur, I will take you to Monsieur Frédéric's apartment; you can wait there comfortably until he retires."
"That's a delightful idea of yours, Germain; take me to Frédéric's apartment at once."
Germain took a candle and went before Dubourg, who was overjoyed to have found a place to finish the night. The valet, who had seen his master display great friendliness to Dubourg, was certain that he would not be reproved for what he was doing.
In due time, they arrived at the young man's apartment, which was so far from the ballroom that the music could barely be heard.
"Would you like me to tell my master that you are here?" inquired Germain, as he placed the candle on a table.
"No, it isn't worth while; I'll read while I am waiting. I am in no hurry at all now; let him dance as long as he pleases."
Germain left Dubourg alone; whereupon he stretched himself out in a luxurious easy-chair and tossed away the book he had taken up.
"To the devil with reading!" he said, assuming the position best adapted for a nap; "it's high time for me to rest; I have earned it. Dance, dance away! How comfortable it is in this chair, especially when one has been within an ace of sleeping in the street! Here am I installed under the roof of Monsieur le Comte de Montreville, a most respectable gentleman, who has at least thirty thousand francs a year, and just one son, whose friend I am, and whose education I aspire to finish; for they have stuffed a heap of rubbish into his head, and have neglected to teach him the most essential thing of all—knowledge of the human heart, and especially of the female heart. As I am decidedly well posted in that branch of knowledge, I propose to make something of our dear Frédéric, and to teach him to know the world; so that he may make his way, like me."
While he thus communed with himself, Dubourg began to nod, and before he had been in the easy-chair five minutes he was sleeping soundly.
II
THE COMTE DE MONTREVILLE.—AN EVENING PARTY IN SOCIETY
The Comte de Montreville was, at the time that we make his acquaintance, about sixty years old. The scion of a noble and wealthy family, he had served in the army, married, and retired from service, and had succeeded in coming safely through the tempests of the Revolution.
He was a short, slender man, with a cold, stern face which commanded respect. He did not lack intelligence, nor was he the slave of a mass of absurd prejudices of the sort that some old men were trying to make fashionable, like paniers and curly wigs. Monsieur de Montreville was not one of those men who insist on retrograding while others go forward; he followed the general current of the time, and, wise amid a multitude of fools, he blamed only those who, from a proneness to exaggeration, from selfishness, or from incapacity, muddied the waters of a stream which all the efforts of all mankind could not prevent from flowing.
But the count had been brought up strictly by his father. Accustomed early in life to unquestioning obedience, he desired his son to be no less submissive to him. At the age of six, young Frédéric lost his mother. The count did not choose to marry again; he had a son to inherit his name, and that was enough for him. He placed Frédéric at one of the best schools in Paris. At fourteen, the young count, who was endowed with an unusually fine intellect, had carried off several prizes. His education was not then completed; but his father, fearing that at that age he might form some dangerous intimacy, and impelled by his longing to have him always by his side, in order to accustom him to absolute obedience, took him away from the school, and gave him a private tutor.
This tutor, in whose charge the count placed his son, and with whom we shall soon become very well acquainted, was neither a scholar nor a man of brains; far from it. But he was entirely at the orders of monsieur le comte, and would not have taken his pupil out to walk without first asking the father's permission; that was the reason for his selection, despite his limited mental qualifications.
The count was very fond of his son, but he would have been very sorry to allow the full depth of his affection to appear; he would have considered that he had forfeited his dignity and his claim to Frédéric's respect if he had spoken to him in the kindly tone of a dear friend. But is not our father the first friend that nature gives us? and ought the respect we owe him to banish confidence and intimacy?
Frédéric loved his father, but he trembled before him. Accustomed from childhood never to reply to him, and to obey promptly his lightest word, he had retained, as he grew to manhood, that habit of passive obedience and that timidity which made it impossible for him to allow his heart to speak freely in his father's presence.
But we must do the Comte de Montreville the justice to say that he did not abuse his power over his son. When Frédéric was eighteen, and his education was at an end, the count dismissed the tutor, and, having sent for the young man to come to him, addressed him thus:
"I am content with you, Frédéric. You have responded to the pains I have taken with your education, and I have no reason to complain of your disposition. But you are approaching the age at which a young man should study the world for himself. Henceforth, therefore, you are to enjoy absolute liberty. You will continue to live in the same house with me; but I will give you the apartment in the wing that looks on the street; mine is at the end of the courtyard; thus you will be able to go in and out at any hour without disturbing me. My steward has orders to supply you with money whenever you ask for it. I know you, and I am sure that you will not abuse this indulgence. You are at an age when young men are eager for pleasure; enjoy yourself, indulge in the follies characteristic of your years; I mean those that lead neither the heart nor the mind astray. You are easily moved, you adore all women! but this enthusiasm will vanish and never return. Be more particular about forming intimacies with men of your age; do not make friends too hurriedly: one should be more exacting in the choice of a friend than of a mistress. However, I shall not lose sight of you altogether; I trust that the principles I have instilled into you will keep you from any reprehensible excess, and that I shall have no reason to repent of having given you liberty of action."
Frédéric, deeply touched by this harangue, would have rushed into his father's arms; but the count, repressing that affectionate impulse, which his own heart shared, confined himself to giving him his hand to press, and added in a voice that trembled slightly:
"In a few years, I will look to your future; I will see about finding a suitable wife for you. But the time for that has not come yet; enjoy your youth, and do not abuse it."
Having said this, the count hastily left the room, for the conversation had moved him; he felt tears in his eyes, and it would have distressed him to allow Frédéric to see them.
Two years had passed since this interview, during which Frédéric, now his own master, had followed the first impulse of his heart. Endowed with an ardent and sensitive nature, Frédéric was certain speedily to feel the pangs of love. At eighteen, most young men say to themselves: "I must fall in love," as they say: "I must dance, or gamble, or ride." But the young count did not treat love so lightly: his inexperienced heart loved or believed that it loved sincerely, and desired to be repaid in kind; treachery broke his heart, and he wept bitterly over the infidelity of a mistress.
Frédéric had a fine figure, and a most attractive face, dignified and sweet; his eyes expressed all that his heart felt. But he had not yet acquired the careless tone and the free and easy manners of the dandies of the day; he did not sway back and forth as he talked, he did not smile into mirrors, he did not deal in the airy nothings which are so popular in salons, and had not the art of looking a woman in the eye to tell her that she was adorable. And as such cavalierish manners are fashionable, and as the ladies care for nothing except what is consecrated by the goddess of fashion, they considered Frédéric rather sentimental, awkward even, and said to one another:
"He's not very bad, but he needs to be trained."
A petite-maîtresse can hardly attach herself to a novice; she may indulge a fancy for him, but only a reprobate can inspire a grande passion; that is why poor Frédéric was constantly deceived and thrown over by his mistresses.
It was at Tortoni's that he had made the acquaintance of Dubourg. On that day, the philosopher, being in funds, had created an uproar at that café, where he was entertaining four of his friends. Several strangers, annoyed by the noise they made, tried to impose silence on them; Dubourg's only reply was to throw the remains of a bowl of punch at their heads. They sprang to their feet, shouting and threatening, and during the quarrel Dubourg's four friends deemed it prudent to disappear in rapid succession. He, enraged by their cowardly conduct in abandoning him, was still holding out against his adversaries, when Frédéric espoused his quarrel and offered to act as his second. Dubourg accepted, and a duel took place the next day. Dubourg's antagonist was slightly wounded, and the affair had no more serious results; but it served to cement the friendship thus formed between Dubourg and Frédéric. The former, although nearly ten years the young count's senior, was far from being as reasonable as he; but his unfailing gayety pleased Frédéric, who often felt the need of his friend's merriment to help him to forget the infidelities of his charmers.
Now that we know the Comte de Montreville and his son, let us enter the salons, where the most brilliant society of the capital was assembled, because, as Dubourg had said, it was the count's reception day.
The company was scattered through several rooms, all resplendent with the light of innumerable candles; here there was dancing, there card-playing; elsewhere, the guests were chatting, or strolling about, or standing where they could get a breath of air; the heat was intense in the cardroom, where it was almost impossible to force one's way through the crowd of bettors.
The ladies were remarkable for the elegance, and in some cases for the singularity, of their toilets. As a general rule, the costumes of the mothers are even more elaborate than those of the unmarried women. Is it because they think that their daughters stand less in need of external attractions? or is it true that coquetry increases as natural charm decreases? I do not presume to decide the question. It is different with men: with them, the ball costume, when once established, is soon adopted by all, and those who desire to distinguish themselves have no other resource than to dress their hair in some original way, or to devote their attention to the knot of their cravat; but this last-mentioned portion of the costume is beginning to be no longer a matter of choice.
But it was nearly three o'clock, and the party was drawing to a close. It was the best of all times for the observer to use his faculties; there were fewer people dancing, the circulation was less impeded, and the guests who remained ventured to talk and laugh a little. Toward the close of a ball, informality takes the place of ceremony, and many women do not begin to be charming until they cease to be affected. Some persons who had not previously had an opportunity to speak together were conversing in a corner of the salon. Young men chatted with the pretty partners, whom they invited from choice rather than necessity. The ladies smiled more sweetly upon their escorts; people drew nearer together, they knew one another better.
Monsieur de Montreville walked about his salons with the amiable manner of a host who excels in the art of doing the honors. He talked with an elderly marchioness who was sitting alone on a sofa; he said a courteous word to a lady who was not dancing; and, on his way to her, found time to bestow a compliment or two on the young dancers; he saw to it that the punch was passed around, and the ices; he spent a moment looking over the écarté table, and if somebody was wanted to take a bet he was always ready.
But what was Frédéric doing, leaning against that mantel-shelf? he seemed to be devoting his whole attention to the dance; but was it really the quadrille which interested him so deeply? and why, if he was thinking of nothing but that pretty maiden's agile movements, did he seem to be suffering? Yes, to the keen observer, his tranquillity was assumed, the smile which passed over his lips when he was spoken to was forced and unnatural. Frédéric was preoccupied, but not with the dance. A few feet away from him a young woman was seated, a young woman not more than twenty years old, although she had been three years married to a sexagenarian notary, who was in the cardroom at that moment.
Madame Dernange was very pretty; her vivacity, the sparkle of her eyes, her costume, her brilliant intellect, everything about her had a dazzling effect: she attracted, subjugated, enslaved, with a glance; but, as she knew the power of her charms, she sought constantly to add to the number of her adorers. At sixteen, she married Monsieur Dernange, without the slightest affection for him; but she married him joyfully. She was impatient to be her own mistress, and to give a free rein to her penchant for flirtation.
With a husband nearly sixty, she was very certain of being able to do just what she chose; and, in fact, Monsieur Dernange left her perfectly untrammelled. She was seen at all receptions, balls, festivities of every description. Sometimes her husband escorted her, but generally he went to bed about the time that his wife left the house; which did not prevent them from leading a very peaceful life. It is a very simple matter to live happily with your wife: all you have to do is just to allow her to do whatever she desires.
Monsieur Dernange had an abundance of savoir vivre; he was enchanted to have his wife enjoy herself. Many people declared that the young woman did not abuse his confidence, and it is very possible: she was a great flirt, but flirts love no one; however, it is not well to trust them too far.
Frédéric had not been able to look upon the brilliant Madame Dernange with an indifferent eye. She had had no difficulty in setting him on fire with a glance, and with a glance she had realized her triumph. The young Comte de Montreville was not a conquest to be disdained; Madame Dernange resolved to fasten him to her chariot, and for that nothing more was necessary than a glance or two, an occasional smile, a faint pressure of the hand, and a veiled remark uttered in a voice that seemed to tremble slightly. And the coquette used all her powers with such art! She was not in love, and she knew so well how to win love! A person who loves sincerely has much more difficulty in making an impression than one who does not love at all; for the latter is able to avail herself of all her advantages, while the other, striving to appear amiable, is often only awkward and embarrassed. Ninon said that, and Ninon knew what she was talking about.
Poor Frédéric very soon succumbed to that treatment; he believed that she loved, yes, adored him! and for a few days he lost his head. But at this party of his father's a young and gorgeous colonel had made his appearance; he was a man notorious for his bonnes fortunes, his amorous adventures; a man, in a word, whom any woman might be proud to number among her captives, and Madame Dernange had at once determined to achieve this new triumph.
Poor Frédéric! you were utterly forgotten: she no longer gave a thought to you, but was engrossed by the handsome colonel. Now and again, she deigned to smile sweetly upon you, it is true; but you were in love, you were jealous, and you saw that the coquette instantly turned her eyes upon the man she desired to enslave.
Several times the young man had approached the scintillating Dernange; he wished to show her that he had detected her perfidy; but she contented herself with smiling at him, and saying:
"What on earth is the matter with you to-night, Monsieur de Montreville? You have a solemn air which is most amusing."
How comforting such words are to a jealous lover! Frédéric made no reply, but walked away with rage in his heart, while the coquette laughed long and loud at a bright remark made by the colonel, or by some other of her adorers.
Frédéric was on pins and needles all the evening; and, toward the close of the festivities, seeing Madame Dernange on a sofa, on which the colonel also had taken his seat, he stationed himself a few steps away. He leaned against a mantel, with his back turned to them, and pretended to be engrossed by the dance; but he did not lose a word of what was said on the sofa. The colonel was amiable and gallant; he strove to make himself agreeable to Madame Dernange, and she put forth all her powers and played with him with her usual grace. She laughed so heartily, she was so pretty, so fascinating, when she desired to make a favorable impression! There was a constant exchange of compliments and clever retorts, during which poor Frédéric was all on fire. If he had not held himself in check, he would have insulted the colonel and overwhelmed the faithless one with reproaches. Luckily, he retained his senses sufficiently to realize all the impropriety of such a scene, and all the ridicule it would bring upon him; for in love intrigues the party who complains, and who is betrayed, is always laughed at. It is said: the vanquished pay the fine; we might vary this proverb slightly, and thus make it truer, except in England, where husbands are in the habit of exacting compensation in money when they are in the position which I understand by vanquished.
The colonel paid his court in military fashion—that is to say, he made much progress in a short time. Unluckily, this method is often successful. Unluckily for timid lovers, that is; or is not she the best who makes us happy most promptly? Frédéric heard him ask Madame Dernange's permission to call to pay his respects. The respects of a colonel of hussars! Frédéric was bathed in cold perspiration at the thought. The pretty woman made some resistance; she laughed and joked, and said that he must ask her husband first; then added, with a rippling laugh:
"But, no; no, you needn't! Monsieur Dernange will have no objection."
The colonel was urgent, and he received permission. Frédéric was choking with rage; he walked hastily away, for he could stand it no longer. He went into a room which was empty for the moment, a large number of the guests having already taken their leave.
He threw himself into an easy-chair. The room was but dimly lighted by the flickering candles in glass globes; he could abandon himself without reserve to his feelings. He drew his handkerchief, he was choking; his eyes were filled with tears. A young man almost always pays with tears the fees of his apprenticeship in society. In two or three years, he will laugh at the misfortune that now drives him to despair. After being deceived, he will deceive in his turn; but he will never again be so foolish as to fix his fancy on a coquette, and it may be that some hearts that love him sincerely will be rejected by him, for the innocent often have to pay for the guilty. But, let us wait: it is possible that Frédéric will always retain that emotional nature, that constancy in love, which now cause him to regret the loss of a heart that he never possessed.
The words faithless, fickle, traitress, issued from his mouth, followed by long sighs. For more than half an hour he had been buried in his reflections. The candles had gone out, the music had ceased. Several people passed him without attracting his attention, nor was he, sitting in a dark corner, noticed by them. Some ladies came into the room to get their shawls, which they had left on a couch not far from Frédéric. But a familiar voice awoke the echoes in his heart: it was the voice of Madame Dernange, talking with one of her friends. They seemed in excellent spirits.
"What sport I have had!" said the notary's wife. "That colonel is really very attractive!"
"But, my dear, did you see the wry face Frédéric made?"
"Yes, indeed I did, and I was strongly tempted to laugh!"
"You drove him to despair."
"What a calamity! That young man is romantic and sentimental enough to give one the blues; he's an idiot!"
"Oh! he's a very pretty fellow, my dear; and when he has got rid of that schoolboy air, and has acquired the tone of fashionable gallantry, you'll see how popular he will be!"
"When I choose to amuse myself with him again, I have only to say a word, to glance at him, and he will be at my feet. But give me my shawl, which you have had in your hand an hour. The colonel is waiting to escort me to my carriage."
When the ladies had gone, Frédéric rose. He found it difficult to believe his ears. Shame, jealousy, anger, filled his heart, where love had already ceased to fill any space; for his self-esteem had been wounded, and wounded self-esteem soon triumphs over love.
In this frame of mind, Frédéric retired to his apartment; he slammed the door as he entered, and thereby woke Dubourg with a start.
III
TRAVELLING PLANS.—MONSIEUR MÉNARD.—EN ROUTE.
"I count four!" cried Dubourg, springing to his feet; while Frédéric, surprised to find him there, stared at him a moment in silence, then abandoned himself unreservedly to the pleasure of pouring out his heart and telling his sorrows to his friend.
"Ah! my dear Dubourg! it must have been heaven that sent you."
"No; it was my landlord, who has turned me out of the house."
"At last I have found a heart which understands mine, which will appreciate my distress and pity my torments."
"Have you been betting on the wrong side, too?"
"The treacherous, fickle creature!"
"Luck is a woman, my friend; that tells the whole story."
"Yes, and a very heartless woman, too! If you knew what she dared to say about me!"
"What's that! has luck been talking about you?"
"I am an idiot! Indeed, she is right; I was an idiot to love her! But it's all over, yes, forever! She thinks that she can bring me to her feet, enslave me again, with a word and a smile! But, no, I will not be her dupe again; I know her now!"
Dubourg rubbed his eyes and looked at Frédéric, who was pacing the floor with an air of desperation, sometimes stopping to beat his forehead, sometimes smiling bitterly.
"Who in the devil are you talking about, my dear fellow?"
"Why, Madame Dernange, that woman whose heart is as false as her face is pretty, that coquette whom I have adored for two months, and who, as I believed, loved me. But, my dear Dubourg, she was making a fool of me."
"And that surprises you? Ah! my poor Frédéric, what a boy you still are!"
"She made me believe that she reciprocated my love; and this evening, a new-comer, a colonel, has stolen her heart from me, apparently without much difficulty. I was strongly tempted to insult the fellow and kill him."
"Would that have made your Madame Dernange less fickle?"
"No, of course not; that is what I said to myself."
