In the Days of My Youth: A Novel

by Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards

  CHAPTER II.

  THE LITTLE CHEVALIER.

  A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler.

  _Comedy of Errors_.

  Nay, then, he is a conjuror.

  _Henry VI_.

  My adventure with Miss Lascelles did me good service, and cured me forsome time, at least, of my leaning towards the tender passion. Iconsequently devoted myself more closely than ever to mystudies--indulged in a passing mania for genealogy and heraldry--began acollection of local geological specimens, all of which I threw away atthe end of the first fortnight--and took to rearing rabbits in an oldtumble-down summer-house at the end of the garden. I believe that fromsomewhere about this time I may also date the commencement of a greatepic poem in blank verse, and Heaven knows how many cantos, which was tobe called the Columbiad. It began, I remember, with a description of theCourt of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the departure of Columbus, and wasintended to celebrate the discovery, colonization, and subsequenthistory of America. I never got beyond ten or a dozen pages of the firstcanto, however, and that Transatlantic epic remains unfinished tothis day.

  The great event which I have recorded in the preceding chapter tookplace in the early summer. It must, therefore, have been towards theclose of autumn in the same year when my next important adventurebefell. This time the temptation assumed a different shape.

  Coming briskly homewards one fine frosty morning after having left anote at the Vicarage, I saw a bill-sticker at work upon a line of deadwall which at that time reached from the Red Lion Inn to the corner ofPitcairn's Lane. His posters were printed in enormous type, anddecorated with a florid bordering in which the signs of the zodiacconspicuously figured Being somewhat idly disposed, I followed theexample of other passers-by, and lingered to watch the process and readthe advertisement. It ran as follows:----

  MAGIC AND MYSTERY! MAGIC AND MYSTERY!

  * * * * *

  M. LE CHEVALIER ARMAND PROUDHINE, (of Paris) surnamed

  THE WIZARD OF THE CAUCASUS,

  Has the honor to announce to the Nobility and Gentry of Saxonholme andits vicinity, that he will, to-morrow evening (October--, 18--),hold his First

  SOIREE FANTASTIQUE

  IN

  THE LARGE ROOM OF THE RED LION HOTEL.

  * * * * *

  ADMISSION 1s. RESERVED SEATS 2s. 6d.

  _To commence at Seven_.

  N.B.--_The performance will include a variety of new and surprisingfeats of Legerdemain never before exhibited_.

  _A soiree fantastique_! what would I not give to be present at a _soireefantastique_! I had read of the Rosicrucians, of Count Cagliostro, andof Doctor Dee. I had peeped into more than one curious treatise onDemonology, and I fancied there could be nothing in the world half somarvellous as that last surviving branch of the Black Art entitled theScience of Legerdemain.

  What if, for this once, I were to ask leave to be present at theperformance? Should I do so with even the remotest chance of success? Itwas easier to propound this momentous question than to answer it. Myfather, as I have already said, disapproved of public entertainments,and his prejudices were tolerably inveterate. But then, what could bemore genteel than the programme, or more select than the prices? Howdifferent was an entertainment given in the large room of the Red LionHotel to a three-penny wax-work, or a strolling circus on Barnard'sGreen! I had made one of the audience in that very room over and overagain when the Vicar read his celebrated "Discourses to Youth," or Dr.Dunks came down from Grinstead to deliver an explosive lecture onchemistry; and I had always seen the reserved seats filled by the bestfamilies in the neighborhood. Fully persuaded of the force of my ownarguments, I made up my mind to prefer this tremendous request on thefirst favorable opportunity, and so hurried home, with my head full ofquite other thoughts than usual.

  My father was sitting at the table with a mountain of books and papersbefore him. He looked up sharply as I entered, jerked his chair round soas to get the light at his back, put on his spectacles, andejaculated:--

  "Well, sir!"

