“There was a lady, muffled up in a cloak, with a very thick veil on, the other night, in the hall of the Belle Etoile, when I broke that fellow’s head who was bullying the old Count. But her veil was so thick I could not see a feature through it.” My answer was diplomatic, you observe. “She may have been the Count’s daughter. Do they quarrel?”
“Who, he and his wife?”
“Yes.”
“A little.”
“Oh! and what do they quarrel about?” “It is a long story; about the lady’s diamonds. They are valuable — they are worth. La Perelleuse says, about a million of francs. The Count wishes them sold and turned into revenue, which he offers to settle as she pleases. The Countess, whose they are, resists, and for a reason which, I rather think, she can’t disclose to him.”
“And pray what is that?” I asked, my curiosity a good deal piqued.
“She is thinking, I conjecture, how well she will look in them when she marries her second husband.”
“Oh? — yes, to be sure. But the Count de St. Alyre is a good man?”
“Admirable, and extremely intelligent.”
“I should wish so much to be presented to the Count: you tell me he’s so— “
“So agreeably married. But they are living quite out of the world. He takes her now and then to the Opera, or to a public entertainment; but that is all.”
“And he must remember so much of the old régime, and so many of the scenes of the revolution!”
“Yes, the very man for a philosopher, like you! And he falls asleep after dinner; and his wife don’t. But, seriously, he has retired from the gay and the great world, and has grown apathetic; and so has his wife; and nothing seems to interest her now, not even — her husband!”
The Marquis stood up to take his leave.
“Don’t risk your money,” said he. “You will soon have an opportunity of laying out some of it to great advantage. Several collections of really good pictures, belonging to persons who have mixed themselves up in this Bonapartist restoration, must come within a few weeks to the hammer. You can do wonders when these sales commence. There will be startling bargains! Reserve yourself for them. I shall let you know all about it. By-the-by,” he said, stopping short as he approached the door, “I was so near forgetting. There is to be, next week, the very thing you would enjoy so much, because you see so little of it in England — I mean a bal masqué, conducted, it is said, with more than usual splendour. It takes place at Versailles — all the world will be there; there is such a rush for cards! But I think I may promise you one. Goodnight! Adieu!”
CHAPTER X.
THE BLACK VEIL.
Speaking the language fluently and with unlimited money, there was nothing to prevent my enjoying all that was enjoyable in the French capital. You may easily suppose how two days were passed. At the end of that time, and at about the same hour, Monsieur Droqville called again.
Courtly, goodnatured, gay, as usual, he told me that the masquerade ball was fixed for the next Wednesday, and that he had applied for a card for me.
How awfully unlucky. I was so afraid I should not be able to go.
He stared at me for a moment with a suspicious and menacing look which I did not understand, in silence, and then inquired, rather sharply.
“And will Monsieur Beckett be good enough to say, why not?”
I was a little surprised, but answered the simple truth: I had made an engagement for that evening with two or three English friends, and did not see how I could.
“Just so! You English, wherever you are, always look out for your English boors, your beer and ‘bifstek’; and when you come here, instead of trying to learn something of the people you visit, and pretend to study, you are guzzling, and swearing, and smoking with one another, and no wiser or more polished at the end of your travels than if you had been all the time carousing in a booth at Greenwich.”
He laughed sarcastically, and looked as if he could have poisoned me.
“There it is,” said he, throwing the card on the table. “Take it or leave it, just as you please. I suppose I shall have my trouble for my pains; but it is not usual when a man, such as I, takes trouble, asks a favour, and secures a privilege for an acquaintance, to treat him so.”
This was astonishingly impertinent!
I was shocked, offended, penitent. I had possibly committed unwittingly a breach of good-breeding, according to French ideas, which almost justified the brusque severity of the Marquis’s undignified rebuke.
In a confusion, therefore, of many feelings, I hastened to make my apologies, and to propitiate the chance friend who had showed me so much disinterested kindness.
I told him that I would, at any cost, break through the engagement in which I had unluckily entangled myself; that I had spoken with too little reflection, and that I certainly had not thanked him at all in proportion to his kindness and to my real estimate of it.
“Pray say not a word more; my vexation was entirely on your account; and I expressed it, I am only too conscious, in terms a great deal too strong, which, I am sure, your goodnature will pardon. Those who know me a little better are aware that I sometimes say a good deal more than I intend; and am always sorry when I do. Monsieur Beckett will forget that his old friend, Monsieur Droqville, has lost his temper in his cause, for a moment, and — we are as good friends as before.”
He smiled like the Monsieur Droqville of the Belle Etoile, and extended his hand, which I took very respectfully and cordially.
Our momentary quarrel had left us only better friends.
The Marquis then told me I had better secure a bed in some hotel at Versailles, as a rush would be made to take them; and advised my going down next morning for the purpose.
I ordered horses accordingly for eleven o’clock; and, after a little more conversation, the Marquis d’Harmonville bid me goodnight, and ran down the stairs with his handkerchief to his mouth and nose, and, as I saw from my window, jumped into his close carriage again and drove away.
