CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE VICOMTE DE CAYLUS.
It was after receiving the last of these letters that I hazarded a thirdvisit to Madame de Courcelles. This time, I ventured to present myselfat her door about midday, and was at once ushered upstairs into adrawing-room looking out on the Rue Castellane.
Seeing her open work-table, with the empty chair and footstool besideit, I thought at the first glance that I was alone in the room, when amuttered "Sacr-r-r-re! Down, Bijou!" made me aware of a gentlemanextended at full length upon a sofa near the fireplace, and of avicious-looking Spitz crouched beneath it.
The gentleman lifted his head from the sofa-cusion; stared at me; bowedcarelessly; got upon his feet; and seizing the poker, lunged savagely atthe fire, as if he had a spite against it, and would have put it out,if he could. This done, he yawned aloud, flung himself into the nearesteasy-chair, and rang the bell.
"More coals, Henri," he said, imperiously; "and--stop! a bottle ofSeltzer-water."
The servant hesitated.
"I don't think, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said, "that Madame has anySeltzer-water in the house; but ..."
"Confound you!--you never have anything in the house at the moment onewants it," interrupted the gentleman, irritably.
"I can send for some, if Monsieur le Vicomte desires it."
"Send for it, then; and remember, when I next ask for it, let there besome at hand."
"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"And--Henri!"
"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"Bid them be quick. I hate to be kept waiting!"
The servant murmured his usual "Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte," anddisappeared; but with a look of such subdued dislike and impatience inhis face, as would scarcely have flattered Monsieur le Vicomte had hechanced to surprise it.
In the meantime the dog had never ceased growling; whilst I, in defaultof something better to do, turned over the leaves of an album, and tookadvantage of a neighboring mirror to scrutinize the outward appearanceof this authoritative occupant of Madame de Courcelles' drawing-room.
He was a small, pallid, slender man of about thirty-five or seven yearsof age, with delicate, effeminate features, and hair thickly sprinkledwith gray. His fingers, white and taper as a woman's, were covered withrings. His dress was careless, but that of a gentleman. Glancing at himeven thus furtively, I could not help observing the worn lines about histemples, the mingled languor and irritability of his every gesture; therestless suspicion of his eye; the hard curves about his handsome mouth.
"_Mille tonnerres_!" said he, between his teeth "come out, Bijou--comeout, I say!"
The dog came out unwillingly, and changed the growl to a little whineof apprehension. His master immediately dealt him a smart kick that senthim crouching to the farther corner of the room, where he hid himselfunder a chair.
"I'll teach you to make that noise," muttered he, as he drew his chaircloser to the fire, and bent over it, shiveringly. "A yelping brute,that would be all the better for hanging."
Having sat thus for a few moments, he seemed to grow restless again,and, pushing back his chair, rose, looked out of the window, took a turnor two across the room, and paused at length to take a book from one ofthe side-tables. As he did this, our eyes met in the looking-glass;whereupon he turned hastily back to the window, and stood therewhistling till it occurred to him to ring the bell again.
"Monsieur rang?" said the footman, once more making his appearance atthe door.
"_Mort de ma vie_! yes. The Seltzer-water."
"I have sent for it, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"And it is not yet come?"
"Not yet, Monsieur le Vicomte."
He muttered something to himself, and dropped back into the chair beforethe fire.
"Does Madame de Courcelles know that I am here?" he asked, as theservant, after lingering a moment, was about to leave the room.
"I delivered Monsieur le Vicomte's message, and brought back Madame'sreply," said the man, "half an hour ago."
"True--I had forgotten it. You may go."
The footman closed the door noiselessly, and had no sooner done so thanhe was recalled by another impatient peal.
"Here, Henri--have you told Madame de Courcelles that this gentleman isalso waiting to see her?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"_Eh bien_?"
"And Madame said she should be down in a few moments."
"_Sacredie_! go back, then, and inquire if...."
"Madame is here."
As the footman moved back respectfully, Madame de Courcelles came intothe room. She was looking perhaps somewhat paler, but, to my thinking,more charming than ever. Her dark hair was gathered closely round herhead in massive braids, displaying to their utmost advantage all thedelicate curves of her throat and chin; while her rich morning dress,made of some dark material, and fastened at the throat by a round broochof dead gold, fell in loose and ample folds, like the drapery of a Romanmatron. Coming at once to meet me, she extended a cordial hand,and said:--
"I had begun to despair of ever seeing you again. Why have you alwayscome when I was out?"
"Madame," I said, bending low over the slender fingers, that seemed tolinger kindly in my own, "I have been undeservedly unfortunate."
"Remember for the future," she said, "that I am always at home tillmidday, and after five."
Then, turning to her other visitor, she said:--
"_Mon cousin_, allow me to present my friend. MonsieurArbuthnot--Monsieur le Vicomte Adrien de Caylus."
I had suspected as much already. Who but he would have dared to assumethese airs of insolence? Who but her suitor and my friend's rival? I haddisliked him at first sight, and now I detested him. Whether it was thatmy aversion showed itself in my face, or that Madame de Courcelles'scordial welcome of myself annoyed him, I know not; but his bow was evencooler than my own.
"I have been waiting to see you, Helene," said he, looking at his watch,"for nearly three-quarters of an hour."
"I sent you word, _mon cousin_, that I was finishing a letter for theforeign post," said Madame de Courcelles, coldly, "and that I could notcome sooner."
Monsieur de Caylus bit his lip and cast an impatient glance in mydirection.
"Can you spare me a few moments alone, Helene?" he said.
"Alone, _mon cousin_?"
"Yes, upon a matter of business."
Madame de Courcelles sighed.
"If Monsieur Arbuthnot will be so indulgent as to excuse me for fiveminutes," she replied. "This way, _mon cousin_."
So saying, she lifted a dark green curtain, beneath which they passed toa farther room out of sight and hearing.
They remained a long time away. So long, that I grew weary of waiting,and, having turned over all the illustrated books upon the table, andexamined every painting on the walls, turned to the window, as theidler's last resource, and watched the passers-by.
What endless entertainment in the life-tide of a Paris street, eventhough but a branch from one of the greater arteries! What color--whatcharacter--what animation--what variety! Every third or fourth man is ablue-bloused artisan; every tenth, a soldier in a showy uniform. Thencomes the grisette in her white cap; and the lemonade-vender with hisfantastic pagoda, slung like a peep-show across his shoulders; and thepeasant woman from Normandy, with her high-crowned head-dress; and theabbe, all in black, with his shovel-hat pulled low over his eyes; andthe mountebank selling pencils and lucifer-matches to the music of ahurdy-gurdy; and the gendarme, who is the terror of street urchins; andthe gamin, who is the torment of the gendarme; and the water-carrier,with his cart and his cracked bugle; and the elegant ladies andgentlemen, who look in at shop windows and hire seats at two sous eachin the Champs Elysees; and, of course, the English tourist reading"Galignani's Guide" as he goes along. Then, perhaps, a regiment marchespast with colors flying and trumpets braying; or a fantastic-lookingfuneral goes by, with a hearse like a four-post bed hung with blackvelvet and silver; or the pe
ripatetic showman with his company of whiterats establishes himself on the pavement opposite, till admonished tomove on by the sergent de ville. What an ever-shifting panorama! What akaleidoscope of color and character! What a study for the humorist, thepainter, the poet!
Thinking thus, and watching the overflowing current as it hurried onbelow, I became aware of a smart cab drawn by a showy chestnut, whichdashed round the corner of the street and came down the Rue Castellaneat a pace that caused every head to turn as it went by. Almost before Ihad time to do more than observe that it was driven by a moustachioedand lavender-kidded gentleman, it drew up before the house, and a trimtiger jumped down, and thundered at the door. At that moment, thegentleman, taking advantage of the pause to light a cigar, looked up,and I recognised the black moustache and sinister countenance ofMonsieur de Simoncourt.
"A gentleman for Monsieur le Vicomte," said the servant, drawing backthe green curtain and opening a vista into the room beyond.
"Ask him to come upstairs," said the voice of De Caylus from within.
"I have done so, Monsieur; but he prefers to wait in the cabriolet."
"Pshaw!--confound it!--say that I'm coming."
The servant withdrew.
I then heard the words "perfectly safe investment--presentconvenience--unexpected demand," rapidly uttered by Monsieur de Caylus;and then they both came back; he looked flushed and angry--she calmas ever.
"Then I shall call on you again to-morrow, Helene," said he, pluckingnervously at his glove. "You will have had time to reflect. You will seematters differently."
Madame Courcelles shook her head.
"Reflection will not change my opinion," she said gently.
"Well, shall I send Lejeune to you? He acts as solicitor to the company,and ..."
"_Mon cousin_" interposed the lady, "I have already given you mydecision--why pursue the question further? I do not wish to seeMonsieur Lejeune, and I have no speculative tastes whatever."
Monsieur de Caylus, with a suppressed exclamation that sounded like acurse, rent his glove right in two, and then, as if annoyed at theself-betrayal, crushed up the fragments in his hand, andlaughed uneasily.
"All women are alike," he said, with an impatient shrug. "They knownothing of the world, and place no faith in those who are competent toadvise them. I had given you credit, my charming cousin, forbroader views."
Madame de Courcelles smiled without replying, and caressed the littledog, which had come out from under the sofa to fondle round her.
"Poor Bijou!" said she. "Pretty Bijou! Do you take good care of him,_mon cousin_?"
"Upon my soul, not I," returned De Caylus, carelessly. "Lecroix feedshim, I believe, and superintends his general education."
"Who is Lecroix?"
"My valet, courier, body-guard, letter-carrier, and general _factotum_.A useful vagabond, without whom I should scarcely know my right handfrom my left!"
"Poor Bijou! I fear, then, your chance of being remembered is smallindeed!" said Madame de Courcelles, compassionately.
But Monsieur le Vicomte only whistled to the dog; bowed haughtily to me;kissed, with an air of easy familiarity, before which she evidentlyrecoiled, first the hand and then the cheek of his beautiful cousin, andso left the room. The next moment I saw him spring into the cabriolet,take his place beside Monsieur de Simoncourt, and drive away, with Bijoufollowing at a pace that might almost have tried a greyhound.
"My cousin, De Caylus, has lately returned from Algiers on leave ofabsence," said Madame de Courcelles, after a few moments of awkwardsilence, during which I had not known what to say. "You have heard ofhim, perhaps?"
"Yes, Madame, I have heard of Monsieur de Caylus."
"From Captain Dalrymple?
"From Captain Dalrymple, Madame; and in society."
"He is a brave officer," she said, hesitatingly, "and has greatlydistinguished himself in this last campaign."
"So I have heard, Madame."
She looked at me, as if she would fain read how much or how littleDalrymple had told me.
"You are Captain Dalrymple's friend, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said,presently, "and I know you have his confidence. You are probably awarethat my present position with regard to Monsieur de Caylus is not onlyvery painful, but also very difficult."
"Madame, I know it."
"But it is a position of which I have the command, and which no oneunderstands so well as myself. To attempt to help me, would be to add tomy embarrassments. For this reason it is well that Captain Dalrymple isnot here. His presence just now in Paris could do no good--on thecontrary, would be certain to do harm. Do you follow my meaning,Monsieur Arbuthnot?"
"I understand what you say, Madame; but...."
"But you do not quite understand why I say it? _Eh bien_, Monsieur, whenyou write to Captain Dalrymple.... for you write sometimes, do you not?"
"Often, Madame."
"Then, when you write, say nothing that may add to his anxieties. If youhave reason at any time to suppose that I am importuned to do this orthat; that I am annoyed; that I have my own battle to fight--still, forhis sake as well as for mine, be silent. It _is_ my own battle, and Iknow how to fight it."
"Alas! Madame...."
She smiled sadly.
"Nay," she said, "I have more courage than you would suppose; morecourage and more will. I am fully capable of bearing my own burdens; andCaptain Dalrymple has already enough of his own. Now tell me somethingof yourself. You are here, I think, to study medicine. Are you greatlydevoted to your work? Have you many friends?"
"I study, Madame--not always very regularly; and I have one friend."
"An Englishman?"
"No, Madame--a German."
"A fellow-student, I presume."
"No, Madame--an artist."
"And you are very happy here?"
"I have occupations and amusements; therefore, if to be neither idle nordull is to be happy. I suppose I am happy."
"Nay," she said quickly, "be sure of it. Do not doubt it. Who asks morefrom Fate courts his own destruction."
"But it would be difficult, Madame, to go through life without desiringsomething better, something higher--without ambition, forinstance--without love."
"Ambition and love!" she repeated, smiling sadly. "There speaks the man.Ambition first--the aim and end of life; love next--the pleasant adjunctto success! Ah, beware of both."
"But without either, life would be a desert."
"Life _is_ a desert," she replied, bitterly. "Ambition is its mirage,ever beckoning, ever receding--love its Dead Sea fruit, fair without anddust within. You look surprised. You did not expect such gloomy theoriesfrom me--yet I am no cynic. I have lived; I have suffered; I am awoman--_voila tout_. When you are a few years older, and have troddensome of the flinty ways of life, you will see the world as I see it."
"It may be so, Madame; but if life is indeed a desert, it is, at allevents, some satisfaction to know that the dwellers in tents becomeenamored of their lot, and, content with what the desert has to give,desire no other. It is only the neophyte who rides after the mirage andthirsts for the Dead Sea apple."
She smiled again.
"Ah!" she said, "the gifts of the desert are two-fold, and what one getsdepends on what one seeks. For some the wilderness has gifts ofresignation, meditation, peace; for others it has the horse, the tent,the pipe, the gun, the chase of the panther and antelope. But to go backto yourself. Life, you say, would be barren without ambition and love.What is your ambition?"
"Nay, Madame, that is more than I can tell you--more than I knowmyself."
"Your profession...."
"If ever I dream dreams, Madame," I interrupted quickly, "my professionhas no share in them. It is a profession I do not love, and which I hopesome day to abandon."
"Your dreams, then?"
I shook my head.
"Vague--unsubstantial--illusory--forgotten as soon as dreamt! How can Ianalyze them? How can I describe them? In childhood one says--'I shouldlike to be a
soldier, and conquer the world;' or 'I should like to be asailor, and discover new Continents;' or 'I should like to be a poet,and wear a laurel wreath, like Petrarch and Dante;' but as one getsolder and wiser (conscious, perhaps, of certain latent energies, andweary of certain present difficulties and restraints), one can onlywait, as best one may, and watch for the rising of that tide whose floodleads on to fortune."
With this I rose to take my leave. Madame de Courcelles smiled and putout her hand.
"Come often," she said; "and come at the hours when I am at home. Ishall always be glad to see you. Above all, remember my caution--not aword to Captain Dalrymple, either now or at any other time."
"Madame, you may rely upon me. One thing I ask, however, as the rewardof my discretion."
"And that one thing?"
"Permission, Madame, to serve you in any capacity, however humble--inany strait where a brother might interfere, or a faithful retainer laydown his life in your service."
With a sweet earnestness that made my heart beat and my cheeks glow, shethanked and promised me.
"I shall look upon you henceforth," she said, "as my knight _sans peuret sans reproche_."
Heaven knows that not all the lessons of all the moralists that everwrote or preached since the world began, could just then have done mehalf such good service as did those simple words. They came at themoment when I most needed them--when I had almost lost my taste forsociety, and was sliding day by day into habits of more confirmedidleness and Bohemianism. They roused me. They made a man of me. Theyrecalled me to higher aims, "purer manners, nobler laws." They clothedme, so to speak, in the _toga virilis_ of a generous devotion. They mademe long to prove myself "_sans peur_," to merit the "_sans reproche."_They marked an era in my life never to be forgotten or effaced.
Let it not be thought for one moment that I loved her--or fancied Iloved her. No, not so far as one heart-beat would carry me; but I wasproud to possess her confidence and her friendship. Was she notDalrymple's wife, and had not he asked me to watch over and protect her?Nay, had she not called me her knight and accepted my fealty?
Nothing perhaps, is so invaluable to a young man on entering life as thefriendship of a pure-minded and highly-cultivated woman who, removed toofar above him to be regarded with passion, is yet beautiful enough toengage his admiration; whose good opinion becomes the measure of his ownself-respect; and whose confidence is a sacred trust only to be partedfrom with loss of life or honor.
Such an influence upon myself at this time was the friendship of Madamede Courcelles. I went out from her presence that morning morallystronger than before, and at each repetition of my visit I found herinfluence strengthen and increase. Sometimes I met Monsieur de Caylus,on which occasions my stay was ever of the briefest; but I mostfrequently found her alone, and then our talk was of books, of art, ofculture, of all those high and stirring things that alike move thesympathies of the educated woman and rouse the enthusiasm of the youngman. She became interested in me; at first for Dalrymple's sake, andby-and-by, however little I deserved it, for my own--and she showedthat interest in many ways inexpressibly valuable to me then andthenceforth. She took pains to educate my taste; opened to me hithertounknown avenues of study; led me to explore "fresh fields and pasturesnew," to which, but for her help, I might not have found my way for manya year to come. My reading, till now, had been almost wholly English orclassical; she sent me to the old French literature--to the _Chansons deGeste_; to the metrical romances of the Trouveres; to the Chronicles ofFroissart, Monstrelet, and Philip de Comines, and to the poets anddramatists that immediately succeeded them.
These books opened a new world to me; and, having daily access to twofine public libraries, I plunged at once into a course of new anddelightful reading, ranging over all that fertile tract of song andhistory that begins far away in the morning land of mediaeval romance,and leads on, century after century, to the new era that began with theRevolution.
With what avidity I devoured those picturesque old chronicles--thoseautobiographies--those poems, and satires, and plays that I now read forthe first time! What evenings I spent with St. Simon, and De Thou, andCharlotte de Baviere! How I relished Voltaire! How I laughed overMoliere! How I revelled in Montaigne! Most of all, however, I loved thequaint lore of the earlier literature:--
"Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And Chronicles of Eld."
Nor was this all. I had hitherto loved art as a child or a savage mightlove it, ignorantly, half-blindly, without any knowledge of itsprinciples, its purposes, or its history. But Madame de Courcelles putinto my hands certain books that opened my eyes to a thousand wondersunseen before. The works of Vasari, Nibby, Winkelman and Lessing, theaesthetic writings of Goethe and the Schlegels, awakened in me, oneafter the other, fresher and deeper revelations of beauty.
I wandered through the galleries of the Louvre like one newly giftedwith sight. I haunted the Venus of Milo and the Diane Chasseresse likeanother Pygmalion. The more I admired, the more I found to admire. Themore I comprehended, the more I found there remained for me tocomprehend. I recognised in art the Sphinx whose enigma is never solved.I learned, for the first time, that poetry may be committed toimperishable marble, and steeped in unfading colors. By degrees, as Ifollowed in the footsteps of great thinkers, my insight became keenerand my perceptions more refined. The symbolism of art evolved itself, asit were, from below the surface; and instead of beholding in paintingsand statues mere studies of outward beauty, I came to know them asexponents of thought--as efforts after ideal truth--as aspirationswhich, because of their divineness, can never be wholly expressed; butwhose suggestiveness is more eloquent than all the eloquence of words.
Thus a great change came upon my life--imperceptibly at first, and bygradual degrees; but deeply and surely. To apply myself to the study ofmedicine became daily more difficult and more distasteful to me. Theboisterous pleasures of the Quartier Latin lost their charm for me. Dayby day I gave myself up more and more passionately to the cultivation ofmy taste for poetry and art. I filled my little sitting-room with castsafter the antique. I bought some good engravings for my walls, and hungup a copy of the Madonna di San Sisto above the table at which I wroteand read. All day long, wherever I might be--at the hospital, in thelecture-room, in the laboratory--I kept looking longingly forward to thequiet evening by-and-by when, with shaded lamp and curtained window, Ishould again take up the studies of the night before.
Thus new aims opened out before me, and my thoughts flowed into channelsever wider and deeper. Already the first effervescence of youth seemedto have died off the surface of my life, as the "beaded bubbles" die offthe surface of champagne. I had tried society, and wearied of it. I hadtried Bohemia, and found it almost as empty as the Chaussee d'Autin.And now that life which from boyhood I had ever looked upon as thehappiest on earth, the life of the student, was mine. Could I havedevoted it wholly and undividedly to those pursuits which were fastbecoming to me as the life of my life, I would not have exchanged my lotfor all the wealth of the Rothschilds. Somewhat indolent, perhaps, bynature, indifferent to achieve, ambitious only to acquire, I askednothing better than a life given up to the worship of all that isbeautiful in art, to the acquisition of knowledge, and to thedevelopment of taste. Would the time ever come when I might realize mydream? Ah! who could tell? In the meanwhile ... well, in the meanwhile,here was Paris--here were books, museums, galleries, schools, goldenopportunities which, once past, might never come again. So I reasoned;so time went on; so I lived, plodding on by day in the Ecole deMedecine, but, when evening came, resuming my studies at the leaf turneddown the night before, and, like the visionary in "The Pilgrims of theRhine," taking up my dream-life at the point where I had beenlast awakened.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXXVII.
GUICHET THE MODEL.
To the man who lives alone and walks about with his eyes open, the me
rebricks and mortar of a great city are instinct with character. Buildingsbecome to him like living creatures. The streets tell him tales. Forhim, the house-fronts are written over with hieroglyphics which, to thepassing crowd, are either unseen or without meaning. Fallen grandeur,pretentious gentility, decent poverty, the infamy that wears a brazenfront, and the crime that burrows in darkness--he knows them all at aglance. The patched window, the dingy blind, the shattered doorstep, thepot of mignonette on the garret ledge, are to him as significant as thelines and wrinkles on a human face. He grows to like some houses and todislike others, almost without knowing why--just as one grows to likeor dislike certain faces in the parks and clubs. I remember now, as wellas if it were yesterday, how, during the first weeks of my life inParis, I fell in love at first sight with a wee _maisonnette_ at thecorner of a certain street overlooking the Luxembourg gardens--a tinylittle house, with soft-looking blue silk window-curtains, andcream-colored jalousies, and boxes of red and white geraniums at all thewindows. I never knew who lived in that sunny little nest; I never saw aface at any of those windows; yet I used to go out of my way in thesummer evenings to look at it, as one might go to look at a beautifulwoman behind a stall in the market-place, or at a Madonna in ashop-window.
At the time about which I write, there was probably no city in Europe ofwhich the street-scenery was so interesting as that of Paris. I havealready described the Quartier Latin, joyous, fantastic, out-at-elbows;a world in itself and by itself; unlike anything else in Paris orelsewhere. But there were other districts in the great city--now sweptaway and forgotten--as characteristic in their way as the QuartierLatin. There was the He de Saint Louis, for instance--a _Campo Santo_ ofdecayed nobility--lonely, silent, fallen upon evil days, and hauntedhere and there by ghosts of departed Marquises and Abbes of the _vieilleecole_. There was the debateable land to the rear of the Invalides andthe Champ de Mars. There was the Faubourg St. Germain, fast falling intothe sere and yellow leaf, and going the way of the Ile de Saint Louis.There was the neighborhood of the Boulevart d'Aulnay, and the Rue de laRoquette, ghastly with the trades of death; a whole Quartier ofmonumental sculptors, makers of iron crosses, weavers of funerealchaplets, and wholesale coffin-factors. And beside and apart from allthis, there were (as in all great cities) districts of evil report andobscure topography--lost islets of crime, round which flowed and circledthe daily tide of Paris life; flowed and circled, yet never penetrated.A dark arch here and there--the mouth of a foul alley--a riverside vistaof gloom and squalor, marked the entrance to these Alsatias. Such anAlsatia was the Rue Pierre Lescot, the Rue Sans Nom, and many more thanI can now remember--streets into which no sane man would venture afternightfall without the escort of the police.
Into the border land of such a neighborhood--a certain congeries ofobscure and labyrinthine streets to the rear of the old Halles--Iaccompanied Franz Mueller one wintry afternoon, about an hour beforesunset, and perhaps some ten days after our evening in the Rue duFaubourg St. Denis. We were bound on an expedition of discovery, and theobject of our journey was to find the habitat of Guichet the model.
"I am determined to get to the bottom of this Lenoir business," saidMueller, doggedly; "and if the police won't help me, I must help myself."
"You have no case for the police," I replied.
"So says the _chef de bureau_; but I am of the opposite opinion.However, I shall make my case out clearly enough before long. ThisGuichet can help me, if he will. He knows Lenoir, and he knows somethingagainst him; that is clear. You saw how cautious he was the other day.The difficulty will be to make him speak."
"I doubt if you will succeed."
"I don't, _mon cher_. But we shall see. Then, again, I have another lineof evidence open to me. You remember that orange-colored rosette in thefellow's button-hole?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, now, I happen, by the merest chance, to know what that rosettemeans. It is the ribbon of the third order of the Golden Palm ofMozambique--a Portuguese decoration. They give it to diplomaticofficials, eminent civilians, distinguished foreigners, and the like. Iknow a fellow who has it, and who belongs to the Portuguese Legationhere. _Eh bien!_ I went to him the other day, and asked him about oursaid friend--how he came by it, who he is, where he comes from, and soforth. My Portuguese repeats the name--elevates his eyebrows--in short,has never heard of such a person. Then he pulls down a big book from ashelf in the secretary's room--turns to a page headed 'Golden Palm ofMozambique'--runs his finger along the list of names--shakes his head,and informs me that no Lenoir is, or ever has been, received into theorder. What do you say to that, now?"
"It is just what I should have expected; but still it is not a ease forthe police. It concerns the Portuguese minister; and the Portugueseminister is by no means likely to take any trouble about the matter. Butwhy waste all this time and care? If I were you, I would let the thingdrop. It is not worth the cost."
Mueller looked grave.
"I would drop it this moment," he said, "if--if it were not for thegirl."
"Who is still less worth the cost,"
"I know it," he replied, impatiently. "She has a pretty, sentimentalMadonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--_et voila tout_. I'm notthe least bit in love with her now. I might have been. I might havecommitted some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, _Dieumerci!_ I couldn't love a girl I couldn't trust, and that girl is aflirt. A flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional.No, no; my fancy for the fair Marie has evaporated; but, for all that, Idon't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life toan unscrupulous scoundrel like Lenoir. I must do what I can, my dearfellow--I must do what I can."
We had by this time rounded the Halles, and were threading our waythrough one gloomy by-street after another. The air was chill, the skylow and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seengleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops.Meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken atevery step.
"You are sure you know your way?" I asked presently, seeing Mueller lookup at the name at the corner of the street.
"Why, yes; I think I do," he answered, doubtfully.
"Why not inquire of that man just ahead?" I suggested.
He was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was stridingalong so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up withhim. All at once Mueller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:--
"Stop! It is Guichet himself. Let him go on, and we'll follow."
So we dropped into the rear and followed him. He turned presently to theright, and preceded us down a long and horribly ill-favored street, fullof mean cabarets and lodging-houses of the poorest class, where, paintedin red letters on broken lamps above the doors, or printed on cardswafered against the window-panes, one saw at almost every other house,the words, "_Ici on loge la nuit_." At the end of this thoroughfare ourunconscious guide plunged into a still darker and fouler _impasse_, hungacross from side to side with rows of dingy linen, and ornamented in thecentre with a mound of decaying cabbage-leaves, potato-parings,oyster-shells, and the like. Here he made for a large tumble-down housethat closed the alley at the farther end, and, still followed byourselves, went in at an open doorway, and up a public staircase dimlylighted by a flickering oil-lamp at every landing. At his own door hepaused, and just as he had turned the key, Mueller accosted him.
"Is that you, Guichet?" he said. "Why, you are the very man I want! If Ihad come ten minutes sooner, I should have missed you."
"Is it M'sieur Mueller?" said Guichet, bending his heavy brows andstaring at us in the gloom of the landing.
"Ay, and with me the friend you saw the other day. So, this is your den?May we come in?"
He had been standing till now with his hand on the key and the closeddoor at his back, evidently not intending to admit us; but thus asked,he pushed the door open, and said, somewhat ungraciously:--
"It is just that, M'sieur Mueller--a den
; not fit for gentlemen like you.But you can go in, if you please."
We did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately. It wasa long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight strugglingin through a tiny window at the farther end. We could see nothing atfirst but this gleam; and it was not till Guichet had raked out the woodashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath,that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room.Then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close underthe window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman's chest in the middleof the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of oldpacking-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish inanother; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidatedstool or two standing about the room. Avoiding these latter, we setourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while Guichet, having by thistime lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stoodbefore us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence.
"I want to know, Guichet, if you can give me some sittings," saidMueller, by way of opening the conversation.
"Depends on when, M'sieur Mueller," growled the model.
"Well--next week, for the whole week."
Guichet shook his head. He was engaged to Monsieur Flandrin _la bas_,for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only hismornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out agreasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered.Mueller made a grimace of disappointment.
"That man's head takes a deal of cutting off, _mon ami_," he said."Aren't you tired of playing executioner so long?"
"Not I, M'sieur! It's all the same to me--executioner or victim, saintor devil."
Mueller, laughing, offered him a cigar.
"You've posed for some queer characters in your time, Guichet," said he.
"Parbleu, M'sieur!"
"But you've not been a model all your life?"
"Perhaps not, M'sieur."
"You've been a sailor once upon a time, haven't you?"
The model looked up quickly.
"How did you know that?" he said, frowning.
"By a number of little things--by this, for instance," replied Mueller,kicking his heels against the sea-chest; "by certain words you make useof now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat._Que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!"
The model shook his head.
"I don't understand it," he said, slowly.
"Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked," said Mueller, with anair of mystery.
"About myself?"
"Ay, about yourself, and others."
Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips.
"What others?" he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and halfof apprehension.
Mueller shrugged his shoulders.
"Pshaw!" said he; "I know more than you think I know, Guichet. There'sour friend, you know--he of whom I made the head t'other day ... youremember?"
The model, still looking at him, made no answer.
"Why didn't you say at once where you had met him, and all the rest ofit, _mon vieux_? You might have been sure I should find out for myself,sooner or later."
The model turned abruptly towards the fire-place, and, leaning his headagainst the mantel-shelf, stood with his back towards us, looking downinto the fire.
"You ask me why I did not tell you at once?" he said, very slowly.
"Ay--why not?"
"Why not? Because--because when a man has begun to lead an honest life,and has gone on leading an honest life, as I have, for years, he is gladto put the past behind him--to forget it, and all belonging to it. Howwas I to guess you knew anything about--about that place _la bas_?"
"And why should I not know about it?" replied Mueller, flashing a rapidglance at me.
Guichet was silent.
"What if I tell you that I am particularly interested in--that place _labas_?"
"Well, that may be. People used to come sometimes, I remember--artistsand writers, and so on."
"Naturally."
"But I don't remember to have ever seen you, M'sieur Mueller."
"You did not observe me, _mon cher_--or it may have been before, orafter your time."
"Yes, that's true," replied Guichet, ponderingly. "How long ago was it,M'sieur Mueller?"
Mueller glanced at me again. His game, hitherto so easy, was beginning togrow difficult.
"Eh, _mon Dieu_!" he said, indifferently, "how can I tell? I haveknocked about too much, now here, now there, in the course of my life,to remember in what particular year this or that event may havehappened. I am not good at dates, and never was."
"But you remember seeing me there?"
"Have I not said so?"
Guichet took a couple of turns about the room. He looked flushed andembarrassed.
"There is one thing I should like to know," he said, abruptly. "Wherewas I? What was I doing when you saw me?"
Mueller was at fault now, for the first time.
"Where were you?" he repeated. "Why, there--where we said just now. _Labas_."
"No, no--that's not what I mean. Was I .... was I in the uniform of theGarde Chiourme?"
The color rushed into Mueller's face as, flashing a glance of exultationat me, he replied:--
"Assuredly, _mon ami_. In that, and no other."
The model drew a deep breath.
"And Bras de Fer?" he said. "Was he working in the quarries ?"
"Bras de Fer! Was that the name he went by in those days?"
"Ay--Bras de Fer--_alias_ Coupe-gorge--_alias_ Triphot--_alias_Lenoir--_alias_ a hundred other names. Bras de Fer was the one he wentby at Toulon--and a real devil he was in the Bagnes! He escaped threetimes, and was twice caught and brought back again. The third time hekilled one sentry, injured another for life, and got clear off. That wasfive years ago, and I left soon after. I suppose, if you saw him inParis the other day, he has kept clear of Toulon ever since."
"But was he in for life?" said Mueller, eagerly.
"_Travaux forces a perpetuite_," replied Guichet, touching his ownshoulder significantly with the thumb of his right hand.
Mueller sprang to his feet.
"Enough," he said. "That is all I wanted to know. Guichet, _mon cher_, Iam your debtor for life. We will talk about the sittings when you havemore time to dispose of. Adieu."
"But, M'sieur Mueller, you won't get me into trouble!" exclaimed themodel, eagerly. "You won't make any use of my words?"
"Why, supposing I went direct to the Prefecture, what trouble could Ipossibly get you into, _mon ami?_" replied Mueller.
The model looked down in silence.
"You are a brave man. You do not fear the vengeance of Bras de Fer, orhis friends?"
"No, M'sieur---it's not that."
"What is it, then?"
"M'sieur...."
"Pshaw, man! Speak up."
"It is not that you would get me personally into trouble, M'sieurMueller," said Guichet, slowly. "I am no coward, I hope--a coward wouldmake a bad Garde Chiourme at Toulon, I fancy. And I'm not an escaped_forcat_. But--but, you see, I've worked my way into a connection herein Paris, and I've made myself a good name among the artists, and ...and I hold to that good name above everything in the world."
"Naturally--rightly. But what has that to do with Lenoir?"
"Ah, M'sieur Mueller, if you knew more about me, you would not needtelling how much it has to do with him! I was not always a GardeChiourme at Toulon. I was promoted to it after a time, for good conduct,you know, and that sort of thing. But--but I began differently--I beganby wearing the prison dress, and working in the quarries."
"My good fellow," said Mueller, gently, "I half suspected this--I am notsurprised; and I respect you for having redeemed that past in the wayyou have redeemed it."
"Thank you, M'sieur Mueller; but you see, redeemed or unredeemed, I'drather be lying at th
e bottom of the Seine than have it rise upagainst me now,"
"We are men of honor," said Mueller, "and your secret is safe with us."
"Not if you go to the Prefecture and inform against Bras de Fer on mywords," exclaimed the model, eagerly. "How can I appear againsthim--Guichet the model--Guichet the Garde Chiourme--Guichet the_forcat?_ M'sieur Mueller, I could never hold my head up again. It wouldbe the ruin of me."
"You shall not appear against him, and it shall not be the ruin of you.Guichet," said Mueller. "That I promise you. Only assure me that what youhave said is strictly correct--that Bras de Fer and Lenoir are one andthe same person--an escaped _forcat_, condemned for life tothe galleys."
"That's as true, M'sieur Mueller, as that God is in heaven," said themodel, emphatically.
"Then I can prove it without your testimony--I can prove it by simplysummoning any of the Toulon authorities to identify him."
"Or by stripping his shirt off his back, and showing the brand on hisleft shoulder," said Guichet. "There you'll find it, T.F. as large aslife--and if it don't show at first, just you hit him a sharp blow withthe flat of your hand, M'sieur Mueller, and it will start out as red andfresh as if it had been done only six months ago. _Parbleu!_ I rememberthe day he came in, and the look in his face when the hot iron hissedinto his flesh! They roar like bulls, for the most part; but he neverflinched or spoke. He just turned a shade paler under the tan, andthat was all."
"Do you remember what his crime was?" asked Mueller
Guichet shook his head.
"Not distinctly," he said. "I only know that he was in for a good deal,and had a lot of things proved against him on his trial. But you canfind all that out for yourself, easily enough. He was tried in Paris,about fourteen years ago, and it's all in print, if you only know whereto look for it."
"Then I'll find it, if I have to wade through half the BibliothequeNationale!" said Mueller. "Adieu, Guichet--you have done me a greatservice, and you may be sure I will do nothing to betray you. Let usshake hands upon it."
The color rushed into the model's swarthy cheeks.
"_Comment_, M'sieur Mueller!" he said, hesitatingly. "You offer to shakehands with me--after what I have told you?"
"Ten times more willing than before, _mon ami_," said Mueller. "Did I nottell you just now that I respected you for having redeemed that past,and shall I not give my hand where I give my respect?"
The model grasped his outstretched hand with a vehemence that madeMueller wince again.
"Thank you," he said, in a low, deep voice. "Thank you. Death of mylife! M'sieur Mueller, I'd go to the galleys again for you, afterthis--if you asked me."
"Agreed. Only when I do ask you, it shall be to pay a visit of ceremonyto Monsieur Bras de Fer, when he is safely lodged again at Toulon with achain round his leg, and a cannon-ball at the end of it."
And with this Mueller turned away laughingly, and I followed him down thedimly-lighted stairs.
"By Jove!" he said, "what a grip the fellow gave me! I'd as soon shakehands with the Commendatore in Don Giovanni."
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 31