"In making love to her, he did what any other man would have done in his place. You ought not to bear him any grudge for it; on the contrary, you ought to be grateful to him, for he has taught you to know a woman who was making a fool of you."
"I believe you are right," said Frédéric sadly, seating himself in an easy-chair, while Dubourg, now wide awake, thought it a fitting moment to deliver a lecture to his friend.
"Listen to me, my dear Frédéric; I am older than you are, I have seen a good deal of the world, and I have a large store of experience, although I still do foolish things. Now, let me tell you that you have an unfortunate tendency to indulge in sentimental and romantic passions, which will do you a bad turn some day. You absolutely insist on being loved, adored, if you will! Damnation! do you mean to pass your life sighing? Is that the way a young man ought to make love? It isn't that you are in reality more constant than other men, for this is your seventh ill-fated passion in the year that I have known you. The great trouble is that your seven passions have all left you first, whereas you ought to have taken the initiative. However, you have always found consolation thus far, and you will this time too, I promise you. But, my friend, don't, I implore you, take on so seriously for what ought to be simply a youthful folly. You must have a certain amount of sentiment, to gratify the ladies, but you mustn't overdo it; because, you see, excess of sentiment kills sentiment; and what I am saying to you is perfectly reasonable; I am sure that your father, the count, would agree with me, if he were here, and that he would be overjoyed to find that you have a friend who gives you nothing but good advice, and who would give you a lot more—if he had not lost last night the five hundred francs his poor aunt sent him."
Frédéric had not listened very attentively to Dubourg's speech; but he had grown calmer, because the most violent tempests are always of the shortest duration, and the young man believed himself to be much more in love than he really was.
"How does it happen that I find you here in the middle of the night?" he asked Dubourg, at last.
"My dear fellow—what do you suppose?—a succession of unlucky circumstances. In the first place, my landlord, who is a genuine Vulture; secondly, an evening party at little Delphine's—you know, I took you there once; but as you must always have a touch of sentiment in everything, you never went again; and yet, she would have given you some, for your money, that would have been worth quite as much as Madame Dernange's. Lastly, I played, and I lost all that I possessed! Really, I didn't know which way to turn. But I thought of you; I know how loyal your friendship is. At first, I didn't expect to see you until to-morrow; but, finding everything in commotion in this house, it occurred to me that I might wait for you here; and I have had a nap while your charmer was being spirited away from you."
"Poor Dubourg!"
"Yes, very poor, in truth!"
"Listen; I have an idea."
"Let's hear it."
"I am sick of life in Paris."
"I shall soon be much sicker of it, as I haven't a sou."
"The sight of all these coquettes makes me ill."
"Oh! it's sure to do that."
"I propose to run away from the disloyal hussies."
"I don't know just where you can go to avoid them."
"These parties where you talk without saying anything; where you make acquaintances, but not friends; where you go because you have nothing else to do, rather than for pleasure,—I am tired of the whole business. I have been going into society only two years and a half, and I am sick of it already. This is my plan——"
"Do you mean to become a hermit?"
"No; but I mean to leave Paris for some time; I mean to travel, to visit different countries; in that way, by comparing the manners and customs of the different peoples, by admiring the wonders and beauties of nature, a man can best form his mind and his judgment and increase his store of knowledge; and in that way the heart is made acquainted with pleasures which it could never know in these worldly gatherings, inspired by idleness and governed by etiquette."
"Powerfully argued!" cried Dubourg, rising from his reclining-chair; "you must travel, my dear fellow, there is nothing better for the young. But when a man travels alone, he is always bored to death; one can't be more than half happy when he has no one to whom he can impart the sentiments inspired by a beautiful landscape, an ancient monument, or an imposing ruin! Besides, you are too young to run about the world alone; you need a companion who is wise, well informed, and, above all, experienced; well, my friend, I offer myself as your mentor."
"I was about to make the same suggestion, my dear Dubourg."
"Parbleu! I accept with great pleasure."
"But is there nothing to keep you in Paris?"
"Oh! nothing at all, not even a cot-bed."
"No affair of the heart?"
"Oh! with respect to affairs of the heart, I am not like you! I will form attachments as we go along, or, better still, I'll give them up altogether. My mind is made up; I propose to be virtuous and orderly; you will be edified by my behavior."
"Well, then, my dear Dubourg, it is settled that we travel together."
"There is just one little difficulty left: suppose your father doesn't want you to travel?"
"Oh! I don't think that he'll object; I have already mentioned the subject to him, and he seemed to approve of it."
"Then everything will go as nicely as possible; but will you tell him that you are going to take me?"
"Why not? I shall say that a friend of mine, who is also about to travel, will be able to accompany me for some time."
"All right; arrange it as best you can; if necessary, you can present me to your father, who hardly knows me, and you will see what a dignified and imposing manner I can assume. Above all things, don't mention little Delphine, or my aunt, or my supposed marriage, or my triplets."
"Never fear."
"As for my family, if it isn't noble, that doesn't prevent its being as good as the Comte de Montreville's, and very highly esteemed in Bretagne."
"Oh! mon Dieu! I know all that."
"It isn't on your account that I say it, but your father's. So, then, it's agreed. It is broad daylight now; I have slept enough, but you need rest. Go to bed; during the day, you can speak to your father, and come and tell me what he says. I'll expect you at six o'clock, at the Café de la Rotonde."
"Agreed."
"By the way, I forgot! Lend me a dozen louis; I owe you thirty already, but we will settle up when I get my next remittance from my aunt."
"That's all right; ought there to be any settling among friends?"
"Ah! my dear Frédéric, there aren't many friends like you!"
Dubourg pocketed the twelve louis which Frédéric handed him; then, leaving his friend to go to bed, he went away from the house, humming a new couplet, and strolled along the boulevards, as well pleased as if he had just been appointed to a twelve-thousand-franc office where he would have nothing to do.
During the day, Frédéric went to see his father. He trembled slightly when he appeared before him, and the count, instead of assisting his son to confide in him, waited silently for him to say what he wanted.
Having bowed respectfully, Frédéric began his speech, in which he floundered a little at times, because the count's eyes, fastened on his face, seemed determined to read his inmost thoughts. He set forth his project, however, and awaited in fear and trembling his father's reply. The count seemed to reflect, and did not speak for some minutes. Frédéric dared not break the silence, and at last the count spoke.
"You wish to leave Paris, Frédéric?"
"Yes, monsieur le comte."
"Are you tired already of its pleasures—balls and parties? It is rather early for that."
Frédéric sighed, but made no reply.
"You haven't told me everything," continued the count, with a sarcastic smile. "Confess that some disappointment in love——"
Frédéric blushed, and lowered his eyes; whereupon the count went on, in a gentler tone:
"Well, all that sort of thing belongs to your age. Travel; I am willing; it cannot fail to be useful to you. But if your presence should become necessary, I trust that nothing would delay your return?"
"Oh! father, a single word from you, and I will be with you."
"Very good; I rely upon your word."
"A friend of mine, a young man named Dubourg, of an old Breton family, is also making arrangements to travel for some time. If you are willing, I will join forces with him."
"No, monsieur; I am not willing. I have heard of this Monsieur Dubourg, whom you call your friend, and, although I have seen him with you only two or three times, I know enough of him to be unwilling that he should be my son's travelling companion. His family is respectable, I know, but Monsieur Dubourg is a great reprobate, they say."
"I promise you, father——"
"Don't interrupt me, monsieur. I cannot prevent your associating in Paris with such light-headed characters; but when you are to travel for your instruction, and to mature your judgment, I tell you again that a Monsieur Dubourg is not a proper person for you to travel with. I don't propose that you shall take Germain either; that fellow has been behaving badly for some time. Besides, when you are travelling you should be able to do without a valet. With your money, you will find servants enough wherever you stop."
"Am I to go alone, then, father?"
"No; you are not twenty-one yet; you are too young to be left to your own devices. Stay—yes—he's the very man you need: Monsieur Ménard will go with you."
"What, monsieur le comte, my tutor?"
"He hasn't been that for a long time, and he will not go with you in that capacity, my son, but as a friend, a judicious adviser. Monsieur Ménard is an educated man, and, in addition to that, is the mildest and most patient of men. You know him well enough, I think, not to regret having him for your travelling companion. Monsieur Ménard is not a mere pedant who will constantly reprove you for enjoying yourself; he is attached to you, and he will be able, I trust, to prevent the son of the Comte de Montreville from forgetting what he owes to himself."
"Enough. I will write to Monsieur Ménard; if he accepts, as I think he will, you can set out to-morrow."
Frédéric left his father, not overpleased with his choice, although he knew that Monsieur Ménard was an excellent man. He would have preferred to travel with Dubourg, whose inexhaustible gayety harmonized perfectly with his own sentimental disposition; a fact which seems strange, at first blush, but which is very common: small men love tall women, and small women large men; loquacious folk like those who say little; gourmands never dine satisfactorily except with those who are abstemious; the strong form alliances with the weak; men of genius select wives who attend strictly to their household duties; female authors rarely have men of intellect for their husbands; ostentatious people cannot live comfortably except with those who make no pretensions; knaves consort with men of probity; the most sentimental women often love the most frivolous men, and the most loyal of the one sex will give her heart to the most fickle of the other; lastly, libertines pursue innocence, and innocence often yields to the seductions of a ne'er-do-well. Extremes meet, contrasts are drawn together, and a painter finds his most beautiful effects in the opposition of light and shadow.
"Well," said Dubourg, when Frédéric joined him at the appointed place; "what news?"
"Why, not very good."
"Doesn't your father want you to travel?"
"Oh! yes, he has consented."
"In that case, I don't see why everything isn't all right."
"But—he—he isn't willing——"
"He isn't willing that I should travel with you."
"Why not?"
"Because—he says——"
"He says—— Well, go on."
"He says that you are a—reprobate."
"Why, he has never seen me more than three times!"
"It seems that somebody has talked to him about you."
"There are always people who make it their business to slander innocence. Do you know that, if monsieur le comte were not your father, I—— Although, after all, he is not far from right. But if he knew how thoroughly I have reformed! and how I have preached at myself since last night!—Well, what else?"
"He suggests as my travelling companion my former tutor, Monsieur Ménard."
"The idea of giving a tutor to a young man who is almost twenty-one! That sort of thing positively makes me ill! No matter; let us allow monsieur le comte to have his way; we will carry out our plans, all the same."
"How?"
"You won't be sorry to have me travel with you, will you?"
"Surely not."
"And I shall not be sorry to leave Paris for a time; that will give my creditors, who are always at my heels, a chance to rest a bit."
"But my father?"
"Don't you worry. Just don't say a word, and I will arrange matters so that—— By the way, what sort of a man is this tutor?"
"Oh! he's the best fellow in the world; but he's not a genius."
"He thinks a great deal of a learned man."
"I'll talk Latin, Greek, English, to him; yes, and Chinese, if he doesn't understand it."
"I fancy that he has never travelled, except on the map."
"I'll tell him that I have been round the world."
"But it flatters him to be in the company of persons of high rank."
"I'll assume a rank that will be high enough for him."
"In heaven's name, what is your scheme?"
"I'll arrange it all, I tell you; go back to your father, and start off with your tutor. By the way, get all the money you can, for money is never a disadvantage when you're travelling; and be sure to let me know what time you are to start, and in what direction you are going."
The young men separated, Dubourg having told Frédéric where to send him word of the time at which he was to start, and having refused to divulge any of the details of his plan.
Let us leave them for a moment, while we make the acquaintance of Monsieur Ménard, of whom the young count has given us only a faint sketch, and whom it is essential to know before we travel in his company.
Monsieur Ménard was a man of about fifty years of age, very short and stout, and with a very fat face. He had a double chin, which was quite in harmony with a nose like a huge chestnut. Like Monsieur Tartufe, he had red ears and a florid complexion. His stomach was beginning to embarrass him a little, but his short legs, with their enormous calves, seemed strong enough to support an even heavier bulk.
Monsieur Ménard had passed almost the whole of his life in teaching young people; he had retained the mild and benign manners which a tutor employed in good society always adopts with his pupils. He was not a great scholar, but he was proud of what he did know, and was by no means insensible to praise. His narrow intellect had become even more confined by having no exercise except with children; but Monsieur Ménard was upright, kindly, and peaceably disposed; his only weakness was a tendency to feel that his stature was increased when he conversed with a lord, and his only fault a very pronounced fondness for the pleasures of the table, which was sometimes the occasion of a slight indisposition; not that he drank immoderately, but because he returned too often to a truffled turkey or a salmi of partridges.
The Comte de Montreville summoned Monsieur Ménard, who hastened to obey the summons and joyfully accepted the proposition that was made to him. To travel in a comfortable post chaise with the Comte de Montreville's son, with that one of his pupils who reflected the greatest credit on him! that was unexampled good fortune for the excellent tutor, who happened to be unemployed at the moment.
The count urged him to have an eye upon Frédéric, but not to thwart his caprices when it was simply a question of indulging in the follies characteristic of his years. As he was well pleased with his son's ready submission in the matter of a travelling companion, he determined to reward him by allowing him to go wherever he chose.
Everything being settled between the count and the two travellers, Monsieur de Montreville handed Monsieur Ménard a considerable sum of money, which was to be at Frédéric's disposal.
"Travel in a manner befitting your rank, my son," said the count; "but do not squander this money foolishly. I have succeeded, by leading always an orderly, regular life, in saving a considerable fortune in anticipation of your marriage; but you must not encroach upon your patrimony. If you need more money, however, Monsieur Ménard will let me know."
Frédéric promised to behave himself; but he had just written to Dubourg that he was to start the next morning, and that he should take the Lyon road.
A young man's preparations are soon made. Monsieur Ménard's took a little longer; like the prudent man he was, he did not take his place in the carriage until he had bestowed one of Lesage's pâtés in the box, and a bottle of madeira in his pocket.
At last, everything was ready. Frédéric was overjoyed to leave Paris and Madame Dernange. The poor boy fancied that she would regret him, and that his departure would make her miserable! He was certain to lose all such illusions after he had travelled a short time.
The carriage was waiting; the postilion was in the saddle. Frédéric pressed his father's hand to his heart, Monsieur Ménard bowed six times to the count and entered the chaise backward in order to have the honor of continuing to bow. Frédéric jumped into his seat, the postilion cracked his whip, and they were off for Italy.
IV
A NOVEL WAY OF MAKING ACQUAINTANCES.—BARON POTOSKI
The two travellers were not far from Paris, when the conversation between them began to flag; at the outset, Monsieur Ménard expressed to Frédéric his very great pleasure in being in his company, and Frédéric thanked him; then they admired the view at several points. But soon the younger man's thoughts reverted to Madame Dernange and other disloyal fair ones, and he became pensive and silent; whereupon Monsieur Ménard turned his attention to the pâté with which he had taken care to supply himself, and entered upon a conversation with it, which he interrupted only to say a word or two to the bottle of madeira.
"I imagine that we shall have a delightful trip," said Frédéric, emerging from his reverie.
"I agree with you, monsieur le comte; we have everything requisite for it," replied Monsieur Ménard, with a smile, making haste to swallow what he had in his mouth. "If monsieur le comte would like to taste this pâté—it is delicious."
"No, thanks, my dear Ménard; I am not hungry yet."
"As monsieur le comte pleases."
"Oh! I beg you, no monsieur le comte between ourselves; call me Frédéric, that is much better."
"But, monsieur le comte—when we are travelling—at public-houses—it is well that people should know that they have the honor——"
"Yes, of course; so that they can make us pay four times the usual prices. I tell you again that I want to avoid all those ceremonies which add nothing to the pleasure of a journey."
"You will at least allow me to call you Monsieur de Montreville; for monsieur le comte your father might be angry if he knew that you travelled incognito."
"By the way, how much money did he give you?"
"Eight thousand francs, monsieur."
"Eight thousand francs! that's none too much!"
"Oh! Monsieur de Montreville, surely it is enough, when we have in addition a comfortable carriage and good horses. We are not going to the world's end. And then, you know, your father said that we could ask him for more, in an emergency."
"True; besides, we're not going to do anything foolish."
"And it would be imprudent to carry a larger sum on a journey. We are going to Italy, and that country is infested with brigands; between Rome and Naples, especially, they say the highroads are very dangerous. When we get there, we must take every precaution."
Frédéric made no reply; he was thinking of Dubourg, and was surprised that he had heard nothing from him. They were already nine leagues from Paris, on a very fine road, where it was difficult to imagine any possible mishap.
Suddenly the loud cracking of a postilion's whip announced that there were other travellers behind them. Frédéric looked back, and saw a small berlin coming up at a gallop. The clatter drew rapidly nearer, indicating that the berlin was overtaking them and would soon pass them by. A cloud of dust enveloped them, but the road was so wide that there was no need for them to turn out. But just as they expected to see the berlin whirl by, it collided with their carriage; and the shock was so violent that the post chaise was overturned beside the ditch, into which Monsieur Ménard was thrown headlong, shrieking at the top of his voice.
The berlin stopped. The postilion of the chaise reviled the other postilion, calling him fool and blockhead and drunkard, for running into him on a road where three carriages could easily pass. The other postilion limited his reply to a sneering laugh, which inflamed his confrère's wrath. Frédéric, who was not injured, went to Monsieur Ménard, to ascertain what his condition was. He proved to be more frightened than hurt; he felt himself all over, straightened his wig, and kept repeating that the fall would certainly upset his digestion.
Meanwhile, the postilion of the berlin had dismounted; after exchanging a few words with his passenger, he, hat in hand, approached our travellers, who were still in the ditch, and, after apologizing for his awkwardness, said to them that Baron Ladislas Potoski, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir, requested permission to come in person to inquire for their welfare, and to offer them such assistance as was in his power.
When he heard the postilion declaim the name and titles of his passenger, Monsieur Ménard scrambled out of the ditch, and removed from under his waistcoat one end of his ruff, which his fall had rumpled.
"Tell your master that we appreciate his courtesy," said Frédéric; "but that it is unnecessary for him to put himself out; I think that the accident will have no serious results."
"But there's something broken in our chaise," said Monsieur Ménard; "and we might avail ourselves of Monsieur le Palatine Pota—Poto—Potiouski's offer, to reach the next village."
The tutor had not finished speaking, when the soi-disant Polish nobleman alighted from his berlin and walked toward them, with his hand on his hip, affecting a most dignified air and carriage. Frédéric looked up and recognized Dubourg; he was on the point of laughing outright, when his friend forestalled him by running toward him, exclaiming:
"I cannot be mistaken! What a fortunate meeting! It surely is Monsieur Frédéric de Montreville!"
And he threw his arms about Frédéric, who also feigned surprise and cried:
"What! why! it is Monsieur de—Monsieur du——"
"Baron Potoski!" whispered Dubourg.
"Monsieur le Baron Potoski!"
During this recognition, which took place on the edge of the ditch, Monsieur Ménard outdid himself in salutations, pulling Frédéric gently by his coat-tails the while, in order to lead him back to the highroad, which seemed to him a more suitable place for his introduction to the noble Pole.
At last, Dubourg turned to Ménard, and said, addressing Frédéric:
"Have I the honor of seeing monsieur le comte your father?" And he bestowed upon the tutor the most gracious and most dignified smile imaginable.
"No," said Frédéric; "but he has been a second father to me. Allow me to present Monsieur Ménard, my former tutor."
"Monsieur Ménard!" said Dubourg, assuming an expression of unfeigned admiration, and gazing at the tutor as one might gaze at Voltaire. "What! can it be that this is Monsieur Ménard? Peste! I have often heard of him; the primus inter pares of tutors! How delighted I am to make his acquaintance! Tandem felix, Monsieur Ménard, since I know you."
Monsieur Ménard did not know where he was; this deluge of courtesies and flattery from the Palatine of Rava and Sandomir so confused and delighted him, that his profuse salutations would have landed him in the ditch a second time, had not Frédéric caught him opportunely.
Dubourg finally put an end to the poor man's embarrassment by taking his hand and pressing it hard.
"What a great honor you do me, monsieur le baron," he stammered.—"So you are acquainted with Baron Potoski?" he added, turning to Frédéric.
"Acquainted with him!" was the reply, accompanied by a smile; "why, we are close friends. Dear Dubourg!"
"What do you say? Dubourg?" cried Ménard.
"Yes," hastily interposed the pretended baron; "that is the name I went by at Paris, where I was compelled to maintain the strictest incognito, being intrusted by my government with a secret and very delicate mission."
"I understand, I understand," said Ménard.
"Continue to call me Dubourg, my dear Frédéric; that was my name when I first knew you, and it will always be dear to me."
While Ménard went to inspect the overturned vehicle, Frédéric said to Dubourg, in an undertone:
"The method you employed to join me was a little violent, do you know? You nearly killed poor Ménard and me."
"It's that blockhead of a postilion's fault: I told him to upset me as we passed you; but the rascal preferred to upset you. That annoys me the more, because I expected to get a seat in your carriage, whereas I must offer to take you in mine, which is a very different matter. Never mind: let me talk and act. I see already that it will be easy enough to pull the wool over this poor Ménard's eyes. But be ready to second me, and back up what I say, when it's necessary. Above all things, don't forget that I am Baron Potoski, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir. You nearly spoiled everything by calling me Dubourg; luckily, I found a way to straighten that out; but don't make any more such blunders, or I shall be obliged to travel without you, and I assure you I shall not go very far."
Ménard returned and announced that one of the axles of the chaise was broken, and that it could not be repaired before the next morning.
"Well, messieurs," said Dubourg, "you must do me the honor to ride in my carriage; we will stop at the first village and pass the night there, while the local blacksmith repairs your chaise."
This plan being adopted, they left the postilion to bring the vehicle to the village, and our three travellers entered the Polish baron's berlin. It was a wretched old affair, the lining patched and soiled, and so badly hung that the passengers were jolted terribly.
Frédéric could not restrain a smile as he stepped into the palatine's equipage; but Dubourg hastened to say to Monsieur Ménard, who took his place modestly on the front seat and had not as yet done more than glance furtively at his surroundings:
"This carriage is older than we are; it belonged to my grandfather. It was in this same carriage that he rescued Stanislas Leczinski, when he was pursued by his rival, Augustus, whose cause was espoused by the Czar, while Charles XII of Sweden was the protector of Stanislas.—But you know all that better than I do, Monsieur Ménard, for you are a scholar."
"Oh! monsieur le baron."
"To return to this carriage—all my family revere it as I do; it is a family carriage. When my father left Cracow, during a period of civil commotion, this modest berlin contained six millions in gold and jewels; it was the remnant of his fortune, with which he intended to live in retirement in Bretagne, where they have delicious milk and butter."
At this point, Frédéric, who had bitten his lips at the six millions, began to cough to overcome his desire to laugh, while Monsieur Ménard looked at the carriage with the utmost respect.
"You will appreciate, Monsieur Ménard," pursued Dubourg, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief, which he had thrust into his waistcoat to give himself the aspect of a foreigner, "you will appreciate that one becomes strongly attached to a carriage which recalls such honorable memories. I know that it is not modern, and that it might be hung better; twenty times, my steward has talked of having it repainted, and of having it newly lined inside, but I always refuse. This seat, which I now occupy, was once occupied by King Stanislas; that in which you sit, by a princess of Hungary; and I confess, Monsieur Ménard, that I am determined not to change this Utrecht velvet, which has had the honor of supporting those eminent persons."
"I share your feelings in that respect to the full, monsieur le baron," said Ménard, who, enchanted as he was to travel with two men of distinguished rank, was unable to contain himself when he was told that a princess of Hungary had once sat where he was sitting. "This carriage must be very dear to you; and I assure you, monsieur le baron, that it rides very nicely, and that I find it very comfortable——"
At that moment a vicious jolt threw Monsieur Ménard forward, almost into his pupil's lap; but he added, clinging to the door:
"Ubi plura intent in carmine; non ego paucis offendar maculis."
"Vitam impendere vero," rejoined Dubourg.
Frédéric looked out of the door, coughing harder than ever; while Monsieur Ménard said, with a bow:
"I never doubted it, monsieur le baron."
"As I am obliged to remain incognito," said Dubourg, "I have not brought any of my suite with me, and I confess that I am not inclined to complain; I detest all the pomp and parade and etiquette which are the accompaniments of high station. When I travel, I lay it all aside; I am the man of nature, and I play the part of a simple observer. But, by the way, my dear Frédéric, I haven't asked you yet where you are going; would it be presumptuous in me to inquire?"
"No, indeed, my friend; I am leaving Paris because I found there only coquettish or heartless women, who do not understand my way of loving."
"Well, my dear fellow, the trouble is that your way of loving is no longer fashionable! However, this is mere amorous petulance, I see; you are still a little romantic, a little sentimental.—We must cure Frédéric of all such nonsense, eh, Monsieur Ménard?"
"That doesn't come within my functions, monsieur le baron; besides, we must overlook a little something; Seneca says, you know: Non est magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiæ."
"That is very true," Dubourg replied; "the greatest men have had their weak points. Alexander drank too much; Antiochus dressed as Bacchus to please Cleopatra; Æneas consulted the Cumæan sibyl; the Emperor Maximilian died from eating too much melon. So it's not at all surprising that Frédéric should have a too sensitive heart."
Monsieur Ménard bowed to monsieur le baron, who had given him a small specimen of his erudition; which added not a little to the respect he had already conceived for him.
"I have no definite plan," said Frédéric; "I intend, however, to visit the countries which recall interesting events, or which have given birth to illustrious men. One loves to tread the ground from which the genius sprang that has outlived so many generations. In all that surrounds us, we fancy that we recognize the great man who, by his writings, his feats of arms, or his virtues, made his birthplace famous. In a word, my friend, we are going, first of all, to Italy."
"What! can it be? Why, my own purpose, like yours, is to see a little of the world, in order to add some new light to my poor stock of knowledge. What a delightful idea! Suppose we make the journey together?"
"Gladly, my dear baron! it will be most agreeable to me, I assure you."
"Upon my honor, I am grateful to the chance that led to our meeting! What an unexpected pleasure to travel with my friend the Comte de Montreville and the learned Monsieur Ménard, to compare our reflections concerning the places we visit, to be enlightened by the observations, the friendship, and the learning of so distinguished a teacher!"
Ménard outdid himself in reverences, and began to express his thanks; but Dubourg continued earnestly, giving him no time to reply:
"What a delight to visit ancient Rome with you—and magnificent Genoa! to climb with Monsieur Ménard to the summit of Vesuvius, and even to go down into the crater, if there is no danger! How pleasant to view, in a friend's company, the tomb of Virgil and the Grotto of the Dog, and to ascend, with a profound scholar, the Tarpeian rock! What pleasures await us in Switzerland, the home of William Tell! that cradle of liberty, whose morals have retained all their purity amid revolutionary tempests! There we shall receive the most touching hospitality in every village; we shall eat cheese there, Monsieur Ménard—oh! such cheese! I don't undertake to say, however, that it's as good as the cheese in Bretagne, for there's nothing like that; a charming country, Bretagne, studded with woods, fields, and rich pastures. Ah! what fine cows they have there, Monsieur Ménard!"
Frédéric nudged Dubourg, to make him leave Bretagne, whither he constantly returned with the affection of a native.
"In Switzerland," he continued, "one often eats cheeses fifteen or twenty years old; the excellent Helvetians know the secret of keeping them for an indefinite time."
"They must be even better than our roquefort," said Ménard, who felt sure of his ground when eating was the subject of conversation.
"Oh! I promise you they are; compared with the old Swiss cheeses, our roquefort is no better than neufchâtel. However, Monsieur Ménard, if you travel with me, I shall hope to give you cheese to eat more than once."
"Ah! monsieur le baron!"
"We will visit the glaciers, we will ascend the Saint-Gothard, and the Rigi, which you have to climb on all fours. What magnificent views we shall have! And when we go down into the canton of Les Grisons, we will botanize. Monsieur Ménard will gather herbs. We will watch the Swiss maidens glean; they wear very short skirts—and we shall see some fine sights!"
"Well, my dear master, what do you think of our plan?" queried Frédéric. The former tutor was enchanted with it: to travel with a man of such high rank, and so learned and agreeable, as Baron Potoski, seemed to him great good fortune; and although the hard cushions and the jolting of the berlin made him black and blue in spots, he felt brave enough to travel a thousand leagues in a carriage which had held King Stanislas, and in a seat which a princess of Hungary had occupied.
"Most certainly I see no reason why we should not travel with monsieur le baron," he said; "and at the first post-office I will write to monsieur your father and tell him of our fortunate meeting; he cannot fail to approve our plan."
"No, no!" cried Dubourg; "on the contrary, you must not write a single word to monsieur le comte. As I have told you, I am travelling incognito; I don't want anybody to know where I am. My government desires to appoint me ambassador to Turkey, but I am not at all desirous of that distinction. Monsieur le comte might inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, and all France would soon know my whereabouts; it will be much better not to say anything."
"I agree with you," said Frédéric. "What's the use of saying anything about it to my father? He left me free to go wherever I please, and asked Monsieur Ménard to go with me as a friend, not as a mentor. Surely, my father would be exceedingly pleased to know that I am travelling with monsieur le baron; but in his delight at learning that I am in such company, he would undoubtedly betray your incognito, and you would be obliged to leave us."
"Yes, I understand," said Ménard; "and yet—if——"
Dubourg, seeing that the tutor still retained some scruples, made haste to produce his horn snuff-box, which he offered to Frédéric, looking at him with a meaning expression.
"Do you recognize this, my dear Frédéric? it's the one I showed you at Paris."
"Yes, I recognize it perfectly," said Frédéric, with no idea of Dubourg's purpose; while Monsieur Ménard glanced at the snuff-box and waited impatiently for the baron to explain himself.
"Ah! it's a very precious object in my eyes!" said Dubourg, taking a pinch of snuff. "You have no suspicion, Monsieur Ménard, to whom this modest snuff-box belonged?"
"No, monsieur le baron."
"Modest as it is, I would not exchange it for one of solid gold. It was the King of Prussia's snuff-box, Monsieur Ménard."
"The King of Prussia's?"
"Yes, monsieur; the great Frederick, who, as you know, was very fond of snuff and often carried it in his pocket; still, he had snuff-boxes, which were always very simple, like everything he carried. He himself gave this one to my father, from whom I had it."
"Ah! monsieur le baron, if I might dare to crave the honor——"
And Ménard respectfully put out two fingers to take a pinch of snuff from the Prussian king's snuff-box, which Dubourg smilingly offered him.
Ménard took a pinch with becoming humility. He stuffed his nose full of snuff which he considered delicious, and, when he sneezed, the poor man fancied that he bore some slight resemblance to the King of Prussia. He had lost his head completely; the fumes of grandeur mingled with those of the snuff, and at the third sneeze he cried, saluting Baron Potoski with renewed deference:
"It certainly is not necessary to write to monsieur le comte."
V
A VILLAGE INN, AND WHAT BEFELL OUR TRAVELLERS THERE
At nightfall, our travellers arrived at a village of wretched aspect. Dubourg ordered his postilion to set them down at the best inn; but as there was only one in the place, they must needs content themselves with that.
The inn in question was rarely patronized by travellers in carriages; pedestrians were its usual guests.
Frédéric was disinclined to stop in that wretched hamlet, but Dubourg insisted upon passing the night there. He had reasons of his own for not wishing to go farther with his berlin; and as Monsieur Ménard was hungry, and the remains of his pâté had been left in the post chaise, he endorsed Dubourg's suggestion.
The carriage drove into a great yard filled with mud and dungheaps. Half a score of ducks were splashing in a pool, apparently disputing possession of it with some geese which waddled majestically around the banks. Three pigs went grunting into every corner of the enclosure, an old lame horse was quenching his thirst at a trough, on the edge of which perched several hens, which laid their eggs in the house, in the street, or in the yard, as it happened, considering probably that there was little to choose between those places. Lastly, to complete the picture, a number of rabbits showed their heads from time to time under the hedge of a garden which had been turned into a warren; then fled in alarm at the barking of a huge dog, whose duty it seemed to be to watch the other beasts.
There was hardly room for the berlin to pass through a gateway, whose dilapidated gate had not been closed for a long while. On one side the wheels sank into a deep rut, on the other they had to pass over a dungheap; so that, for a moment, Monsieur Ménard feared that the Palatine of Rava's venerable berlin would be overturned, and himself with it. But he got off with nothing worse than a fright. On the arrival of the carriage, the rabbits and pigs fled, the ducks quacked, the geese and hens flew away, and the dog barked under the travellers' noses; while a dozen or more of idlers, and as many peasant women, who formed substantially the whole population of the village, stood about the gateway to see the occupants of the carriage alight.
"Where in the devil is he taking us?" said Frédéric, putting his head out of the window, and instantly drawing it in again; for the wheels had stirred up the filth which covered the ground and thereby caused it to emit an odor ill adapted to attract the travellers.
"Let us hope that we are not in front of the kitchen," said Monsieur Ménard, holding his nose.
"Don't be alarmed, messieurs," said Dubourg; "we shall be very comfortable here; we must not judge by appearances, you know. I have stopped at this inn, and I remember that they give you excellent rabbit stews and omelets."
Although it might seem surprising that a palatine should be fond of such commonplace dishes, Monsieur Ménard at once considered the yard less offensive; and, alighting on the heels of Dubourg, who had stepped out on the dungheap, he looked about on all sides, trying to discover the kitchen.
The innkeeper appeared, with his cap over his left ear; he did not salute the new arrivals, for, being accustomed to entertain only carters or peasants, who care little for polite manners, he had contracted a habit of treating all strangers with a certain familiarity; and the sight of a carriage made little impression on him, because it was not to such guests that he looked for the support of his establishment.
He was a little man of fifty years or thereabout, with a slight limp, and a bloated nose which seemed to denote intemperate habits.
"Are you going to drink a glass of wine, messieurs?" he said, addressing Ménard, who still had his nose in the air, trying to catch the scent of a rabbit stew, and to whom the innkeeper's manner seemed lacking in respect.
"Take us to your best room, my good man," said Dubourg; "we are going to sup and sleep here. Set everyone at work; let the fire blaze and the spits turn, and serve our supper as soon as may be."
"Yes," interposed Ménard, tapping the host's shoulder patronizingly; "and understand, my friend, that you have the honor of entertaining Monsieur le Comte Frédéric de Montreville, Monsieur le Baron Ladislas Potoski, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir, and Monsieur Benoît Ménard, master of arts and eminent professor."
"I shall never have room enough to put up so many people," said the innkeeper, while Dubourg reproved Ménard for betraying his incognito and begged him to be more discreet in future.
"Holà! Goton! Goton!" cried mine host, walking toward the garden; "come and show these gentlemen into the house, while I look after the horses; and tell my wife to see about getting supper."
Mademoiselle Goton appeared; she was a tall, stoutly-built damsel of twenty, dark, with black eyes, and a sunburned complexion; her features were irregular, but her retroussé nose and her fine teeth, which she showed constantly, her mouth being rather large, made her face decidedly attractive. If, instead of a short stuff skirt, a waist of coarse blue woollen cloth, and a cotton cap, Goton had worn a dress which set off her figure; if her skin had been treated with almond paste, and her hair by a hair-dresser, she would undoubtedly have made many conquests in Paris.
"Will you follow me, messieurs?" she said, smiling at the travellers; for Mademoiselle Goton smiled very often, because it added to her beauty; and in the smallest village, no less than in the largest city, a woman always knows how to make the most of her advantages. Lacking a mirror, a fountain is sufficient to train the simplest-minded.
Dubourg estimated the servant's qualities at a glance, and, as they followed her, he said to himself:
"I will amuse Ménard with the supper, which shall be a good one, if I can manage it. I can pass the time pleasantly with Mademoiselle Goton. Ah! if I only could find some sentimental beauty to engage Frédéric's attention! Failing a new passion, I will talk to him of Madame Dernange and all his faithless charmers in Paris; that will serve to make his evening pass quickly."
The best room in the inn was the one usually occupied by the carters and peasants. Four itinerant merchants, who had arrived an hour before our illustrious travellers, were seated at a table, drinking, and discussing their business affairs.
The arrival of three new guests in no wise disturbed the four men. They glanced at them, and continued their conversation.
"I'll set plates for you here," said Goton, pointing to a table covered with a glazed cloth.
"No, no," said Dubourg; "we can't eat our supper here; you may serve us in one of the rooms where we are to sleep."
"But this is the eating-room."
"That may be," said Ménard; "but monsieur le comte and monsieur le bar—at all events, we don't choose to eat here."
These words caused the peddlers to raise their heads, and they scrutinized the travellers, laughing contemptuously among themselves. Ménard, fearing that he had offended them, and dreading a scene, was already in the passage, where he waited for the servant to come; while Dubourg, who was not long-suffering, eyed the four drinkers in his turn. Frédéric, his mind still engrossed by his memories, paid little heed to what was taking place.
"You see, Goton," said one of the four, with a sneering smile, "these gents are too swell to eat in the same room with us. Jarni! we must take care and not look at 'em too close; it might offend 'em."
"Nobody spoke to you," said Dubourg; "try not to be too insolent, or you may be sorry for it."
"Oho! there's one of 'em who means to show his teeth!"
"For heaven's sake, monsieur le baron," said Ménard, putting his nose in at the door, "don't let this go any further! These gentlemen certainly have no intention of——"
"Hallo! he's a baron!" exclaimed another of the peddlers; "I took him for a Swiss liniment-maker, with his silk handkerchief across his breast."
"Did you see their carriage?" said a third; "it's an old shack I wouldn't put my donkey in!"
"The wretches! to talk so about King Stanislas's berlin!" said Ménard; but he made the remark in such a low tone that no one suspected that he had spoken.
"Once more, hold your peace!" said Dubourg, "or we'll teach you whom you have to deal with."
"Indeed!" said the peddlers, brandishing their cudgels; "perhaps we might teach you something more."
Frédéric, who had been silent thus far, took a pair of pistols from his pocket, and, walking toward the table at which the four men were seated, he said calmly:
"Messieurs, whatever may be the titles we bear, we are men, and we are quite able to prove it; we are not accustomed to using clubs, but here is something that will make matters even between us. Everyone knows how to fire a pistol. Which of you would like to begin with me?"
"Yes," said Dubourg, producing in his turn a pair of pistols of heavier calibre; "and this is for the man who comes forward next."
At sight of the pistols, the peddlers changed color and dropped their cudgels; those who presume too far upon their strength to insult those whom they deem weaker than themselves, generally appear very cowardly and foolish when confronted by such arguments.
Goton shrieked when she saw the fire-arms; the innkeeper came limping into the room, and Monsieur Ménard, proposing to retreat to the end of the passage, where it was quite dark, collided with the hostess, who was coming to find out what was happening in the living-room.
The hostess, whose acquaintance we have not made as yet, was a woman of fifty, short of stature, and almost as broad as she was tall. Her corpulence had within a short time increased to such a degree that she could hardly walk from her desk to the kitchen; even so, she had to make a judicious and abundant use of flour to keep herself from chafing when she walked. This difficulty in moving made her very sedentary; she passed almost all her time in an armchair which the village carpenter had made for her, of sufficient breadth to admit her enormous bulk. This mode of life naturally caused her embonpoint to make rapid progress from day to day. It was beginning to become disquieting, and the innkeeper, limping as he did, took a long time to walk around his spouse.
She had heard Goton's outcry and her husband's exclamations, and, suspecting that something extraordinary was taking place, she had left her broad armchair and waddled along the corridor leading to the living-room. As this corridor was narrow, her body closed it hermetically and rubbed against the partitions on each side; so that it was impossible for anyone to pass through in the opposite direction, unless by jumping over her head or crawling between her legs.
It was this enormous mass with which Monsieur Ménard collided when he attempted to leave the field of battle, all his youthful vigor being restored by the sight of the pistols. Despite the violence with which the tutor hurled himself against her, the hostess did not waver; solid as a rock, and upheld, too, by the walls of the corridor, the bulky dame contented herself with crying in a shrill falsetto:
"What's all this? who is it?"
Ménard, still dazed by the shock, was determined none the less to force a passage, and he returned toward the person he had struck, hoping that she had moved to one side or the other; he turned to the right and ran his nose against a breast which rivalled that of the Hottentot Venus; he stepped back and turned to the left, and collided with an arm that would have darkened a window.
"Mon Dieu! where am I?" exclaimed poor Ménard, who had no idea of what he had come in contact with, and, still trying to go forward, lowered his head like a ram; while the hostess cried, louder than ever:
"Who is it? what's he trying to do? where does he want to go?"
Her shrieks attracted the attention of the travellers, peace having been restored in the living-room, since Frédéric and Dubourg had exhibited their pistols; the four peddlers had become more amiable and had mumbled some apologies, with which the young men were content, having no desire for a quarrel with such adversaries. So general attention was now directed to the corridor.
"It's my wife's voice," said the innkeeper; "something very funny must have happened to make her leave her chair!"
He hurried out into the passage with Goton, who carried a light; Dubourg and Frédéric followed them, and they discovered the hostess, who was shrieking louder than ever, because the sound of approaching footsteps had increased Ménard's terror; he had resolved to pass at any cost, and, being unable to force a passage on either side, had dropped on his hands and knees and tried to crawl between the corpulent dame's legs. But she, determined that the unknown, whom she believed to be a thief, should not escape, could devise no better way of detaining him than to sit upon him; so that she was fairly astride Ménard, when light was thrown on the scene.
Goton laughed uproariously, and the innkeeper was petrified with amazement. Frédéric and Dubourg tried to discover the meaning of that amusing tableau.
"I can't stand it any longer," gasped Ménard, in a dying voice.
"I've got him! he's caught!" exclaimed the hostess triumphantly.
The poor fellow was so effectively caught, that he would have been stifled if not rescued. But the innkeeper, jealous of his chaste better half, whom he regarded as the most beautiful creature to be found within a hundred leagues, instantly stooped and pulled Ménard from under his wife's skirts, swearing roundly.
"You villain! sacrebleu! what was you doing under there? ten thousand eyes!"
"Oh! he didn't do any harm, I promise you, ducky!" said the hostess sweetly, to allay her husband's suspicions; while Ménard, restored at last to the light of day, struggled to his feet, with wig awry and distorted features.
"Look ye, my friend," continued the innkeeper, "you didn't go in there, sacrebleu! to look for violets, did you?"
Ménard looked from one to another, with a dazed expression; he had not fully recovered himself. Dubourg succeeded in adjusting matters to everybody's satisfaction; he divined why Ménard was trying to get away, so he dispelled the host's suspicions, and reassured his wife concerning the quarrel in the living-room. Then he ordered Goton to show them to their bedrooms; which she did after the landlady had concluded to return to her armchair and thus uncork the passage.
The best quarters that they could give our three friends consisted of two very dirty rooms, with the ceiling rafters exposed, which cats and spiders seemed in the habit of occupying in company with the guests of the house. In each room there was a wretched bed, partly surrounded by blue and white curtains resembling in design the common salad-bowl we see in the country. Both beds were more than five feet high.
"These are modest quarters," said Frédéric, with a smile; "but in war time we must take what comes, and it's the same when we travel, eh, my dear Ménard?"
"To be sure; a night is soon passed, and these beds look comfortable."
"We shall need a ladder to climb into them."
"I see only two beds, monsieur le comte."
"Oh! don't worry about me," said Dubourg; "I shall not go to bed; I have letters to write and despatches to send; and I will finish the night in a chair."
"But I don't see any chairs, monsieur le baron."
"Never mind—a chair or a bench. When a man has slept in camp, he's not hard to please. But the supper is a long while coming; I'll take a look at the kitchen."
Dubourg went downstairs, and Frédéric walked to a window which looked on the fields. The moon was shining on the village, where the most perfect quiet reigned. The young man mused upon the contrast between life in Paris and in that hamlet; he reflected that, at that moment, when the villagers had all retired, the fashionable inhabitants of the city were at the play or at social festivities, exhibiting their fine clothes and jewels, and seeking pleasure. But need one leave the city to find striking contrasts? In the house where people are dancing on the first floor, on the second there is mourning for the death of a husband or father; on the third, a young man is making a passionate declaration of love to his sweetheart; on the fourth, a drunkard is beating his wife; on the fifth, a gambler is filling his pockets with gold preparatory to going out; and under the eaves, a poor girl passes the night in toil to earn bread for her mother.
While Frédéric abandoned himself to such reflections, Monsieur Ménard inspected the beds, and was pained to find that what he had deemed at first sight so soft and comfortable was but a wretched mattress, and a straw bed itself nearly four feet thick.
"What an insane idea it is of these villagers to have such enormous straw beds!" said Ménard, as he examined the sheets, which scratched his hand. "And I fancied that I was going to sink into a soft feather-bed! These are terribly poor sheets! And yet, monsieur le baron says that one is well taken care of here! I shall go to bed in my drawers. God grant that the supper may make up for the rest!"
Dubourg had gone down to speak to his postilion, with whom he settled his account, ordering him to leave the place before dawn; for he had only three louis left of the twelve Frédéric had lent him, and he was not anxious to keep a carriage that he could not pay for. That business adjusted, he prowled about Mademoiselle Goton, to whom he wished to say a few words. The servant was inclined to look favorably on Dubourg, because he had borne himself gallantly with the peddlers; for a courageous act pleases a country wench no less than a petite-maîtresse; but Goton had to help her master in the kitchen, and then serve the four men in the living-room, who seemed disposed to pass the night drinking, and to postpone their departure till daybreak.
They laughingly toyed with the buxom servant, who had much ado to defend herself from the familiarities of those gentry; but Goton was accustomed to fighting with such clowns: she boxed the ears of one and kicked another; she pinched and scratched, and the fellows found her all the more seductive.
Being busily occupied thus in all directions, Goton could do no more than whisper a word of hope to Dubourg, giving him to understand that the peddlers would be gone at daybreak, her employers asleep, and herself more at liberty. This promise delighted our friend; he was talking with Goton at the foot of the staircase, and gave her a resounding kiss. The girl ran away; but, on looking up, Dubourg saw Ménard, who had come out, with a candle in his hand, to ascertain whether they were likely to have any supper, and was decidedly amazed to see the Palatine of Rava embracing a dishwasher.
Dubourg, who was never disconcerted, went to meet him, saying:
"The Emperor Heliogabalus rewarded the cook who invented a new dish; I embrace the person who informs me that our supper is ready."
Ménard asked nothing more; he went back to Frédéric with Dubourg, and Goton laid the table in one of the rooms.
"Now to the table, and vive la gaieté!" said Dubourg, more at ease since he was certain that he would soon be rid of his carriage. Ménard responded to the invitation by a gracious smile, and Frédéric finally decided to leave the moon and turn his mind to earthly affairs.
"Let us taste the wine first of all," said Dubourg; "is it the best, my child?"
"Yes, monsieur; it's the best, for we haven't got any other."
"It's a little sour," said Ménard, making a wry face.
"We have some white that's sweeter," said Goton.
"Go and get us some of the white, my dear; don't spare anything; you don't have people like us to supper every day."
"No, indeed," said Ménard; "and we will hope that the rabbit stew is made with that understanding."
Dubourg served the stew; but the innkeeper, disturbed by his wife's adventure in the corridor, had allowed it to burn, and Goton, being constantly beset by the four peddlers, had put the onions in too late and had not grated the bacon. Dubourg vainly insisted on declaring that it had a delicious odor; Ménard said nothing, because he dared not contradict monsieur le baron; but his face grew darker with every mouthful.
"What infernal kind of a stew is this?" said Frédéric, pushing away the plate that Dubourg persisted in offering him. "A rabbit that has had nothing to eat but cabbage, raw onions, and rancid lard; and a detestable burned taste, in addition."
"It can't be denied," said Ménard, "that it doesn't come up to what monsieur le baron told us."
"What do you expect, messieurs?" said Dubourg; "a cook must make mistakes sometimes. Errare humanum est; isn't that so, Monsieur Ménard?"
"A cook ought never errare, monsieur le baron."
"It's partly your fault, too. You disturbed his mind; why in the devil did you go prowling about under his wife's skirts?"
"I only wanted to get by, monsieur le baron."
"Only a husband should take that road, Monsieur Ménard."
"My intentions were pure, monsieur le baron."
"I never doubted it; but your position was shockingly equivocal."
"Monsieur le baron, in the temple of Apollo, the pythonesses, seated on the sacred tripod, received the prophetic exhalations under their robes."
"If my wife had seated herself on that tripod, Monsieur Ménard, I should have asked for a separation."
Goton put an end to this conversation by bringing an omelet and white wine.
"Were the gentlemen satisfied with the stew?" she asked.
"It was worse than the devil!" replied Frédéric.
"It was a total failure," said Ménard.
"My dear child," added Dubourg, "the rabbits in Bretagne don't smell so strong of cabbage. They have fine rabbits there; but here you have a very bad way of bringing them up."
"It would seem that monsieur le baron has passed a good deal of time in Bretagne?" said Ménard, respectfully putting out his hand to take a pinch of snuff from the King of Prussia's snuff-box, which Dubourg offered him.
"Yes, Monsieur Ménard; and I admit that I still have a weakness for that province. I have such delightful recollections of it! Ah! how lovely the sky is in Bretagne! And the fields—how pretty they are! What rich pastures, what enchanting groves! You can walk leagues and leagues without once leaving the leafy thickets and flower-grown paths which make the fields of Bretagne one endless garden."
"But Poland, monsieur le baron?"
"Oh! Poland has its good points, of course. Have you ever been there, Monsieur Ménard?"
"I have not had that honor, monsieur le baron."
"As you are not familiar with the country, I will talk with you often about it."
"It must be a very interesting country."
"Extremely interesting, and extremely picturesque; first of all, we have the Krapach Mountains, beside which Mont Cenis is no more than a little hillock."
"Oh, indeed! they are covered with snow, of course?"
"Almost all the year. I have a château on the summit of one of those mountains, where only chamois can keep their footing."
"But how do you reach your château, monsieur le baron?"
"I have had a winding staircase constructed inside the mountain; it cost me a hundred thousand francs, but it's a wonderful piece of work, and people come hundreds of miles to see it. I trust, Monsieur Ménard, that I shall have the pleasure of showing it to you, and of entertaining you for some time at my castle of Krapach. I will give you a glass of a certain tokay which came to me from Tekely's cellar; and you will tell me what you think of it."
"Ah! monsieur le baron, you overpower me. But it must be very cold at your château, is it not?"
"It used to be very cold, in truth, in the days of my ancestors; but, thanks to recent scientific discoveries, I have found a way of modifying the temperature—a very simple method, which answers my purposes perfectly."
"What is it, pray, monsieur le baron?"
"I have built a gasometer under the château; gas, as you know, makes the earth very warm; indeed, in some places directly over the pipes, I raise green peas in January.—What is it, my dear count? drink, drink, or you will choke!"
Frédéric had, in fact, much difficulty in listening to this discourse, which Dubourg delivered with imperturbable gravity, while Ménard listened with childlike confidence to every word uttered by the baron.
At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by a violent shock, followed by an ominous cracking.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Ménard; "what can that be? This house doesn't seem to be very solidly built."
"Can it be that they are firing cannon to celebrate our arrival in the village?" Dubourg asked Goton, who replied, with a laugh:
"Oh! no, monsieur; it ain't anything; it's only madame going to bed, that's all."
This explanation made the young men laugh; but Ménard was not satisfied until he was assured that the hostess slept on the same floor; he would not have consented to pass the night on the floor below a woman who shook the house whenever she moved; it was quite enough to remain under the same roof with her.
The white wine, being a little more palatable than the red, enabled them to eat an omelet with parsley, which Dubourg tried in vain to make them think was tarragon. For dessert there was nothing to offer the travellers except some Géromé cheese, which could have walked to the table unassisted at need, and the odor of which drove Frédéric from his seat. He went to bed in the other room, bidding the servant wake him early in the morning, as he had no desire to prolong his stay at the inn. Monsieur Ménard deemed it his duty to remain with the baron, who plied him with bumper after bumper and went into raptures over the taste of the cheese, which, he said, reminded him of what he had eaten in Switzerland, thereby putting an end to the ex-tutor's desire to lunch or sup in a chalet.
"Yes, Monsieur Ménard," said Dubourg; "if you should go to Gruyère, a small Swiss village noted for its cheeses, which are its only source of wealth, you would smell a league away the chalets in which they are made. When you have passed a night in one of them, you smell the cheese for a week, an excellent thing for the lungs. But you must feel the need of rest, Monsieur Ménard; pray go to bed. I propose to pass the night writing."
"Monsieur le baron, I shall never dare to take the liberty—before you——"
"Why not, pray? Diogenes went to bed in his tub, before Alexander; and Crates did not hesitate to show his rump to his fellow citizens."
"It is you who order me to do it, monsieur le baron."
"I don't order you to show me your rump, Monsieur Ménard; but I urge you to go to bed as if I weren't here."
Fatigue and the white wine combined to make sleep essential to Ménard, so he did not wait to be urged again; he went behind the flowered curtains, and prepared to retire. Meanwhile, Dubourg, seated at a table in a corner of the room, pretended to look over papers and take notes, but he was really waiting impatiently for the tutor to fall asleep, in order to give the postilion of the berlin the signal to go; for he was afraid that Ménard would wake early, and it would be very embarrassing if the carriage were not then at a safe distance from the village. For this reason, he was anxious to hasten the postilion's departure.
The gate was not closed; Goton alone would see what took place; Dubourg knew how to assure her discretion.
It was a quarter of an hour since Ménard had disappeared behind the curtains. Dubourg thought that he must be asleep, and was about to go downstairs, when he heard a suppressed groan from the direction of the bed.
"Aren't you feeling well, Monsieur Ménard?" he asked, partly opening the curtains.
What was his surprise to find poor Ménard, in shirt and drawers and a cotton nightcap, standing beside the bed, and trying in vain to reach the top with the aid of a chair which was too low to bring his short legs on a level with the mattress.
"What, Monsieur Ménard! not in bed yet?"
"No, monsieur le baron; I have been trying in vain for ten minutes to climb up into my bed. Isn't it an outrage? I call it making fools of their guests to give them beds that reach the ceiling! Everybody isn't six feet tall; and unless one's a giant——"
"Come, come, don't get excited, Monsieur Ménard; why didn't you call me to help you?"
"Oh! monsieur le baron, I shouldn't have presumed to take the liberty."
"You were wrong, for you can't pass the whole night trying to climb into bed."
Without awaiting a reply, Dubourg bade Ménard stand on the chair; then, placing his hands upon a certain rotund portion of the professor's anatomy, he put forth all his strength to lift him into the bed.
"Sic itur ad astra!" he said.
"Labor improbus omnia vincit" rejoined Ménard, trying to seize his bolster.
"Ouf!" exclaimed Dubourg.
"I am there, monsieur le baron!" cried Ménard, delighted to be safely in bed at last.
"That's very lucky! Good-night!"
"A thousand thanks, monsieur le baron!"
When he left the bed, Dubourg was careful to remove the chair that stood beside it, thus making it certain that Ménard would not rise until he, Dubourg, chose. This precaution might result in placing the tutor in an unfortunate position; whether it did so, the sequel will show.
Ménard had not been in bed five minutes before he was snoring vociferously.
"Good! I am safe now," thought Dubourg; and, taking his light, he went down noiselessly into the innyard. As he passed the living-room, he glanced in: two of the peddlers were asleep on the table, the others were still drinking; but everything indicated that they would soon follow their companions' example.
Dubourg found his postilion, and, putting a five-franc piece in his hand, ordered him to start at once. In a very few minutes, the horses were harnessed, and the noble palatine's berlin was out of the village.
"But how are you going to manage about going away to-morrow?" queried Goton, who had just joined Dubourg in the yard.
"Oh! we have another carriage, an excellent post chaise, which is being repaired for us; as to what I have just done, I am going to tell you what you must say; do you understand, Goton?"
As he spoke, he slipped two five-franc pieces into the girl's pocket; it was a larger sum than the poor drudge often earned in six months at that wretched inn, and the sight of the two great coins made her as docile as a lamb.
"Oh! that's enough," she said, as Dubourg put his arms about her robust figure; "that's enough! I'll say whatever you want me to; anyway, that carriage was yours, and you could do what you please with it. Jarni! you tickle me! don't pinch so hard! Oh! what a man!"
"Where is your room, Goton?"
"My room? I haven't got any room; I sleep in the little barn over there, with the cow. Dame! I don't have anything but an old straw bed on the ground, because the missus says there's no use of wearing out sheets. But it ain't cold there, anyway; Bebelle keeps me warm."
"Who's Bebelle?"
"Why, she's our cow. Oh! she's so soft and warm! But how he pinches! Dieu! what a pincher you are!"
"Come to your room; we can talk better there; with you, Goton, the barn becomes a boudoir, and straw, feathers."
"What's a boudoir?"
"Come, and I'll tell you."
"And what about the peddlers?"
"They don't need you any more; haven't they paid their bills?"
"Yes. Anyway, master knows 'em."
"In that case, there's no need of your sitting up any longer."
"But suppose they should want anything?"
"Two of them are sound asleep already, and the two others will very soon be in the same condition. Come, I tell you; it's nonsense to sit up till daylight for them. You need sleep, Goton."
The servant was half vanquished. She ceased to resist Dubourg's arguments, and allowed him to lead her to the cow-barn, which they both entered, closing the door behind them. The door had no other fastening than a hook on the outside; but the girl slept there without fear, as there were no robbers thereabout.
But one of the peddlers was not asleep; he, too, was engrossed by thoughts of Goton, and he was waiting for his companions to lose themselves in slumber before attempting to join the seductive servant.
This man had noticed that one of the strangers was prowling about Goton, and it had irritated him; but he had not dared to watch him too closely, being still held in respect by the recollection of the pistols.
When all three of his comrades had their heads on the table, he rose softly and went out to look for Goton, knowing the location of her bedroom. He took no light, in order not to betray his whereabouts, and crept stealthily toward the cow-barn.
He was still some yards away, when he heard two voices saying some very pretty things to each other; he crept nearer, and grasped the thread of the conversation distinctly enough; for Dubourg and Goton, thinking that their only neighbors were animals, were talking together without restraint.
The peddler was furious, but how could he be revenged? He had no desire to pick a quarrel with Dubourg; it would be a waste of time to call the landlord, for that worthy man and his spouse always locked themselves in their room to avoid being disturbed; besides, who would dare to assume the task of getting the hostess out of bed? and, after all, what did it matter to them that a guest was with their servant? they probably did not consider themselves responsible for Goton's virtue.
The peddler determined to play some trick on the amorous couple. He could think of nothing better than to hook the door on the outside, which he did very softly, then stole away, delighted with his exploit, and saying to himself:
"They won't get out of that place till someone lets 'em out; for the door's a stout one, and I defy 'em to break it down."
He joined his companions; day broke ere long, and their business required the peddlers to leave the inn. They were soon ready, and, as they shouldered their packs, they listened to their confrère's story of the trick he had played on the stranger. They all applauded him, being overjoyed to be revenged on a man who had refused to be frightened by their cudgels; and they went their way, laughing at the thought of the scene that would take place at the inn in the morning.
During these occurrences, Ménard did not continue in the same tranquil state in which we left him. The white wine, with which monsieur le baron had filled his glass so often, produced its due effect. Ménard woke; he turned over and put out his hand to find the chair, which he expected to use as a means of descending from his bed; for in such wretched inns there is never a night table. But to no purpose did he stretch out his arm and feel about in all directions. He could find no chair! In that case, how was he to climb down from that bed, which reached to the roof? yet he felt sure that it was becoming absolutely necessary. He listened, but could hear nothing; he put aside the curtains—the most profound darkness reigned in the room. Monsieur le baron must have gone to sleep in his chair, as he had planned to do; but, in any event, how could he presume to ask the Palatine of Rava to give him the—— No, he could never do that! On the other hand, to jump out of bed was to run the risk of hurting himself, or at least of not being able to get back. It was most embarrassing, and poor Ménard, sitting up in bed, could not decide what course to pursue.
Necessity knows no law, says an old proverb; besides, monsieur le baron was so kind and good-natured and obliging! This thought emboldened Ménard; he coughed, gently at first, then a little louder; and finally he ventured to call, in a low tone:
"Monsieur le baron—if you are not asleep, may I presume to ask you to assist me? I am sadly embarrassed, monsieur le baron."
But at that moment Baron Dubourg was with Goton, busily engaged in teaching her what a boudoir is, and that a garret, a thicket, a loft, a cave, a kitchen, a cellar, or a barn may deserve that name when one is in either of those places with one's love. And Goton understood the lesson perfectly, because she was quick-witted, and because Dubourg, who had had some experience, was an excellent teacher.
"Monsieur le baron must sleep very soundly," thought Ménard. "What a cursed place this is! this infernal bed, where I can't turn over without pricking my legs—I believe the mattress is stuffed with oat straw! Well, no matter what happens, I must try to slide down."
He had put one of his short legs over the edge of the bed, when he heard a tremendous uproar in the room; a chair was overturned, a jug that stood on it fell to the floor and broke, and a number of dark objects scuttled along the wall and went out through the door. Ménard was stiff with terror.
"Monsieur le baron, monsieur le baron!" he called, in a stifled voice; "is that you?"
There was no reply. The poor man had not the courage to leave the bed, but buried his head under the clothes; his fright causing him to lose all power of restraint, it soon became unnecessary for him to get out, and he fell asleep without being further disturbed; for it was neither thieves nor hobgoblins who had caused the tumult in his chamber, but simply two cats, which, finding the door open, had paid a visit to their usual place of abode. While fighting over a bit of rabbit, which monsieur le baron had tossed under the table while declaring that it was delicious, the beasts had overturned a chair on which was a jug of water, and the noise had so terrified them that they fled incontinently, abandoning the subject of controversy.
Meanwhile, the day had broken. The innkeeper quitted his chaste partner, who rose at six but was not dressed until nine. Frédéric woke, and so did Ménard, the latter being very uncomfortable for reasons which you can guess. Dubourg, having no further instruction to give Goton, desired to return to his room, and Goton found it harder than usual to leave her pallet, because Dubourg's lessons had fatigued her. But the pretended baron tried in vain to leave the shed. For five minutes he pushed and shook the door, which did not yield.
"Goton—Goton, did you lock the door?" he asked.
"Naw! it don't lock," replied the girl, rubbing her eyes.
"But I can't open it."
"Push hard."
"I am pushing as hard as I can, but it won't open."
"Bah! you city folks haven't got any strength!" said the servant; and she struck the door a violent blow with her fist, but without effect.
"Jarni! someone must have hooked it outside."
"Who in the devil can have played us such a trick?"
"Pardi! it must have been one of the peddlers—because they had their eyes on me, don't you see? and perhaps they saw that you was in here."
"I haven't any desire to pass my day in this shed."
"I'll milk the cow for you."
"Much obliged."
"And you can tell me something."
"I don't know anything more. This smell of cow and filth goes to my head."
"Oh! you said just now that this shed was a little—what d'you call it?—a pretty little bouloir, with me."
"Oh! there's a great difference between just now and now. A place ceases to be agreeable, Goton, when you are compelled to stay in it. But it's broad daylight; if that window wasn't so small, we could get out through it."
"Oh! you can't do that."
"Ah! I have an idea! We must make the best of it. Bring that stone here, Goton; stand on it with me, so that our heads will be near the window, and then shout as I do."
"What will I shout?"
Dubourg put his face to the round hole over the door, and began to cry at the top of his voice:
"Help! thieves! stop the carriage! thieves!"
"Where's the thieves?" whispered Goton.
"Will you do what I tell you to?" repeated Dubourg.
"All right; I'll yell, if it amuses you," rejoined the servant. And her strong voice, reinforcing Dubourg's, soon aroused the whole household and a good part of the village.
The innkeeper ran to the spot as fast as his left leg allowed, it being two inches shorter than the other. Frédéric came out of his room; Ménard sat up in bed, and succeeded, with his pupil's aid, in reaching the floor. He dressed in haste, and went downstairs close on the heels of Frédéric, who had recognized Dubourg's voice and was more curious than alarmed, suspecting some new invention on the baron's part. They all went out into the yard, where they were joined by the neighbors and a number of laborers on their way to work, who had been attracted by Dubourg's reiterated shouts of:
"Thieves! stop the carriage!"
They looked about, but saw no carriage; whereupon Goton roared:
"Monsieur le baron's carriage has run off!"
The shed door was opened at last, and Dubourg rushed out like a madman, raving and swearing, heedless of the fact that his trousers were stained with filth.
"What's the matter, monsieur le baron?" queried Ménard, in dismay.
"The matter? my berlin—that scoundrel of a postilion! he has run away and taken it with him—with fifty thousand francs in gold that I had in one of the pockets!"
"My father's berlin! the equipage of the Potoskis! It isn't the money that I regret—but a berlin in which the Princess of Hungary—— Ah! my friends, scour the country in all directions—follow every road—a hundred louis to the man who brings it back!"
"A hundred louis to the man who brings back the carriage!" said Goton.
"They will be very smart if they overtake it," said Dubourg, in an undertone; "it must be near to Paris now."
"But how did you come to be locked into the shed with Goton?" inquired the innkeeper.
"I should think you might guess that. I heard a noise in the yard during the night; I came downstairs softly and found my rascal harnessing the horses, intending to make his escape while we were asleep. Unluckily, I had no weapons, and the postilion is a much stronger man than I am. I attempted to go to call you, but the villain seized me, and, despite my resistance, forced me into the barn, where this girl was sleeping, and locked us in there. We began at once to shout for help; but you sleep like dead men."
"Yes, yes, that's how it was!" said Goton, understanding now why Dubourg had told her to shout thieves.
"You must go to monsieur le maire," said Ménard; "you must have the police ordered out.—There's a mayor here, of course?"
"Yes, monsieur; the wine merchant; but he'll have to send to the next village for the police, and that will take two hours."
"Don't be disturbed, my dear Ménard," said Frédéric, with a smile, "we have a comfortable post chaise to take the place of monsieur le baron's berlin."
"But fifty thousand francs in gold, monsieur le comte!"
"Oh! it isn't the loss of the money that distresses me," said Dubourg; "my fortune can stand that loss. Luckily, I still have fifteen thousand francs in my wallet, to pay my expenses for some little time; but I especially regret my wardrobe; there was a great trunk under the carriage, full of clothes and linen."
"Certainly," observed Frédéric, with a mischievous glance at Dubourg and Goton, "you need a change of clothing now; you must have fallen while you were in the barn."
Dubourg looked at him with an expression that signified: "I don't know why you need have called attention to that!" as he replied:
"I certainly didn't go in like a lamb; ask Goton how the rascal handled me!"
"Oh! yes," said the servant, "he threw you down more'n four times."
"At all events, my friend, my wardrobe is at your service," said Frédéric.
"And mine too, monsieur le baron," added Ménard, bowing to Dubourg; and he went back to his room to finish dressing, the baron having promised to go and lodge a complaint with the mayor.
Frédéric's postilion came at last to inform the travellers that the chaise was ready. Ménard came down from his room, thanking heaven that they were to leave that inn, which had been so disastrous to them. Goton came down behind him, and whispered to Dubourg:
"One of your friends ain't very well brought up; a man of his age do such things as that! If my little brother did it, he'd get a licking."
In two words, Dubourg learned what had happened; he could not help laughing at the catastrophe, for which he was responsible; while Ménard glared angrily at the servant, who put out her tongue at him, shrugged her shoulders, and followed him about, saying in an undertone:
"For shame! what a dirty trick! a man fifty years old! who ain't learned to be clean!"
The carriage awaited the travellers, and they took their seats with much satisfaction: Dubourg, overjoyed to be rid of his berlin; Ménard, impatient to leave Goton and the inn, for which he had conceived an intense aversion; and Frédéric, because he was much more comfortable in the roomy, well-hung post chaise than in monsieur le baron's wretched berlin.
Ménard sighed once or twice for the seat that the Princess of Hungary had occupied; but he still had to console him the King of Prussia's snuff-box, and the prospect of drinking tokay from Tekely's cellar.
VI
THE LITTLE WOOD
Our travellers reached the next village without mishap, and stopped there to breakfast. Ménard admired the tranquillity with which their noble companion bore the twofold loss of his carriage and his fifty thousand francs.
"I am a philosopher, Monsieur Ménard," said Dubourg; "and I care little for money; indeed, I think that I should prefer mediocrity to a too exalted station: Magna servitus est magna fortuna."
"You are no ordinary man, my dear Dubourg," said Frédéric; "there are so many people whose philosophy does not outlast their prosperity, like the coward who boasts of his courage when the danger has passed."
"I certainly am not ambitious," rejoined Ménard; "and I know how to bow to circumstances; but I consider that it requires great strength of mind to give up without regret a good table and a good bed; and when I say a good bed, I don't mean a high one."
Dubourg observed that when they had breakfasted it was Monsieur Ménard who paid the bill.
"Don't you carry the purse?" he asked Frédéric, in an undertone.
"No; my father gave the funds to Ménard."
"The devil! that's a nuisance. What will he think, when he sees that I never pay?"
"Why, after your saying that you had been robbed, did you add that you still had fifteen thousand francs in your pocket?"
"Oh! why, why! because I wanted to play the great man, and not let your companion imagine that you would pay my expenses."
"I don't dare to ask Ménard for the money; I should be afraid of hurting his feelings."
"Never fear; I'll undertake to make him turn it over of his own motion."
"How?"
"You will see."
"When you hold the purse-strings, don't play the swell too much; remember that we shall not have any more for a long while."
"Can it be that you believe that I am still a rattle-head and gambler, as I was in Paris? No, my dear Frédéric, I am too well pleased to be travelling with you, to make a fool of myself; I tell you again, I mean to be a second Mentor."
"Yes; your performance in the cow-barn is a very promising beginning."
"Oh! but I had to invent some lie to account for the berlin."
"And that made it necessary to lock yourself in there with Mademoiselle Goton! you ne'er-do-well!"
"Bah! don't make yourself out such a Cato! If Mademoiselle Goton had had melancholy eyes and a sentimental cast of countenance, you would have gone with her to pasture the cows."
"Well, at all events, I beg you not to do so much gasconading with poor Ménard, who believes every word; for, to remove any possible suspicion from his mind, I have taken pains to tell him that I know your family intimately, and that you are highly esteemed in Paris."
"You have done very well. I only tell him as much as I think necessary to carry out my part; you don't seem to remember that I call myself a Polish nobleman."
"That's the reason, I suppose, that you talk about nothing but Bretagne!"
The travellers resumed their journey. Before reaching the town where they proposed to pass the night, they had to ride through a dense forest; and Dubourg, who had his scheme all prepared, began operations by giving a serious turn to the conversation, for he was well aware that one's frame of mind adds to or takes from the size of objects, and that in real life, as on the stage, one must know how to prepare and lead up to situations, in order that they may produce the greatest effect.
"I know nothing more delightful than travelling," said Dubourg; "why is it that one's pleasure must always be lessened by the thought that some unfortunate accident may upset all one's plans?"
"It is so with all the pleasures of life," rejoined Frédéric; "can you name one upon which we can rely for the morrow? It is a great joy to be loved by the woman you adore; but when you feel sure that you are not indifferent to her, when you rely on her heart and her oaths, some young Adonis appears, who fascinates her; some handsome soldier, who turns her head; some scintillating wit, who charms her mind—and that woman, faithful until then, betrays you at the very moment that you feel most confident of her love. Alas! the happiness of our whole future often depends only upon some trivial circumstance, and crumbles and falls like a house built of cards."
"Monsieur de Montreville talks very wisely," said Ménard; "we are often sadly disappointed in our hopes; how many times have I dined at a famous restaurant, when the soup was a failure!"
"A philosopher endures such disasters, in fortune, in love, or in pleasure," said Dubourg; "but there are things against which even philosophy cannot prevail; as, for instance, being attacked and murdered by brigands on the highroad."
These words made Ménard shudder; his face lengthened, his expression became anxious, and he turned to Dubourg, whose features wore a gloomy look in which there was nothing reassuring.
"Such affairs are, in truth, very unpleasant for travellers. They say, monsieur le baron, that travelling is very dangerous in Italy. You have travelled so much, that you can probably tell us."
"Unquestionably there are brigands in Italy, Monsieur Ménard. The peculiarity of that country is that the roads are most dangerous at noon, for no one but the brigands dares to face the hot sun at that time of day. However, if there are highway robbers in the Apennines and in Germany and England, unfortunately there's no lack of them in France. It's quite as dangerous now to travel in France."
"What! in France, monsieur le baron? I thought that the roads were perfectly safe."
"Then you don't read the papers, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Very rarely."
"If you did, you would see that the forests of Sénart, Bondy, Fontainebleau, and even Villers-Cotterets, all have their bands of robbers."
"Mon Dieu!"
"Unfortunately, the villains are becoming more savage day by day. They used to content themselves with robbing you, but now they beat you with clubs, and you're lucky if you leave their hands alive."
"The deuce! the deuce! if I had known this!" muttered Ménard, looking about him uneasily. They were just entering the wood.
"Oh! don't be alarmed, Monsieur Ménard," continued Dubourg; "ordinarily, the robbers confine their attentions to the one who has the money; he has to pay for the others: they tie him to a tree and strip him as bare as a worm, to make sure that he has nothing hidden in his clothing."
"That does not quiet my apprehensions at all, monsieur le baron; for, as it happens, I have charge of the money for our journey."
"Oh! if I had known that, I wouldn't have told you. I thought that Frédéric—— But in that case you must sell your life dearly. You are armed, of course?"
"I never use weapons, monsieur le baron."
"Then you must learn to use them; at this moment, we are driving through a forest where three friends of mine were killed."
"What's that! in this wood? It does seem very dense."
And Ménard glanced fearfully to right and left. It was beginning to grow dark, and that fact added to his terror.
"Drive at full speed, postilion!" he cried, in a trembling voice.
But the postilion, who had received his instructions from Dubourg, did not quicken his pace. Frédéric said nothing, but seemed lost in thought, and Dubourg took his pistols from his pocket and examined them carefully, glancing into the woods from time to time.
"Parbleu! Monsieur Ménard," he said, taking from his pocket a shabby green wallet, in which he had placed his last restaurant bill to make it appear well filled, "this contains my whole fortune for the moment. The fifteen thousand francs which I now have for my travelling expenses are in this wallet; as you have been obliging enough to take charge of Frédéric's funds, I am sure that you will consent to be my cashier, too; there is no need of having two of us to pay our hotel bills; it's much better that you should do it all."
As he spoke, he handed Ménard the wallet; that worthy looked at it, considering what it was best to do; although flattered by that mark of confidence, he was not tempted to accept it.
At that moment, they heard a shrill whistle in the woods.
"Ah! what does that mean?" exclaimed Dubourg, glancing about with a terrified expression.
"Perhaps we are going to be attacked, monsieur le baron."
"Faith! I am afraid of it."
"And Monsieur Frédéric is asleep; pray wake him."
Frédéric, pretending to be fast asleep, was an amused listener.
"There's no need of that.—Take these, Monsieur Ménard," said Dubourg, handing the tutor his wallet and his pistols; "they are loaded."
"Keep them, keep them, in heaven's name, monsieur le baron. I can't take this wallet. On the contrary, if you were willing, you would be much better able than I to take care of these."
And poor Ménard produced in one hand his wallet, and in the other a purse filled with gold, and fixed his eyes upon Dubourg with a suppliant expression.
"Really," said the latter, "I don't know if I ought to undertake—— Perhaps Frédéric will be offended if——"
"Oh! no, no, monsieur le baron; I am sure that he will approve of my action."
"Here are four men with rifles coming toward us," said the postilion.
"Great God! we are lost!" cried Ménard.
"Give them to me, quickly," said Dubourg, taking the wallet and the purse; "I see that this is a matter for me to attend to."
Ménard hid under the seat; the postilion shouted and swore, and lashed his horses; Dubourg leaned out of the chaise and fired both his pistols in the air; Frédéric pretended to wake up; the carriage flew like the wind, and in five minutes they were out of the wood.
"We are safe!" said Dubourg, assisting Ménard to rise.
"We are out of the woods; there's no more danger. We had a narrow escape, eh, Frédéric?"
"And the robbers, monsieur le baron?"
"I killed two of them."
"I saw the other two run away," said Frédéric.
"Ah! monsieur le baron, how lucky we were to have you with us!"
They arrived in due time at their destination. Dubourg was delighted to be the treasurer of the party, and he inaugurated his functions by giving the postilion a gold piece for whistling in the forest.
VII
DUBOURG CONTINUES TO PLAY THE GREAT MAN.—HIS METHOD OF MANAGING THE TREASURY
Dubourg had never had in his possession so large a sum of money as that which Ménard had intrusted to him. Young men, as a general rule, are not in the habit of hoarding money, and Dubourg, who was devoted to cards and pleasure and good cheer, thinking only of the present, oblivious of the past, and never worrying about the future, had not the faintest idea of economy.
When he was a clerk in a government office, his salary was always so largely hypothecated that he never received more than a third of it, and that third never lasted more than three days, during which period, to be sure, Dubourg lived like the chief of a bureau.
In the banking-house, being compelled to work hard, he took his revenge by ordering dainty breakfasts brought to the office; and his accounts at cafés and restaurants consumed a large part of the amount the cashier paid him at the month's end.
At the notary's, he had contracted, with the other young men in the office, the deplorable habit of playing écarté. It was worse than ever there: the month's pay vanished in one evening, and he was in luck when he did not pledge the next month's as well.
In the employ of the solicitor, being constantly abroad with the lady whom his employer intrusted to him, he lost the habit of working; he passed his time in dissipation, and strove to follow the fashions and rival the young dandies of the capital. During that period, his tailor, his bootmaker, and his stableman had divided his income.
When his kind old aunt sent him money, it was never a large amount. The largest was the five hundred francs which he had extorted by the fable of his marriage and his triplets; we have seen what use he made of that.
Eight thousand francs—for the amount was almost untouched—was, in Dubourg's eyes, a fortune of which he would never see the end. To be sure, it did not belong to him, strictly speaking; but he could direct the spending of it; he could do exactly as he pleased, for he was certain of not being called upon for an accounting. He did not propose to appropriate a single sou, but he did propose to put it to such use as would do honor to him to whom it belonged, and he was not sorry to be able to enjoy it with him.
He ordered a delicious supper, which was served in their apartments, the finest in the house.
When he saw all the dishes with which the table was laden, Frédéric exclaimed:
"Why, are you mad, Dubourg?"—for he continued to call him by that name before Ménard, who had become accustomed to it—"here is supper enough for ten!"
"I have an excellent appetite, my dear Frédéric, and am disposed to do full honor to it; I'll wager that Monsieur Ménard will second me."
"With the very greatest pleasure, monsieur le baron; that affair in the woods made a hole in my stomach."
"But you surely have condemned all the other guests of the house to a bread and water diet."
"Faith! they may eat what they can find; it seems to me natural that we should make up to ourselves for the miserable meal we had last night at that horrible inn."
"I quite agree with monsieur le baron; we are sadly in need of restoring our strength."
"But——"
"What the devil! do you want to travel like wolves? and eat at table d'hôte like paltry pedestrians? A man should support his rank, my friend, and I judge, from the feeling, that my stomach isn't inclined to backslide."
"Monsieur le baron talks very judiciously; you must support your rank," said Ménard, accepting a chicken wing which Dubourg offered him; "that is your father's wish, you know, Monsieur Frédéric."
"Yes, my friend," said Dubourg, filling his glass with the oldest wine that the cellar of the inn contained; "I think you should certainly yield to your father's wish; and, on my word, all things considered, I don't see why I should retain my incognito any longer. We're a long way from Paris. I am done with it; I resume my titles, and I propose to be treated with the honors that are due me."
"Oh! Dubourg, Dubourg! you will get us into some scrape," said Frédéric, in an undertone; but his friend paid no heed; he was excited by the wine, and he had never felt in such high spirits. He drank glass after glass, while Ménard, with a glutton's delight, helped himself to mushroom pie, the odor of which tickled his olfactory nerve.
"What do you think of my plan, Monsieur Ménard?"
"That has always been my wish, as you know, monsieur le baron."
"It is settled; I am baron, palatine, et cetera; and we will make it manifest wherever we go."
"Certainly, monsieur le baron; the nobility of your manners will always cause you to be recognized for what you are."
"Bravo, Monsieur Ménard! spoken like a true boon companion! But as to Frédéric, he is unworthy to sit at our table. A little more of this hare, Monsieur Ménard?"
"With pleasure, monsieur le baron."
"We must be philosophical—when we can't help it; but true philosophy consists in making the most of life, in enjoying one's self whenever the opportunity offers. Dulce est desipere in loco, says Horace. Eh, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Yes, monsieur le baron; but Juvenal advises infrequent indulgence in pleasures: Voluptatis commendat rarior usus."
"Juvenal probably had a weak stomach."
"That is very possible, monsieur le baron."
"Another glass, Monsieur Ménard; to the memory of Anacreon, Epicurus, Horace, and all good livers!"
"We forget Lucullus, monsieur le baron."
"True; another bumper, to Lucullus!"
By dint of drinking to the memory of the ancients, the two were beginning to lose all memory of the present.
"Faith!" cried Dubourg, rising from the table; "I defy all the palatines of Rava, Cracow, and Krapach to eat a better supper!"
"Take care what you are saying, you infernal babbler!" muttered Frédéric.
"Never you fear," retorted Dubourg, speaking louder than ever; "I'll answer for everything, I tell you; and Papa Ménard is a man whom I esteem and love, and whose eyes I will close with pheasants or truffles."
Luckily, Ménard was in such a condition that he could not distinguish clearly what was being said. Bewildered by the frequent libations in which he had indulged with his noble companion, he left the table to go to his room. He felt his way along the walls till he reached his bed, which he had ordered to be made very low. He retired, well pleased with the feast he had enjoyed and with the baron's manner of doing the honors of the table; he considered that he had done exceedingly well to intrust the financial arrangements to him, for he himself would not have dared to order so delicious a repast; and he foresaw that the baron, who seemed to be both a gourmand and an epicure, would continue to feed them on the fat of the land, as he had abandoned his incognito. In a word, Ménard was delighted with their travelling companion, and he fell asleep musing upon the pleasures and the honor which he should enjoy on that journey.
On the following day, Frédéric attempted to talk prudence to Dubourg, who instantly retorted:
"Do you want to take the funds? Do so, give such orders as you please; it's your right. But, absorbed as you always are in melancholy reflections, you won't feed us decently; and when you are travelling for pleasure, it seems to me that food is a most essential thing to look out for."
"But be reasonable, at least."
"Oh! you are greatly to be pitied, aren't you, for having two men with you to keep you amused—one by his wit, the other by the way he puts himself outside of a partridge."
"But what's the meaning of this idea of playing the great man before everybody?"
"Because we shall have more sport. Besides, you are a count; I must be a baron at least, in order to travel on equal terms with you."
"But the money will go much faster."
"Bah! we shan't see the end of it for a long while yet; and then, you have a father, and I an aunt."
"I advise you to rely on them!"
"At all events, you see that your mentor approves of my method."
"Parbleu! you make him tipsy, and he doesn't know what he's saying."
"Don't worry; I'll answer for everything."
When they resumed their journey, the horses, which belonged to Frédéric, went like the wind. Ménard was slightly dazed by the rapid motion, but he said to himself: "These nobles always travel at full speed;" and clung to the door to keep from falling.
At every inn, they were treated with the greatest respect, as men of high rank. Everywhere they had the best rooms, the daintiest dishes, the oldest wines. And Ménard was delighted, enchanted, because he believed that monsieur le baron had put his fifteen thousand francs with the sum he had handed him, and because he judged him to be too large-hearted and generous to give a thought to the difference between their contributions.
In due time, our travellers reached Lyon, having paused on the way only to admire an occasional view and to give their horses time to breathe. But they proposed to pass several days in that city. Young Montreville was very glad of an opportunity to see it and its suburbs, and, above all, to visit the shores of the Rhône; and his two companions consented, with pleasure, to tarry some time in a city where they could live as well as in Paris.
They alighted at one of the best hotels. The noise made by Dubourg, the distinguished aspect of Frédéric, and the pains that Ménard took to repeat again and again: "You have the honor of entertaining Monsieur le Baron Potoski, Palatine of Rava, and the young Comte de Montreville," attracted universal attention and consideration to the young men, who seemed disposed to spend money freely, which is the best of recommendations at a hotel.
They were quartered in a superb suite on the first floor. Their meals were served in their rooms, and everything had to be of the best. Dubourg was the one who gave all the orders; Frédéric interfered with none of the details, beyond saying to his friend:
"Be careful what you do."
Whereupon Dubourg would reply: "Never fear," with such confidence that the young count finally allowed him to do as he pleased, without remonstrance.
As for Ménard, he was more enthusiastic than ever about the baron, to whom he was indebted for such an agreeable life. Frédéric often went out alone to walk along the bank of the Rhône; fascinated by the beautiful landscape he discovered, he sometimes did not return to the hotel until night or the following day. Dubourg, like those liars who end by believing in their own false-hoods, had so identified himself with the part he was playing, that he would have struck anyone who expressed a doubt as to his rank; he amused himself, during his friend's absences, by displaying his magnificence in the city. Leaning nonchalantly on Ménard's arm, who, with his hat on the back of his head, the better to see and be seen, carried himself very straight, walked with much precision, and strove to assume an air that was both dignified and affable, when he went out with monsieur le baron—Dubourg walked all over the city, with a huge three-cornered hat, adorned with a black plume and a steel buckle, which he wore after the style of one of Molière's marquises. To be sure, the rest of his costume hardly corresponded with his hat; but it was no longer fashionable to wear embroidered coats for walking, and Dubourg had confined himself to having silver tassels attached to his military boots, considering that there was a something Polish about them. He left his coat open, because that gave him a more careless air, and he made frequent use of a huge eyeglass hanging from his neck by a pink ribbon.
His extraordinary garb attracted every eye. Some took him for an Englishman, some for a Russian or a Prussian; but if some curious individual stopped and looked after him with a smile on his face, Dubourg would flash a glance at him that put an end to any inclination to laugh at his expense, and conveyed the impression that the stranger, whoever he might be, was not of a disposition to endure being laughed at.
But it was necessary to be in the neighborhood of our two friends only a very short time to ascertain the identity of the gentleman in the plumed hat, who sauntered along so gracefully with his glass at his eye; for Monsieur Ménard talked very loud, especially when he saw that someone was noticing them, and never failed to emphasize the "Baron Potoski," or "Monsieur le Palatine," when he addressed his companion; sometimes, indeed, he went so far as to call him "Monseigneur de Rava et de Sandomir."
They had been in Lyon a week. Frédéric had not begun to tire of visiting the beautiful suburbs of the city, but Dubourg was beginning to tire of exhibiting himself in the public streets, arm in arm with Ménard. They had been to all the places of resort, all the theatres, and all the cafés; everywhere, Dubourg played the great nobleman, and Ménard unwittingly acted as his accomplice; for the poor fellow was entirely honest, and deemed himself highly honored to promenade with his pupil's noble friend, who was always able to produce an apt quotation and bewildered him by his anecdotes of travel in the four quarters of the globe.
For several days, Dubourg had been urging Frédéric to leave Lyon, and he always postponed their departure to the next day, when one morning Dubourg received a letter which put an end to his desire to go away. This letter was addressed to Monsieur le Baron Potoski, Seigneur Polonais. Dubourg read the superscription twice. Who could have written to him, and by that name? He asked the landlady who had brought the letter, and was told that it was a servant in livery, who requested that it be delivered to monsieur le baron in person.
Dubourg hastened to break the seal, and read as follows:
"Monsieur le Baron Potoski is invited to pass this evening with Madame la Marquise de Versac, who will be delighted to entertain the noble stranger, at his pleasure, during his stay in Lyon."
The marchioness's address was at the foot of the note, which Dubourg reread several times, and which diffused an odor of musk and amber through his room.
"The devil!" said Dubourg to himself; "an invitation from a marchioness! This is decidedly flattering! But how does she know me? Parbleu! a man very soon becomes known when he lives with a certain amount of style. Besides, people must be beginning to talk about me, after I've paraded the streets for a week with Ménard, like a white bear."
Dubourg summoned the landlady again, and asked her if she knew Madame la Marquise de Versac.
"The Marquise de Versac? I don't know her personally, but I know her very well by name. It's one of the oldest and richest families in the city, and I know madame la marquise has a magnificent country house on the river, four leagues from Lyon."
Dubourg asked no more questions; he was in raptures. He dismissed the landlady, and began to pace the floor, saying to himself:
"I shall certainly accept madame la marquise's invitation; the acquaintance cannot fail to be exceedingly agreeable to me, and, who knows? perhaps I may find there some baroness or viscountess whose head I can turn; who will marry me, and endow me with estates and châteaux! Well, what would there be so surprising in that? I am young, not bad-looking; I have a certain style, which must have attracted Madame la Marquise de Versac. But, deuce take me! what if she herself—— Ah! I forgot to ask about that."
Dubourg rang again, and the landlady reappeared.
"I beg your pardon, my dear hostess," he said; "but I have reasons for wishing to know if Madame la Marquise de Versac is married."
"She is still a widow, I think, monsieur; it's only three years since Monsieur de Versac died, and since then I haven't heard——"
"Very good, very good, madame," said Dubourg, dismissing her again; and he capered about the room, looking at himself in the mirror, and saying:
"She's a widow! there's no doubt about her being a widow still, or the invitation would be in her husband's name. Now, this becomes interesting: a very rich young widow, who has a magnificent country house, and who writes me that she will be charmed to entertain me! for that's what it says. Let's read it again: yes, 'delighted to entertain you.'—It seems to me that that almost amounts to a declaration. You shall entertain me, charming creature! I promise you. By the way, I forgot to ask if she was charming, but it can't be otherwise; at all events, I don't care so much for beauty, now; I am reasonable, I am more attracted by solid advantages. This very evening she shall see the noble stranger. But, damnation! when she finds out that the palatine is only a humble bourgeois! After all, I am an honest Breton, and an honest Breton's as good as any other man; besides, we haven't come to that yet. I must begin by captivating her. When a woman is fascinated, does she recognize ranks and distances? Love equalizes everything: the lord of the thunder loved simple mortals, and the shepherd Paris had it in his power to lie with the loveliest goddesses in Olympus. To lie with Madame de Versac, I'll give her all the apples she wants."
Ménard made his appearance while Dubourg was strutting about his bedroom, trying to assume a courtly air. As soon as he caught sight of the tutor, he thrust the letter into his face, crying:
"Tolle, lege, my dear Ménard."
Ménard recoiled, because the odor of musk exhaled by the letter made him ill.
"Doesn't that smell rather like a marchioness, eh?" said Dubourg, inhaling the perfume ecstatically. "Well, Ménard, what do you say to this letter?"
"I see nothing surprising in it, monsieur le baron; you must be accustomed to receive similar ones wherever you go."
"True, you are right, Ménard; I don't mean to imply that I am surprised; I say that the note is well turned, eh?"
"Very well turned, monsieur le baron."
"It was evidently written by a woman who knows her man, wasn't it?"
"Certainly, monsieur le baron, she must know him."
"But I mean that it doesn't resemble such notes as—as little Delphine had the presumption to write me."
"Who was this Delphine, monsieur le baron?"
"Oh! she was a little countess, on Boulevard du Temple, whose receptions used to be attended by a large number of noblemen of my stamp."
"Monsieur le baron will accept Madame la Marquise de Versac's invitation, of course?"
"Accept it? most assuredly. Let us dine at once, Monsieur Ménard, so that I need think of nothing but dressing. Where's Frédéric?"
"Admiring some new view, no doubt; he told me that he should not return till evening; I think he intends to leave Lyon to-morrow."
"To-morrow! Oh! we'll see about that; we have all the time there is, and we're very comfortable here, aren't we, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Very, monsieur le baron; but, you know, we are traveling for——"
"I know that we shouldn't leave a city till we know it thoroughly, and Frédéric can't know this city yet, as he's always in the suburbs. You must persuade him of that, Monsieur Ménard."
"I will do my utmost, monsieur le baron."
Dubourg ate little dinner; he was too much engrossed by thoughts of his evening to have any appetite; a child does not eat, when his father has promised to take him to the play. We are big children; the anticipation of a new pleasure always produces the same effect on us.
Dubourg deliberated concerning his toilet. If he had had time, he would have ordered a dress-coat; but he must needs be content with one of Frédéric's, who was much more slender than he, so that he could never button it. Should he go in top-boots? That would be rather too informal, his hostess being a marchioness. But he had no trousers; Frédéric's were too small for him, and it was not the same with them as with a coat, which one is always at liberty to leave unbuttoned. Ménard would lend him a pair, but they would be too large; so he decided to go in boots; he was a foreigner, a Pole, that fact would be his excuse; moreover, his silver tassels pleased him immensely.
At eight o'clock, Dubourg had been dressed more than an hour, and was pacing the floor of his room, his plumed hat under his arm, practising dignified bows, graceful smiles, and a noble bearing. He had put the whole contents of his treasury in his pocket, and, having no watch, he thought for a moment of taking his steel loop from his hat and placing it in his fob; but it might be recognized as having been on his hat, so he contented himself with a red ribbon, of which he showed only the end. The clock struck nine at last, the hour at which one may decently appear in society; a carriage was waiting; he entered it, and gave the driver the address indicated on the note.
The carriage stopped in a lonely street, before a house of poor appearance. Dubourg alighted. A lackey, there being no concierge, stood at the door of the house, apparently posted there as a sentinel; and he lost no time in ushering Dubourg up a dirty staircase, at the foot of which were two lamps that seemed surprised to be there. But Dubourg was going over in his mind the sentence he had prepared for his salutation to the marchioness, and he did not notice the uncleanness of the house.
The servant opened a door on the first floor and entered an anteroom, wherein the eye sought in vain any article of furniture; although it was dimly lighted, the spots of grease on the walls and the soiled, discolored floor could be plainly seen. But the servant led Dubourg through this room at a rapid pace, and, opening another door into the salon, announced in a loud tone:
At that name, there was a great commotion in the salon, and a lady rose and rushed forward to meet Dubourg, expressing in the most cordial terms her pleasure in receiving him as her guest.
Dubourg answered whatever came into his head; he walked into the room, saluting to right and left, and dropped into a chair beside the Marquise de Versac, whom he then took occasion to scrutinize. He saw that he had been wise not to indulge his imagination in advance. The mistress of the house was a woman who seemed to be fully forty-five years of age, despite the care with which she had blackened her eyebrows, reddened her lips, and whitened her complexion. She was fashionably dressed, but her gown, which had a long train, seemed to embarrass her; her head was overladen with flowers and ribbons, and a triple necklace of pearls embellished a long, yellow neck, rising pitifully above a pair of fleshless shoulders, which the marchioness was barbarous enough to expose to all eyes, as if they were pleasing to the sight.
Dubourg did not stop to examine all that; he remembered what his landlady had said to him, and tried to think the marchioness charming. While she addressed him in the most flattering terms, he cast a glance about the salon.
An antiquated chandelier, suspended from the ceiling, lighted the room, which was very large; the hangings must once have been handsome, but were beginning to show too many signs of age. The floor was covered with an immense rug, which was never made for a salon. The covering of the furniture was of two colors: there was a blue ottoman and yellow chairs; and the latter were not alike. In default of a clock, there was an enormous jar of flowers in the centre of the mantel, and a number of candlesticks on either side. Several card-tables of different sizes completed the furnishing of that salon, which seemed to Dubourg to be quite as venerable as Madame de Versac's family.
Having examined the room, Dubourg turned his attention to the company. There were only three ladies besides the marchioness. One, who seemed to be about sixty years old, and who was called the baroness, talked incessantly of her estates, her châteaux, her property, and her servants; she talked so loud that there was not a moment's silence. A young woman, who was rather pretty, but seemed rather awkward, and did not open her mouth except to laugh or to say yes or no, was called the Vicomtesse de Fairfignan; while the third, who was apparently about thirty years old, and whom they called Madame de Grandcourt, was half reclining on the ottoman, evidently disposed to flirt; for she cast languorous glances at all the men, and made abundant use of her eyes, which had been handsome, but were so encircled with black that her eyebrows seemed to extend all the way round.
There were seven or eight men in the company; all of them seemed to be counts, or barons, or chevaliers, but not one of them, either in dress or bearing, gave any sign of wealth or rank. Monsieur le chevalier had a frock-coat, the sleeves of which were so short that they were far from reaching his wrists; and when he drew his handkerchief, he took great care to turn his back and conceal it from the company.
The count wore torn lace wristbands, and a ruff stained with liquor and tobacco. He seemed to take great satisfaction in displaying his hands, which were covered with huge rings with red and yellow stones; but the blackness of the hands themselves produced a curious effect beside the wristbands and the jewels.
The baron, who had his hair powdered, and seemed much embarrassed by his queue, which kept getting inside his collar, wore a new black coat and an old pair of nankeen trousers, over which dangled charms in the shape of fruit and shells.
The other men were dressed in the same style.
"Sacrebleu!" thought Dubourg, astounded by the aspect of all those noble personages; "if my landlady hadn't told me what she did about the Marquise de Versac, I should imagine that I was at an old-clothes dealer's, with a parcel of counts from Rue Vide-Gousset."
Meanwhile, the conversation did not flag. Everybody talked and laughed at once. They manifested the greatest consideration for Baron Potoski; the marchioness overwhelmed him with attentions, the old baroness invited him to visit her in the country, the viscountess smiled upon him, and Madame de Grandcourt flashed glances at him the meaning whereof was not at all equivocal, while the men applauded everything he said. Dubourg was flattered by these attentions, for the shrewdest and cleverest men generally allow themselves to be cajoled by anything that flatters their self-esteem.
Punch, liqueurs, and sweetmeats were served, and the whole company pounced upon them. The old baroness drank like a porter, the viscountess stuffed herself with cakes, and the languorous Grandcourt swallowed two glasses of punch in rapid succession, exclaiming that it was not strong enough.
Dubourg imitated his neighbors; he helped himself to punch, and complimented Madame de Versac on the liveliness of her company.
"Oh! we don't stand on ceremony," she replied; "what's the use of tedious formalities between people who are all as good as one another?"
"True, you are right; I like this sort of thing," said Dubourg, beginning already to feel the effects of the punch. "Etiquette is a burden that people of sense should leave at the door."
"Ah! Monsieur de Potoski, you talk like Barême!" said the old baroness, returning to the punch. "You are a palatine of the old stock."
"Not very old, madame."
"But the best, at all events," said Madame de Versac, resting her foot lightly on Dubourg's; whereupon he turned and tried to gaze tenderly at her, at the same time passing his hand behind the marchioness, who allowed him to take liberties without seeming to notice it, which Dubourg considered very patrician behavior.
"For my part, I like to talk nonsense," said the young viscountess, who was beginning to venture upon a sentence or two, now that she had eaten. "It makes me tired when[B] everyone's sober-faced."
[B] "Ousqu'on est serieux," instead of quand on, etc.
The viscountess's ousqu'on made Dubourg wince; Madame de Versac noticed it, and made haste to whisper to him:
"She's a German; she speaks with a strong accent."
"But aren't you going to give us something to do this evening, madame la marquise?" said the chevalier, pulling at his sleeves to lengthen them.
"That's so, my love," said the baroness; "why don't we play cards?"
"Ah! yes, let us do something," said Madame de Grandcourt, rolling her eyes seductively; "I must always be doing something."
"Perhaps Monsieur de Potoski does not play?" said the marchioness, turning to Dubourg.
"I beg your pardon, madame; I shall be very glad to play."
"In that case, I will start the tables. You are sure that you care to play, baron?"
"With great pleasure, madame," said Dubourg, overjoyed to have an excuse for removing his hand, which he was tired of holding behind Madame de Versac's back.
Several games of écarté were begun. The chevalier proposed a game of creps for the ladies; whereupon Dubourg said to himself:
"It seems that the ladies of the best society have tastes very different from their sisters of the bourgeoisie; perhaps madame la marquise is fond of biribi too."
Monsieur de Potoski found himself at an écarté table with the count, whose lace cuffs did not prevent his dealing the cards with rare skill. The game soon became animated. A tall, thin gentleman, who stood near Dubourg, bet rolls of twenty-five louis on his game, which he placed on the table without unrolling them, and which passed rapidly into the count's pockets, the tall man, whose threadbare costume might have led one to take him for an unfortunate petitioner for alms, seeming to pay no heed whatever to his loss.
"These men play a very noble game," said Dubourg to himself; and, not choosing to be outdone by the person who was betting on him, he doubled his stakes, and his money passed into the hands with the lace cuffs. But the punch circulated freely; to please Madame de Grandcourt, it had been made much stronger; the company began to get excited and the game became animated.
Madame de Versac seated herself beside Dubourg.
"I mean to bring Monsieur de Potoski good luck," she said, sitting close against him, and showing a row of teeth set like a wild boar's tusks.
"I trust that you will change the luck, madame!" observed Dubourg, who had already lost more than a thousand francs, which he was determined to win back. Madame la marquise made no other reply than to place her foot lovingly on his. With each game that Dubourg lost, she bore down a little heavier, and tried to make him forget his bad luck by saying sweet things to him; but Dubourg did not listen.
"I hope to see you often, Monsieur de Potoski."
"Yes, madame.—Ten louis more, this time."
"I am a bold player," said the count; "I'll take whatever you bet."
"Yes, of course, monsieur le comte will give you your revenge," said the marchioness, "if you lose to-night."
"If I lose!" muttered Dubourg; "I should say so! almost two thousand francs! What a breach in my cash-box!"
"You must come to my country house on the Rhône, my dear Potoski. I insist on your coming."
"Yes, madame la marquise; yes, most certainly.—The king is always in the other hand! it's the most extraordinary thing!"
"We will walk in my park."
"Beaten again!"
"We will enjoy the fresh, cool breezes in the evening."
"It's stifling here!"
"I should be glad to take back just what I have lost."
"Do you remain long in Lyon?"
"The devil take me if I know!"
And Dubourg, who had lost three thousand francs, and was tired of feeling madame la marquise's foot on his, rose abruptly and walked about the room.
Madame de Grandcourt was stretched out on a long chair in a corner. A short man with whiskers and moustache sat on a stool almost at her feet; he had passed one arm about his charmer's waist, and the hand of the other was screened from view by the folds of a faded satin gown.
The old baroness and the young viscountess were playing creps with the chevalier. The faces of the ladies were much flushed; the baroness had a glass of punch before her, and was gazing with glassy eyes at the dice, shrieking and disputing over a ten-sou piece which she would not admit that she had lost. The viscountess had recovered the use of her tongue by eating sweetmeats, and she indulged in frequent solecisms which must have opened Dubourg's eyes if he had been himself; but he was not; his losses had disturbed his mental balance, already shaken by the punch and liqueurs. He strode about the salon, looking without seeing, listening without hearing the marchioness's compliments, and passing his hand across his forehead as if to tranquillize his thoughts. He tried to go away, but returned again and again to the card-tables, saying to himself:
"I absolutely must win back my three thousand francs!"
He took a seat at the creps table and called to the count, who was talking in a corner with the man in the threadbare coat who staked rolls of louis which no one saw.
"Monsieur," said Dubourg, raising his voice, "I trust that you will not refuse to give me my revenge at this game, at which I may perhaps have better luck."
"With great pleasure," replied the count with the lace cuffs.
He hastened to the creps table, which the viscountess and baroness instantly quitted; indeed, they soon left the salon, as did Madame de Grandcourt; but Dubourg was too intent upon his game to observe the disappearance of the ladies.
All the men formed a circle about the creps table. Dubourg was allowed to choose whether he would punt or be banker. He chose the latter, and madame la marquise, seated close beside him, took pains always to pick up the dice and the box and hand them to him. Dubourg lost; he no longer knew what he was doing; he threw dice and dice-box on the floor. Someone proposed trente-et-un, and he accepted; that finished him; in less than half an hour, the rest of the contents of his cash-box vanished. He felt in all his pockets, in his fob—not a sou! he had lost everything, and the money was not his! He did not speak, but paced the floor for some moments, pale and haggard, biting his lips, clenching his fists, and uttering a fierce oath from time to time. The candles began to go out; the counts and chevaliers whispered together and seemed embarrassed; the marchioness withdrew to a corner of the salon, not deeming the moment favorable for treading on Monsieur de Potoski's foot.
At last, Dubourg, throwing off his depression, seemed to have determined upon his course. He went to get his hat, which he had placed under a chair, and left the room, slamming the door violently behind him; he passed through the anteroom, where four tall fellows, only one of whom was in livery, were busily drinking, opened the door into the hall, and started downstairs. Not until he was halfway down, and attempted to put on his hat, did he discover that he had a wretched tile, without band or lining, which someone had substituted for his fine hat with a plume.
"By heaven, this is too much!" he exclaimed, turning back; "not content with having filched my money, they propose to filch my hat too! Ah! my worthy counts and chevaliers, we'll see about that!"
Dubourg rang the bell violently; no one came. He rang again, and beat the door with his hands and feet, until at last it was opened.
"What do you want?" demanded the servant in livery.
"What do I want? I want my hat, which your chevalier of I-don't-know-what has taken instead of his own miserable tile."
"There's no hat of yours here."
"What's that, you blackguard! you dare to tell me that?"
"Hold your tongue, monsieur! don't make so much noise in the house; madame la marquise don't like it."
"Go to the devil with your madame la marquise, who lets people pinch her wantonly so as to fleece them! I insist on going in; I'll find a way to get back my hat."
"You cannot go in! Help, my friends! Here's a man who means to make trouble!"
The three others ran to his assistance. They seized Dubourg by the shoulders; he struggled and fought to no purpose, being the weaker party. They forced him down the stairs, yelling and calling them curs and thieves, as well as their employers. The four tall rascals made no reply, but pushed him into the street and shut the door in his face.
"Ah! the villains!" he cried, rearranging his clothes, which he had come near losing with all the rest in the struggle he had had. "Ah! the scoundrels! What a fine evening I have had, to be sure! Ouf! I've a good mind to stone the house and break the windows. But, no, I think I'll call—probably the watch will pass before long."
He stood in the street a moment, undecided as to what he should do. But it was very late, the street was deserted, and by remaining there he ran the risk of being arrested himself; he reflected that he was a stranger in the city, and that he had assumed a title which did not belong to him. All these reasons led him to decide to wait until morning before he sought to obtain justice at the hands of madame la marquise. Meanwhile, it behooved him to find the way back to his hotel.
But how could he show his face before Frédéric and Ménard, after losing all the money they had intrusted to him? He had nothing left, and they owed a considerable sum at their hotel.
Dubourg tore his hair and beat his breast as he strode through the streets of Lyon. At last he arrived at the hotel, and addressed himself in the following words:
"Whatever happens, I must end by making the best of it. Even if I should pass the night chastising myself in the street, it wouldn't bring back a sou to my purse. So I may as well go to bed; to-morrow, we'll see about getting out of the scrape."
VIII
BEHOLD HER!
Frédéric, when he returned to the hotel during the evening, found Ménard seated alone before the remains of a chicken with which the quondam tutor had passed a part of the time since Dubourg's departure. Surprised not to find the latter, the young count inquired of Ménard as to his whereabouts, and was told that monsieur le baron had gone to pass the evening with one of the leading families of the city, from whom he had received an invitation.
It seemed very strange to Frédéric that Dubourg should receive invitations at Lyon, where he knew nobody, and he feared that this "leading family" might be an invention of his friend. However, he was careful not to convey his suspicions to Ménard, but simply informed him that he proposed to resume his journey the next day.
"Monsieur le baron isn't in such a hurry as he was," said Ménard; "he is very well pleased with Lyon."
"Why, only this morning he urged me to leave the place!"
"This invitation seems to have changed his views."
"Monsieur le baron may do as he pleases, but we shall start to-morrow."
Ménard made no reply, but went to bed, considering that his pupil was taking great liberties with such a man as the palatine; and Frédéric did the same, although he was somewhat disturbed by Dubourg's absence.
Early the next morning, Ménard and the young count met in the room where they were accustomed to meet for breakfast. But Dubourg did not appear.
"Can it be that he stayed out all night?" asked Frédéric.
"I beg your pardon, monsieur," said one of the servants of the hotel; "monsieur le baron came in about three o'clock this morning; he seemed very tired, and he is still in bed."
"What folly to sit up all night when we were to start to-day! But where in the devil has he been?—Go and tell him that we are waiting for him."
After some time, the servant returned and announced that monsieur le baron was sick and could not rise.
"The rascal must have been drunk last night," thought Frédéric; and, followed by Ménard, who began by rubbing his nose and temples with vinegar to ward off contagion, he went to Dubourg's bedroom. They found him in bed; he had pulled his nightcap over his eyes and tied his handkerchief over it, and his face wore such a piteous expression, that one would have thought that he had been confined to his bed in agony for three months.
Ménard halted in the middle of the room and held a smelling-bottle to his nose, saying in an undertone to Frédéric.
"Mon Dieu! how he has changed!"
"What's the matter with you, in heaven's name, my poor Dubourg?" said Frédéric, taking the hand of the sick man, who had employed every known means to give himself an attack of fever.
"Alas! my dear friend, I feel very ill."
"How did it come on?"
"Ah! it was brought on by something that happened—a terrible adventure; the shock of it was the cause of my illness."
"You must see a doctor, first of all."
"I will go for one, and an apothecary too," said Ménard, who was anxious for an excuse to go out into the open air.
"No, no, my dear Monsieur Ménard," Dubourg interposed, in a faint voice; "I don't like doctors; we have plenty of time. Hippocrates himself said: Vita brevis, ars longa, experientia fallax."
"Very true, monsieur le baron; but the same Hippocrates says in another place——"
"Oh! for heaven's sake, drop Hippocrates!" cried Frédéric, fancying that he could read in Dubourg's eyes that he was not so ill as he chose to appear. "As you won't have a doctor, do at least tell us the cause of your illness, this terrible adventure——"
"Yes," said Ménard, taking pains to seat himself as far as possible from the bed, where he could get the air from the hall. "Let us know if it might become contagious."
