CHAPTER II.
THE FOSTER BROTHERS.
On the 31st of December, 1834, at eleven o'clock in the evening, a manof about twenty-five years of age, of handsome person and countenance,and aristocratic appearance, was sitting, or rather reclining, in aluxurious easy chair, near the mantelpiece, within which sparkled afire that the advanced season rendered indispensable. This personagewas the Count Maxime Edouard Louis de Prebois-Crance. His countenance,of a cadaverous paleness, formed a striking contrast with his blackcurly hair, which fell in disorder upon his shoulders, covered bya large-patterned damask dressing gown. His brows were contracted,and his eyes were fixed with feverish impatience upon the dial of acharming Louis Quinze clock, whilst his left hand, hanging carelesslyby his side, played with the silky ears of a magnificent Newfoundlanddog which lay by his side. The room in which the Count was sitting wasfurnished with all the refinement of comfort invented by modern luxury.A four-branched chandelier, with rose-coloured wax candles, placed upona table, was scarcely sufficient to enliven the room, and only spreadaround a dim, uncertain light. Without, the rain was dashing againstthe windows violently; and the wind sighed in mysterious murmurs, whichdisposed the mind to melancholy. When the clock struck the hour theCount started up, as if aroused from a dream. He passed his thin whitehand across his moist brow, and said, in a dissatisfied tone--
"He will not come!"
But at that moment the dog, which had been so motionless, sprang up andbounded towards the door, wagging its tail with joy. The door opened,the _portiere_ was lifted by a firm hand, and a man appeared.
"Here you are at last!" the Count exclaimed, advancing towards thenewcomer, who had great trouble to get rid of the caresses of the dog."I had begun to be afraid that you, like the rest, had forgotten me."
"I do not understand you, brother, but trust you will explain yourself,"the other replied. "Come, that will do, Caesar; lie down! you are a verygood dog, but lie down!"
And drawing an easy chair towards the fire, he sat down at the otherside of the fire, in front of the Count, who had resumed his place. Thedog lay down between them.
The personage so anxiously expected by the Count formed a strangecontrast with him; for, just as M. de Prebois-Crance united in himselfall the qualities which physically distinguish nobility of race, theother displayed all the lively, energetic strength of a true child ofthe people. He was a man of twenty-six years of age; tall, thin, andperfectly well proportioned; while his face, bronzed by the sun, andhis marked features, lit up by blue eyes sparkling with intelligence,wore an expression of bravery, mildness, and loyalty of character thatcreated sympathy at first sight. He was dressed in the elegant uniformof a quartermaster sergeant of the Spahis, and the cross of the legionof honour glittered on his breast. With his head leaning on his righthand, a pensive brow and a thoughtful eye, he examined his friendattentively, whilst twisting his long, silky light-coloured moustachewith the other hand.
The Count, shrinking before his earnest look, which appeared trying toread his most secret thoughts, broke the silence abruptly.
"You have been a long time in responding to my message," he said.
"This is the second time you have addressed that reproach to me, Louis,"the soldier replied, taking a paper from his breast; "you forget theterms of the note which your groom brought yesterday to my quarters."
And he was preparing to read.
"It is useless to read it," said the Count, with a melancholy smile. "Iacknowledge I am in the wrong."
"Well, then, let us see," said the Spahi gaily, "what this seriousaffair is which makes you stand in need of me. Explain: is there a womanto be carried off?--Have you a duel on hand?--Tell me."
"Nothing that you can possibly imagine," the Count interrupted himbitterly; "therefore do not waste time in useless surmises."
"What the devil is it, then?"
"I am going to blow out my brains."
The young man uttered these words with so firm and resolute an accent,that the soldier started in spite of himself, and bent an anxious glanceupon the speaker.
"You believe me mad, do you not?" the Count continued, who guessed hisfriend's thoughts. "No, I am not mad, Valentine; I am only at the bottomof an abyss from which I can only escape by death or infamy, and Iprefer death."
The soldier made no reply. With an energetic gesture he pushed back hischair, and began to walk about the room with hurried steps. The Counthad allowed his head to sink upon his breast in a state of perfectprostration of mind. After a long silence, during which the fury of thestorm without increased, Valentine resumed his seat.
"A very strong reason must have obliged you to take such adetermination," he said coolly; "I will not endeavour to combat it; butI command you, by our friendship, to tell me fully what has led you toform it. I am your foster brother, Louis; we have grown up together; ourideas have been too long in common, our friendship is too strong and toofervent for you to refuse to satisfy me."
"To what purpose?" cried the Count, impatiently; "my sorrows are of anature which none but he who experiences them can comprehend."
"A bad pretext, brother," replied the soldier, in a rough tone; "thesorrows we dare not avow are of a kind that make us blush."
"Valentine," said the Count, with a flashing eye, "it is ill judged tospeak so."
"On the contrary, it is quite right," replied the young man, warmly. "Ilove you, I owe you the truth; why should I deceive you? No, you know myfrankness; therefore do not hope that I shall listen to you with my eyesshut. If you want to be flattered in your last moments, why send for me?Is it to applaud your death? If so, brother, farewell! I will retire,for I have nothing to do here. You great gentlemen, who have only knownthe trouble of coming into the world, know nothing of life but its joys;at the first roseleaf which chance happens to ruffle in your bed ofhappiness, you think yourselves lost, and appeal to that greatest of allcowardices, suicide."
"Valentine!" the Count cried angrily.
"Yes," continued the young man, with increased energy, "I repeat, thatsupreme cowardice! Man is no more at liberty to quit life when hefancies he is tired of it, than the soldier is to quit his post when hecomes face to face with his country's enemy. Your sorrows, indeed! Iknow well what they are."
"You know?" demanded the Count with astonishment.
"All--listen to me; and when I have told you my thoughts, why, killyourself if you like. Pardieu! do you think when I came here I did notknow why you summoned me? A gladiator, far too weak to fight the goodfight, you have cast yourself defencelessly among the wild beasts ofthis terrible arena called Paris--and you have fallen, as was sure tobe the case. But remember, the death you contemplate will complete yourdishonour in the eyes of all, instead of reinstating you or surroundingyou with the halo of false glory you are ambitious of."
"Valentine! Valentine!" cried the Count, striking the table forciblywith his clenched hand, "what gives you a right to speak to me thus?"
"My friendship," the soldier replied, energetically, "and the positionyou have yourself placed me in by sending for me. Two causes reduce youto despair. These two causes are, in the first place, your love fora coquettish woman, a Creole, who has played with your heart as thepanther of her own savannahs plays with the inoffensive animals she ispreparing to devour.--Is that true?"
The young man made no reply. With his elbows on the table, his faceburied in his hands, he remained motionless, apparently insensible tothe reproaches of his foster brother. Valentine continued--
"Secondly, when, in order to win favour in her eyes, you havecompromised your fortune, and squandered all that your father had leftyou, this woman flits away as she came, rejoicing over the mischiefshe has done, over the victims she has left on the path she has trod,leaving to you and to so many others the despair and the shame of havingbeen the sport of a coquette. What urges you to seek refuge in death isnot the loss of fortune, but the impossibility of following this woman,the sole cause of all your misfortunes. I defy you to contrad
ict me."
"Well, I admit all that is true. It is that alone which kills me. Whatcare I for the loss of fortune? She alone is the object of my ambition!I love her--I love her--I tell you, so that I could struggle againstthe whole world to obtain her!" the young man exclaimed with greatexcitement. "Oh, if I could but hope! Hope--a word void of meaning,invented by the ambitious, always implying something unattainable! Doyou not plainly see the truth of what I say? There is nothing left mebut to die!"
Valentine contemplated him for some minutes with a sad countenance.Suddenly his brow cleared, his eye sparkled; he laid his hand upon theCount's shoulder.
"Is this, then, more than a caprice? Do you really love this woman?" hesaid.
"Have I not told you that I am ready to die for her?"
"Ay; and you told me at the same time that you would struggle with thewhole world to obtain her."
"I did--and would."
"Well, then," continued Valentine, fixing his eyes earnestly upon him,"I can help you to find this woman again--I can."
"You can?"
"Yes, I can."
"Oh! you are mad! She has left Paris, and no one knows into what regionof America she has retreated."
"Of what consequence is that?"
"And then, besides, I am ruined!"
"So much the better."
"Valentine, be careful of what you say," the young man remarked with asigh; "in spite of my reason, I allow myself to believe you."
"Hope, man! hope, I tell you."
"Oh, no; no, that is impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible; that is a word invented by the impotent and thecowardly. I repeat that I not only will find this woman for you again,but that she--she herself, mind--shall be afraid lest you should despiseher love."
"Oh!"
"Who knows? You yourself may then, perhaps, reject it."
"Valentine! Valentine!"
"Well, to obtain this glorious result, I only ask two years."
"So long?"
"Oh, such is man!" cried the soldier, with a faint, pitying laugh. "Butan instant ago, and you were anxious to die, because the word had neverstood in its true light before you; and now you have not the courage tolook forward, or wait two years, which constitute only a few minutes ofhuman life!"
"Yes, but----"
"Be satisfied, brother--be satisfied! If in two years I have notfulfilled my promise, I myself will load your pistols--and then----"
"Well, and then?"
"And then you shall not die alone," he said coolly.
The Count looked at him. Valentine seemed transfigured: his countenancewore an expression of indomitable energy, which his foster brother hadnever observed in it before; his eyes sparkled with unwonted brilliancy.The young man avowed himself conquered; he took his friend's hand, andpressing it warmly, said--
"I agree!"
"You now, then, belong to me?"
"I give myself entirely up to you."
"That's well!"
"But what will you do?"
"Listen to me attentively," the soldier said, sinking back into hischair, and motioning to his friend to resume his seat. At this momentthe clock struck the hour of midnight, and, from a feeling for whichthey could not account, the young men listened silently and reflectivelyto the twelve strokes which resounded at equal intervals upon the bell.
When the echo of the last stroke had ceased to vibrate, Valentine lit acigar, and turning towards Louis, whose eyes were intensely fixed uponhim, "Now, then," he said slowly, emitting a puff of thin blue smoke,which went curling gracefully up towards the ceiling.
The Adventurers Page 3