CHAPTER XXXV
A SQUARE MAN
All through the summer of 1851--a year to be marked for all time in theminds of historians, not in red, but in black letters--the war ofpolitics tossed France hither and thither.
There were, at this time, five parties contending for mastery. Should oneof these appear for the moment to be about to make itself secure inpower, the other four would at once unite to tear the common adversaryfrom his unstable position. Of these parties, only two were of realcohesion: the Legitimists and the Bonapartists. The Socialists, theModerate Republicans, and the Orleanists were too closely allied in thepast to be friendly in the present. Socialists are noisy, but rarelyclever. A man who in France describes himself as Moderate must not expectto be popular for any length of time. The Orleanists were only just outof office. It was scarcely a year since Louis Philippe had died in exileat Claremont--only three years since he signed his abdication and hurriedacross to Newhaven. It was not the turn of the Orleanists.
There is no quarrel so deadly as a family quarrel; no fall so sudden asthat of a house divided against itself. All through the spring andsummer of 1851 France exhibited herself in the eyes of the world alaughing-stock to her enemies, a thing of pity to those who loved thatgreat country.
The Republic of 1848 was already a house divided against itself.
Its President, Louis Bonaparte, had been elected for four years. He was,as the law then stood, not eligible again until after the lapse ofanother four years. His party tried to abrogate this law, and failed. "Nomatter," they said, "we shall elect him again, and President he shall be,despite the law."
This was only one of a hundred such clouds, no bigger than a man's hand,arising at this time on the political horizon. For France was beginningto wander down that primrose path where a law is only a law so long as itis convenient.
There was one man, Louis Bonaparte, who kept his head when others lostthat invaluable adjunct; who pushed on doggedly to a set purpose; whosetask was hard even in France, and would have been impossible in any othercountry. For it is only in France that ridicule does not kill. And twicewithin the last fifteen years--once at Strasbourg, once at Boulogne--hehad made the world hold its sides at the mention of his name, greetingwith the laughter which is imbittered by scorn, a failure damned byridicule.
It has been said that Louis Bonaparte never gave serious thought to theLegitimist party. He had inherited, it would seem, that invaluableknowledge of men by which his uncle had risen to the greatest throne ofmodern times. He knew that a party is never for a moment equal to a Man.And the Legitimists had no man. They had only the Comte de Chambord.
At Frohsdorff they still clung to their hopes, with that old-world beliefin the ultimate revival of a dead regime which was eminentlycharacteristic. And at Frohsdorff there died, in the October of thisyear, the Duchess of Angouleme, Marie Therese Charlotte, daughter ofMarie Antoinette, who had despised her two uncles, Louis XVIII andCharles X, for the concessions they had made--who was more Royalist thanthe King. She was the last of her generation, the last of her family, andwith her died a part of the greatness of France, almost all the dignityof royalty, and the last master-mind of the Bourbon race.
If, as Albert de Chantonny stated, the failure of Turner's bank wasnothing but a ruse to gain time, it had the desired effect. For a space,nothing could be undertaken, and the Marquis de Gemosac and his friendswere hindered from continuing the work they had so successfully begun.
All through the summer Loo Barebone remained in France, at Gemosac asmuch as anywhere. The Marquis de Gemosac himself went to Frohsdorff.
"If she had been ten years younger," he said, on his return, "I couldhave persuaded her to receive you. She has money. All the influence ishers. It is she who has had the last word in all our affairs since thedeath of the Due de Berri. But she is old--she is broken. I think she isdying, my friend."
It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone remembered the lastvintage, and his journey through those provinces that supply all theworld with wine, with Dormer Colville for a companion. Since then he hadjourneyed alone. He had made a hundred new friends, had been welcomed ina hundred historic houses. Wherever he had passed, he had left enthusiasmbehind him--and he knew it.
He had grown accustomed to his own power, and yet its renewed evidencewas a surprise to him every day. There was something unreal in it. Thereis always something unreal in fame, and great men know in their ownhearts that they are not great. It is only the world that thinks them so.When they are alone--in a room by themselves--they feel for a momenttheir own smallness. But the door opens, and in an instant they arise andplay their part mechanically.
This had come to be Barebone's daily task. It was so easy to make his wayin this world, which threw its doors open to him, greeted him withoutstretched hands, and only asked him to charm them by being himself. Hehad not even to make an effort to appear to be that which he was not. Hehad only to be himself, and they were satisfied.
Part of his role was Juliette de Gemosac. He found it quite easy to makelove to her; and she, it seemed, desired nothing better. Nothing definitehad been said by the Marquis de Gemosac. They were not formallyaffianced. They were not forbidden to see each other. But theirregularity of these proceedings lent a certain spice ofsurreptitiousness to their intercourse which was not without its charm.They did not see so much of each other after Loo had spoken to theMarquis de Gemosac on this subject; for Barebone had to make visits toother parts of France. Once or twice Juliette herself went to stay withrelatives. During these absences they did not write to each other.
It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any correspondencewhatever. He heard that Dormer Colville was still in Paris, seeking tosnatch something from the wreck of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's fortune.The Marquis de Gemosac had been told that affairs might yet be arranged.He was no financier, however, he admitted; he did not understand suchmatters, and all that he knew was that the promised help from theEnglishwoman was not forthcoming.
