Dross

by Henry Seton Merriman

  Chapter VIII

  In Paris

  "Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savior cacher son habilete."

  It will be necessary to dwell to a certain extent on those events ofthe great world that left their mark on the obscure lives of which thepresent history treats. An old man may be excused for expressing hisopinion--or rather his agreement with the opinions of greaterminds--that our little existence here on earth is but part of a greatscheme--that we are but pawns moved hither and thither on a vastchess-board, and that, while our vision is often obscured by someknight or bishop or king, whose neighbourhood overshadows us, yet ourpresence may affect the greater moves as certainly as we are affectedby them.

  I first became aware of the fact that my existence was amenable toevery political wind that might blow a week or so after Lucille wentto La Pauline, without, indeed, vouchsafing an explanation of hersudden coldness.

  In my study I was one evening smoking, and, I admit it, thinking ofLucille--thinking very practically, however. For I was reflectingwith satisfaction over some small improvements I had effected--with aNorfolk energy which, no doubt, gave offence to some--during the shorttime that the Vicomte and I had passed in the Provencal chateau. I hadthe pleasant conviction that Lucille's health could, at all events,come to no harm from a residence in one of the oldest castles inFrance. No very lover-like reflections, the high-flown will cry. So beit. Each must love in his own way. "Air and water--air and water!" theVicomte had cried when he saw the men at work under my directions."You Englishmen are mad on the subject."

  While I was engaged in these thoughts the old gentleman came to myroom, and in the next few minutes made known to me a new andunsuspected side of his character. His manner was singularly alert. Heseemed to be years younger.

  "I said I should want a man at my side--young and strong," he began,seating himself. "Let us understand each other, Mr. Howard."

  "By all means."

  He gave a little laugh, and leaning forward took a quill pen from mywriting-table, disliking idle fingers while he talked.

  "That time has come, my friend. Do you mean to stand by me?"

  "LET US UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER, MR. HOWARD."]

  "Yes."

  "You are a man of few words," he answered, looking at me with a newkeenness which sat strangely on his benign features. "But I want nomore. The government has fallen--the doctors say the Emperor's life isnot worth that!"

  And he snapped his finger and thumb, glancing at the clock. It waseight o'clock. We had dined at half-past six.

  "Can you come with me now? I want to show you the state of Paris--thecondition of the people, the way of their thoughts. One cannot knowtoo much of the ... people--for they will some day rule the world."

  "And rule it devilish badly," I added, putting my papers together.

  "We shall be late in returning," the Vicomte said to the servant whoheld the carriage door. I had heard--through my thoughts--the stampingof the horses in the courtyard and the rattle of the harness, but tookno great note of them, as the Vicomte had the habit of going out inthe evening. I noticed we never crossed the river during our silentdrive. A river has two sides, just as a street, and one of them isusually in the shade. It was among the shadows that our business laythis evening.

  "You know," said the Vicomte, as we climbed the narrow staircase of aquiet house in the neighbourhood of the great wine stores that adjointhe Jardin des Plantes--"you know that this is the day of thetalkers--the Rocheforts, the Pyats--the windbags. Mon Dieu, whatnonsense! But a windbag may burst and do harm. One must watch thesegentry."

  Republicanism was indeed in the air at this time. And has not historydemonstrated that those who cry loudest for a commonwealth are such aswish to draw from that wealth and add nothing to it? The reddestRepublican is always the man who has nothing to lose and all to gainby a social upheaval.

  I was not surprised, therefore, when we found ourselves in a room fullof bad hats and unkempt heads. A voice was shouting theirrequirements. I knew that they wanted a wash more than anything else.

