Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  “Now, Oliver,” said the master, “what is it that you would wish to see?”

  The thought of the perils from which he had escaped and the perils which still lay before him was uppermost in Oliver’s mind. “I should like,” said he, “to see that which will bring me the most danger in my life.”

  The master laughed. “It is a wise wish, my child,” said he; “look and see.”

  He stood aside, and Oliver came forward and gazed into the glass. At first he saw nothing but his own face reflected clear and sharp as in an ordinary mirror; then suddenly, as he gazed, the bright surface of the glass clouded over as though with a breath blown upon it, and his own face faded away from his view. The next moment it cleared again, and he saw before him the face and form of a young lady, the most beautiful he had ever seen. He had only just time to observe that she sat in the window recess of what appeared to be a large and richly appointed room, and that she was reading a letter. Then all was gone — the master had dropped the curtain across the glass.

  Oliver put his fingers to his forehead and looked about him, dazed and bewildered, for he felt as though he were going crazy in the presence of all the grotesque wonders through which he was passing.

  The master also seemed disturbed. He frowned; he bit his lips; he looked at Oliver from under his brows. “Who is the young lady?” said he at last.

  “I do not know,” said Oliver, faintly. “I never saw her before.”

  “Here is a new complication,” said the master. “One woman is more dangerous than a score of men.” He brooded for a moment or two, and then his face cleared again. “No matter,” said he; “we will not go to meet our difficulties, but will wait till they come to us. All the same, Oliver, take warning by one who knows that whereof he speaks. Avoid the women as you would a pitfall: they have been the ruin of many a better man. Remember that which I have told you of Raymond Lulli. He might perhaps have been living to-day, the richest and happiest man in the world, had he not been so stupid as to love Agnes de Villeneuve.”

  Oliver made no reply, but even while the other was uttering his warning he had determined in his own mind to seize the very first opportunity of looking again, and at his leisure, into the mirror, and to see again that danger which appeared in so alluring a form.

  ACT II.

  Scene First. — An inn on the road to Flourens.

  A CALASH HAS lately arrived, and the horses are now being baited at the inn stables. The day is excessively warm and sultry, so that the young gentleman who came in the calash is having his bread, and a bottle of the wine for which the inn is famous, served to him under the great chestnut-tree before the door. It is Oliver Munier, but so different from the Oliver that left Paris a year before that even his mother would hardly have known him. He is no longer that peasant lad in blouse who crouched, shrunk together, in the corner of the great coach of the rich American uncle, being carried with thunderous rumble to some hideous and unknown fate which he did not dare to tell even to his own soul. He wore a silk coat, a satin waistcoat, satin breeches, silk stockings, a laced hat; he wore fine cambric cuffs at his wrists, and a lace cravat with a diamond solitaire at his throat, and his manners befitted his dress.

  “THE INNKEEPER SERVED HIM IN PERSON.”

  He carried with him a small and curiously wrought iron box, of which he seemed excessively careful, keeping it close beside him, and every now and then touching it with his hand, as though to make sure that it had not been spirited away.

  The innkeeper, a merry little pot-bellied rogue, as round as a dumpling and as red as an apple, served him in person, talking garrulously the while. Monsieur was on his way to Flourens? Ah! there was great excitement there to-day. What! Monsieur did not know? He must then be a stranger not to know that Monseigneur the Marquis had left Paris, and was coming back to the château to live.

  Oliver was interested. He had seen monseigneur in Flourens once some two or three years before, when he had paid a flying visit to the château to put on another turn of the screw, and to squeeze all the money he could from the starving peasants of the estate, to pay some of his more hungry and clamorous creditors. All Flourens had known that the marquis was over head and ears in debt, and now the little gossiping landlord added the supplement. It was, he told Oliver, through no choice that Monseigneur the Marquis was to come back to the country again, but because he had no more wherewith to support his Paris life. He loathed Flourens, and he loved Paris; he hated the dull life of the country, and he adored the gayety of the city, its powder, its patches, its masques, its court, its vanity, its show, and, most of all, its intrigues and its cards. But all these cost money, for Monseigneur the Marquis had lived like a prince of the blood, and it had cost a deal. Ah, yes! such little matters as intrigues and the cards cost treasures of money in Paris, he had heard say. So now the marquis and the family were coming back again to Flourens.