Dubourg sat up in bed; he raised his eyes heaven-ward, uttered two or three plaintive groans, pulled his nightcap still further over his eyes, and began his tale in a most heartrending tone.
"The excellent Ménard has undoubtedly told you that I received yesterday an invitation to one of the first houses in the city. At all events, that is what our landlady assured me—otherwise——"
"Yes, he told me that—what next? explain yourself!" said Frédéric, impatient at Dubourg's roundabout way of reaching the facts.
"Gently! I am in no condition to go so fast, my dear Frédéric.—Well, I started out in a cab last night, after making a careful toilet."
"Yes; I noticed that you took one of my coats."
"You know perfectly well that I lost my wardrobe with my berlin."
"Well?"
"By some fatality, it happened that I put the purse containing the whole of our fortune in the pocket of your coat."
"Ah! this begins to look bad," whispered Frédéric, while Ménard, even more disturbed than he, began to draw his chair nearer.
"Well? go on."
"Well, monsieur le baron?"
"Well, my dear and noble friends, on leaving that brilliant society, where, to tell the truth, I stayed rather late, I found no carriage at the door. I was alone, in a street that I did not know. Suddenly four cutthroats leaped upon me. Alas! I had no weapons, but I defended myself like a lion. But all in vain! They beat me and threw me down, and the worst of it is that they robbed me of all the money I had about me."
"Great God! and you had our funds?" cried Ménard.
"I did."
"And your own fifteen thousand francs?"
"Everything—every sou, I tell you. There is nothing left, except what you two have about you. They took everything, even my superb hat, with its steel buckle worth sixty francs."
"What a catastrophe! what are we to do?" exclaimed Ménard, who was terribly distressed to think that, after living like lords, they were reduced to living by their wits.
Frédéric said nothing; he was suspicious of Dubourg's tale; and that worthy, perceiving his incredulity, tried to overcome it by crying every minute:
"What a fatality! to be attacked and robbed! Such things happen to nobody but me!"
"Indeed, monsieur le baron, you do seem to be unlucky," said Ménard, remembering the theft of the berlin.
"With whom did you pass the evening?" inquired Frédéric.
"With Madame la Marquise de Versac."
"With Madame de Versac! That's very extraordinary, for I saw her yesterday at her country house."
"You saw her! What do you mean? Do you know her?" cried Dubourg, in a voice that did not at all resemble an invalid's.
"Madame de Versac came to my father's house several times, when she was in Paris last year. In the summer, she lives at her country house. I saw her there yesterday, I tell you, and she reproved me gently for not coming there to stay with her; she certainly did not come back to the city."
"Great God! what do I hear? How old is this marchioness?"
"Not over twenty-eight; her town house is on Place Bellecour."
"Ten thousand cigars! that was a contraband marchioness! What an infernal fool, not to have discovered it!"
Dubourg jumped up and down in his bed, rolled himself up in the bedclothes, snatched off his nightcap and threw it on the floor, while Ménard cried:
"Monsieur le baron is mad; I am going to fetch an apothecary!"
The tutor left the room, and Frédéric was not sorry, for it gave him an opportunity to have an explanation with Dubourg; but for several minutes he absolutely refused to keep still; he was in a frenzy at the recollection of the soi-disant counts and chevaliers. He dressed in hot haste, swearing that he would find his baron with the watch-charms, his threadbare chevalier, and his blackleg with lace cuffs; that he would break the baroness's remaining teeth, beat the viscountess, and horsewhip madame la marquise.
At last, Frédéric succeeded in making himself heard.
"So you gambled last night, you wretch, did you? and that is where our funds have gone?"
"Ah! my friend, beat me, kill me! I know that I am a good-for-naught. But, really, you would have done the same in my place. When a person assumes a respectable name—— For my part, I went there in all confidence, hoping to make an advantageous match. I heard people all about me talking of nothing but 'my estates, my châteaux, my servants, my millions'—as I would say 'my cane' or 'my hat.' And then, they dazed me with attentions and liqueurs. Still, I ought to have noticed that there was a suspicious look to it all; but what can you expect? Unluckily, I am not accustomed to good society. I took the pressure of one woman's foot for patrician manners, and another woman's blunders in grammar for a German accent. We played cards,—I confess that I love cards,—and they stripped me of everything, even to my hat! But they haven't seen the end of it!"
"Where are you going?" said Frédéric, trying to detain his friend, who had taken his shocking old hat as if to go out.
"Let me go, let me go! I am going to hunt up my blacklegs, and perhaps—— Wait here for me."
Dubourg opened the door just as Ménard returned with an apothecary's clerk, who had a sedative potion in each hand.
Dubourg roughly pushed the tutor aside when he tried to stop him, and descended the stairs four at a time, while the tutor collided with the apothecary, who fell to the floor with his potions.
"We must send somebody after him," said Ménard, thinking that Dubourg was in a high fever. Frédéric had some difficulty in inducing him to dismiss the apothecary, by assuring him that the baron was very much better.
Dubourg betook himself to the residence of his false marchioness, whose address he had retained. He was obliged to go on foot, and he no longer assumed the air of a great noble. The eyeglass would have accorded but ill with the wretched tile, which was not half large enough for him. But at that time he was thinking exclusively of his money, not at all of his costume. When he reached the house he had visited the night before, which he readily recognized from having scrutinized it carefully in the night, he entered the hall, the door of which was open, went upstairs, and looked and listened, but neither saw anybody nor heard a sound. He rang at the door of the apartment from which he had been ejected so roughly, but no one answered the bell. He rang again and again, with increasing violence, until the bell-pull came off in his hand, but the door remained closed.
"Open, you rascals, you blacklegs! or I'll go for a magistrate," cried Dubourg, putting his mouth to the keyhole. Finally an old woman appeared on the landing above and asked him why he was making such an uproar.
"I want to speak with the people who live here on the first floor," he replied.
"There's no one living there now, monsieur; it was let furnished to a woman who went away this morning before daybreak."
Dubourg was petrified. He realized that he could not hope to recover his money. He returned slowly and dejectedly to the hotel, and joined Frédéric and Ménard with an expression of utter dismay.
"Well, what about the robbers?" inquired Frédéric.
"Ah! my friend, they have fled."
"I was sure of it."
"But you have entered a complaint with the magistrate, surely, monsieur le baron?"
"I have done all that there was to do, Monsieur Ménard; but I fancy that we may say good-bye to our money."
"In that case, what are we going to do?"
"That is what we must consider.—How much money have you, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Not more than two louis."
"And you, Frédéric?"
"I have about ten."
"That isn't enough to pay our landlord, for we must owe him at least three hundred francs."
"What! hasn't he been paid?"
"Who ever heard of making people of our sort pay in advance?"
"But think how extravagant we have been!"
"We had to live; and what difference does it make whether we owe one hundred francs or three hundred, as we can't pay?"
"However, we cannot leave this hotel without settling our account, and we cannot continue our journey without money."
"That would be rather difficult, to be sure," said Ménard.
"I see but one way to get any," said Dubourg, "and that is to apply to Monsieur le Comte de Montreville. He certainly won't leave his son in straits."
"Ask monsieur le comte for money, when it isn't three weeks since we left Paris! What will he think?" murmured Ménard, with a sigh.—"What if monsieur le baron should write to his steward at Rava or Krapach?"
"Why, I would write in a moment, but it's so far!—It would take at least two months to get an answer, because at this time of year the mails are greatly delayed by avalanches."
"What, monsieur le baron, in summer?"
"Summer is the season when the snow melts. Pardieu! if it was winter, they could make half the distance on snow-shoes. We couldn't wait all that time in this inn; we must have money at once."
"My dear Ménard," said Frédéric, "you really must apply to my father."
"Well, I will write him what has happened to monsieur le baron——"
"No, no; you are the one he gave the money to, and you are the one who was robbed; it's useless to mention me. Just imagine that you were the one who was robbed last night."
"Come, my dear Ménard, write my father a most pathetic letter."
"The deuce! that's a very hard task."
"I'll dictate to you, if you choose," said Dubourg.
"You will oblige me very much, monsieur le baron."
So Ménard took the pen, and Dubourg dictated the following letter:
"MONSIEUR LE COMTE:
"I have the honor to inform you of our safe arrival at Lyon, where I was attacked at night, as I was returning to our hotel, and robbed of all that we possessed; which places us in a very embarrassing position, from which we beg you to extricate us as soon as possible. Monsieur your son is as well as Esculapius himself; the journey seems to have done him a vast amount of good. He bids me offer you his most respectful homage."
Ménard signed this letter, to which Dubourg desired Frédéric to add a few affectionate words. But Frédéric had never lied to his father, and he preferred to write nothing rather than to try to deceive him.
The letter was mailed, and they had no choice but to await the reply. Luckily, their landlord did not seem at all disturbed. Moreover, Frédéric had a chaise and horses, which, at need, would bring more than enough to pay their bill; that fact set his mind at rest, but he none the less urged his companions to spend less on the table. Dubourg, however, did not agree with him; he thought that such a course might arouse suspicions of their plight, and Ménard was once more of monsieur le baron's opinion.
Frédéric resumed his wanderings; but Dubourg abandoned his street promenades with Ménard; after parading his fashionable costume and playing the wealthy palatine on the public thoroughfares of Lyon, he did not care to show himself in a shabby hat and with a long face; he was convinced that people would divine that he was penniless: there are so many men who owe their self-confidence and their assurance entirely to the money they have in their pockets, which alone gives them aplomb in society.
Dubourg passed his days talking philosophy with Ménard, who was no philosopher, but listened attentively to the baron, whom he considered a man of profound learning, though he was no longer so overjoyed to have him for a travelling companion, because, when he recalled their adventures, from the time that the palatine had overturned them into a ditch, it seemed to him that Monsieur de Potoski carried about with him a monumental ill luck, of which they had already felt the effects.
After ten days, they received a reply from the count; it was addressed to Monsieur Ménard, but it was Frédéric who, with a trembling hand, broke the seal.
"See what there is enclosed, first," said Dubourg.
They found a draft on a Lyon banker for six thousand francs.
"Good! here's something to help us endure papa's reproaches," said Dubourg; "now let's read his letter."
Monsieur de Montreville wrote to Ménard these few words only:
"I place no sort of credence in your fable of robbers, but I am very glad to forgive my son's first escapade; I trust, however, that it will make him more prudent. I send you some money, but do not rely upon the like indulgence again."
"He didn't believe us," said Frédéric.
"I am very much afraid that he is angry," said Ménard.
"Oh! don't be alarmed; he'll cool down. Hereafter, we will travel like three little pasteboard Cupids; we will be virtuous, orderly; in short, true philosophers—which need not interfere with our living well, because that is necessary for our health; eh, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Credo equidem, monsieur le baron."
"But no more pomp and parade; I resume my incognito."
"What, monsieur le baron!"
"Yes, Monsieur Ménard; at all events, with six thousand francs we couldn't play the grandee very long—I mean, live up to our rank."
"But, monsieur le baron, when you have received answers from Rava and Krapach?"
"Oh! then it will be different; but I fear we shall not have them for a long time. As to the funds, I think that we had better let Frédéric take charge of them. He is calm and cool, and that is what we need in a cashier."
"It's a great pity," muttered Ménard; "we lived so handsomely when monsieur le baron paid the bills!"
All their plans being made, they paid their hotel bill; it amounted to eight hundred and fifty francs for the three weeks they had passed there, so that the count's remittance was seriously impaired at the outset; but meanwhile they had been lodged and fed like lords. Dubourg's only sentiment was regret at their inability to continue the same mode of life; Ménard sighed as he thought of the delicious repasts they had enjoyed; and Frédéric observed to Dubourg, in an undertone:
"My friend, if we had continued to go so fast, we shouldn't have gone very far."
Monsieur le comte's horses were sold, and they arranged with a stable-keeper to journey from Lyon.
"These two halts have cost you dear, monsieur le baron," said Ménard; "a berlin and fifty thousand francs the first time, and fifteen thousand the second! A man could not travel long at that price!"
"My mind is at rest now, Monsieur Ménard; I defy anyone to rob me. Socrates found his house large enough to receive his friends, and I shall find my purse full enough so long as Frédéric pays for me."
Ménard had no reply to make to that; the comparison did not seem to him a happy one.
Instead of taking the road to Turin, Frédéric gave orders to drive toward Grenoble; he desired to visit that city and its suburbs, especially the Carthusian monastery, whose wild aspect astounds and almost terrifies the traveller. Dubourg was in no hurry to reach Italy; it mattered little to him in which direction they went. Moreover, since his last misadventure, he did not presume to offer his advice. As for Ménard, he was always ready to yield to Frédéric's wishes, but the name of the Carthusian monastery made him shudder; he was afraid that his former pupil would want to take up his quarters in some hermitage, and he felt no sort of inclination for a frugal life.
As they drew near the banks of the Isère, the country became more picturesque, more mountainous, and more impressive. The fields were interspersed with thickets; the brooks, after trickling across a plain, plunged in foamy cascades over steep cliffs. How different the scene from the noisy suburbs of Paris and the lovely landscapes of the Rhône valley! The picture was more serious, more majestic perhaps, disposing the mind to pleasant reverie, and wafting one's thoughts far from the turmoil of great cities.
"What a beautiful country this is!" said Frédéric; "I find here an indefinable charm which fascinates my heart as well as my eyes. How pleasant it is to drive along these shady roads!"
"And dream of Madame Dernange, I suppose?"
"Oh! no, Dubourg; she has been out of my thoughts for a long while, I assure you, as have all the rest of the coquettes I knew in Paris."
"Well, what do you dream about, then, in your long, solitary walks?"
"Alas! I don't know; I dream of a being I have never seen, a woman who is lovely, sweet-tempered, loving, and, above all, faithful!"
"And you look for her on the banks of a brook?"
"I don't look for her; I am waiting for chance to bring us together."
"If chance should wait for thirty years or so, you would both be a trifle mature."
"Oh! Dubourg, how irritating you are! you have no idea of love!"
"Love, my friend, is a doll that everyone dresses according to his own fancy;—isn't that so, Monsieur Ménard?"
"I cannot answer from experience, monsieur le baron."
In due time they arrived at Grenoble, where they dismissed their driver. Their arrangements there were not the same as at Lyon; but although the hotel was less palatial, they had an excellent table; poultry was abundant, and the wine very good. Monsieur Ménard and Dubourg made the best of it.
On the day following their arrival, Frédéric and his companions started off to visit the Carthusian monastery. Dubourg, having ceased to play the grand seigneur, was quite as willing to accompany his friend as to remain with Ménard, and the latter decided to go along, although he was a poor walker, and Frédéric, the better to enjoy the country, proposed to go on foot.
The monastery, which they reached after half a day's walk, first appears to the visitor surrounded by mountains covered with firs, by fertile valleys and rich pasture lands. Approaching by Fourvoyerie, you follow a road hewn out of the solid rock, with a rushing mountain stream on the left, and a perpendicular cliff sixty feet high on the right. One inevitably feels an unfamiliar sensation, a blending of wonder and alarm, at sight of that wild landscape.
They stopped to examine the peak called L'Aiguille, which towers above the gate of the Grande Chartreuse. Frédéric was lost in admiration, Dubourg looked calmly at the rock, and Ménard sighed; but the hospitable welcome they received at the Chartreuse revived the poor tutor's spirits; while he agreed that there were many superb views in that region, he felt that he preferred his little fourth-floor room on Rue Bétisy to the most picturesque cell in the monastery, where, moreover, fast-days were very numerous. It is not given to everybody to appreciate the beauties of nature; and it was with extreme delight that Ménard started to return to Grenoble, although Frédéric proposed that they should sleep at the Chartreuse to avoid overtiring themselves. Ménard declared that he was not tired, and that the walk of five leagues had no terrors for him; so they set out, after dinner.
The sun was just setting and our travellers were still four leagues from Grenoble, because Frédéric paused every instant to call his friends' attention to a valley, a windmill, or a lovely view. Every time that Frédéric stopped, Ménard sat down on the turf, and they had much difficulty in inducing him to rise again. The worthy man was not a great walker, but he summoned all his courage and took the liberty of clinging to the arm of monsieur le baron, who was the most good-natured fellow in the world when he was not putting on the airs of a palatine.
Frédéric's attention was attracted by strains of rustic music.
"Come," he said, "let us go down in this direction; I see some villagers dancing below; let us enjoy the picture of their merrymaking."
"Come on," said Dubourg; "there are probably some pretty girls among the dancers."
"Let us go," said Ménard; "we shall have a chance to rest and refresh ourselves."
They descended a hill into a valley bordered by oaks and firs, where there were assembled the people of a small village which could be seen farther up the valley. It was the local saint's day, and the peasants were celebrating it by dancing. The orchestra consisted of a bagpipe and tambourine, but that was quite enough for their purpose. Happiness shone on every face; the girls wore their best gowns, and the coquettish costume of the village maidens of that province makes them most attractive, as a general rule. The older people were seated a little apart, chatting together and drinking, while their children danced.
Ménard seated himself at a table, and called for refreshments. Dubourg prowled about the dancers, making sweet speeches to the prettiest peasants; while Frédéric, after watching the picture for some time, walked away from the dance, along the bank of a stream which wound in and out among the willows on the edge of a dense forest.
He had walked so far that the notes of the bagpipe hardly reached his ears, and was about to return to his companions, when, on turning his head, he espied, within a few paces, a young girl seated on the bank, looking toward the valley with a bewitchingly sweet expression, and smiling at the dance, which she could see in the distance; but there was in her smile a tinge of melancholy which seemed to be a natural part of it. She was apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age. Her garments indicated poverty, but her charms made one overlook them. Beautiful fair hair played in curls about her innocent brow, her features were refined and delicate, her mouth graceful and smiling, and her soft blue eyes wore a pathetic expression of gentle melancholy which harmonized with the pallor of her complexion.
Frédéric stopped and gazed at the young woman; he could not tire of contemplating her. Why was she there, alone by the brook, while her companions were making merry and dancing? Why that melancholy expression? It was only a moment since Frédéric's eyes had fallen upon her, and his interest was already awakened; he longed to know all about her; it seemed to him that his heart already shared her sorrows.
At that moment, several couples passed along the path on their way to the dance. Frédéric accosted a peasant woman, and said, pointing to the girl sitting by the brook:
"Pray, who is that pretty child, and why doesn't she join in your sports?"
The villagers stopped and replied, with a compassionate glance at the girl:
"Oh! monsieur, the poor dear don't dance! That's Sister Anne."