  The room was a large, low one, and looked larger through an atmosphereblue with smoke and the fumes of absinthe. The Vicomte--a little man,as I have said--slipped in unperceived. I was less fortunate, being ofa higher stature. I saw that my advent did not pass unobserved on theplatform, where a party of patriots sat in a row, like the ChristyMinstrels, showing the soles of their boots to all whom it mightconcern. In this case a working cobbler would have been deeplyinterested, as in a vast field of labour. The Vicomte slipped a fewyards away from me, and the shoulders of his fellow-countrymenobscured him. I could find no such retreat, for your true Socialistnever has much to recommend him to the notice of society, beingusually a poor, mean man to look at, who seeks to add a cubit to hisstature by encouraging the growth of his hair.

  One such stood on the platform, mouthing the bloodthirsty periods ofhis creed. He caught sight of me.

  "Ah!" he cried, "here is a new disciple. And a hardy one! _Un grandgaillard_, my brethren, who can strike a solid blow for liberty,equality and fraternity. Say, brother, you are with us; is it not so?"

  "If you open the casements, not otherwise," I answered. The Frenchcrowd is ever ready for blood or laughter. I have seen the Republiccompletely set in the background by a cat looking in a window andgiving voice to the one word assigned to it by nature. Some laughednow, and the orator deemed it wise to leave me in peace. I tookadvantage of my obscurity to look around me, and was duly edified bywhat I saw. The Paris _vaurien_ is worth less than any man on earth,and these were choice specimens from the gutter.

  We were wasting our time in such a galley, and as I thus reflected anote was slipped into my hand.

  "Follow me, but not at once." I read and hid the paper in my pocket.Without staring about me too much, I watched the Vicomte make his waytowards a door half hidden by a dirty curtain--another to that bywhich we had entered. Thither I followed him after a decentinterval--no one molesting me. One of the patriots on the platformseemed to watch me with understanding, and when I reached thecurtained doorway, my glance meeting his, he dismissed me with hiseyelids.

  I found myself in a dark passage, and with his gentle laugh theVicomte took my arm.

  "All that out there," he whispered, "is a mere blind. It is in theinner room that they act. Out there they merely talk. Come with me.Gently--there are two steps--my dear Howard. These are the men--hepaused with his fingers on the handle of a door--who will rule Francewhen the Emperor is dead or deposed."

  With that we entered, and those assembled--some sitting at a table,others standing about the room--saluted the Vicomte de Clericy almostas a leader. Some of the faces I knew--indeed, they are to be found inthe illustrated histories of France. The thoughts of others were knownto me, for many were journalists of repute--men of advanced views andfiery pens. Perhaps, after all, I knew as little of the Vicomte deClericy as of any man there. For he seemed to have laid aside thatpleasant and garrulous senility which had awakened my dull conscience.

  Although he did not deliver a speech during the proceedings, as didsome, his attitude was rather that of a leader than of a mereon-looker. Here was no mere watching, thought I. My patron was knownto all, and went from group to group talking in the ear of many. Therewas, indeed, much talking as I have always found in the world, and butlittle listening. The Vicomte introduced me to some of his friends.

  "Mr. Howard," he said, "an English gentleman who is kind enough to actas my secretary. Mr. Howard is too wise to trouble himself withpolitics."

  And I thought some of them had a queer way of looking at me.

  "A deceiver or a dupe?" I heard one ask another, trusting too far theproverbial dulness of British ears.

  The topic of the evening was, of course, the fall of the ministry--amatter of great moment at that time, and, it may be, through all theages--though a recital of its possible effects would be but dullreading to-day. When a chain is riven, the casual on-looker takes butsmal
l interest in the history of each link. This event of December,1869, was in truth an important link in the chain of strange eventsthat go to make up the history of the shortest and most marvellous ofthe great dynasties of the world.

  I stood among those politicians and wondered what the greatest oftheir race at that time living thought of these matters in theTuileries Palace hard by. I could picture him sitting, as was hiswont--a grave man with a keen sense of humour--with his head a littleon one side, his large, still face drawn and pale--the evidence of hismalady around his dull eyes. Was the game played out? The greatestsince that so gloriously won--so miserably lost at length--by hisuncle. The Bonapartes were no common men--and it was no common bloodthat trickled unstanched ten years later into the sand of the Africanveldt, leaving the world the poorer of one of its greatest races.

  I gathered that the fall of the ministry was no great surprise tothese men assembled in this inner room. They formed, so far as I coulddiscover, a sort of administration--a committee which gathered theopinions of the more intelligent citizens of the larger towns ofFrance--a head-center of news and public thought. Their meeting placewas furnished without ostentation, and in excellent taste.

  These were no mere adventurers, but men of position and wealth, whohad somewhat to lose and every desire to retain the same. They did notrave of patriotism, nor was there any cant of equality and fraternity.It seemed rather that, finding themselves placed in stirring times,they deemed it wise to guide by some means or other the course ofevents into such channels as might ensure safety to themselves andtheir possessions. And who can blame them for such foresight? Patriotsare, according to my experience, men who look for a substantial _quidpro quo_. They serve their country with the view of making theircountry serve them.

  Whatever the usual deliberations of the body among whom I found myselfmight be, the all-absorbing topic of the evening set all else aside.

  "We approach the moment," cried one, a young man with a lispingintonation and great possessions, as I afterwards learnt. "Now is thetime for all to do as I have done. I have sent everything out of thecountry. I and my sword remain for France."

  He spoke truly. He and his sword now lie side by side--in French soil.

  "Let all do the same," growled an old man, with eyes flashing beneathhis great white brows.

  "All who know," suggested one, significantly. Whereupon arose a greatdiscussion, and many names were uttered that were familiar tome--among others, indeed, that of my friend, John Turner. I noticedthat many laughed when his name was mentioned.

  "Oh!" they cried. "You may leave John Turner to care for his ownaffairs. _Il est fin celui-la._"

  Again a familiar name fell on my ears, and this was received withgroans and derisive laughter. It was that of the Baron Giraud. Igathered that there was question of warning certain financiers andrich persons outside of this circle of some danger known only to theinitiated. Indeed, the wealthy were sending their money out of thecountry as fast and as secretly as possible.

  "No, no," cried the young man I have mentioned; "the Baron Giraud--afine Baron, heaven knows!--has risen with the Empire--nor has he beenover-scrupulous as to whom he trod underfoot. With the Empire he mustfall."

  And one and all fell to abusing the Baron Giraud. He was a thief, anda despoiler of the widow and orphan. His wealth had been acquired nothonestly, but at the expense,--nay, at the ruin--of others. He was anunwholesome growth of a mushroom age--a bad man, whose god was goldand gain his only ambition.

  "If such men are to grow in France and govern her, then woe toFrance," cried one prophetic voice.

  Indeed, if half we heard was true of the Baron Giraud, he must havebeen a fine scoundrel, and I had little compunction in agreeing thathe deserved no consideration at the hands of honest men. The coolerheads deemed it wise to withhold from the Baron certain details of thepublic feeling, not out of spite, but because such knowledge could notbe trusted in notoriously unscrupulous hands. He would but turn it tomoney.

  For the greater safety, all present bound themselves upon honour notto reveal the result of their deliberations to certain named persons,and the Baron Giraud had the privilege of heading this list. I wassurprised that no form of mutual faith was observed. These men seemedto trust each other without so much as a word--and indeed, whatstronger tie can men have than the common gain?

  "We are not conspirators," said one to me. "Our movements are known."

  And he nodded his head in the direction of the Tuileries. I made nodoubt that all, indeed, was known in that quarter, but the fatalistwho planned and schemed there would meet these men the next day withhis gentle smile, betraying nothing.

  As my interest became aroused by these proceedings, I became aware ofthe Vicomte's close scrutiny. It seemed that he was watchingme--noting the effect of every speech and word.

  "You were interested," he said, casually, as we drove home smoking ourcigars.

  "Yes."

  He looked out of the carriage window for some time, and then, turning,he laid his hand on my knee.

  "And it is not a game," he said, with his little laugh, which somehowsounded quite different--less senile, less helpless. "It is not agame, my friend!"