by Eugène Sue
“‘Father,’ said Gerald, ‘this is a duty that every right-minded man owes to his country. It is an obligation of race, particularly when a war is actually going on, and I consider it an ignoble act to endeavour to escape the dangers of war by hiring some poor devil to leave his farm or work-bench and go and run the risk of being killed in your stead. To do this is to confess oneself a coward, and, as I am not desirous of such a reputation, I shall serve, if my name is drawn.’”
“Zounds! I’m in love with your young duke, already!” exclaimed the veteran.
“He stated the case pretty correctly, didn’t he?” replied Olivier, with friendly complacency. “Though this resolution seemed very strange to his father, that gentleman had too keen a sense of honour to oppose it. Gerald’s name was drawn, and that is the way he happened to be a private in the African Chasseurs, currying his horse, doing his share of the stable and kitchen work like the rest of us, and even going to the guard-house without a word of complaint if he absented himself without permission. In short, there wasn’t a better soldier in the regiment.”
“Nor a braver, too, I’ll be bound,” said the veteran, more and more interested.
“Brave as a lion, and so gay and enthusiastic when he charged upon the enemy that he would have fired the hearts of a whole battalion!”
“But with his name and connections, I should think he would soon have been made an officer.”
“And so he would, doubtless, though he cared nothing about it, for when his term of service expired, and he had paid his debt to his country, as he expressed it, he said he wanted to return and again enjoy the pleasures of Paris life of which he was passionately fond. After three years of service Gerald had become a quartermaster like myself. About this time he was severely wounded in the shoulder during a bold charge upon quite a large body of Arabs. Fortunately, I was able to extricate him and carry him off the field, — lifeless to all appearance, — on my horse. The result was he was furloughed, and on leaving the service he went back to Paris. We had become quite intimate, and after his return to France we kept up quite a brisk correspondence. I hoped to meet him again upon my arrival here, but I learned that he was travelling in England. This morning, as I was walking along the boulevard, I heard some one call me at the top of his voice, and, turning, I saw Gerald jump out of a handsome cabriolet, and a second later we were embracing each other as two friends embrace each other on the battlefield after a warm engagement.”
“‘We must dine and spend the evening together,’ he said.’ Where are you staying?’
“‘With my uncle,’ I replied.’ I have told him about you a hundred times, and he loves you almost as much as I do.’
“‘Very well, then I will come and take dinner with you,’ said Gerald. ‘I want to see your uncle. I have a thousand things to say to him.’
“And knowing what a kind-hearted, unassuming fellow Gerald is, I assented to his proposal, warning him, however, that I should be obliged to leave him at seven o’clock, exactly as if I were clerk of the court, or was obliged to return to quarters,” concluded Olivier, gaily.
“Good lad that you are!” said the commander, affectionately.
“It will give me great pleasure to introduce Gerald to you, uncle, for I know that you will feel at ease with him at once; besides,” continued the young soldier, colouring a little, “Gerald is rich, I am poor. He knows my scruples, and as he is aware that I could not afford to pay my share of the bill at any fashionable restaurant, he preferred to invite himself here.”
“I understand,” said the veteran, “and your young duke shows both delicacy of feeling and kindness of heart in acting thus. Let us at least hope that Madame Barbançon’s vinaigrette won’t disagree with him,” added the commander, laughing.
He had scarcely given utterance to this philanthropical wish when the door-bell gave another loud peal, and a moment afterwards the uncle and nephew saw the young Duc de Senneterre coming down the garden walk preceded by Madame Barbançon, who was in such a state of mental perturbation that she had entirely forgotten to remove her big kitchen apron.
CHAPTER III.
THE DINNER IN THE ARBOUR.
THE DUC DE Senneterre, who was about Olivier Raymond’s age, had a distinguished bearing, and an exceedingly handsome and attractive face, with black hair and moustache, and eyes of a deep rich blue. His attire was marked with an elegant simplicity.
“Uncle, this is Gerald, my best friend, of whom I have so often spoken,” said Olivier.