"It is," he concluded, "a question of looking elsewhere. It is not onlythat we want money. It is that we must have it at once."
It was not, strictly speaking, Loo's part to think of or to administerthe money. His was the part to be played by Kings--so easy, if the giftis there, so impossible to acquire if it be lacking--to know many peopleand to charm them all.
Thus the summer ripened into autumn. It had been another great vintage inthe south, and Bordeaux was more than usually busy when Barebone arrivedthere, at daybreak, one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse.He was more daring in winter, and went fearlessly through the streets. Incold weather it is so much easier for a man to conceal his identity; fora woman to hide her beauty, if she wish to--which is a large If. Barebonecould wear a fur collar and turn it up round that tell-tale chin, whichmade the passer-by pause and turn to look at him again if it was visible.
He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, whereto this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he made hisway to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river. It wasa cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, thanBordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of his collar.Suddenly he stopped. His new self--that phantom second-nature bred ofcustom--vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and left him plain LooBarebone, of Farlingford, staring across the green water toward "The LastHope," deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream.
Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a neighbouring flight ofsteps.
"An English ship, monsieur," he said; "just come in. Her anchors arehardly home. Does monsieur wish to go on board?"
"Of course I do, comrade--as quick as you like," he answered, with a gaylaugh. It was odd that the sight of this structure, made of human hands,should change him in a flash of thought, should make his heart leap inhis breast.
In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across thestream. Already a face was looking over the bulwarks.
The hands were onthe forecastle, still busy clearing decks after the confusion of lettinggo anchor and hauling in the jib-boom.
Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to look at him. One ortwo raised a hand in salutation and then turned again to their task.Already the mate--a Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo--was standingon the rail fingering a coil of rope.
"Old man is down below," he said, giving Barebone a hand. From theforecastle came sundry grunts, and half a dozen heads were jerkedsideways at him.
Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of breakfast had beenpushed to one end of the table to make room for pens and ink. The Captainwas laboriously filling in the countless documents required by the Frenchcustom-house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all the wrinkles, graven byyears of hardship and trouble, were swept away like writing from a slate.
He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the table.
"Had your breakfast?" he asked, curtly, with a glance at the emptycoffee-pot.
Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar--the disorder of thecabin; the smell of lamp-oil; the low song of the wind through therigging, that came humming in at the doorway, which was never closed,night or day, unless the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck.He knew everything so well; the very pen and the rarely used ink-pot; theCaptain's attitude, and the British care that he took not to speak withhis lips that which was in his heart.
"Well," said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, "how are yougetting on?"
"With what?"
"With the business that brought you to this country," answered Clubbe,with a sudden gruffness; for he was, like the majority of big men, shy.
Barebone looked at him across the table.
"Do you know what the business is that brought me to this country?" heasked. And Captain Clubbe looked thoughtfully at the point of his pen.
"Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell you everything, oronly a little?"
"I don't suppose they told me everything," was the reply. "Why shouldthey? I am only a seafaring man."
"But they told you enough," persisted Barebone, "for you to draw your ownconclusions as to my business over here."
"Yes," answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. "Is it goingbadly?"
"No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly," answered Barebone, gaily;and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down again over the papers of theFrench custom-house. "It is going splendidly, but--"
He paused. Half an hour ago he had no thought in his mind of CaptainClubbe or of Farlingford. He had come on board merely to greet his oldfriends, to hear some news of home, to take up for a moment that old selfof bygone days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozen questions andanswers, whither was he drifting? Captain Clubbe filled in a word, slowlyand very legibly.
"But I am not the man, you know," said Barebone, slowly. It was as if thesight of that just man had bidden him cry out the truth. "I am not theman they think me. My father was not the son of Louis XVI, I know thatnow. I did not know it at first, but I know it now. And I have been goingon with the thing, all the same."
Clubbe sat back in his chair. He was large and ponderous in body. And thehabit of the body at length becomes the nature of the mind.
"Who has been telling you that?" he asked.
"Dormer Colville. He told me one thing first and then the other. Only heand you and I know of it."
"Then he must have told one lie," said Clubbe, reflectively. "One that weknow of. And what he says is of no value either way; for he doesn't know.No one knows. Your father was a friend of mine, man and boy, and hedidn't know. He was not the same as other men; I know that--but nothingmore."
"Then, if you were me, you would give yourself the benefit of thedoubt?" asked Barebone, with a rather reckless laugh. "For the sake ofothers--for the sake of France?"
"Not I," replied Clubbe, bluntly.
"But it is practically impossible to go back now," explained Loo. "Itwould be the ruin of all my friends, the downfall of France. In myposition, what would you do?"
"I don't understand your position," replied Clubbe. "I don't understandpolitics; I am only a seafaring man. But there is only one thing todo--the square thing."
"But," protested Dormer Colville's pupil, "I cannot throw over myfriends. I cannot abandon France now."
"The square thing," repeated the sailor, stubbornly. "The square thing;and damn your friends--damn France!"
He rose as he spoke, for they had both heard the customs officers come onboard; and these functionaries were now bowing at the cabin-door.
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