by Eugène Sue
“What else could you expect, my good fellow? Sailors are on shore too seldom not to amuse themselves according to their fancy, provided it doesn’t injure anybody. You agree, don’t you?”
“Oh, well, it isn’t worth while to have any scruples when one has to deal with a passenger who eats panada and doesn’t drink wine, I admit, so—”
“So here are twenty francs,” added Russell, slipping a gold piece into the postilion’s hand. “You shall have as much more presently.”
“All right, but make haste, for the place is a good league from here. Take the first road to the left.”
A moment afterward the two strangers had disappeared.
About a quarter of an hour afterward, while the postilion was doing his best to restrain the gambols of the Friar and his mate, the proprietor of the Imperial Eagle appeared in the doorway and cried:
“Mount, my boy, mount! Here comes the gentleman!”
“The devil!” muttered Jean Pierre, climbing slowly into the saddle. “My milk-drinker is in a dreadful hurry all of a sudden. I sha’n’t be able to get my horses there fast enough, now, I suppose.”
As he spoke, he guided his horses up to the door of the inn, and the traveller stepped into the vehicle. The landlord bowed respectfully to his patron, and as he closed the carriage door called out to the postilion:
“Drive along, Jean Pierre, monsieur is in a hurry.”
“You shall just fly along, monsieur,” replied Jean Pierre, cracking his whip noisily.
They traversed the town at a gallop and soon reached the highway, but they had gone only a couple of hundred yards when the postilion checked his horses abruptly, and, turning in his saddle, seemed to be waiting for something.
The traveller, surprised at this sudden stop, lowered one of the windows, and asked:
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve no idea, I’m sure.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“But why did you stop?”
“Because you called to me to stop.”
“I did?”
“Yes, and so I stopped.”
“You are mistaken, I didn’t call you.”
“Yes, you did, monsieur.”
“But I tell you I didn’t. So go on, and try to make up for the time you have lost.”
“You needn’t worry about that. I’ll drive like mad now. I don’t mean there shall be a piece of the carriage left when we get to the next station.”
And he again started his horses off at a gallop. But at the end of two hundred yards there was another sudden pause.
“What’s the matter now?” demanded the traveller. “Is anything the matter with your harness?” he reiterated, seeing the postilion busying himself with his saddle-girth, uttering the most frightful oaths all the while.
There was no reply but another long string of furious imprecations, however.
“Is your horse disabled?”
Another string of oaths was the only answer.
“At least tell me what is the matter, my boy.”
“Oh, never mind, monsieur, I’ve fixed everything all right now.”
“Well, try to keep it all right, then.”
“We shall fly along the road like birds, now, never fear, bourgeois,” responded the youth, springing into the saddle and cracking his whip furiously.
The shades of night were falling, a few stars were already visible in the western horizon, but in the distance one could still dimly discern, by reason of the chalky character of the soil, a steep hill bordered by tall elm-trees.
The post-chaise flew swiftly along for about ten minutes, then the pace slackened, a trot succeeded the gallop, a walk succeeded the trot, and then the vehicle stopped short again.
This time Jean Pierre jumped down and examined one of the Friar’s feet with great apparent solicitude.
“Mille tonnerres! one of my horses has gone lame!” he cried.
“Gone lame?” repeated the traveller, with unruffled calmness, though these numerous delays were certainly enough to try the patience of a saint. “Gone lame, did you say?”
“Yes, frightfully lame,” answered Jean Pierre, still holding up the horse’s foot.
“But how did he happen to go lame so suddenly, my boy?”
“The devil take me if I know.”
“Shall we have to stay here?”
“No, bourgeois, there’s no danger of that. If I could only see what has made the horse go lame, but it is getting so dark—”
“Yes, and you must be sure not to forget to light the lanterns at our next stopping-place.”
“Ah! I can feel what it is with my finger. There is a stone crowded in between the shoe and the frog. If I can only loosen it everything will be all right again.”
“Try then, my boy, for really this is getting very tiresome,” replied the still calm voice of the traveller.
Inwardly chuckling over the success of his ruse, the postilion continued to loudly curse the stone he was ostensibly endeavouring to remove, until he thought the two strangers must have had plenty of time to reach the appointed spot, after which he uttered a cry of triumph. “The accursed stone is out at last!” he exclaimed. “Now we shall just fly along again.”
And again the vehicle started off at a rapid trot. Though night had really come now, thanks to the clearness of the air and the innumerable stars, it was not very dark. On reaching the foot of the hill the postilion stopped his panting horses, and, after springing to the ground, approached the carriage door, and said:
“This is such a steep hill, bourgeois, that I always walk up to make it easier for my horses.”
“Very well, my boy,” replied the occupant of the vehicle, tranquilly.
The postilion walked along beside his horses for a few seconds, then gradually slackened his pace, thus allowing them to get a short distance ahead of him. Just then, Russell and Pietri emerged from behind a clump of bushes on the roadside, and approached the postilion. The latter, as he walked along, had removed his braided jacket, red waistcoat, and top-boots. The Englishman, who had likewise divested himself of his outer apparel, slipped on the jacket, plunged his feet into the high boots, and seized the hat, after which the postilion, smiling at what he considered an excellent joke, handed his whip to Russell, remarking:
“It is too dark for the gentleman to see anything, so when you mount my horse I’ll get up on the rack behind, with your companion.”