“I am delighted to see you, monsieur,” said the veteran, cordially offering his hand to his nephew’s friend.
“And I, commander,” rejoined Gerald, with that deference to age which is imbibed from prolonged military service, “am sincerely glad to have the honour of pressing your hand. I know all your goodness to Olivier, and as I regard him almost as a brother, you must understand how thoroughly I have always appreciated your devotion to him.”
“Gentlemen, will you have your soup in the house or under the arbour, as you usually do when the weather is fine?” inquired Madame Barbançon.
“We will dine in the arbour — if the commander approves, my dear Madame Barbançon,” responded Gerald; “it will be charming; the afternoon is perfect.”
“Monsieur knows me?” exclaimed the housekeeper, looking first at Olivier, and then at the duke, in great astonishment.
“Know you, Madame Barbançon?” exclaimed Gerald, gaily. “Why, hasn’t Olivier spoken of you a hundred times while we were in camp, and haven’t we had more than one quarrel all on your account?”
“On my account?”
“Most assuredly. That rascal of an Olivier is a great Bonapartist, you know. He cannot forgive any one for detesting that odious tyrant, and I took your part, for I, too, abhor the tyrant — that vile Corsican ogre!”
“Corsican ogre! You are a man after my own heart, monsieur. Let us shake hands — we understand each other,” cried the housekeeper, triumphantly.
And she extended her bony hand to Gerald, who shook it heartily, at the same time remarking to the commander:
“Upon my word, sir, you had better take care, and you, too, Olivier, will have to look out now. Madame Barbançon had no one to help her before, now she will have a sturdy auxiliary in me.”
“Look here, Madame Barbançon,” exclaimed Olivier, coming to the rescue of his friend whom the housekeeper seemed inclined to monopolise, “Gerald must be nearly famished, you forget that. Come, I’ll help you bring the table out here.”
“True, I had forgotten all about dinner,” cried the housekeeper, hastening towards the house.
Seeing Olivier start after her, as if to aid her, Gerald said:
“Wait a moment, my dear fellow, do you suppose I’m going to leave all the work to you?”
Then turning to the commander:
“You don’t object, I trust, commander. I am making very free, I know, but when we were in the army together Olivier and I set the mess-table more than once, so you will find that I’m not as awkward as you might suppose.”
It was a pleasure to see how cleverly and adroitly and gaily Gerald assisted his former comrade in setting the table under the arbour. The task was accomplished so quickly and neatly that one would have supposed that the young duke, like his friend, must have been used to poverty all his life.
To please his friend, Gerald, in half an hour, made a complete conquest of the veteran and his housekeeper, who was delighted beyond expression to see her anti-Bonapartist ally partake with great apparent enjoyment of her onion soup, salad, and vinaigrette, to which Gerald even asked to be helped twice.
It is needless to say that, during this cheerful repast, the veteran, delicately led on by Gerald, was induced to talk of his campaigns; then, this tribute of respect paid to their companion’s superior years, the two young men related all sorts of episodes of their college and army life.
The veteran had lighted his pipe, and Gerald and Olivier their cigars, when the latter happ
ened to inquire of his friend:
“By the way, what has become of that scoundrel, Macreuse, who used to play the spy on us at college? You remember him? — a big, light-haired fellow, who used to cuff us soundly as he passed, just because he dared to, being twice as big as we were.”
At the name of Macreuse, Gerald’s face took on an expression of mingled contempt and aversion, and he replied:
“You speak rather slightingly, — M. Célestin de Macreuse, it seems to me.”
“De Macreuse!” cried Olivier. “He must have treated himself to the de since we knew him, then. In those days his origin was shrouded in mystery. Nobody knew anything about his parents. He was so poor that he once ate half a dozen wood-lice to earn a sou.”
“And then he was so horribly cruel,” added Gerald; “do you remember his putting those little birds’ eyes out with a pin to see if they would fly afterwards?”
“The scoundrel!” exclaimed the indignant commander. “Such a man as that ought to be flayed alive.”
“It would rejoice my heart to see your prediction fulfilled, commander,” said Gerald, laughing. Then, turning to Olivier, he continued: “It will surprise you very much, I think, when I tell you what I know of M. Célestin de Macreuse. I have told you, I believe, how very exclusive the society is in which my mother has always moved, so you can judge of my astonishment when one evening, shortly after my return to Paris, I heard the name of M. de Macreuse announced in my mother’s drawing-room. It was the very man. I had retained such an unpleasant recollection of the fellow, that I went to my mother and said:
“‘Why do you receive that man who just spoke to you, — that big, light-haired, sallow man?’
“‘Why, that is M. de Macreuse,’ my mother replied, in tones indicative of the profoundest respect.
“‘And who is M. de Macreuse, my dear mother? I never saw him in your house before.’
“‘No, for he has just returned from his travels,’ she answered. ‘He is a very distinguished and highly exemplary young man, — the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission.’
“‘The deuce! And what is the St. Polycarpe Mission, my dear mother?’
“‘It is a society that strives to make the poor resigned to their misery by teaching them that the more they suffer here, the happier they will be hereafter.’
“‘Se non è vero, è ben trovato,’ I laughingly remarked. ‘But it seems to me that this fellow has a very plump face to be advocating the good effects of starvation.’
“‘My son, I meant every word that I just said to you,’ replied my mother, gravely. ‘Many highly esteemed persons have connected themselves with M. de Macreuse’s work, — a work to which he devotes himself with truly evangelical zeal. But here he comes. I would like to introduce you to him.’
“‘Pray do nothing of the kind, mother,’ I retorted, quickly. ‘I am sure to be impolite; I do not like the gentleman’s looks; besides, what I already know of him makes my antipathy to his acquaintance insurmountable. We were at college together, and—’
“But I was unable to say any more; Macreuse was now close to my mother, and I was standing beside her. ‘My dear M. de Macreuse,’ she said to her protégé, in the most amiable manner, after casting a withering look at me, ‘I wish to introduce my son, one of your former classmates, who will be charmed to renew his acquaintance with you.’
“Macreuse bowed profoundly, then said, in a rather condescending way, ‘I have been absent from Paris some time, monsieur, and was consequently ignorant of your return to France, so I did not expect to have the honour of meeting you at your mother’s house this evening. We were at college together, and—’
“‘That is true,’ I interrupted, ‘and I recollect perfectly well how you played the spy on us to ingratiate yourself with the teachers; how you would stoop to any dirty trick to make a penny; and how you put out the eyes of little birds with pins. Possibly this last was in the charitable hope that their sufferings here would profit them hereafter.’”
“A clever thrust that!” exclaimed the commander, with a hearty laugh.
“And what did Macreuse say?” asked Olivier.
“The scoundrel’s big moon face turned scarlet. He tried to smile and stammer out a few words, but suddenly my mother, looking at me with a reproachful air, rose, and to rescue our friend from his embarrassment, I suppose, said, ‘M. de Macreuse, may I ask you to take me to get a cup of tea?’”
“But how did this man gain an entrance into such an exclusive circle as that of the Faubourg St Germain?” inquired Olivier.
“Nobody knows exactly,” replied Gerald. “This much is true, however. If one door in our circle opens, all the others soon do the same. But this first door is hard to open, and who opened it for Macreuse nobody knows, though some persons seem to think that it was Abbé Ledoux, a favourite spiritual director in our set. This seems quite probable, and I have taken almost as strong a dislike to the abbé as to Macreuse. If this dislike needed any justification, it would have it, so far as I am concerned, in the estimate of Macreuse’s character formed by a singular man who is rarely deceived in his judgment of persons.”
“And who is this infallible man, pray?” inquired Olivier, smiling.
“A hunchback no taller than that,” replied Gerald, indicating with his hand a height of about four and a half feet.
“A hunchback?” repeated Olivier, greatly surprised.