Next day I was at Versailles. As I approached the door of the Hotel de France, it was plain that I was not a moment too soon, if, indeed, I were not already too late.
A crowd of carriages were drawn up about the entrance, so that I had no chance of approaching except by dismounting and pushing my way among the horses. The hall was full of servants and gentlemen screaming to the proprietor, who, in a state of polite distraction, was assuring them, one and all, that there was not a room or a closet disengaged in his entire house.
I slipped out again, leaving the hall to those who were shouting, expostulating, wheedling, in the delusion that the host might, if he pleased, manage something for them. I jumped into my carriage and drove, at my horses’ best pace, to the Hotel du Reservoir. The blockade about this door was as complete as the other. The result was the same. It was very provoking, but what was to be done? My postillion had, a little officiously, while I was in the hall talking with the hotel authorities, got his horses, bit by bit, as other carriages moved away, to the very steps of the inn door.
This arrangement was very convenient so far as getting in again was concerned. But, this accomplished, how were we to get on? There were carriages in front, and carriages behind, and no less than four rows of carriages, of all sorts, outside.
I had at this time remarkably long and clear sight, and if I had been impatient before, guess what my feelings were when I saw an open carriage pass along the narrow strip of roadway left open at the other side, a barouche in which I was certain I recognized the veiled Countess and her husband. This carriage had been brought to a walk by a cart which occupied the whole breadth of the narrow way, and was moving with the customary tardiness of such vehicles.
I should have done more wisely if I had jumped down on the trottoir, and run round the block of carriages in front of the barouche. But, unfortunately, I was more of a Murat than a Moltke, and preferred a direct charge upon my object to relying on tactique. I dashed across the back seat of a carri
age which was next mine, I don’t know how; tumbled through a sort of gig, in which an old gentleman and a dog were dozing; stepped with an incoherent apology over the side of an open carriage, in which were four gentlemen engaged in a hot dispute; tripped at the far side in getting out, and fell flat across the backs of a pair of horses, who instantly began plunging and threw me head foremost in the dust.
To those who observed my reckless charge without being in the secret of my object I must have appeared demented. Fortunately, the interesting barouche had passed before the catastrophe, and covered as I was with dust, and my hat blocked, you may be sure I did not care to present myself before the object of my Quixotic devotion.
I stood for a while amid a storm of sacré-ing, tempered disagreeably with laughter; and in the midst of these, while endeavouring to beat the dust from my clothes with my handkerchief, I heard a voice with which I was acquainted call, “Monsieur Beckett.”
I looked and saw the Marquis peeping from a carriage-window. It was a welcome sight. In a moment I was at his carriage side.
“You may as well leave Versailles,” he said; “you have learned, no doubt, that there is not a bed to hire in either of the hotels; and I can add that there is not a room to let in the whole town. But I have managed something for you that will answer just as well. Tell your servant to follow us, and get in here and sit beside me.”
Fortunately an opening in the closely-packed carriages had just occurred, and mine was approaching.
I directed the servant to follow us; and the Marquis having said a word to his driver, we were immediately in motion.
“I will bring you to a comfortable place, the very existence of which is known to but few Parisians, where, knowing how things were here, I secured a room for you. It is only a mile away, and an old comfortable inn, called Le Dragon Volant. It was fortunate for you that my tiresome business called me to this place so early.”
I think we had driven about a mile-and-a-half to the further side of the palace when we found ourselves upon a narrow old road, with the woods of Versailles on one side, and much older trees, of a size seldom seen in France, on the other.
We pulled up before an antique and solid inn, built of Caen stone, in a fashion richer and more florid than was ever usual in such houses, and which indicated that it was originally designed for the private mansion of some person of wealth, and probably, as the wall bore many carved shields and supporters, of distinction also. A kind of porch, less ancient than the rest, projected hospitably with a wide and florid arch, over which, cut in high relief in stone, and painted and gilded, was the sign of the inn. This was the Flying Dragon, with wings of brilliant red and gold, expanded, and its tail, pale green and gold, twisted and knotted into ever so many rings, and ending in a burnished point barbed like the dart of death.
“I shan’t go in — but you will find it a comfortable place; at all events better than nothing. I would go in with you, but my incognito forbids. You will, I daresay, be all the better pleased to learn that the inn is haunted — I should have been, in my young days, I know. But don’t allude to that awful fact in hearing of your host, for I believe it is a sore subject. Adieu. If you want to enjoy yourself at the ball take my advice, and go in a domino. I think I shall look in; and certainly, if I do, in the same costume. How shall we recognize one another? Let me see, something held in the fingers — a flower won’t do, so many people will have flowers. Suppose you get a red cross a couple of inches long — you’re an Englishman — stitched or pinned on the breast of your domino, and I a white one? Yes, that will do very well; and whatever room you go into keep near the door till we meet. I shall look for you at all the doors I pass; and you, in the same way, for me; and we must find each other soon. So that is understood. I can’t enjoy a thing of that kind with any but a young person; a man of my age requires the contagion of young spirits and the companionship of some one who enjoys everything spontaneously. Farewell; we meet tonight.”
By this time I was standing on the road; I shut the carriage-door; bid him goodbye; and away he drove.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DRAGON VOLANT.
I took one look about me.
The building was picturesque; the trees made it more so. The antique and sequestered character of the scene, contrasted strangely with the glare and bustle of the Parisian life, to which my eye and ear had become accustomed.
Then I examined the gorgeous old sign for a minute or two. Next I surveyed the exterior of the house more carefully. It was large and solid, and squared more with my ideas of an ancient English hostelrie, such as the Canterbury pilgrims might have put up at, than a French house of entertainment. Except, indeed, for a round turret, that rose at the left flank of the house, and terminated in the extinguisher-shaped roof that suggests a French château.
I entered and announced myself as Monsieur Beckett, for whom a room had been taken. I was received with all the consideration due to an English milord, with, of course, an unfathomable purse.
My host conducted me to my apartment. It was a large room, a little sombre, panelled with dark wainscoting, and furnished in a stately and sombre style, long out of date. There was a wide hearth, and a heavy mantelpiece, carved with shields, in which I might, had I been curious enough, have discovered a correspondence with the heraldry on the outer walls. There was something interesting, melancholy, and even depressing in all this. I went to the stone-shafted window, and looked out upon a small park, with a thick wood, forming the background of a château, which presented a cluster of such conical-topped turrets as I have just now mentioned.
The wood and château were melancholy objects. They showed signs of neglect, and almost of decay; and the gloom of fallen grandeur, and a certain air of desertion hung oppressively over the scene.
I asked my host the name of the château.
“That, Monsieur, is the Château de la Carque,” he answered.
“It is a pity it is so neglected,” I observed. “I should say, perhaps, a pity that its proprietor is not more wealthy?”
“Perhaps so, Monsieur.”
“Perhaps?” — I repeated, and looked at him. “Then I suppose he is not very popular.”
“Neither one thing nor the other, Monsieur,” he answered; “I meant only that we could not tell what use he might make of riches.”
“And who is he?” I inquired.
“The Count de St. Alyre.”
“Oh! The Count! You are quite sure?” I asked, very eagerly.
It was now the innkeeper’s turn to look at me.
“Quite sure, Monsieur, the Count de St. Alyre.”
“Do you see much of him in this part of the world?”
“Not a great deal, Monsieur; he is often absent for a considerable time.”
“And is he poor?” I inquired.
“I pay rent to him for this house. It is not much; but I find he cannot wait long for it,” he replied, smiling satirically.
“From what I have heard, however, I should think he cannot be very poor?” I continued.
“They say, Monsieur, he plays. I know not. He certainly is not rich. About seven months ago, a relation of his died in a distant place. His body was sent to the Count’s house here, and by him buried in Père la Chaise, as the poor gentleman had desired. The Count was in profound affliction; although he got a handsome legacy, they say, by that death. But money never seems to do him good for any time.”
“He is old, I believe?”
“Old? we call him the ‘Wandering Jew,’ except, indeed, that he has not always the five sous in his pocket. Yet, Monsieur, his courage does not fail him. He has taken a young and handsome wife.”
“And, she?” I urged —
“Is the Countess de St. Alyre.”
“Yes; but I fancy we may say something more? She has attributes?”
“Three, Monsieur, three, at least most amiable.”
“Ah! And what are they?”
“Youth, beauty, and — diamonds.”
; I laughed. The sly old gentleman was foiling my curiosity.
“I see, my friend,” said I, “you are reluctant— “
“To quarrel with the Count,” he concluded. “True. You see, Monsieur, he could vex me in two or three ways; so could I him. But, on the whole, it is better each to mind his business, and to maintain peaceful relations; you understand.”
It was, therefore, no use trying, at least for the present. Perhaps he had nothing to relate. Should I think differently, by-and-by, I could try the effect of a few Napoleons. Possibly he meant to extract them.
The host of the Dragon Volant was an elderly man, thin, bronzed, intelligent, and with an air of decision, perfectly military. I learned afterwards that he had served under Napoleon in his early Italian campaigns.
“One question, I think you may answer,” I said, “without risking a quarrel. Is the Count at home?”
“He has many homes, I conjecture,” said the host evasively. “But — but I think I may say, Monsieur, that he is, I believe, at present staying at the Château de la Carque.”
I looked out of the window, more interested than ever, across the undulating grounds to the château, with its gloomy background of foliage.
“I saw him to-day, in his carriage at Versailles,” I said.
“Very natural.”
“Then his carriage and horses and servants are at the château?”
“The carriage he puts up here, Monsieur, and the servants are hired for the occasion. There is but one who sleeps at the château. Such a life must be terrifying for Madame the Countess,” he replied.
“The old screw!” I thought. “By this torture, he hopes to extract her diamonds. What a life! What fiends to contend with — jealousy and extortion!”
The knight having made this speech to himself, cast his eyes once more upon the enchanter’s castle, and heaved a gentle sigh — a sigh of longing, of resolution, and of love.
What a fool I was! and yet, in the sight of angels, are we any wiser as we grow older? It seems to me, only, that our illusions change as we go on; but, still, we are madmen all the same.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 794