“Yes, and when we reach the next station I will get down, and you can put on your own clothes again, and I mine. And now here is the twenty francs I promised you.”
And slipping a gold piece in Jean Pierre’s hand, Russell quickened his pace, and, overtaking the horses about twenty yards from the top of the hill, began to walk along beside them.
It was now too dark for the traveller to perceive the substitution that had just been effected, but as the carriage reached the summit of the hill the occupant leaned out and said to the supposed postilion:
“Don’t forget to put on the brake, my lad.”
“I am going to do that now,” answered the pretended postilion, in a disguised voice.
Then slipping behind the vehicle, he said in a low tone to the Maltese and to Jean Pierre:
“Get up behind and hold on tight. I’m going to put on the brake.”
The two men obeyed, while Russell rattled the chain of the brake, as if he were applying it to the wheel, but this was really only a pretence on his part; then vaulting into the saddle, he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and sent the carriage flying down the hill with frightful rapidity.
“Good God! we are lost, and the milk drinker in the bargain,” exclaimed Jean Pierre hearing the chain of the brake dragging along on the ground. “Your friend failed to put the brake on, after all.”
The Maltese, instead of answering the postilion, struck him such a violent blow on
the head with the butt end of a pistol that Jean Pierre let go his hold on the rack and fell to the ground, while the carriage flew down the hill enveloped in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER VII.
HOME PLEASURES.
SEVERAL DAYS HAVE passed since the traveller fell into the trap Captain Russell and his companion had set for him, and we must beg the reader to accompany us to a pretty cottage in the little village of Lionville, about four miles from Havre.
A bracing and salubrious climate, a country which is at the same time fertile and picturesque, fine trees, luxuriant turf, and a superb view of the ocean, make Lionville a veritable paradise to persons who love peace and quiet and opportunities for solitary meditation.
At that time, as in many other towns and villages, great and small, the absence of young men was particularly noticeable, the last wars of the Empire having summoned to the defence of the flag nearly all who were young and able-bodied, until a young man of twenty-five who had remained a civilian, unless he was a hunchback, or crippled, was almost as rare a phenomenon as the phoenix or a white crow.
Lionville possessed one of these rarities in the shape of a handsome young man not over twenty-four years of age, but we must make haste to say that he did not seem in the least inclined to take advantage of his position, for he led a very retired life, quite as much from preference as from any other reason.
This young man was one of the inmates of the pleasant, cheerful home to which we have already alluded, and several days after the traveller had been victimised by the pretended postilion a middle-aged woman, a young girl, and this young man (the phœnix referred to) were assembled one evening in a pretty, comfortably furnished drawing-room. A good fire was blazing on the hearth, for the evenings were still cool, and a shaded lamp diffused a soft light through the apartment, while the tea-kettle, standing in front of the fire, bubbled softly.
A close observer would perhaps have noticed that most of the ornaments and articles of luxury were of English origin, in spite of the stern prohibition against the importation of English goods which then prevailed on the continent. The same might be said of the handsome silver tea-service, no two pieces of which were alike, however, a ducal coronet surmounting the massive hot-water urn and a knight’s crest adorning the teapot, while an unpretending initial was engraved upon the sugar-bowl, though it was none the less brilliant on that account.
The middle-aged woman had a frank, intelligent, cheerful face. She was at least forty-two years old, but her hair was still black, her complexion fresh, her teeth white, and her eyes bright; in short, this worthy dame still attracted plenty of admiring glances when, arrayed in a handsome bonnet of English lace, a gown of English tissue, and a Paisley shawl of the finest texture, she accompanied her youthful charge to the village church.
The young girl in question was seventeen, tall, slender, extremely delicate in appearance, and endowed or rather afflicted with an extremely nervous and impressionable temperament. This extreme sensibility or susceptibility was at least partially due to, or perhaps we should say, had been greatly aggravated by a terrible event which occurred many years before, and which had had the effect of rendering her excessively timid. It would be difficult to find a more pleasing and attractive face than hers, however, and when, yielding to the uncontrollable fear which the most trivial incident sometimes excited, she arched her slender neck, and listened pantingly, breathlessly, with her graceful attitude and large wondering, frightened eyes, she reminded one of a startled gazelle. By reason of this nervous and extremely sensitive temperament, probably, the young girl had not the brilliant colouring of sturdy health, but was usually very pale, though every passing emotion brought a delicate rose tint to her cheek, and then her charming face, framed in a wealth of bright chestnut hair, seemed radiant with the glowing beauty of youth. True, with a more vivid colouring and fuller contour, she might have been much more attractive to many persons, but much of the charm of her expressive features and delicate loveliness would have been lost.
The last of the three persons assembled in the cosy parlour was the phœnix to whom allusion has been made, that is to say, a handsome young man who had not been summoned to the defence of the flag.
This phœnix was twenty-five years old, of medium height, slender, but admirably formed, with a frank expression and regular features, though a tinge of slightly deprecating embarrassment was apparent both in his face and manner, the result of the infirmity which had exempted him from military service. In short, the young man’s sight was very poor, so poor, indeed, that he could scarcely see to move about; besides, by reason of some organic peculiarity, he could derive no assistance from glasses, and though his large brown eyes were clear and well-shaped, there was something vague and uncertain in their gaze, and sometimes when the poor myope, after having turned quickly, as if to look at you, remembered, alas! with bitter sadness, that three yards from him every person and object became unrecognisable, the expression of his face was almost heartrending.
Still, it must be admitted that the consequences of the young man’s infirmity were sometimes so amusing as to excite mirth rather than compassion; and it is needless to say that the middle-aged lady was keenly alive to all that was ludicrous in her youthful relative’s blunders — for the relationship existing between them was that of nephew and aunt, — while the young girl, on the contrary, seemed to sympathise deeply with the oftentimes painful position of the half-blind man.
The young girl was embroidering, and her governess or housekeeper knitting, while the young man, with the last issue of the Journal of the Empire held close to his eyes, was reading the latest news aloud, and informing his readers of the Duc de Reggio’s departure to take command of the army.
The housekeeper, hearing a brisk bubbling sound accompanied with several little jets of steam from the kettle, said to her nephew:
“The water is boiling, Onésime. Pour some into the urn, but pray be careful.”
Onésime laid his paper on the table, rose, and started toward the hearth with dire misgivings which were more than justified. He knew, alas! that his path was full of snares and pitfalls, for there was an armchair standing on his left to be avoided, then a small round table to the right of him, and this Scylla and Charybdis avoided, he had to step over a small footstool near the hearth before he could seize the boiling kettle. Consequently, one can easily understand the extreme prudence with which Onésime started on his mission. One outstretched hand warning him of the close proximity of the armchair on his left, he avoided that obstacle, but he was almost on the point of running against the table before his other hand discovered danger of a second shipwreck, and he was inwardly rejoicing at having reached the fireplace without mishap, when he stumbled over the footstool. In his efforts to regain his equilibrium he took a step or two backwards, and, coming in violent contact with the table, overturned it with a loud crash.
For several minutes the young girl had been absorbed in a profound reverie. Rudely awakened from it by the noise made by the falling table, ignorant of the cause of the commotion, and unable to overcome her fear, she uttered a cry of terror and sank back in her chair, trembling like a leaf.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” cried the housekeeper. “It is another of Onésime’s escapades, that is all. Calm yourself, my child.”
The young girl, on discovering the cause of the commotion, deeply regretted having increased her unfortunate friend’s embarrassment, so, striving to overcome the nervous trembling that had seized her, she said:
“Forgive me, my dear friend. How silly I am, but you know I never seem to be able to conquer this absurd nervousness.”
“Poor child, it is no fault of yours! Are you not the one who suffers most from it? Surely there is no necessity for apologising to us, especially as but for my nephew’s awkwardness—”
“No, no, I am the culprit,” interrupted the young girl. “To be so childish at my age is disgraceful.”
The unfortunate young man, distressed beyo
nd measure at his mishap, stammered a few incoherent words of apology, then set the table on its feet again, shoved the footstool aside, and, seizing the tea-kettle, started to pour the water into the urn, when his aunt exclaimed:
“Don’t attempt that, for Heaven’s sake! You are so awkward, you will be sure to make a mess of it.”
Onésime, deeply mortified and anxious to atone for his former blunder, persisted, nevertheless, and, lifting the cover of the urn, began to pour the water from the kettle with his right hand, while his left rested on the edge of the table. But unfortunately his eyes played him false as usual, and he began pouring the contents of the tea-kettle down one side of the urn, instead of into the opening, covering his left hand with boiling water and burning it frightfully.
He manifested a truly heroic stoicism, however. But for the slight start caused by the sudden and intense suffering, he gave no sign, and, conscious now of the mistake he had made, finally managed to fill the urn, after which he said, gently:
“The urn is filled, aunt. Shall I make the tea? Mademoiselle will take a cup, perhaps.”
“What! you have actually filled the urn without any fresh catastrophe? You really ought to have a leather medal, my dear,” laughed his aunt.
“Don’t pay any attention to what she says, M. Onésime,” interposed the young girl. “Your aunt takes such delight in teasing you that I feel it my duty to come to your assistance. And now will you be kind enough to give me a cup of tea?”
“No, no, don’t you dare to think of such a thing!” exclaimed the housekeeper, laughing. “You will be sure to break one of these pretty pink and white cups monsieur brought us the last time he came home.”
But Onésime gave the lie to his aunt’s gloomy prognostications, by bringing the cup of tea to the young girl without spilling a drop, and was rewarded by a gentle “Thank you, M. Onésime,” accompanied with her sweetest smile. But the sad, almost imploring expression in the young man’s eyes, as he turned toward her, touched her deeply.
