by Howard Pyle
“Monseigneur, — Having heard, monseigneur, that you have been interested in collecting odd and unique objects of curiosity and virtu, I have taken the great liberty of sending by madame my mother this insignificent trifle, which I hope, monseigneur, you will condescend to accept.
“Oliver de Monnière.”
“M — m — m! What is it the fool is writing about? Curios? I making a collection of curios? I never collected anything in my life but debts. The man is crazy! Does he think that I am a snuffy collector of stuffy curios? Let me see the snuffbox, August.”
The incomparable valet presented the waiter.
The marquis took the snuffbox in his hand and looked at it. “It is handsome,” said he; “it is curious. It is solid silver, and is worth—” he weighed it in his hand— “a hundred livres, perhaps.” He pressed the spring and opened the box as he spoke. It was full of cotton. Something dropped from it upon the coverlet. The marquis picked it up. It was a diamond of excessive brilliancy, almost as large as a bean.
The incomparable August was busied in removing the chocolate-pot and the empty cup, but presently observing the silence, he looked around. The marquis was holding something between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes were as big as teacups. His face was a sight to see. August was startled out of his composure. He hastily set the waiter with the china upon the window-seat, and hurried to the bedside.
“What is it, monseigneur?” said he.
His voice roused the marquis.
“Where is the lady who came in the carriage?” he cried, excitedly. “Run, stop her!” He flung the bedclothes off himself and jumped with one bound out upon the floor.
Once again August was startled out of his decorum. “Monseigneur!” Then, recovering himself again: “The lady, monseigneur, is gone.”
The gardener, working upon the terrace below, heard the rattle of a window flung violently open, and, upon looking up, was very much surprised to behold Monseigneur the Marquis, still clad in his colored dressing-gown, and with his nightcap thrust tipsily over one side of his head. So the marquis stood looking out of the window staring into space, for he had no more idea who it was that had stopped at the door and had left him a diamond worth twenty-five thousand livres than if he had never been born. “Ha!” thought he; “the letter; it was signed Oliver de Monnière.” Thereupon he drew his head in and shut the window again.
Scene Fourth. — The parlor of the house in Flourens.
Oliver’s mother has returned some little time from the château, and Oliver and she are talking it over between them.
“The marquis will visit us,” said Oliver, “within an hour.”
“He will do no such thing,” said Oliver’s mother; “he will not come at all.”
“He will,” said Oliver, taking out his brand-new watch from his breeches pocket and looking at it— “he will be here within a half an hour.”
Oliver’s mother sniffed incredulously. Oliver arose from the sofa where he was sitting and went to the window, and there stood drumming upon the sill, looking out into the street. Suddenly he drew back. The rumble of a coach was heard; it stopped before the house. A servant opened the coach door, and monseigneur himself stepped out.
He had driven over from the château, and had stopped at the inn. Pierre was standing at the door-way when the marquis leaned out from the window and beckoned — yes, actually beckoned to him. Pierre was so surprised that he took off not only his hat, but his wig also, and stood there bowing in the sun, with his head glistening like a billiard-ball.
“Do you know, innkeeper, of one Monsieur de Monnière who lives in this neighborhood?”
“Monsieur de Monnière?” repeated Pierre, blankly.
“Yes,” said the marquis, impatiently. “De Monnière — Monsieur de Monnière. Do you know where Monsieur de Monnière lives?”
“Monsieur de Monnière,” repeated Pierre, stupidly; he did not recognize the name.
The landlady stood in the door of the inn behind: woman are quicker of wit than men. “Monseigneur means Monsieur Oliver,” said she.
The marquis overheard. “Yes,” exclaimed he. “Monsieur Oliver — Monsieur Oliver de Monnière.”
“Oh, Monsieur Oliver!” cried Pierre. “Oh yes, I know him as well as I know myself. He and his respected mother are now living up there on the hill. You can, monseigneur, see the house with your own eyes. It is that one with the white wall to the side, and with the apple and pear trees showing over the top. The rich Dr. Fouchette used to live there. It is, monseigneur, the finest house in Flourens. Monsieur Oliver indeed! That is good! I have known Monsieur Oliver ever since—”
But the coach was gone; the marquis had called out to the driver, had pulled up the window with a click, and now the coach was gone. Pierre stared after it for a while, and then he put on first his wig and then his hat, and went into the house again.
So Oliver drew back from the window and turned around. “You see, mother,” said he, “monseigneur comes, as I asserted he would.”
Oliver’s mother was in a tremendous flutter. “And to think,” said she, “of his coming all the way from the château just because of a little piece of cut-glass!”
Oliver laughed. “That little piece of cut-glass was worth having,” said he. “You do not yet know the value of little pieces of cut-glass like that, my mother.”
Madame Munier did not listen to what Oliver was saying. “And to think,” said she, “of Monseigneur the Marquis visiting me, the Widow Munier!”
“You forget, mother,” said Oliver. “You are no longer Widow Munier, you are Madame de Monnière.”
Henri opened the door. “The Marquis de Flourens,” he announced; and the marquis entered the room with his feathered hat and his clouded cane in his hand.
“This is Monsieur Oliver de Monnière?” said he.
Oliver bowed.
“And this lady?”
“Permit me,” said Oliver; “my mother.”
Madame de Monnière courtesied so low that she nearly sat down upon the floor. She was profoundly agitated; she was frightened; she would rather be somewhere else. She was pleased. Yes, it was delicious having a marquis visit one in one’s own house.
“And you, madame,” said the marquis, “if I may be permitted to ask, did me the honor of calling upon me this morning?”
Madame de Monnière nodded. She was embarrassed at the thought of what she had done; she could not speak. Oliver spoke for her.
“She obliged me,” said he, “by executing a little commission for me. Pardon me, monseigneur, that, knowing your interest as a collector, I took the liberty of sending a small specimen to you. I have your forgiveness?”
“Forgiveness!” exclaimed the marquis. “You ask me to forgive you? My dear child, I cannot accept such a gift. It is too great!”
“Do not speak so,” said Oliver. “It is nothing — a trifle.”
“Nothing!” cried the marquis; “a trifle! It is worth twenty-five thousand livres.”
“What then?” said Oliver. “I have many others. You embarrass me by making so much of such a little thing. Let me beg that you will not refuse to accept of this trifle — as a connoisseur — as a collector of curios—”
“Ah!” said the marquis, “there you touch me — as a connoisseur — as a collector. Well, then, I accept it. But you — you say you have many others like this? — you are also a connoisseur?”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “I have been indulging a very considerable taste in that direction for the past year. I think I may say now that I have as fine a collection of diamonds as any in Europe.”
“Would that I might be permitted to see them!” said the marquis.
“You shall,” said Oliver; “at least some of them. I can show you but a few at present. If you will pardon me for a moment, I will go and bring them.”
He was gone, and Madame de Monnière and Monseigneur the Marquis were left alone together. For all this while the poor woman had been sitting dazed and bewilder
ed. The words that had fallen upon her ears had overwhelmed her. That bit of glass — that little bit of cut-glass — was worth twenty-five thousand livres! Twenty-five thousand livres! Monseigneur the Marquis himself had said so! Twenty-five thousand livres! and Oliver had given it to the marquis as a trifle! Twenty-five thousand livres! and she with her own ears had heard Oliver say that he had many more bits of glass like it! Yes, he had gone this very moment to bring them there and show them to the marquis. Twenty-five thousand livres! Was she dreaming or was she waking? Twenty-five thousand livres! She was amazed; she was bewildered; she was stupefied. In the midst of all, the marquis turned to her.
“And you, madame,” said he, “why did you not wait this morning, and let me at least thank you for this magnificent gift?”
Madame de Monnière’s head was spinning. “Twenty-five thousand livres!” said she.
“Ah, I see,” said the marquis. “You are embarrassed at the considerableness of it. It is, indeed, from one point of view, a treasure; but we connoisseurs, madame, we collectors, we frequently exchange these little precious curiosities. It is our habit.”
Madame de Monnière rose for a moment to the surface of her bewilderment. “Yes,” said she; “that is true;” and thereupon sank again into the gulf. “Twenty-five thousand livres!” she murmured to herself.
Just then Oliver returned. In his hand he carried a small box of curiously-wrought iron. Unlocking it, he raised the lid, removed a layer of cotton, and then, tilting it, emptied upon the table a handful of diamonds, that fell flashing and sparkling like broken fragments of sunlight. One or two of the gems rolled across the table and fell hopping to the floor, but Oliver did not appear to notice them. There was a pause of blank and utter silence. Madame de Monnière herself could not have been more amazed at the sight she beheld than was the Marquis de Flourens. Oliver spread out the gems upon the table with his hand, as though they were so many glass beads.
It was the marquis who broke the silence. “Mon Dieu!” he whispered at last, and fetched a breath so deep that it seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. Then he roused himself. “You have dropped some upon the floor,” said he. “I saw them fall.” And he would have stooped to find them.
Oliver smiled. “It is of no importance,” said he. “Henri will find them by-and-by.”
For a while the marquis examined the stones in silence, picking out some of the larger gems, and scrutinizing them closely and critically, one after another. “It is a most magnificent collection, my young friend,” said he at last. “I never saw a finer lot of diamonds in my life, excepting the King’s.”
“Oh, these are but a few,” said Oliver. “I am sorry that I have not some of my larger and finer stones to show you.”
“Only a few?” repeated the marquis. “And how much, then, do you suppose that this collection of diamonds is worth?”
“That would be hard to tell,” said Oliver, smiling. “But perhaps not more than half a million livres. None of the stones are very large or fine.”
“OLIVER SPREAD OUT THE GEMS UPON THE TABLE WITH HIS HAND.”
“Not large? Not fine?” cried the marquis, and he picked out a diamond from among the rest. “What, then, do you call this?”
“It is off color,” said Oliver.
“It is a treasure that a king might covet!” cried the marquis, enthusiastically.
Oliver laughed. “You admire it?” said he. “Then do me the favor to accept it.”
The marquis rose to his feet. “Oh,” he cried, “this is too much! I do not dare.”
“You pain me by refusing,” said Oliver. “As a connoisseur, monseigneur, as a collector—”
“Ah!” said the marquis, “there you touch me again. As a collector — well, then, I accept it,” and he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “Embrace me, Oliver!”
Oliver’s mother was long past wondering at anything, or else she might have thought it a little strange to see Oliver — Oliver, the son of Jean Munier, the tailor — clasped in the arms of Monseigneur the Marquis of Flourens.
The marquis released Oliver from his embrace and sat down again. “But tell me,” said he, “you and madame, you then live here?”
He looked around, and Oliver’s eyes followed his. It certainly was a poor house for one who could empty half a million livres’ worth of diamonds upon a table.
“For the present,” said Oliver, “yes. We have been very poor, my mother and I.” He paused. The marquis’s eyes were resting intently upon him, and he felt that the other waited for further explanation. He had already arranged a story, but now that the time had come to tell it, his courage almost failed. “My uncle,” said he at last, “came back from America about a year ago, and found us very poor — my mother and me. He was rich.” Again he paused for a moment, and then continued: “He came from Brazil, where he was the owner of a diamond mine.”
“But this uncle of yours,” said the marquis, “where is he now?”
“He is dead,” said Oliver. “He is in heaven.”
Oliver’s mother heard what he said through all the buzzing of the thoughts in her head. “So, then,” thought she to herself, “my brother-in-law is dead, is he?”
“And you?” said the marquis.
“I?” said Oliver. “I have inherited his fortune. It is all in diamonds.”
Madame Munier pricked up her ears. She was growing interested. Her Oliver, then, had inherited a fortune.
“And your uncle’s name — what was it?” said the marquis.
“His name?” said Oliver. “His name was Henri, the Chevalier de Monnière-Croix.”
“The devil!” whispered Oliver’s mother to herself. “I did not know that we were so well connected.” She was past being surprised at anything now.
“De Monnière-Croix?” repeated the marquis. “De Monnière-Croix? The name is not familiar.”
“Perhaps not,” said Oliver. “My uncle was very young — a mere child — when he went to America, and for the twelve months past since his return to France he and I have been living quietly together in Paris, where he was engaged in settling his affairs.”
The marquis was looking steadily at him. “Is your family of long descent?” said he.
“Not very; as I said, my father was very poor; you know, monseigneur, how sadly poor people of good family may be in the country—” He hesitated, and then stopped.
“But,” said the marquis, presently, “you say your uncle is dead. Had he, then, no other heirs than you? Had he no children?”
“No,” said Oliver.
“And you inherit all — all his wealth?”
“All.”
“It is then considerable?”
“It is one of the greatest fortunes in France.”
“Can you prove that to me?”
“I can.”
“Embrace me, my dear child!”
As the marquis rode back again to the château he sat in the corner of the coach, meditating deeply over all that he had seen and heard. “The Chevalier de Monnière-Croix,” he muttered to himself— “the Chevalier de Monnière-Croix.” Then he suddenly aroused himself from his meditations, thrust his thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out the diamond that Oliver had given him. He held it in a dozen different lights, examining it keenly and critically. Finally he thrust it back again into the pocket whence he had taken it. “At least,” said he, “his diamonds are real. Why, then, should he not be of noble family if he chooses? A half a million livres’ worth of diamonds, and that, as he tells me, only a small part of his wealth! Very well, then, his uncle was a chevalier and he is a prince — the Prince de Golconda, if he chooses.”
Oliver stood for a long while looking out of the window after the marquis’s coach had driven away. He felt very uneasy; he wished that he had not told those lies; they frightened him. He felt as if he could see them already flying home again to roost. But he need not have been afraid. And then, besides, if there was a cloud, it had had a silver edge: th
e last words that the marquis had uttered had been: “My dear Oliver, let me hope that we may soon see you at the château — you and your mother” (that was an after-thought), “for my daughter Céleste will find it very stupid with no young people about. I shall not, however, be able to show you my collection of diamonds, unfortunately; they are at present — ahem! — in Paris.”
Scene Fifth. — A garden at the Château de Flourens.
A garden such as Watteau loved to paint — bosky trees, little stretches of grassy lawn, white statues of nymphs and fauns peering from among the green leaves, a statue of a naiad pouring water from a marble urn, green with moss, into a marble basin, green with moss.
In front of all, the smooth river, dusked and dappled now and then by little breezes that slowly sway the tops of the tall poplar-trees. The little birds sing, and patches of sunlight and shadow flicker upon the grass.
Enter Oliver and Mademoiselle Céleste. She carries a pink parasol that makes her face glow like a rose leaf, and Oliver walks by her side.
That morning Oliver had paid his first visit to the château. His master had trained him well in the ways of the world during the twelvemonth he had lived with him in Paris; nevertheless, he came to the château quivering with trepidation. But now the trepidation had passed and gone, and it was all like the bewildering glamour of some strange dream — the presence of his love no longer dumbly reflected from the smooth, passionless mirror, but in warm living flesh and blood, breathing and articulate. She spoke; she smiled; it was divine. A little wind blew a gauze of hair across her soft cheek now and then as they walked together; her sleeve brushed against Oliver’s arm, and Oliver’s heart quivered and thrilled.
That night was to him but a succession of dreams, coming one after another like a continuous panorama, only each separate picture centred in one figure, and Oliver himself walked along beside her, and told her that he loved her. It was a deliciously restless night.