“Yes, a hunchback, as quick-witted and determined as his satanic majesty himself, — stiff as an iron bar to those whom he dislikes and despises, but full of affection and devotion to those whom he honours — though such persons, I am forced to admit, are rare — and never making the slightest attempt to conceal from any individual the liking or aversion he or she inspires.”
“It is fortunate for him that his infirmity gives him this privilege of plain speaking,” remarked the commander. “But for that, your hunchback would be likely to have a hard time of it.”
“His infirmity?” said Gerald, laughing. “Though a hunchback, the Marquis de Maillefort is, I assure you—”
“He is a marquis?” interrupted Olivier.
“Yes, a marquis, and an aristocrat of the old school. He is a scion of the ducal house of Haut-martel, the head of which has resided in Germany since 1830. But though he is a hunchback, M. de Maillefort, as I was about to remark before, is as alert and vigorous as any young man, in spite of his forty-five years. And, by the way, you and I consider ourselves pretty good swordsmen, do we not?”
“Well, yes.”
“Very well; the marquis could touch us eight times out of twelve. He rivals the incomparable Bertrand. His movements are as light as a bird’s, and as swift as lightning itself.”
“This brave little hunchback interests me very much,” said the veteran. “If he has fought any duels his adversaries must have cut strange figures.”
“The marquis has fought several duels, in all of which he evinced the greatest coolness and courage, at least so my father, who was a personal friend of the marquis, once told me.”
“And he goes into society in spite of his infirmity?” inquired Olivier.
“Sometimes he frequents it assiduously; then absents himself for months at a time. His is a very peculiar nature. My father told me that for many years the marquis seemed to be in a state of profound melancholy, but I have never seen him other than gay and amusing.”
“But with his courage, his skill in the use of weapons, and his quick wit, he is certainly a man to be feared.”
“Yes, and you can easily imagine how greatly his presence disquiets certain persons whom society continues to receive on account of their birth, in spite of their notorious villainies. Macreuse, for instance, as soon as he sees the marquis enter by one door, makes his escape by another.”
The conversation was here interrupted by an incident which would have been unworthy even of comment in some parts of the town, but rare enough in the Batignolles.
The arbour in which the little party h
ad dined skirted the garden wall, and at the farther end of it was a latticed gate, which afforded the occupants a view of the street beyond. A handsome carriage, drawn by two superb horses stopped exactly in front of this gate.
This carriage was empty.
The footman on the box beside the driver, and, like him, dressed in rich livery, descended from his seat, and drawing from his pocket a letter that evidently bore an address, looked from side to side as if in search of a number, then disappeared, after motioning the coachman to follow him.
“This is the first vehicle of that kind I’ve seen in the Batignolles in ten years,” remarked the old sailor. “It is very flattering to the neighbourhood.”
“I never saw finer horses,” said Olivier, with the air of a connoisseur. “Do they belong to you, Gerald?”
“Do you take me for a millionaire?” responded the young duke, gaily. “I keep a saddle-horse, and I put one of my mother’s horses in my cabriolet, when she is not using them. That is my stable. This does not prevent me from loving horses, or from being something of a sporting man. But, speaking of horses, do you remember that dunce, Mornand, another of our college mates?”
“And still another of our mutual antipathies, — of course I do. What has become of him?”
“He is quite a distinguished personage now.”
“He! Nonsense!”
“But I tell you he is. He is a member of the Chamber of Peers. He discourses at length, there. People even listen to him. In short, he is a minister in embryo.”
“De Mornand?”
“Yes, my worthy friend. He is as dull as ever, and twice as arrogant and self-complacent. He doubts everything except his own merit. He possesses an insatiable ambition, and he belongs to a coterie of jealous and spiteful individuals, — spiteful because they are mediocre, or, rather, mediocre because they are spiteful. Such men rise in the world with, marvellous rapidity, though Mornand has a broad back and supple loins, — he will succeed, one aiding the other.”
Just then the footman who had disappeared with the carriage returned, and, seeing through the latticed gate the little party in the arbour, approached, and, raising his hand to his hat, said: