Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Oh, monseigneur!” Francois sprang back, and tossed his arms to heaven.

  “But it did not happen,” said M. Beaucaire.

  “It could not!” exclaimed Francois.

  “No. And you did very well, my children—” the young man smiled benevolently— “very well. And now,” he continued, turning to Lady Mary and speaking in English, “let me be asking of our gallants yonder what make’ them to be in cabal with highwaymen. One should come to a polite understanding with them, you think? Not so?”

  He bowed, offering his hand to conduct her to the coach, where Molyneux and his companions, having drawn Sir Hugh from under his horse, were engaged in reviving and reassuring Lady Rellerton, who had fainted. But Lady Mary stayed Beaucaire with a gesture, and the two stood where they were.

  “Monseigneur!” she said, with a note of raillery in her voice, but raillery so tender that he started with happiness. His movement brought him a hot spasm of pain, and he clapped his hand to a red stain on his waistcoat.

  “You are hurt!”

  “It is nothing,” smiled M. Beaucaire. Then, that she might not see the stain spreading, he held his handkerchief over the spot. “I am a little — but jus’ a trifling — bruise’; ’tis all.”

  “You shall ride in the coach,” she whispered. “Will you be pleased, M. de Chateaurien?”

  “Ah, my beautiful!” She seemed to wave before him like a shining mist. “I wish that ride might las’ for always! Can you say that, mademoiselle?”

  “Monseigneur,” she cried in a passion of admiration, “I would what you would have be, should be. What do you not deserve? You are the bravest man in the world!”

  “Ha, ha! I am jus’ a poor Frenchman.”

  “Would that a few Englishmen had shown themselves as ‘poor’ tonight. The vile cowards, not to help you!” With that, suddenly possessed by her anger, she swept away from him to the coach.

  Sir Hugh, groaning loudly, was being assisted into the vehicle.

  “My little poltroons,” she said, “what are you doing with your fellow-craven, Sir Hugh Guilford, there?”

  “Madam,” replied Molyneux humbly, “Sir Hugh’s leg is broken. Lady Rellerton graciously permits him to be taken in.”

  “I do not permit it! M. de Chateaurien rides with us.”

  “But—”

  “Sir! Leave the wretch to groan by the roadside,” she cried fiercely, “which plight I would were that of all of you! But there will be a pretty story for the gossips to-morrow! And I could almost find pity for you when I think of the wits when you return to town. Fine gentlemen you; hardy bravos, by heaven! to leave one man to meet a troop of horse single-handed, while you huddle in shelter until you are overthrown and disarmed by servants! Oh, the wits! Heaven save you from the wits!”

  “Madam.”

  “Address me no more! M. de Chateaurien, Lady Rellerton and I will greatly esteem the honor of your company. Will you come?”

  She stepped quickly into the coach, and was gathering her skirts to make room for the Frenchman, when a heavy voice spoke from the shadows of the tree by the wayside.

  “Lady Mary Carlisle will, no doubt, listen to a word of counsel on this point.”

  The Duke of Winterset rode out into the moonlight, composedly untieing a mask from about his head. He had not shared the flight of his followers, but had retired into the shade of the oak, whence he now made his presence known with the utmost coolness.

  “Gracious heavens, ’tis Winterset!” exclaimed Lady Rellerton.

  “Turned highwayman and cut-throat,” cried Lady Mary.

  “No, no,” laughed M. Beaucaire, somewhat unsteadily, as he stood, swaying a little, with one hand on the coach-door, the other pressed hard on his side, “he only oversee’; he is jus’ a little bashful, sometime’. He is a great man, but he don’ want all the glory!”

  “Barber,” replied the Duke, “I must tell you that I gladly descend to bandy words with you; your monstrous impudence is a claim to rank I cannot ignore. But a lackey who has himself followed by six other lackeys—”

  “Ha, ha! Has not M. le Duc been busy all this evening to justify me? And I think mine mus’ be the bes’ six. Ha, ha! You think?”

  “M. de Chateaurien,” said Lady Mary, “we are waiting for you.”

  “Pardon,” he replied. “He has something to say; maybe it is bes’ if you hear it now.”

  “I wish to hear nothing from him — ever!”

  “My faith, madam,” cried the Duke, “this saucy fellow has paid you the last insult! He is so sure of you he does not fear you will believe the truth. When all is told, if you do not agree he deserved the lashing we planned to—”

  “I’ll hear no more!”

  “You will bitterly repent it, madam. For your own sake I entreat—”

  “And I also,” broke in M. Beaucaire. “Permit me, mademoiselle; let him speak.”

  “Then let him be brief,” said Lady Mary, “for I am earnest to be quit of him. His explanation or an attack on my friend and on my carriage should be made to my brother.”

  “Alas that he was not here,” said the Duke, “to aid me! Madam, was your carriage threatened? I have endeavored only to expunge a debt I owed to Bath and to avenge an insult offered to yourself through—”

  “Sir, sir, my patience will bear little more!”

  “A thousan’ apology,” said M. Beaucaire. “You will listen, I only beg, Lady Mary?”

  She made an angry gesture of assent.

  “Madam, I will be brief as I may. Two months ago there came to Bath a French gambler calling himself Beaucaire, a desperate fellow with the cards or dice, and all the men of fashion went to play at his lodging, where he won considerable sums. He was small, wore a black wig and mustachio. He had the insolence to show himself everywhere until the Master of Ceremonies rebuffed him in the pump-room, as you know, and after that he forbore his visits to the rooms. Mr. Nash explained (and was confirmed, madam, by indubitable information) that this Beaucaire was a man of unspeakable, vile, low birth, being, in fact, no other than a lackey of the French king’s ambassador, Victor by name, de Mirepoix’s barber. Although his condition was known, the hideous impudence of the fellow did not desert him, and he remained in Bath, where none would speak to him.”

  “Is your farrago nigh done, sir?”

  “A few moments, madam. One evening, three weeks gone, I observed a very elegant equipage draw up to my door, and the Duke of Chateaurien was announced. The young man’s manners were worthy — according to the French acceptance — and ‘twere idle to deny him the most monstrous assurance. He declared himself a noble traveling for pleasure. He had taken lodgings in Bath for a season, he said, and called at once to pay his respects to me. His tone was so candid — in truth, I am the simplest of men, very easily gulled — and his stroke so bold, that I did not for one moment suspect him; and, to my poignant regret — though in the humblest spirit I have shown myself eager to atone — that very evening I had the shame of presenting him to yourself.”

  “The shame, sir!”

  “Have patience, pray, madam. Ay, the shame! You know what figure he hath cut in Bath since that evening. All ran merrily with him until several days ago Captain Badger denounced him as an impostor, vowing that Chateaurien was nothing.”

  “Pardon,” interrupted M. Beaucaire. “‘Castle Nowhere’ would have been so much better. Why did you not make him say it that way, monsieur?”

  Lady Mary started; she was looking at the Duke, and her face was white. He continued: “Poor Captain Badger was stabbed that same day.—”

  “Most befitting poor Captain Badger,” muttered Molyneux.

  “ —— And his adversary had the marvelous insolence to declare that he fought in my quarrel! This afternoon the wounded man sent for me, and imparted a very horrifying intelligence. He had discovered a lackey whom he had seen waiting upon Beaucaire in attendance at the door of this Chateaurien’s lodging. Beaucaire had disappeared the day before Chateaurie
n’s arrival. Captain Badger looked closely at Chateaurien at their next meeting, and identified him with the missing Beaucaire beyond the faintest doubt. Overcome with indignation, he immediately proclaimed the impostor. Out of regard for me, he did not charge him with being Beaucaire; the poor soul was unwilling to put upon me the humiliation of having introduced a barber; but the secret weighed upon him till he sent for me and put everything in my hands. I accepted the odium; thinking only of atonement. I went to Sir John Wimpledon’s. I took poor Sir Hugh, there, and these other gentlemen aside, and told them my news. We narrowly observed this man, and were shocked at our simplicity in not having discovered him before. These are men of honor and cool judgment, madam. Mr. Molyneux had acted for him in the affair of Captain Badger, and was strongly prejudiced in his favor; but Mr. Molyneux, Sir Hugh, Mr. Bantison, every one of them, in short, recognized him. In spite of his smooth face and his light hair, the adventurer Beaucaire was writ upon him amazing plain. Look at him, madam, if he will dare the inspection. You saw this Beaucaire well, the day of his expulsion from the rooms. Is not this he?”