  By the time that the landlord had half done his gossip, Oliver had finished his bread and wine; then, the horses being refreshed, he bade the servant whom he had brought down from Paris with him to order out the calash. The landlord would have assisted Oliver in carrying his iron box, but Oliver would not permit it. He commanded him somewhat sharply to let it alone, and he himself stowed it safely within the calash.

  His man-servant was holding the door open for him to enter, and Oliver already had his foot placed upon the step ready to ascend, when the clatter of hoofs and the rumble of a coach caught his attention, and he waited to see it pass.

  It was a huge, lumbering affair, as big as a small house, and was dragged thunderously along by six horses. A number of outriders surrounded it as it came sweeping along amid a cloud of dust, in the midst of which the whips of the postilions cracked and snapped like pistol-shots.

  So Oliver waited, with some curiosity, until the whole affair had thundered by along the road, with its crashing, creaking, rattling clatter, preceded by the running footmen with their long canes, and the outriders in their uniform of white and blue. It was all gone in a moment — a moment that left Oliver standing dumb and rooted. In that instant of passing he had seen three faces through the open windows of the coach: the first, that of a stout, red-faced man, thick-lipped, sensual; second, that of a lady, pale and large-eyed, once beautiful perhaps, now faded and withered. But the third! The third face was looking directly at him, and it was the glimpse of it that left him rooted, bereft of motion. It was the same face that he had seen that first day in the magic mirror in the master’s house; the face that he had seen in that mirror, and unknown to the master, not once, not twice, but scores of times — hundreds of times.

  The landlord’s voice brought him to himself with a shock. “Monsieur has dropped his handkerchief.”

  Oliver took the handkerchief mechanically from his hand, and as he entered the coach like one in a dream, he heard the landlord say, as his servant closed the door with a clash.

  “That was Monseigneur the Marquis on his way to the Château Flourens.”

  Scene Second. — The Widow Munier’s house in Flourens. Not the poor rude hut that Oliver had left her in when he first went to Paris, but the house of the late Doctor Fouchette — the best house in the town. The Widow Munier is discovered sitting at the window, with her face close to the glass, looking down the street expectantly.

  Oliver had been gone a year, and that year had wrought great changes with her. All the town knew that a great fortune had come to her, and she was no longer the poor widow Munier, the relict of Jean Munier the tailor; she was Madame Munier.

  After Oliver had been gone to Paris a week, there came a letter for her from him, and in the letter was money. Every week after came such another packet with more and more money — enough to lift her from poverty to opulence. She was no longer obliged to eat cabbage soup, or live in the poor little hut on the road. Just about that time Doctor Fouchette died, and, at Oliver’s bidding, she took the house for herself. It was very pleasant to her, but there was one thing that she could not
understand. Her rich American brother-in-law had distinctly told her that he and Oliver were to go to Paris to choose a house, and that she was then to be sent for to live with them. She had never been sent for, and that was what she did not understand. Yet the weekly letters from Paris compensated for much. In those letters Oliver often told her that he and his uncle were in business together, and were growing rich at such a rate as no one had ever grown rich before. They were in the diamond business, he said, and in a little while he hoped to come home with more money than an East Indian prince. Then, at last, a little while after the twelvemonth had gone by, came a letter saying that he would be home upon the next Wednesday, in the afternoon. So now Madame Munier was sitting at the parlor waiting for that coming.

  A calash came rattling along the stony street, and as it passed, the good people came to the doors and windows and looked after it. It did not stop at the inn, but continued straight along until it came to the door of Madame Munier’s house. Then it drew up to the foot-way, and a servant in livery sprang to the ground and opened the door. A young gentleman stepped out, carrying an oblong iron box by a handle in the lid.