  This was a bad sign, and one with which I was only too familiar. Naturehad intended my father for a barrister. He was an adept in all the artsof intimidation, and would have conducted a cross-examination toperfection. As it was, he indulged in a good deal of amateur practice,and from the moment when he turned his back to the light and donned theinexorable spectacles, there was not a soul in the house, from myselfdown to the errand-boy, who was not perfectly aware of somethingunpleasant to follow.

  "Well, sir!" he repeated, rapping impatiently upon the table with hisknuckles.

  Having nothing to reply to this greeting, I looked out of the window andremained silent; whereby, unfortunately. I irritated him still more.

  "Confound you, sir!" he exclaimed, "have you nothing to say?"

  "Nothing," I replied, doggedly.

  "Stand there!" he said, pointing to a particular square in the patternof the carpet. "Stand there!"

  I obeyed.

  "And now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to explain what you havebeen about this morning; and why it should have taken you justthirty-seven minutes by the clock to accomplish a journey which atortoise--yes, sir, a tortoise,--might have done in less than ten?"

  I gravely compared my watch with the clock before replying.

  "Upon my word, sir," I said, "your tortoise would have the advantage ofme."

  "The advantage of you! What do you mean by the advantage of you, youaffected puppy?"

  "I had no idea," said I, provokingly, "that you were in unusual hastethis morning."

  "Haste!" shouted my father. "I never said I was in haste. I never chooseto be in haste. I hate haste!"

  "Then why..."

  "Because you have been wasting your time and mine, sir," interrupted he."Because I will not permit you to go idling and vagabondizing aboutthe village."

  My _sang froid_ was gone directly.

  "Idling and vagabondizing!" I repeated angrily. "I have done nothing ofthe kind. I defy you to prove it. When have you known me forget that Iam a gentleman?"

  "Humph!" growled my father, mollified but sarcastic; "a prettygentleman--a gentleman of sixteen!"

  "It is true,"' I continued, without heeding the interruption, "that Ilingered for a moment to read a placard by the way; but if you will takethe trouble, sir, to inquire at the Rectory, you will find that I waiteda quarter of an hour before I could send up your letter."

  My father grinned and rubbed his hands. If there was one thing in theworld that aggravated him more than another, it was to find his fireopposed to ice. Let him, however, succeed in igniting his adversary, andhe was in a good humor directly.

  "Come, come, Basil," said he, taking off his spectacles, "I never saidyou were not a good lad. Go to your books, boy--go to your books; andthis evening I will examine you in vegetable physiology."

  Silently, but not sullenly, I drew a chair to the table, and resumed mywork. We were both satisfied, because each in his heart consideredhimself the victor. My father was amused at having irritated me, whereasI was content because he had, in some sort, withdrawn the expressionsthat annoyed me. Hence we both became good-tempered, and, according toour own tacit fashion, continued during the rest of that morning to berather more than usually sociable.

  Hours passed thus--hours of quiet study, during which the quicktravelling of a pen or the occasional turning of a page alone disturbedthe silence. The warm sunlight which shone in so greenly through thevine leaves, stole, inch by inch, round the broken vases in the gardenbeyond, and touched their brown mosses with a golden bloom. The patientshadow on the antique sundial wound its way imperceptibly from left toright, and long slanting threads of light and shadow pierced in timebetween the branches of the poplars. Our mornings were long, for we roseearly and dined late; and while my father paid professional visits, Idevoted my hours to study. It rarely happened that he could thus spend awhole day amon
g his books. Just as the clock struck four, however, therecame a ring at the bell.

  My father settled himself obstinately in his chair.

  "If that's a gratis patient," said he, between his teeth, "I'll notstir. From eight to ten are their hours, confound them!"

  "If you please, sir," said Mary, peeping in, "if you please, sir, it's agentleman."

  "A stranger?" asked my father.

  Mary nodded, put her hand to her mouth, and burst into an irrepressiblegiggle.

  "If you please, sir," she began--but could get no farther.

  My father was in a towering passion directly.

  "Is the girl mad?" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this buffoonery?"

  "Oh, sir--if you please, sir," ejaculated Mary, struggling with terrorand laughter together, "it's the gentleman, sir. He--he says, if youplease, sir, that his name is Almond Pudding!"

  "Your pardon, Mademoiselle," said a plaintive voice. "ArmandProudhine--le Chevalier Armand Proudhine, at your service."

  Mary disappeared with her apron to her mouth, and subsided into distantpeals of laughter, leaving the Chevalier standing in the doorway.

  He was a very little man, with a pinched and melancholy countenance, andan eye as wistful as a dog's. His threadbare clothes, made in thefashion of a dozen years before, had been decently mended in manyplaces. A paste pin in a faded cravat, and a jaunty cane with apinchbeck top, betrayed that he was still somewhat of a beau. His scantgray hair was tied behind with a piece of black ribbon, and he carriedhis hat under his arm, after the fashion of Elliston and the PrinceRegent, as one sees them in the colored prints of fifty years ago.

  He advanced a step, bowed, and laid his card upon the table.

  "I believe," he said in his plaintive voice, and imperfect English,"that I have the honor to introduce myself to Monsieur Arbuthnot."

  "If you want me, sir," said my father, gruffly, "I am Doctor Arbuthnot."

  "And I, Monsieur," said the little Frenchman, laying his hand upon hisheart, and bowing again--"I am the Wizard of the Caucasus."

  "The what?" exclaimed my father.

  "The Wizard of the Caucasus," replied our visitor, impressively.

  There was an awkward pause, during which my father looked at me andtouched his forehead significantly with his forefinger; while theChevalier, embarrassed between his natural timidity and his desire toappear of importance, glanced from one face to the other, and waited fora reply. I hastened to disentangle the situation.

  "I think I can explain this gentleman's meaning," I said. "Monsieur leChevalier will perform to-morrow evening in the large room of the RedLion Hotel. He is a professor of legerdemain."

  "Of the marvellous art of legerdemain, Monsieur Arbuthnot," interruptedthe Chevalier eagerly. "Prestidigitateur to the Court of Sachsenhausen,and successor to Al Hakim, the wise. It is I, Monsieur, that have inventthe famous _tour du pistolet;_ it is I, that have originate the greatand surprising deception of the bottle; it is I whom the world doessurname the Wizard of the Caucasus. _Me voici!_"

  Carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the Chevalier fell intoan attitude at the conclusion of his little speech; but rememberingwhere he was, blushed, and bowed again.

  "Pshaw," said my father impatiently, "the man's a conjuror."

  The little Frenchman did not hear him. He was at that moment untying apacket which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared toconsist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards. Selecting acouple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor andcame a few steps nearer to the table.

  "Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur _son fils_, atmy Soiree Fantastique, _n'est-ce pas?_" he asked, timidly.

  "Sir," said my father shortly, "I never encourage peripateticmendicity."

  The little Frenchman looked puzzled.

  "_Comment_?" said he, and glanced to me for an explanation.

  "I am very sorry, Monsieur," I interposed hastily; "but my fatherobjects to public entertainments."

  "_Ah, mon Dieu!_ but not to this," cried the Chevalier, raising hishands and eyes in deprecating astonishment. "Not to my SoireeFantastique! The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral. He isgraceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he ispatronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable _Cure_,Monsieur le Docteur Brand."

  "Oh, father," I exclaimed, "Dr. Brand has taken tickets!"

  "And pray, sir, what's that to me?" growled my father, without lookingup from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. "Let Dr. Brand makea fool of himself, if he pleases. I'm not bound to do the same."

  The Chevalier blushed crimson--not with humility this time, but withpride. He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, andsaying stiffly--"_Monsieur, je vous demande pardon._"--moved towardsthe door.

  On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of fadeddignity:--"Young gentleman," he said, "_you_ I thank for yourpoliteness."

  He seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenlylivid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support againstthe wall.

  My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather thanled him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessaryrestoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the colorcame back to his lips, and he sighed heavily.

  "An attack of the nerves," he said, shaking his head feebly. "An attackof the nerves, Messieurs."

  My father looked doubtful.

  "Are you often taken in this way?" he asked, with unusual gentleness.

  "_Mais oui_, Monsieur," admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly. "He doesoften arrive to me. Not--not that he is dangerous. Ah, bah! _Pasdu tout_!"

  "Humph!" ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before. "Let me feelyour pulse."

  The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of theoperator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me.

  "Do you sleep well?" asked my father, holding the fragile little wristbetween his finger and thumb.

  "Passably, Monsieur."

  "Dream much?"

  "Ye--es, I dream."

  "Are you subject to giddiness?"

  The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy.

  "_C'est vrai_" he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, "_J'ai desvertiges_."

  My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription.

  "There, sir," said he, "get that preparation made up, and when you nextfeel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. I should recommend youto keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find furtherdirections on the other side."

  The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; butwas obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair.

  "Monsieur," said he, with another of his profound bows, "I thank youinfinitely. You make me too much attention; but I am grateful. And,Monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--shethanks you also. _Elle m'aime, Monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvrepetite_! What shall she do if I die?"

  Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anythingtheatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wetwith tears, which he made no effort to conceal.

  My father shuffled restlessly in his chair.

  "No obligation--no obligation at all," he muttered, with a touch ofimpatience in his voice. "And now, what about those tickets? I suppose,Basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?"

  "That I am, sir," said I, joyfully. "I should like it above all things!"

  The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cardsupon my father's desk.

  "If," said he, timidly, "if Monsieur will make me the honor toaccept...."

  "Not for the world, sir--not for the world!" interposed my father. "Theboy shan't go, unless I pay for the tickets."

  "But, Monsieur...."

  "Nothing of the kind, sir. I cannot hear of it. What
are the prices ofthe seats?"

  Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him.

  "The reserved seats," I whispered, "are half-a-crown each."

  "Then I will take eight reserved," said my father, opening a drawer inhis desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign.

  The little Frenchman started. He could hardly believe in suchmunificence.

  "When? How much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs.

  "Eight," growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile.

  "Eight? _mon Dieu_, Monsieur, how you are generous! I shall keep for youall the first row."

  "Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind," said my father, verydecisively. "It would displease me extremely."

  The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged themin a row beside my father's desk.

  "Count them, Monsieur, if you please," said he, his eyes wanderinginvoluntarily towards the sovereign.

  My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money.

  The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvasbag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recessesof his pocket.

  "Monsieur," said he, "my thanks are in my heart. I will not fatigue youwith them. Good-morning."

  He bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at thethreshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him.

  My father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn ofsatisfaction.

  "I am so much obliged to you, sir," I said, eagerly.

  "What for?"

  "For having bought those tickets. It was very kind of you."

  "Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged backagain into his books and papers.

  Once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leafand scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still,within and without.

  "I beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little Chevalier.

  I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. He looked morewistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers.

  My father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. I fear itwas not very complimentary to the Chevalier.

  "One word, Monsieur," pleaded the little man, edging himself round thedoor, "one small word!"

  "Say it, sir, and have done with it," said my father, savagely.

  The Chevalier hesitated.

  "I--I--Monsieur le Docteur--that is, I wish...."

  "Confound it, sir, what do you wish?"

  The Chevalier brushed away a tear.

  "_Dites-moi,"_ he said with suppressed agitation. "One word--yes orno--is he dangerous?"

  My father's countenance softened.

  "My good friend," he said, gently, "we are none of us safe for even aday, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely arelative position. I have known men in a state more precarious thanyours who lived to a long old age, and I see no reason to doubt thatwith good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair achance as another."

  The little Frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude,whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out ofthe room.

  When he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at my head, and said,with more brevity than politeness:--

  "Boy, bolt the door."