  M. Beaucaire stepped close to her. Her pale face twitched.

  “Look!” he said.

  “Oh, oh!” she whispered with a dry throat, and fell back in the carriage.

  “Is it so?” cried the Duke.

  “I do not know. — I — cannot tell.”

  “One moment more. I begged these gentlemen to allow me to wipe out the insult I had unhappily offered to Bath, but particularly to you. They agreed not to forestall me or to interfere. I left Sir John Wimpledon’s early, and arranged to give the sorry rascal a lashing under your own eyes, a satisfaction due the lady into whose presence he had dared to force himself.”

  “‘Noblesse oblige’?” said M. Beaucaire in a tone of gentle inquiry.

  “And now, madam,” said the Duke, “I will detain you not one second longer. I plead the good purpose of my intentions, begging you to believe that the desire to avenge a hateful outrage, next to the wish to serve you, forms the dearest motive in the heart of Winterset.”

  “Bravo!” cried Beaucaire softly.

  Lady Mary leaned toward him, a thriving terror in her eyes. “It is false?” she faltered.

  “Monsieur should not have been born so high. He could have made little book’.”

  “You mean it is false?” she cried breathlessly.

  “‘Od’s blood, is she not convinced?” broke out Mr. Bantison. “Fellow, were you not the ambassador’s barber?”

  “It is all false?” she whispered.

  “The mos’ fine art, mademoiselle. How long you think it take M. de Winterset to learn that speech after he write it out? It is a mix of what is true and the mos’ chaste art. Monsieur has become a man of letters. Perhaps he may enjoy that more than the wars. Ha, ha!”

  Mr. Bantison burst into a roar of laughter. “Do French gentlemen fight lackeys? Ho, ho, ho! A pretty country! We English do as was done to-night, have our servants beat them.”

  “And attend ourselves,” added M. Beaucaire, looking at the Duke, “somewhat in the background? But, pardon,” he mocked, “that remind’ me. Francois, return to Mr. Bantison and these gentlemen their weapons.”

  “Will you answer a question?” said Molyneux mildly.

  “Oh, with pleasure, monsieur.”

  “Were you ever a barber?”

  “No, monsieur,” laughed the young man.

  “Pah!” exclaimed Bantison. “Let me question him. Now, fellow, a confession may save you from jail. Do you deny you are Beaucaire?”

  “Deny to a such judge?”

  “Ha!” said Bantison. “What more do you want, Molyneux? Fellow, do you deny that you came to London in the ambassador’s suite?”

  “No, I do not deny.”

  “He admits it! Didn’t you come as his barber?”

  “Yes, my frien’, as his barber.” Lady Mary cried out faintly, and, shuddering, put both hands over her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Molyneux. “You fight like a gentleman.”

  “I thank you, monsieur.”

  “You called yourself Beaucaire?”

  “Yes, monsieur.” He was swaying to and fro; his servants ran to support him.

  “I wish—” continued Molyneux, hesitating. “Evil take me! — but I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

  “Assist Sir Hugh into my carriage,” said Lady Mary.

  “Farewell, mademoiselle!” M. Beaucaire’s voice was very faint. His eyes were fixed upon her face. She did not look toward him.

  They were propping Sir Hugh on the cushions. The Duke rode up close to Beaucaire, but Francois seized his bridle fiercely, and forced the horse back on its haunches.

  “The man’s servants worship him,” said Molyneux.

  “Curse your insolence!” exclaimed the Duke. “How much am I to bear from this varlet and his varlets? Beaucaire, if you have not left Bath by to-morrow noon, you will be clapped into jail, and the lashing you escaped to-night shall be given you thrice tenfold!”

  “I shall be-in the — Assemily — Room’ at nine — o’clock, one week — from — to-night,” answered the young man, smiling jauntily, though his lips were colorless. The words cost him nearly all his breath and strength. “You mus’ keep — in the — backgroun’, monsieur. Ha, ha!” The door of the coach closed with a slam.

  “Mademoiselle — fare — well!”

  “Drive on!” said Lady Mary.

  M. Beaucaire followed the carriage with his eyes. As the noise of the wheels and the hoof-beats of the accompanying cavalcade grew fainter in the distance, the handkerchief he had held against his side dropped into the white dust, a heavy red splotch.

  “Only — roses,” he gasped, and fell back in the arms of his servants.

  Chapter Five

  BEAU NASH STOOD at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows: before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august deference; somewhat stately to the young bucks; greeting the wits with gracious friendliness and a twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly gallantry before the beauties; the degree of his inclination measured the altitude of the recipient as accurately as a nicely calculated sand-glass measures the hours.

  The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, fashion — to speak more concretely: nobles, belles, gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets — made fairyland (or opera bouffe, at least) in his dominions; play ran higher and higher, and Mr. Nash’s coffers filled up with gold. To crown his pleasure, a prince of the French blood, the young Comte de Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached Bath at noon in state, accompanied by the Marquis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV. The Beau dearly prized the society of the lofty, and the present visit was an honor to Bath: hence to the Master of Ceremonies. What was better, there would be some profitable hours with the cards and dice. So it was that Mr. Nash smiled never more benignly than on that bright evening. The rooms rang with the silvery voices of women and delightful laughter, while the fiddles went merrily, their melodies chiming sweetly with the joyance of his mood.

  The skill and brazen effrontery of the ambassador’s scoundrelly servant in passing himself off for a man of condition formed the point of departure for every conversation. It was discovered that there were but three persons present who had not suspected him from the first; and, by a singular paradox, the most astute of all proved to be old Mr. Bicksit, the traveler, once a visitor at Chateaurien; for he, according to report, had by a coup of diplomacy entrapped the impostor into an admission that there was no such place. However, like poor Captain Badger, the worthy old man had held his peace out of regard for the Duke of Winterset. This nobleman, heretofore secretly disliked, suspected of irregular devices at play, and never admired, had won admiration and popularity by his remorse for the mistake, and by the modesty of his attitude in endeavoring to atone for it, without presumin
g upon the privilege of his rank to laugh at the indignation of society; an action the more praiseworthy because his exposure of the impostor entailed the disclosure of his own culpability in having stood the villain’s sponsor. To-night, the happy gentleman, with Lady Mary Carlisle upon his arm, went grandly about the rooms, sowing and reaping a harvest of smiles. ’Twas said work would be begun at once to rebuild the Duke’s country seat, while several ruined Jews might be paid out of prison. People gazing on the beauty and the stately but modest hero by her side, said they would make a noble pair. She had long been distinguished by his attentions, and he had come brilliantly out of the episode of the Frenchman, who had been his only real rival. Wherever they went, there arose a buzz of pleasing gossip and adulation. Mr. Nash, seeing them near him, came forward with greetings. A word on the side passed between the nobleman and the exquisite.

  “I had news of the rascal tonight,” whispered Nash. “He lay at a farm till yesterday, when he disappeared; his ruffians, too.”

  “You have arranged?” asked the Duke.

  “Fourteen bailiffs are watching without. He could not come within gunshot. If they clap eyes on him, they will hustle him to jail, and his cutthroats shall not avail him a hair’s weight. The impertinent swore he’d be here by nine, did he?”

  “He said so; and ’tis a rash dog, sir.”

  “It is just nine now.”

  “Send out to see if they have taken him.”

  “Gladly.”

  The Beau beckoned an attendant, and whispered in his ear.

  Many of the crowd had edged up to the two gentlemen with apparent carelessness, to overhear their conversation. Those who did overhear repeated it in covert asides, and this circulating undertone, confirming a vague rumor that Beaucaire would attempt the entrance that night, lent a pleasurable color of excitement to the evening. The French prince, the ambassador, and their suites were announced. Polite as the assembly was, it was also curious, and there occurred a mannerly rush to see the newcomers. Lady Mary, already pale, grew whiter as the throng closed round her; she looked up pathetically at the Duke, who lost no time in extricating her from the pressure.