  In thirty minutes all Flourens knew that Oliver Munier had returned home; in sixty minutes they knew he was as rich as Crœsus.

  As Oliver released himself from his mother’s embrace, he looked around him. It was all very different from the little hut on the road that he had left twelve months ago, but he seemed dissatisfied. He shook his head.

  “It will never do,” said he.

  “What will never do?” said his mother.

  “This house, this furniture — all,” said Oliver, with a wave of his hand.

  His mother stared. “It is a fine house,” said she, “and the furniture is handsome. What, then, would you have?”

  “The house is small; it is narrow; it is mean,” said Oliver.

  His mother stared wider than ever. “It is the best house in Flourens,” said she.

  “Perhaps,” said Oliver; “but it does not please me. It will serve for us so long as we remain here, but I hope soon to remove to a better place — one more suitable for people of our condition.”

  Madame Munier’s eyes grew as round as teacups. She began to notice that Oliver’s manners and speech were very different from what they had been before he left Flourens a year ago. She herself had never used the barbarous Flourennaise patois.

  “Remove to a better place?” she repeated, mechanically. “To one more suitable for people of our condition?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver. “I have in my mind a château in Normandy of which I have heard. I think of buying it.”

  Madame Munier’s wonder had reached as high as it could soar. She began to wonder whether Oliver had not gone mad.

  He gave her scarcely any time to recover before he administered another and a greater shock.

  “Mother,” said he, suddenly, “the family returns to the château to-day?”

  “Yes,” said his mother; “they passed through the town about a half an hour before you came.”

  “I know,” said Oliver; “I saw them upon the road. There were two ladies with monseigneur. Do you know who they were?”

  “One of them was thin and wrinkled, with black eyes and heavy eyebrows?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver.

  “The other, a young girl, rather pretty?”

  “She is beautiful!” said Oliver.

  “No doubt they were Madame the Marquise, and Mademoiselle Céleste, the daughter,” said Madame Munier.

  There was a little time of silence, and then Oliver gave his mother that second shock, a shock such as the poor woman never had in her life before.

  “Mother,” said he, “I love Mademoiselle Céleste.”

  Madame Munier opened her eyes and mouth as wide as she was able. “You what?” she cried.

  “I love Mademoiselle Céleste,” said Oliver: it was delicious to repeat those words.

  Madame Munier looked slowly all about her, as though she had dropped from the moon, and knew not as yet where she was. “He loves Mademoiselle Céleste!” she repeated to herself.

  “Yes,” said Oliver; “I love her.”

  “He loves her!” said Madame Munier, mechanically. “He is mad!”

  “‘MAD!’ SAID OLIVER, ‘WHY AM I MAD?’”

  “Mad!” said Oliver. “Why am I mad? Were I a beggar and she a princess I might still love her. Were I now as I was twelve months ago, poor, ignorant, dull, a witless, idle sot, satisfied to sit the day through on the bench in front of the inn yonder, I might still love her! Were we living in poverty as we were then — you and I — dwelling in that little stone hut, feeding upon stewed cabbage and onions, I might still love Céleste de Flourens! Love,” cried Oliver— “love is universal; it is limitless; it is the right of every man, and no one can take it from him!”

  Madame Munier listened; she thought that she had never heard any one talk so beautifully as Oliver. It put the matter in a new light.

  “But I am no longer as I was then,” continued Oliver. “I have seen much; I have passed through much; I have lived in Paris. But all would be of no importance were it not for another thing. Listen, mother! We are rich, you and I. We are the richest people in France — excepting one other; yes, the richest people in France! You think me crazy to love Céleste de Flourens! I tell you, I swear to you, I could to-morrow buy Flourens from one end to the other — the town, the château, and all. You do not believe me? Very well, you shall see! But as for this love of mine, it is not so hopeless nor so mad as you think. To-morrow you shall go in my coach, with my servant Henri, down to the château yonder.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort,” interrupted Madame Munier, sharply.

