1.
Ah! my dear Sir, I cannot tell you how poor we all were in France inthat year of grace 1816--so poor, indeed, that a dish of roast porkwas looked upon as a feast, and a new gown for the wife an unheard-ofluxury.
The war had ruined everyone. Twenty-two years! and hopelesshumiliation and defeat at the end of it. The Emperor handed over tothe English; a Bourbon sitting on the throne of France; crowds offoreign soldiers still lording it all over the country--until thecountry had paid its debts to her foreign invaders, and thousands ofour own men still straggling home through Germany and Belgium--theremnants of Napoleon's Grand Army--ex-prisoners of war, or scatteredunits who had found their weary way home at last, shoeless, coatless,half starved and perished from cold and privations, unfit forhousework, for agriculture, or for industry, fit only to follow theirfallen hero, as they had done through a quarter of a century, tovictory and to death.
With me, Sir, business in Paris was almost at a standstill. I, who hadbeen the confidential agent of two kings, three democrats and oneemperor; I, who had held diplomatic threads in my hands which hadcaused thrones to totter and tyrants to quake, and who had broughtmore criminals and intriguers to book than any other man alive--I nowsat in my office in the Rue Daunou day after day with never a clientto darken my doors, even whilst crime and political intrigue were morerife in Paris than they had been in the most corrupt days of theRevolution and the Consulate.
I told you, I think, that I had forgiven Theodore his abominabletreachery in connexion with the secret naval treaty, and we were thebest of friends--that is, outwardly, of course. Within my inmost heartI felt, Sir, that I could never again trust that shamelesstraitor--that I had in very truth nurtured a serpent in my bosom. ButI am proverbially tender-hearted. You will believe me or not, I simplycould not turn that vermin out into the street. He deserved it! Oh,even he would have admitted when he was quite sober, which was notoften, that I had every right to give him the sack, to send him backto the gutter whence he had come, there to grub once more for scrapsof filth and to stretch a half-frozen hand to the charity of thepassers by.
But I did not do it, Sir. No, I did not do it. I kept him on at theoffice as my confidential servant; I gave him all the crumbs that fellfrom mine own table, and he helped himself to the rest. I made aslittle difference as I could in my intercourse with him. I continuedto treat him almost as an equal. The only difference I did make in ourmode of life was that I no longer gave him bed and board at thehostelry where I lodged in Passy, but placed the chair-bedstead in theanteroom of the office permanently at his disposal, and allowed himfive sous a day for his breakfast.
But owing to the scarcity of business that now came my way, Theodorehad little or nothing to do, and he was in very truth eating his headoff, and with that, grumble, grumble all the time, threatening toleave me, if you please, to leave my service for more remunerativeoccupation. As if anyone else would dream of employing such anout-at-elbows mudlark--a jail-bird, Sir, if you'll believe me.
Thus the Spring of 1816 came along. Spring, Sir, with its beauty andits promises, and the thoughts of love which come eternally in theminds of those who have not yet wholly done with youth. Love, Sir! Idreamed of it on those long, weary afternoons in April, after I hadconsumed my scanty repast, and whilst Theodore in the anteroom wassnoring like a hog. At even, when tired out and thirsty, I would sitfor a while outside a humble cafe on the outer boulevards, I watchedthe amorous couples wander past me on their way to happiness. At nightI could not sleep, and bitter were my thoughts, my revilings against acruel fate that had condemned me--a man with so sensitive a heart andso generous a nature--to the sorrows of perpetual solitude.
That, Sir, was my mood, when on a never-to-be-forgotten afternoontoward the end of April, I sat mooning disconsolately in my privateroom and a timid rat-tat at the outer door of the apartment rousedTheodore from his brutish slumbers. I heard him shuffling up to thedoor, and I hurriedly put my necktie straight and smoothed my hair,which had become disordered despite the fact that I had only indulgedin a very abstemious dejeuner.
When I said that the knock at my door was in the nature of a timidrat-rat I did not perhaps describe it quite accurately. It was timid,if you will understand me, and yet bold, as coming from one who mighthesitate to enter and nevertheless feels assured of welcome. Obviouslya client, I thought.
Effectively, Sir, the next moment my eyes were gladdened by the sightof a lovely woman, beautifully dressed, young, charming, smiling butto hide her anxiety, trustful, and certainly wealthy.
The moment she stepped into the room I knew that she was wealthy;there was an air of assurance about her which only those are able toassume who are not pestered with creditors. She wore two beautifuldiamond rings upon her hands outside her perfectly fitting glove, andher bonnet was adorned with flowers so exquisitely fashioned that abutterfly would have been deceived and would have perched on it withdelight.
Her shoes were of the finest kid, shiny at the toes like tiny mirrors,whilst her dainty ankles were framed in the filmy lace frills of herpantalets.
Within the wide brim of her bonnet her exquisite face appeared like arosebud nestling in a basket. She smiled when I rose to greet her,gave me a look that sent my susceptible heart a-flutter and caused meto wish that I had not taken that bottle-green coat of mine to theMont de Piete only last week. I offered her a seat, which she took,arranging her skirts about her with inimitable grace.
"One moment," I added, as soon as she was seated, "and I am entirelyat your service."
I took up pen and paper--an unfinished letter which I always keephandy for the purpose--and wrote rapidly. It always looks well for alawyer or an _agent confidentiel_ to keep a client waiting for a momentor two while he attends to the enormous pressure of correspondencewhich, if allowed to accumulate for five minutes, would immediatelyoverwhelm him. I signed and folded the letter, threw it with anonchalant air into a basket filled to the brim with others of equalimportance, buried my face in my hands for a few seconds as if tocollect my thoughts, and finally said:
"And now, Mademoiselle, will you deign to tell me what procures me thehonour of your visit?"
The lovely creature had watched my movements with obvious impatience,a frown upon her exquisite brow. But now she plunged straightway intoher story.
"Monsieur," she said with that pretty, determined air which became herso well, "my name is Estelle Bachelier. I am an orphan, an heiress,and have need of help and advice. I did not know to whom to apply.Until three months ago I was poor and had to earn my living by workingin a milliner's shop in the Rue St. Honore. The concierge in the housewhere I used to lodge is my only friend, but she cannot help me forreasons which will presently be made clear to you. She told me,however, that she had a nephew named Theodore, who was clerk to M.Ratichon, advocate and confidential agent. She gave me your address;and as I knew no one else I determined to come and consult you."
I flatter myself, that though my countenance is exceptionally mobile,I possess marvellous powers for keeping it impassive when necessityarises. In this instance, at mention of Theodore's name, I showedneither surprise nor indignation. Yet you will readily understand thatI felt both. Here was that man, once more revealed as a traitor.Theodore had an aunt of whom he had never as much as breathed a word.He had an aunt, and that aunt a concierge--_ipso facto_, if I may soexpress it, a woman of some substance, who, no doubt, would often havebeen only too pleased to extend hospitality to the man who had sosignally befriended her nephew; a woman, Sir, who was undoubtedlypossessed of savings which both reason and gratitude would cause herto invest in an old-established and substantial business run by atrustworthy and capable man, such, for instance, as the bureau of aconfidential agent in a good quarter of Paris, which, with the help ofa little capital, could be rendered highly lucrative and beneficial toall those, concerned.
I determined then and there to give Theodore a piece of my mind and toinsist upon an introduction to his aunt. After which I begged thebeautiful cre
ature to proceed.
"My father, Monsieur," she continued, "died three months ago, inEngland, whither he had emigrated when I was a mere child, leaving mypoor mother to struggle along for a livelihood as best she could. Mymother died last year, Monsieur, and I have hard a hard life; and nowit seems that my father made a fortune in England and left it all tome."
I was greatly interested in her story.
"The first intimation I had of it, Monsieur, was three months ago,when I had a letter from an English lawyer in London telling me thatmy father, Jean Paul Bachelier--that was his name, Monsieur--had diedout there and made a will leaving all his money, about one hundredthousand francs, to me."
"Yes, yes!" I murmured, for my throat felt parched and my eyes dim.
Hundred thousand francs! Ye gods!
"It seems," she proceeded demurely, "that my father put it in his willthat the English lawyers were to pay me the interest on the moneyuntil I married or reached the age of twenty-one. Then the whole ofthe money was to be handed over to me."
I had to steady myself against the table or I would have fallen overbackwards! This godlike creature, to whom the sum of one hundredthousand francs was to be paid over when she married, had come to mefor help and advice! The thought sent my brain reeling! I am soimaginative!
"Proceed, Mademoiselle, I pray you," I contrived to say with dignifiedcalm.
"Well, Monsieur, as I don't know a word of English, I took the letterto Mr. Farewell, who is the English traveller for Madame Cecile, themilliner for whom I worked. He is a kind, affable gentleman and wasmost helpful to me. He was, as a matter of fact, just going over toEngland the very next day. He offered to go and see the Englishlawyers for me, and to bring me back all particulars of my dearfather's death and of my unexpected fortune."
"And," said I, for she had paused a moment, "did Mr. Farewell go toEngland on your behalf?"
"Yes, Monsieur. He went and returned about a fortnight later. He hadseen the English lawyers, who confirmed all the good news which wascontained in their letter. They took, it seems, a great fancy to Mr.Farewell, and told him that since I was obviously too young to livealone and needed a guardian to look after my interests, they wouldappoint him my guardian, and suggested that I should make my home withhim until I was married or had attained the age of twenty-one. Mr.Farewell told me that though this arrangement might be somewhatinconvenient in his bachelor establishment, he had been unable toresist the entreaties of the English lawyers, who felt that no one wasmore fitted for such onerous duties than himself, seeing that he wasEnglish and so obviously my friend."
"The scoundrel! The blackguard!" I exclaimed in an unguarded outburstof fury. . . .
"Your pardon, Mademoiselle," I added more calmly, seeing that thelovely creature was gazing at me with eyes full of astonishment notunmixed with distrust, "I am anticipating. Am I to understand, then,that you have made your home with this Mr. Farewell?"
"Yes, Monsieur, at number sixty-five Rue des Pyramides."
"Is he a married man?" I asked casually.
"He is a widower, Monsieur."
"Middle-aged?"
"Quite elderly, Monsieur."
I could have screamed with joy. I was not yet forty myself.
"Why!" she added gaily, "he is thinking of retiring from business--heis, as I said, a commercial traveller--in favour of his nephew, M.Adrien Cazales."
Once more I had to steady myself against the table. The room swamround me. One hundred thousand francs!--a lovely creature!--anunscrupulous widower!--an equally dangerous young nephew. I rose andtottered to the window. I flung it wide open--a thing I never do saveat moments of acute crises.
The breath of fresh air did me good. I returned to my desk, and wasable once more to assume my habitual dignity and presence of mind.
"In all this, Mademoiselle," I said in my best professional manner, "Ido not gather how I can be of service to you."
"I am coming to that, Monsieur," she resumed after a slight moment ofhesitation, even as an exquisite blush suffused her damask cheeks."You must know that at first I was very happy in the house of my newguardian. He was exceedingly kind to me, though there were timesalready when I fancied . . ."
She hesitated--more markedly this time--and the blush became deeper onher cheeks. I groaned aloud.
"Surely he is too old," I suggested.
"Much too old," she assented emphatically.
Once more I would have screamed with joy had not a sharp pang, like adagger-thrust, shot through my heart.
"But the nephew, eh?" I said as jocosely, as indifferently as I could."Young M. Cazales? What?"
"Oh!" she replied with perfect indifference. "I hardly ever see him."
Unfortunately it were not seemly for an avocat and the _agentconfidentiel_ of half the Courts of Europe to execute the measures ofa polka in the presence of a client, or I would indeed have jumped upand danced with glee. The happy thoughts were hammering away in mymind: "The old one is much too old--the young one she never sees!" andI could have knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown for theexquisite indifference with which she had uttered those magic words:"Oh! I hardly ever see him!"--words which converted my brightest hopesinto glowing possibilities.
But, as it was, I held my emotions marvellously in check, and withperfect sang-froid once more asked the beauteous creature how I couldbe of service to her in her need.
"Of late, Monsieur," she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candidblue eyes to mine, "my position in Mr. Farewell's house has becomeintolerable. He pursues me with his attentions, and he has becomeinsanely jealous. He will not allow me to speak to anyone, and haseven forbidden M. Cazales, his own nephew, the house. Not that I careabout that," she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
"He has forbidden M. Cazales the house," rang like a paean in my ear."Not that she cares about that! Tra la, la, la, la, la!" What Iactually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was:
"If you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, I wouldat once communicate with the English lawyers in your name and suggestto them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . . I wouldsuggest, for instance . . . er . . . that I . . ."
"How can you do that, Monsieur?" she broke in somewhat impatiently,"seeing that I cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?"
"Eh?" I queried, gasping.
"I neither know their names nor their residence in England."
Once more I gasped. "Will you explain?" I murmured.
"It seems, Monsieur, that while my dear mother lived she alwaysrefused to take a single sou from my father, who had so baselydeserted her. Of course, she did not know that he was making a fortuneover in England, nor that he was making diligent inquiries as to herwhereabouts when he felt that he was going to die. Thus, he discoveredthat she had died the previous year and that I was working in theatelier of Madame Cecile, the well-known milliner. When the Englishlawyers wrote to me at that address they, of course, said that theywould require all my papers of identification before they paid anymoney over to me, and so, when Mr. Farewell went over to England, hetook all my papers with him and . . ."
She burst into tears and exclaimed piteously:
"Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur--nothing to prove who I am! Mr.Farewell took everything, even the original letter which the Englishlawyers wrote to me."
"Farewell," I urged, "can be forced by the law to give all your papersup to you."
"Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur--he threatened to destroy all mypapers unless I promised to become his wife! And I haven't the leastidea how and where to find the English lawyers. I don't remembereither their name or their address; and if I did, how could I prove myidentity to their satisfaction? I don't know a soul in Paris save afew irresponsible millinery apprentices and Madame Cecile, who, nodoubt, is hand in glove with Mr. Farewell. I am all alone in the worldand friendless. . . . I have come to you, Monsieur, in my distress . . .and you will help me, will you not?"
She look
ed more adorable in grief than she had ever done before.
To tell you that at this moment visions floated in my mind, beforewhich Dante's visions of Paradise would seem pale and tame, were butto put it mildly. I was literally soaring in heaven. For you see I ama man of intellect and of action. No sooner do I see possibilitiesbefore me than my brain soars in an empyrean whilst conceiving daringplans for my body's permanent abode in elysium. At this presentmoment, for instance--to name but a few of the beatific visions whichliterally dazzled me with their radiance--I could see my fair clientas a lovely and blushing bride by my side, even whilst Messieurs X.and X., the two still unknown English lawyers, handed me a heavy bagwhich bore the legend "One hundred thousand francs." I could see . . .But I had not the time now to dwell on these ravishing dreams. Thebeauteous creature was waiting for my decision. She had placed herfate in my hands; I placed my hand on my heart.
"Mademoiselle," I said solemnly, "I will be your adviser and yourfriend. Give me but a few days' grace, every hour, every minute ofwhich I will spend in your service. At the end of that time I will notonly have learned the name and address of the English lawyers, but Iwill have communicated with them on your behalf, and all your papersproving your identity will be in your hands. Then we can come to adecision with regard to a happier and more comfortable home for you.In the meanwhile I entreat you to do nothing that may precipitate Mr.Farewell's actions. Do not encourage his advances, but do not repulsethem, and above all keep me well informed of everything that goes onin his house."
She spoke a few words of touching gratitude, then she rose, and with agesture of exquisite grace she extracted a hundred-franc note from herreticule and placed it upon my desk.
"Mademoiselle," I protested with splendid dignity, "I have donenothing as yet."
"Ah! but you will, Monsieur," she entreated in accents that completedmy subjugation to her charms. "Besides, you do not know me! How couldI expect you to work for me and not to know if, in the end, I shouldrepay you for all your trouble? I pray you to take this small sumwithout demur. Mr. Farewell keeps me well supplied with pocket money.There will be another hundred for you when you place the papers in myhands."
I bowed to her, and, having once more assured her of my unswervingloyalty to her interests, I accompanied her to the door, and anon sawher graceful figure slowly descend the stairs and then disappear alongthe corridor.
Then I went back to my room, and was only just in time to catchTheodore calmly pocketing the hundred-franc note which my fair clienthad left on the table. I secured the note and I didn't give him ablack eye, for it was no use putting him in a bad temper when therewas so much to do.