Chapter XVII
THE TENANT OF THE PALANQUIN
The Marquis called on me next day. My late breakfast was still upon thetable. He had come, he said, to ask a favor. An accident had happened tohis carriage in the crowd on leaving the ball, and he begged, if I weregoing into Paris, a seat in mine. I was going in, and was extremely gladof his company. He came with me to my hotel; we went up to my rooms. Iwas surprised to see a man seated in an easy chair, with his backtowards us, reading a newspaper. He rose. It was the Count de St. Alyre,his gold spectacles on his nose; his black wig, in oily curls, lyingclose to his narrow head, and showing like carved ebony over a repulsivevisage of boxwood. His black muffler had been pulled down. His rightarm was in a sling. I don't know whether there was anything unusual inhis countenance that day, or whether it was but the effect of prejudicearising from all I had heard in my mysterious interview in his park, butI thought his countenance was more strikingly forbidding than I had seenit before.
I was not callous enough in the ways of sin to meet this man, injured atleast in intent, thus suddenly, without a momentary disturbance.
He smiled.
"I called, Monsieur Beckett, in the hope of finding you here," hecroaked, "and I meditated, I fear, taking a great liberty, but my friendthe Marquis d'Harmonville, on whom I have perhaps some claim, willperhaps give me the assistance I require so much."
"With great pleasure," said the Marquis, "but not till after sixo'clock. I must go this moment to a meeting of three or four people whomI cannot disappoint, and I know, perfectly, we cannot break up earlier."
"What am I to do?" exclaimed the Count, "an hour would have done it all.Was ever _contretemps_ so unlucky?"
"I'll give you an hour, with pleasure," said I.
"How very good of you, Monsieur, I hardly dare to hope it. The business,for so gay and charming a man as Monsieur Beckett, is a little_funeste_. Pray read this note which reached me this morning."
It certainly was not cheerful. It was a note stating that the body ofhis, the Count's cousin, Monsieur de St. Amand, who had died at hishouse, the Chateau Clery, had been, in accordance with his writtendirections, sent for burial at Pere la Chaise, and, with the permissionof the Count de St. Alyre, would reach his house (the Chateau de laCarque) at about ten o'clock on the night following, to be conveyedthence in a hearse, with any member of the family who might wish toattend the obsequies.
"I did not see the poor gentleman twice in my life," said the Count,"but this office, as he has no other kinsman, disagreeable as it is, Icould scarcely decline, and so I want to attend at the office to havethe book signed, and the order entered. But here is another misery. Byill luck I have sprained my thumb, and can't sign my name for a week tocome. However, one name answers as well as another. Yours as well asmine. And as you are so good as to come with me, all will go right."
Away we drove. The Count gave me a memorandum of the Christian andsurnames of the deceased, his age, the complaint he died of, and theusual particulars; also a note of the exact position in which a grave,the dimensions of which were described, of the ordinary simple kind, wasto be dug, between two vaults belonging to the family of St. Amand. Thefuneral, it was stated, would arrive at half--past one o'clock A.M. (thenext night but one); and he handed me the money, with extra fees, for aburial by night. It was a good deal; and I asked him, as he entrustedthe whole affair to me, in whose name I should take the receipt.
"Not in mine, my good friend. They wanted me to become an executor,which I, yesterday, wrote to decline; and I am informed that if thereceipt were in my name it would constitute me an executor in the eye ofthe law, and fix me in that position. Take it, pray, if you have noobjection, in your own name."
This, accordingly, I did.
You will see, by--and--by, why I am obliged to mention all theseparticulars.
The Count, meanwhile, was leaning back in the carriage, with his blacksilk muffler up to his nose, and his hat shading his eyes, while hedozed in his corner; in which state I found him on my return.
Paris had lost its charm for me. I hurried through the little business Ihad to do, longed once more for my quiet room in the Dragon Volant, themelancholy woods of the Chateau de la Carque, and the tumultuous andthrilling influence of proximity to the object of my wild but wickedromance.
I was delayed some time by my stockbroker. I had a very large sum, as Itold you, at my banker's, uninvested. I cared very little for a fewday's interest--very little for the entire sum, compared with the imagethat occupied my thoughts, and beckoned me with a white arm, through thedark, toward the spreading lime trees and chestnuts of the Chateau de laCarque. But I had fixed this day to meet him, and was relieved when hetold me that I had better let it lie in my banker's hands for a few dayslonger, as the funds would certainly fall immediately. This accident,too, was not without its immediate bearing on my subsequent adventures.
When I reached the Dragon Volant, I found, in my sitting-room, a gooddeal to my chagrin, my two guests, whom I had quite forgotten. Iinwardly cursed my own stupidity for having embarrassed myself withtheir agreeable society. It could not be helped now, however, and a wordto the waiters put all things in train for dinner.
Tom Whistlewick was in great force; and he commenced almost immediatelywith a very odd story.
He told me that not only Versailles, but all Paris was in a ferment, inconsequence of a revolting, and all but sacrilegious practical joke,played of on the night before.
The pagoda, as he persisted in calling the palanquin, had been leftstanding on the spot where we last saw it. Neither conjuror, nor usher,nor bearers had ever returned. When the ball closed, and the company atlength retired, the servants who attended to put out the lights, andsecure the doors, found it still there.
It was determined, however, to let it stand where it was until nextmorning, by which time, it was conjectured, its owners would sendmessengers to remove it.
None arrived. The servants were then ordered to take it away; and itsextraordinary weight, for the first time, reminded them of its forgottenhuman occupant. Its door was forced; and, judge what was their disgust,when they discovered, not a living man, but a corpse! Three or four daysmust have passed since the death of the burly man in the Chinese tunicand painted cap. Some people thought it was a trick designed to insultthe Allies, in whose honor the ball was got up. Others were of opinionthat it was nothing worse than a daring and cynical jocularity which,shocking as it was, might yet be forgiven to the high spirits andirrepressible buffoonery of youth. Others, again, fewer in number, andmystically given, insisted that the corpse was _bona fide_necessary to the exhibition, and that the disclosures and allusionswhich had astonished so many people were distinctly due to necromancy.
"The matter, however, is now in the hands of the police," observedMonsieur Carmaignac, "and we are not the body they were two or threemonths ago, if the offenders against propriety and public feeling arenot traced and convicted, unless, indeed, they have been a great dealmore cunning than such fools generally are."
I was thinking within myself how utterly inexplicable was my colloquywith the conjuror, so cavalierly dismissed by Monsieur Carmaignac as a"fool"; and the more I thought the more marvelous it seemed.
"It certainly was an original joke, though not a very clear one," saidWhistlewick.
"Not even original," said Carmaignac. "Very nearly the same thing wasdone, a hundred years ago or more, at a state ball in Paris; and therascals who played the trick were never found out."
In this Monsieur Carmaignac, as I afterwards discovered, spoke truly;for, among my books of French anecdote and memoirs, the very incident ismarked by my own hand.
While we were thus talking the waiter told us that dinner was served,and we withdrew accordingly; my guests more than making amends for mycomparative taciturnity.