CHAPTER XVII
ON THE PONT ROYAL
It would appear that John Turner had business south of the Seine, thoughhis clients were few in the Faubourg St. Germain. For this placid Britishbanker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, it was said,had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family of theEmigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellows in theirpanic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed and calm manof business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days of theTerror, and did his duty by the clients whom he despised.
On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turner movedto the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate the action ofhis little stout legs, which took so short a stride that his progresssuggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to the leftagain, and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing behindthe Tuileries.
His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where thetravelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found a welcome.His clothes and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, no one, passingby with a casual glance, would have turned to look a second time at afigure so typical of the Paris streets.
Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossed thequay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the trees by theriver wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge, towardhim, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr.Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk.
After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, andstationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow,and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would need tostep into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, acourtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction.
"Look here, Sep," said Turner, "you are not going to pass an oldschoolfellow like that."
Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loose strides.Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked back at hisinterlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. This gaveplace to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognition wascomplete.
"What have you got there?" asked Turner, pointing with his stick at thecarpet-bag. "A kitten?"
"No--no," replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure thatnone could overhear.
"A Nanteuil--engraved from his own drawing, Jack--a real Nanteuil. I havejust been to a man I know--the print-shop opposite the statue on the QuaiVoltaire--to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it. He says thatI am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil--a proof beforeletters."
"Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?"
"No, no, quite the contrary," Marvin replied, in a confidential whisper.
"Stolen--dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus."
And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who hasnot laughed for long--perhaps for years.
"Ah, Jack," he said; "you are still up to a joke."
"Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and haveluncheon, and tell me all about it."
So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchlesscuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angelunawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin's appearance, althoughthe amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, weregentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many good thingsboth French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all those faults,which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is none onearth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in his hearthe is vastly amused.
It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign hiscarpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter.
"If it wasn't a Nanteuil," he explained in a whisper to his friend, "Ishould have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is honest and in everyway to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil--_ad vivum_--Jack. There are nonelike him. It is priceless."
"You used not to be a miser," said Turner, panting on the stairs, when atlast the bag was concealed in a safe place. "What matter what the valuemay be, so long as you like it?"
"Oh! but the value is of great importance," answered Septimus, rathersheepishly.
"Then you have changed a good deal since you and I were at Ipswich schooltogether. There, sit down at this table. I suppose you are hungry. I hopeyou are. Try and think--there's a good fellow--and remember that theyhave the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain't of the first water,but their cook is without match. Yes, you have changed a good deal, ifyou think of money."
Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in the last fewminutes.
"I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. I have come toParis to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, I suppose you would call it inthe financial world. _Pro aris et focis_, old friend. I want money forthe altar and the hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them inFarlingford for more money, for I know they have none. And the church isfalling about our ears. The house wants painting. It is going the way ofthe church, indeed."
"Ah!" said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare. "So you have tosell an engraving. It goes to the heart, I suppose?"
Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumption ofcheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than hiscompanion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, whichalways rings somewhere in a forced laugh.
"One has to face it," he replied. "_Ne cedas malis_, you know. I suddenlyfound it was necessary. It was forced upon me, in fact. I found that myniece was secretly helping to make both ends meet. A generous action,made doubly generous by the manner in which it was performed."
"Miriam?" put in John Turner, who appeared to be absorbed in theall-important document before him.
"Yes, Miriam. Do you know her? Ah! I forgot. You are her guardian andtrustee. I sometimes think my memory is failing. I found her out quite byaccident. It must have been going on for quite a long time. Heaven willreward her, Turner! One cannot doubt it."
He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the basket offered tohim by a waiter, and began to eat as if famished.
"Steady, man, steady," exclaimed Turner, leaning forward with ahorror-stricken face to restrain him. "Don't spoil a grand appetite onbread. Gad! I wish I could fall on my food like that. You seem to bestarving."
"I think I forgot to have any breakfast," said Marvin, apologetically.
"I dare say you did!" was the angry retort. "You always were a bit of anass, you know, Sep. But I have ordered a tiptop luncheon, and I'lltrouble you not to wolf like that."
"Well--well, I'm sorry," said the other, who, even in the far-off days atIpswich school, had always been in the clouds, while John Turner movedessentially on the earth.
"And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder," went on Turner, witha glance, of which the keenness was entirely disarmed by the good-naturedroundness of his huge cheeks. "I know a man who will buy it--at a goodprice, too. Where did you get it?"
"Ah! that is a long story," replied Marvin, looking dreamily out of thewindow. "I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a long story."
"Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this _sole a la Normande_. I seeyou've nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun."
It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by SeptimusMarvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressedJohn Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glassafter glass of Burgundy.
"A queer story," he ejaculated, breathlessly. "Go on. And you bought thisengraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you where hegot it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say."
"Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I donot know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?
"
"I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was toomuch. Where did he get it?"
"He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman who wassupposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other papers,which he burnt, I believe."
"And then he died?"
"Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son."
"The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the son?Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this _languefourree_, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remindyou of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son."
And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laidaside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection ofthis ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round theroom, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation.
"Dormer Colville," he repeated. "Does he come into it?"
"He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of puregood-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is acharming man. So unselfish and disinterested."
"Who? The Marquis?"
"No; Dormer Colville."
"Oh yes!" said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. "Yes; acharming fellow."
And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon wasfinished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they would bealone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag fromdownstairs.
"We will have a look at your precious engraving," he said, "while wesmoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and I maytell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics of thatperiod. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. I think myclient would give you as good a price as any; and I suppose you want toget as much as you can for it now that you have made up your mind to thesacrifice?"
Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forcedjocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before.
"Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!" was the reply, withan assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculated towear that expression naturally.
"What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention as aprobable price?" asked Turner, carelessly.
"Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousandfrancs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however.Such a good fellow, he is. So honest."
"Yes, he is likely to be that," said Turner, with his broad smile. He wasa little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his coffee with afeeling of charity toward his fellow-men. "You would find lots of honestmen in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give methe print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten thousand francs helpyou out of your difficulties?"
"I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties," objected theReverend Septimus, with heightened colour.
"Don't you? Memory _is_ bad, is it not? Would ten thousand francs paintthe rectory, then?"
"It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half thatsum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world _aequoanimo_."
"I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don't know muchabout such things myself, but I should put the price down at ten thousandfrancs."
"But the man in the Quai Voltaire?"
"Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the QuaiVoltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?"
"It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert ofthat period it should not be impossible, however." Septimus Marvin wasall awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm. "Doyou know why? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar way--_poufs desentiment_, these curls are called. They were only worn for a briefperiod. In those days the writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau had a certainvogue among the idle classes. The women showed their sentiments in thedressing of their hair. Very curious--very curious. And here, in thehair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest."
"The deuce there is!" ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar.
"A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period."
"I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best foryou. I'm less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it,I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face."
"Yes," agreed Septimus Marvin, with, a sharp sigh. "It is a beautifulface."
And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turnertucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company.
"By the way," said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, "You nevertold me what sort of a man this young fellow is--this Loo Barebone?"
"The dearest fellow in the world," answered Marvin, with eyes aglowbehind his spectacles. "To me he has been as a son--an elder brother, asit were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, you know, when Sepwas born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven's way is not always markedvery clearly."
He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he remembered somethingand came back.
"I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite hoped, atone time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of heart."
"What?" interrupted Turner. "The mate of a coasting schooner!"
"He is more than that, my friend," answered Septimus Marvin, nodding hishead slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such a manneras to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed thebridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking.