Chapter V
C'est la Vie
"Les querelles ne dureraient pas longtemps si le tort n'etait d'un cote."
Monsieur Alphonse Giraud, unlike many men, had an aim in life--a dailypurpose with which he rose in the morning at, it must be admitted, ashockingly late hour--without which he rarely sought his couch evenwhen it was not reached until the foolish birds were astir.
The son of the celebrated Baron Giraud sought, in a word, to bemistaken for an Englishman--and what higher ambition could we, whomodestly set such store upon our nationality, desire him to cherish?
In view of this praiseworthy object, Alphonse Giraud wore a mustacheonly, and this--oh! inconsistency of great minds--he laboriouslytwirled heavenwards in the French fashion. It was, in fact, theguileless Alphonse's chief tribulation that, however industriously hecultivated that devil-may-care upward sweep, the sparse ornament tohis upper lip invariably drooped downwards again before long. In thesunny land of France it is held that the mustache worn "en croc" notonly confers upon its possessor an air of distinction, but rendersthat happy individual particularly irresistible in the eyes of thefair. Readers of modern French fiction are aware that the heroes ofthose edifying tales invariably wear the mustache "hardimentretroussee," which habit doubtless adds a subtle charm to theirsingularly puerile and fatuous conversation imperceptible to the merereader.
Alphonse Giraud was a small man, and would have given a thousandpounds for another inch, as he frankly told his friends. His outwardgarments were fashioned in London, whence also came his hats, glovesand boots. But within all these he was hopelessly and absolutelyFrench. The English boots trod the pavement--they knew no other pathin life--in a manner essentially Gallic. The check trousers, of apattern somewhat loud and startling, had the mincing gait in them ofany "pantalon de fantasie," purchased a prix fixe in the Boulevard St.Germain, across the water. It is useless to lift a Lincoln and Bennettfrom a little flat-topped head, cut, as they say, to the rat andfringed all over with black, upright hair.
But young Giraud held manfully to his purpose, and even essayed tocopy the attitudes of his own groom, a thin-legged man from Streatham,who knew a thing or two, let him tell you, about a 'oss. There was noharm in Alphonse. There is, indeed, less harm in Frenchmen thanthey--sad dogs!--would have you believe. They are, as a rule,domesticated individuals, with a pretty turn for mixing a salad.Within the narrow but gay waistcoat of this son of Paris there beat askind a little eager French heart as one may wish to deal with.
"Bon Dieu!" Alphonse would exclaim, when convinced that he had beenrobbed or cheated. "What will you? I am like that. I daresay the poordevil wanted the money badly--and I do not miss it."
There is a charity that gives, and another that allows the needy totake.
It was the Baron Giraud's great desire that Alphonse should be agentleman of the great world, moving in his narrow orbit in the firstcircles of Parisian society, which was nothing to boast of in thosedays, and has steadily declined ever since. To attain such aneminence, the astute financier knew as well as any that only one thingwas really necessary--namely, money. This he gave to his son with anopen hand, and only gasped when he heard whither it went and howfreely Alphonse spent it.
"There is plenty more," he said, "behind." And his little porcine eyestwinkled amid their yellow wrinkles. "I am a man of substance. Youmust be a man of position. But do not lend to the wrong people. Rathergive to the right and be done with it. They will take it--bon Dieu!You need not shake your head. There is no man who will refuse money ifyou offer him enough."
And who shall say that the Baron Giraud was wrong?
A young man possessing a light heart and a heavy purse will never wanta friend in this kind world of ours. And Alphonse Giraud possessed,moreover, a few of the better sort of friends, who had well-filledpurses of their own, and wanted nothing from him but his gay laugh andgood-fellowship. These were true friends, who did not scruple to tellhim, when they encountered him in the Bois de Boulogne, afoot or onhorseback, that while the right-hand side of his mustache was mostsuccessfully en croc, the other extremity of the ornament pointedearthwards. And, let it be remembered, that to tell a man of a defectin his personal appearance is always a doubtful kindness.
"Ah, heavens!" Alphonse would exclaim to these true comrades, "I haveevil luck, and two minutes ago I bowed to the beautiful Comtesse dePeudechose in her buggy."
Alphonse affected the society of Englishmen, was a member of the clubsfrequented by the sons of Albion resident in Paris, and sought thesociety of the young gentlemen of the Embassy. It was in theapartments of one of these that he made the acquaintance of PhillipGayerson, a young fellow intended for the diplomatic service. PhillipGayerson, be it known at once, was the brother of that IsabellaGayerson to whose hand, heart and estate the present chronicler wasaccredited by a fond father, and about whom, indeed, he had quarrelledwith the author of his being.
The name of Dick Howard being at that time unknown to the littleFrenchman, Alphonse Giraud made no mention of it to Gayerson aself-absorbed man, who had probably forgotten my existence at thistime.
My countryman, as I afterwards learned, had come to Paris with theobject of learning the language, which by reason of its subtlety lendsitself most readily to diplomatic purposes, the most expressivelanguage, to my thinking, that the world has yet evolved, notexcepting the much-vaunted tongue in which Homer wrote. Phillip and Ihad been boys together, and of all the comrades of my youth I shouldhave selected him the last to distinguish himself in statecraft. Hewas a quiet, unobservant, and, as previously noted, self-absorbed man,with a sense of the picturesque, which took the form of mediocrewater-colour sketching. His appearance was in his favour, for he wasvisibly a gentleman; a man, moreover, of refined thought and habit,whom burly Norfolk squires dubbed effeminate.
Alphonse Giraud liked him--the world is sunny to those who look at itthrough sunny eyes--and took him up, as the saying goes, withouthesitation. He procured for him an invitation to a semi-state ball,held, as some no doubt remember, in the autumn of 1869. It was Lucillede Clericy's first ball, and Giraud renewed there a childishfriendship with one whose hair he confessed to have pulled in theunchivalrous days of his infancy.
Alphonse, who was of a frank nature, as are many of his countrymen,told Madame de Clericy, whom he escorted to the refreshment room afterdancing with her daughter, that he loved Lucille.
"But my dear Alphonse," retorted that lady, "you had forgotten herexistence until this evening."
This objection to his passion the lightsome Alphonse waived aside witha perfectly gloved little hand.
"But," he answered earnestly, "unknown to myself her vision mustalways have been _here_."
And he touched his shirt-front with the tips of his fingers gently,remembering the delicacy of his linen.
"It is an angel!" he added, with an upward glance of his bright littleeyes, and tossed off a glass of champagne cup.
Madame de Clericy sipped her coffee slowly, and said nothing; but hereyes travelled downward from the crown of her companion's head to hisdapper feet. And during that scrutiny there is little doubt that shereckoned the value of Monsieur Alphonse Giraud. What she saw was apleasant spoken young man, plus twenty thousand pounds a year. Nowonder the Vicomtesse smiled softly.
"And I," went on the Frenchman in half humorous humility, "what am I?Not clever, not handsome, not even tall!"
The lady shrugged her shoulders.
"_C'est la vie_," she said; a favourite reflection with her.
"Yes, and life and I are equal," replied Alphonse, with his gay laugh."We are both short! And now I wish to present to you and to Lucille mybest friend, Phillip Gayerson. He stands over there by the table, hein English clothes. He only arrived in Paris ten days ago, and speaksFrench indifferently. But he is charming, quite charming, my dearestfriend."
"Did you know him before he came to Paris?"
"Oh, no! Excuse me. I will bring him."
Madame made no rema
rk, but watched Giraud with her quiet smile as hewent to seek this dear friend of eight days' standing.
Phillip Gayerson was distinguished by a slight shyness. It was aslittle known or understood in Paris in the decadent days of the SecondEmpire as it is now in the time of our own social collapse in England.
Thus, when the introduction was complete, Phillip Gayerson found thathe had nothing to say to this elderly French lady, and was glad whenLucille came up, radiant on the arm of her partner. Alphonse presentedhis friend at once, and here Phillip felt more at his ease, being abetter dancer than talker, and asked for the honour of a waltz withoutdelay.
"I have but two left," answered Mademoiselle de Clericy, with a gayglance of happiness towards her mother. "They are at the end of theprogramme, and I promised to reserve them for Monsieur Howard."
She handed him her engagement card, in frank confirmation of thisstatement.
"R. H.," said Gayerson, deciphering the initials Lucille herself hadscribbled. "If this is Dick Howard I will take the first of his twodances, and risk the consequence. It will not be the first time thatDick and I have fallen out."
"THEN YOU KNOW MR. HOWARD?" SAID LUCILLE, WITH ANOTHERGLANCE AT HER MOTHER. "YES," ... ANSWERED GAYERSON, BUT HAD NO TIMEFOR MORE, FOR THE NEXT DANCE WAS GIRAUD'S, WHO WAS ALREADY BOWINGBEFORE HER, AS BEFORE A DEITY.]
He wrote his name over mine, and returned the card to its owner.
"Then you know Mr. Howard?" said Lucille, with another glance at hermother.
"Yes," ... answered Gayerson, but had no time for more, for the nextdance was Giraud's, who was already bowing before her, as before adeity.
Madame de Clericy made a little movement, as if to speak to Gayerson,but that young gentleman failed to see the gesture, and moved away tofind his partner for the coming waltz.
With the great people gathered at this assembly we have nothing to do,though the writer and the reader, no doubt, love to rub elbows withsuch lofty persons, if it be only in a public room. Many of them, beit noted, were not nearly so important as they considered themselves,and the greatness of some was built upon a base too frail to withstandthe storm and stress of the coming years.
Through the brilliant throng Lucille moved gaily and happily, taking,with the faith of youth, dross for gold, and a high head for the tokenof a noble heart. When Phillip Gayerson claimed his dance he found hera little tired, but still dazzled and excited by the brilliance of theoccasion.
"Is it not splendid?" she exclaimed, taking his arm. "It is my firstball. I am sure I shall never be too old to dance, as mother says sheis. Is it not absurd to say such a thing?"
Gayerson laughed, and as was his wont--a habit, indeed, with many shymen--came straight to the point.
"Do you know Dick Howard, then?" he asked.
"Yes, a little. Has he arrived? This is his dance, you know."
"I cannot tell you if he has arrived, Mademoiselle," answered theEnglishman, in his halting French. "I know him at home--in Norfolk. Iwas not aware that he was in Paris. But he will not be here to-night."
"Why?"
"Because his father is dead."
Lucille said nothing. She obeyed the movements of his arm, and theydanced, mingling with that gay throng, where the feet were lighterthan the hearts, we may be sure. They went through the whole dance insilence, as Phillip afterwards told me--and he tried in vain to engageLucille's full attention to matters of passing interest.
"We must find my mother," she said at length, when the music hadceased. "Mr. Howard does not know. He has been travelling in the Southwith my father. His letters have not been forwarded to him."
Phillip Gayerson guided his partner through the laughing throng.
"It will be bad news for Dick," he said, "for his father has left himpenniless."
"I understood," observed Lucille, looking attentively at her bouquet,"that he was wealthy."
"No. He quarrelled with his father, who left him without a sou. ButHoward knew it before he quitted England."
Lucille did not speak again until they had joined her mother, to whomshe said something so hurriedly that Gayerson did not catch the importof her words.
At this moment I entered the room, and made my way towards them,feeling more fit for my bed than a ball-room, for I had travellednight and day to dance a waltz with Lucille. As I approached, Gayersonbowed to the ladies and took his departure.
"My dance, Mademoiselle," I said, "if you have been so kind as toremember it."
"Yes," answered Lucille, coldly as it seemed, "but I am tired, and weare going home."
I looked towards Madame, and saw something in her face, I knew notwhat.
"Your arm, mon ami," she said, lifting her hand; "we had better gohome."