  Oliver only smiled; he did not answer. A habit he had caught from his master during the last year was to contradict nobody. “To-morrow you shall go down to the château in my coach, with my servant Henri, and then you shall see how complaisant the marquis will be.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Madame Munier again. “I will not go down to the château.”

  Still Oliver did not seem to hear her. Going to the table, he chose a key, and unlocking the iron box, brought forth from it a curious old silver snuffbox, handsomely chased and enamelled with figures and flowers. “Do you see this box?” said he, holding it up between his thumb and finger.

  “Yes,” said Madame Munier, “I see it; but I will not go to the château.”

  “It is only a snuffbox,” said Oliver. “It is a small thing; but what then? Within it is a charm — a key with which I hope to unlock the portals of a new world to us. It shall give us the entrée to the château.”

  “I shall not go to the château,” said Madame Munier.

  “Also,” said Oliver, “I will give you a letter, which you will present, together with this snuffbox, to the marquis; and I shall sign the letter Oliver de Monnière.”

  “But that is not your name,” said Madame Munier.

  “Very well,” said Oliver; “but it shall hereafter be our name — yours and mine — De Monnière. Remember it, mother — De Monnière.”

  “But what, then, is in the snuffbox?” said Oliver’s mother.

  “I will show you,” said Oliver, and he opened the lid.

  “Bah!” said his mother; “and is that all? Do you think that Monseigneur the Marquis will care for that thing?”

  Oliver smiled. “Yes,” said he, “he will care for this thing.”

  Oliver’s mother had nearly forgotten herself. “I will not go to the château,” said she.

  Scene Third. — The marquis’s apartments at the château.

  It is the next day after the marquis has returned to the Château de Flourens. It is three o’clock in the afternoon, and the marquis is discovered still in bed. His valet, August, an incomparable fellow, has been in and out a dozen times; has smoothed the marquis’s clothes; has rearranged a freshly-powdered wig that hung as white as snow upon the block; has moved a chair here and a ta
ble there. But the Marquis de Flourens has paid no attention to him. He is reading the latest effusion of the immortal Jean Jacques; for one must keep up with the world, even if one is compelled to live in Flourens; moreover, as he often observes, a book suffices somewhat to relieve the ennui.

  The Marquis de Flourens looks very droll. He is clad in a loose dressing-robe of figured cloth, and lies in bed reading his book, with a chocolate-pot and a delicate cup, with the brown dregs at the bottom, upon a light table standing at the bedside. His knees are drawn up into a little white mountain, the lace pillows are tucked in billowy masses behind him, and his nightcap is pushed a little to one side, giving a glimpse of his shining, newly-shaven head; his round face, in contrast with the white pillows behind, as red as a newly-risen sun.

  The valet again enters the room, but this time with an object. He bears upon a silver tray a three-cornered billet and a snuffbox. The marquis lingeringly finishes the sentence he is reading, and then lays the book face down upon the bed beside him. “What is it you would have, August?” said he.

  “A lady, monseigneur, has just now stopped at the door in a coach.”

  “HE IS CLAD IN A LOOSE DRESSING-ROBE OF FIGURED CLOTH, AND LIES IN BED READING HIS BOOK.”

  The marquis sat up as though moved by a spring. “A lady?” he cried. “Young, beautiful?”

  “No,” said August, seriously; “old, fat.”

  The marquis lay back upon the pillows again. “What is it that you have brought, August?” said he, languidly. August presented the waiter. “Oh!” said the marquis. “A letter; and what is that — a snuffbox?” He reached out and took Oliver’s three-cornered billet from the waiter. “This is not a woman’s handwriting,” said he; “it is the handwriting of a man.”

  August said nothing, and the marquis opened the letter. It ran as follows: