Dross

by Henry Seton Merriman

  Chapter XII

  Ruin

  "Il ne faut regarder dans ses amis que la seule vertu qui nous attache a eux."

  If the Baron Giraud was unable in the nature of human affairs to takehis wealth with him, it accompanied him, at all events, to the grave,where feathers made a fine show of grief, where priests growledconsolatory words, and cherub-faced boys swung themselves and censersnonchalantly along. Some who owed their wealth to Giraud sent theirempty carriages to mourn his decease; others, with a singular sense offitness, despatched wreaths of tin flowers to be laid upon his grave.

  The Vicomte had been early astir that morning; indeed, I heard himmoving before daylight in the room where the coffin was. I was gladwhen that same morning dawned, for my kind old patron seemed unhingedby these events, and could not keep away from the apartment where theBaron lay.

  There was, of course, no keeping him from the funeral, which ceremonyI also attended, and if ever earth was laid to earth it was when weconsigned the great financier to his last resting-place. AlphonseGiraud, in his absurd French way, embraced me when the last carriagedrove away from the gates of Pere la Chaise.

  "And now, mon ami," he said, with a sigh of relief, "let us go andlunch at the club."

  He meant no disrespect towards his departed sire. It was merely thathis elastic nature could not always be at a tension. His quick brightface was made for smiles, and naturally relaxed to that happy state.He clapped me on the back.

  "You are my best friend," he cried.

  And I had, indeed, arranged the funeral for him. Those who hadhonoured the ceremony with their presence showed much sympathy forAlphonse. They pressed his hand; some of them embraced him. Afew--elderly men with daughters--told him that they felt like fatherstowards him. All this Alphonse received with a bland innocence whichhis Parisian education had no doubt taught him.

  When they were gone, rattling away in their new carriages, he lookedafter them with a laugh.

  "And now," he said, "for ruin. I wonder what it will be like--new atall events. And we all live for novelty nowadays. There is the priceof a luncheon at the club, however. Come, my friend, let us gothere."

  "One change you must, at all events, be prepared for," I said, as westepped into his carriage. "A change of friends."

  Alphonse understood and laughed. Cynicism is an arid growth, found toperfection on the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore his bootsout thereon.

  During luncheon my host recovered his spirits; although, to do himjustice, he was melancholy enough when he remembered his recent loss.Once or twice he threw down his knife and fork, and for quite threeminutes all food and drink were nauseous to him.

  "Ah!" he cried, "that poor old man. It tears the heart to think ofhim."

  He sat for a few moments with his chin in the palm of his hand, andthen slowly took up again the things of this life, wielding themheartily enough.

  "I wonder," he went on in a reflective voice, "if I did my dutytowards him. It was not difficult, only to make a splash and spendmoney, and I did that--beautifully!"

  "Coffee and chartreuse," he said to the waiter, when we had finished."And leave the bottle on the table. You know," he added, addressingme, his face beaming with conscious pride, his hand laid impressivelyon my arm--"you know this club drinks chartreuse in claret glasses.It is our great distinguishing feature."

  While religiously observing this law we fell to discussing the future.

  "One cannot," observed my companion, philosophically, "bring on thethunder-storm, however heavy the air may be. One can only gasp andwait. I suppose the crash will come soon enough. But tell me how Istand; I have not had time to think the last few days."

  He had, indeed, thought only of others.

  "We have," answered I, "done all that is possible to stop the paymentof these cheques; but a clever villain might succeed in realising themone by one in different parts of the world, and thus outwit us."

  "I wonder how it is," said my companion, afloat on a side issue likeany woman, "that a fool like myself--an incompetent ass with nobrains, eh?--always finds such a friend as you."

  He leant forward and tapped me on the chest in his impulsive way, asif sounding that part of me.

  "A solid man," he added, apparently satisfied with the investigation.

  "I do not know," answered I, truthfully enough; "unless it be thatsolid men are fools enough to place themselves in such a position."

  "How have you placed yourself in such a position? When you havefinished that cup of coffee--you have no sugar, by the way--you havebut to take your hat and--'_Bon jour._' You leave me still in yourdebt."

  With a few quick gestures he illustrated his argument, so that I sawmyself--somewhat stiff and British, with my hat upon my head--quit theroom, having wished him good day, and leaving him overwhelmed in mydebt in a chair.

  "I told your father that I would share the responsibility as regardedthe safety of his money," I replied. "It was said only half inearnest, but he took it seriously."

  "Ah! the poor, dear man! He always took money matters seriously," putin Alphonse.

  "I am, at all events, going to try to recover your wealth for you.Besides, I have a singular desire to twist the neck of MonsieurCharles Miste. I ought to have known that the Vicomte was too old tobe trusted with the arrangement of affairs such as that. Your fatherknew it, but thought that I was taking an active part in the matter. Iwas a fool."

  "Ah!" said Alphonse Giraud. "We are all fools, _mon cher_, or knaves."

  And long afterwards, remembering the words, I recognised that truthoften bubbles to the lips of irresponsible people.

  I told him of my plans, which were simple enough, for I had called inthe aid of men whose profession it was to deal with scoundrels. It isonly until we know vice that we think it complicated or interesting.There is really no man so simple as your thorough scoundrel. A pictureall shade is less difficult to comprehend than one where light andshade are mingled. I had only asked to be put on the track of CharlesMiste, for evil men, like water, run in one channel and one directiononly. I wished to deal with him myself, law or no law. Indeed, therehad been a sufficiency of law and lawyers in my affairs already.

  "And I will help you," exclaimed Alphonse Giraud, when he had heard,not without interruption, my proposed plan of campaign. "I will gowith you."

  "No; you cannot do that. You may be sure that Miste has accompliceswho will, of course, watch you, and warn him the moment they suspectyou of being on the right scent. Whereas I am nobody. Miste does noteven know me. I wish I knew him."

  And I remembered with regret how ignorant I was.

  "Besides," I added, "you surely have other calls. The Vicomte requiressome one near him--the ladies will be glad of your advice andassistance."

  He was scarcely the man to whom I should have applied for either, butone can never tell with women. Some of them look up to us when we knowin our hearts that we are no better than asses.

  We talked of details which may well be omitted here, for the majorityof them were based upon assumptions subsequently to be provederroneous. It seemed that Alphonse Giraud had almost given up hope ofrecovering his lost wealth, and as I raised this anew in his breast sohis face grew graver. A great hope makes a grave face.

  "You must not," he said, "make me believe that, unless you have a goodfoundation for your own faith."

  "Oh, no!" I answered, and instinctively changed the subject. Hisgravity disturbed me.

  But he returned to his thought again and again.

  "It is not the money," he said at length, when I, who knew what wascoming, could no longer hold him. "It is--" he paused, his facesuddenly red as he looked hard into his coffee-cup. "It is Lucille."

  I made no answer, and it was Alphonse who spoke again, after a pause.

  "What a hard face you have, mon ami!" he said. "I never noticed itbefore. I pity that poor Miste, you know--if you catch him."

  The same evening I spoke to my old patron, whom I found in themorning-
room, where he sat alone and in meditation. The doors of hisown study were still locked, and no one was allowed to enter there.His manner was so feverish and unnatural that I almost abandoned myproject of leaving the Rue des Palmiers.

  "Ah!" he said, "what a terrible day--and that poor Alphonse! How didyou leave him?"

  I thought of Alphonse as I had left him, smiling under his mourninghat-band, waving a black glove gaily to me in farewell.

  "Oh," I answered, "Alphonse will soon be himself again."

  "Ah, my friend," exclaimed the Vicomte, after a sorrowful pause. "Thesurprises of life are all unpleasant. Pfuit!" he spread out his handssuddenly as if indicating a quick flight, "and I lose a friend andfour hundred thousand francs in the twinkling of an eye. To think thata mere shock can kill a man as it killed the poor Baron."

  "He had no neck, and systematically ate too much," I said. "I am nowgoing to see if we cannot repair some of the harm that has been done."

  "How?" asked the old man, with all the suspicion that had recentlycome into his character.

  "I am going to look for Miste."

  He shook his head.

  "Very quixotic, but quite useless," said he; and then set himself todissuade me from my quest with every argument that he could bring tobear upon me. Some of these, indeed, I thought he might well haveomitted.

  "We cannot spare you at this time, when the political world is sodisturbed, and internal affairs are on the brink of catastrophe. Wecannot spare you, I, the Vicomtesse--Lucille. It was only last nightthat she was rejoicing at your presence with us in our time oftrouble. I shall tell her that you wish to leave us, and she will, Iam sure, dissuade you."

  Which threat he carried out, as will be recorded later. I was,however, fixed in my determination, and only gave way in so far as topromise to return as soon as possible. These details are recorded thusat length, as they are all links of a chain which pieced itselftogether later in my life. Such links there are in the story of everyhuman existence, and no incident seems to stand quite alone.

  After dinner that evening I went to my own study, leaving the Vicomteto join the ladies in the drawing-room without me. So far as I wasable I had arranged during the last few days the affairs which hadbeen confidingly placed in my care, and desired to leave books andpapers in such a condition that a successor could at once take up thethread of management.

  The Vicomte was so disturbed at the mention of my departure that thetopic had been carefully avoided during dinner, though I make no doubtthat he knew my purpose in refusing to go to the drawing-room.

  I was at work in my room--between the two tall candles--when therustle of a woman's dress in the open doorway made me look up. Lucillehad come into the room--her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. And Iknew, or thought I knew, her thoughts.

  "My father tells me that you are going to leave us," she said in herimpetuous way.

  "Yes, Mademoiselle."

  "I have come to ask you not to do so. You may--think what you like."

  I did not look at her, but guessed the expression of her determinedlips.

  "And you are too proud," I said, "to explain. You think that I, like aschoolboy, am going off in a fit of wounded vanity--pleased to cause alittle inconvenience, and thus prove my own importance. You think thatit is yourself who sends me away, and your father cannot afford tolose my services at this time. You consider it your duty to suppressyour own feelings, and tread under foot your own pride--to serve theVicomte. Your pride further prompts you to give me permission tothink what I like of you. Thank you, Mademoiselle."

  I was making pretence, in a shallow way no doubt, to study the paperson the table, and Lucille standing before my desk was looking down atmy bent head, noting perhaps the grey hairs there. Thus we remainedfor a minute in silence.

  Then turning, she slowly left the room, and I would have given fiveyears of my life to see the expression of her face.