Latour, and any arrangement which Major Le Gallian makes will be
agreeable to me. I need scarcely say that I am without malice in the
affair.”
Louis and Major Le Gallian retired a few yards off, and Louis whispered
in Major Le Gallian’s ear:
“We can have a great deal of amusement still out of the old gentleman,
so you had better arrange to bring him up to the chateau to dinner
to-night, and come yourself.”
Major Le Gallian, whose countenance had been hitherto unmoved, winked
and grinned in reply, and then, turning to General Granier, announced
gravely that everything had been settled to his entire satisfaction,
and that he had accepted an invitation for both his principal and
himself to dine at the chateau that night.
Meanwhile, the doctor, sitting with his back against a tree, had fallen
asleep. Major Le Gallian, going up to him, shook him vigorously and
shouted in his ear:
“Get up. The whole thing has been arranged, and not a shot has been
fired.”
“Eh?” cried the doctor, jumping up, “so nothing happened, after all?
Well, I am very much disappointed--that’s all I can say--for I really
hoped to have had some interesting professional experiences.”
And then, taking up his gruesome-looking case, he disconsolately
followed Major Le Gallian and General Granier down the road to where
their carriage awaited them. The cabman, who had also fallen asleep
on his box, seemed equally disappointed when he found his patrons had
escaped without death or even injury.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX
THE ROGUISH LITTLE BLIND BOY LAUGHS LAST
About a half-hour later a cab and a wheeled chair both appeared before
the entrance of the Chateau of Montplaisir. Louis de Latour jumped out
of the cab while Monsieur de Latour scrambled out of the wheeled chair.
The four gold pieces slipped into the policeman’s hand increased still
further his colossal grin, but it was nothing to the air of pleasure
and relief which Monsieur de Latour wore. He took Louis by the arm, and
the two marched into the room known as Monsieur de Latour’s study.
“I have thought it all over,” said Monsieur de Latour, sitting down in
a chair and putting his hands on his knees, “and I know what to do.”
“What do you mean?” asked Louis.
“Why, the whole business, marrying and the rest of it. I am not going
to marry Madame de Beauregard. That woman is too much for me.”
“So everybody knows,” remarked Louis.
“In fact, I would rather stand up and be shot at by General Granier’s
leg than marry Madame de Beauregard, with the life she would lead me.
And as for a pretty young girl like Julie, that unfortunate peculiarity
she has of always leaving out one word in everything she writes and
getting one word twisted in everything she tells is very annoying. So I
have abandoned all idea of marrying her. Perhaps she might take you.”
Louis assumed a reflective air.
“I think,” he said, “I could break her of that unfortunate habit, as
you call it, which she has,” and at the same moment he took a dainty
note out of his pocket.
It was in Julie’s expansive handwriting, but there was not a single
word left out, and it was expressed with the utmost clearness and
precision.
“I shall venture to read it to you,” said Louis. “I don’t think that
Mademoiselle de Brésac will be offended with me.” And he read:
“I have just had your note. Nothing would induce me to marry any one
except you. If my aunt and Monsieur de Latour will not give their
consent, then we can wait; but I am always, until I die, your own
“JULIE DE C. DE BRÉSAC.”
Monsieur de Latour listened attentively.
“Now, if she had been as clear and businesslike as that in what she
wrote for me, I would have been perfectly satisfied.”
“Possibly she did not understand so well what you wished her to say.”
“She seems to understand well enough what she wishes to say herself
in this case. Well, now, I shall tell you my plan. I shall marry
Mademoiselle Cheri.”
“Provided she will have you.”
“Oh, I think she will!”
“And also provided that I consent. Remember, my dear fellow, that I am
your uncle.”
“The devil you are!”
“Recollect, if you please, the legal rights of adoption.”
Monsieur de Latour jumped up, and taking an angry turn or two about the
room, sat down again.
“Very well,” he said, “if you refuse your consent to my marrying
Mademoiselle Cheri, I can very easily refuse my consent to your
marrying Julie.”
“Monsieur Bertoux tells me that it is a complicated question,”
responded Louis, “but nevertheless our marriage could scarcely be
prevented. However I, as your uncle, could very easily prevent your
marrying Mademoiselle Cheri.”
This infuriated Monsieur de Latour, who, shaking his fist in Louis’s
face, bawled:
“I’d like to see you try, and I have a great mind to elope to America
with Mademoiselle Cheri this very day!”
Louis whistled softly, by way of showing his contempt for this
proposition. Then Monsieur de Latour, relapsing into a gloomy silence,
sat huddled up in his chair for some minutes. Presently he growled:
“If I give my consent to your marriage with Julie, I presume you would
consent, confound you! to my marriage with Mademoiselle Cheri?”
“Certainly I would,” cried Louis, “but I should still exercise a
fatherly care over you, and see that two giddy young things like you
and Mademoiselle Cheri did not commit any indiscretions--like your duel
of this morning, for example.”
“Into which you dragged me against my will,” replied Monsieur de
Latour. “I outwitted all of you. It cost me eighty francs, but it
was the best investment I ever made. It saved my life from that
bloodthirsty old general.”
“I shall, of course,” continued Louis loftily, “keep an eye upon you,
regulate your expenditures, and require you to report to me at least
once a week till I see how you are behaving yourself. This will be my
duty as your uncle.”
Monsieur de Latour ground his teeth with rage. Then, after another
pause, he said:
“I believe that whole scheme was arranged between you and Julie.”
A smile flickered in Louis’s eyes, but he made no reply to this. At
last Monsieur de Latour cried:
“Confound both of you! But I will give you the three hundred thousand
francs to let me off from that agreement.”
“No, my dear Victor,” answered Louis, shaking his head, “agreeable as
it would be to me to have that three hundred thousand francs, I can’t
make a relationship so delicate and tender as ours a matter of barter
and sale.”
“You mean the power of thwarting and opposing me?” cried Monsieur de
Latour very excitedly. “Well, I will give you four hundred thousand
francs to let me off.”
“No, I cannot, after having just acquired you as a nephew, part with
you so easily.”
“So cheaply, you mean. I will give you five hundred thousand francs.”
“You affront me.”
“Five hundred and fifty thousand.”
“You insult me.”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“Be silent. I can stand no more.”
“You mean you won’t let me off at any price?”
“I must consult Julie first.”
“This is enough to put a man in a madhouse--that I am to be discussed
by two such flibbertigibbets. Of course it’s nothing but a scheme to
get money out of me, but six hundred thousand francs is all I mean to
pay for my liberty.”
Just then the door burst open, and in pranced Madame de Beauregard. It
was still very early in the morning, and Madame de Beauregard had not
made her mid-day toilet. She wore a peignoir, and the deficiencies of
her hair-dressing were concealed by a shawl wrapped around her head.
She had slippers on her little feet, but Monsieur de Latour suspected
that she had omitted to put on her stockings.
Monsieur de Latour, not feeling equal to encountering Madame de
Beauregard just at that moment, retired hastily into his bedroom
adjoining. But Madame de Beauregard, who was no respecter of persons,
followed him in and almost collared him as he retreated toward the
fireplace.
“So,” she cried, “you call yourself a man of spirit, and you are put
into a wheeled chair to be carried to the field of honour, and then you
pay a policeman eighty francs to trundle you away. And I believe you
actually got it into your ridiculous old head that I would marry you.
Not for worlds!”
Here Louis, seeing a chance to put in a word for General Granier, said:
“But, madame, General Granier was present and acted with the utmost
gallantry. I have never seen such a fire-eater. He not only frightened
my nephew, but he frightened me.”
“Did he really?” asked Madame de Beauregard, whirling around.
“And his leg was as steady as a rock, though he had been up
three nights running, playing cards and drinking champagne until
breakfast-time.”
“Was he really? Well, I declare, if he were fifty years younger I’d
marry him.”
“He’s coming to dinner to-night,” put in Louis insinuatingly. “My own
belief, madame, is that you would have difficulty in finding any man
fifty years younger than General Granier with the life and spirit that
he has in him.”
“At all events,” said Madame de Beauregard, addressing Monsieur de
Latour, who, chased almost into the fireplace, was about taking refuge
in a wardrobe, “I shouldn’t think of marrying an old sheep like you,
my dear man. You had much better marry the soap-boiler’s daughter,
Mademoiselle Cheri, and the couple of you will be about as tame as a
pair of barnyard fowls.”
Monsieur de Latour, stung by the contempt expressed in Madame de
Beauregard’s tone, plucked up his courage.
“It is my wish to marry Mademoiselle Cheri, if she will have me,
madame,” he said, “and as for leading the life of barnyard fowls--well,
it agrees with my constitution better than the life that you, madame,
will probably lead with General Granier. And now, madame, if you will
kindly leave me, I wish to arrange my toilet.”
“Don’t mind me,” said the old lady nonchalantly, seating herself on the
bed.
Monsieur de Latour, meaning to frighten her, peeled off his coat.
Madame de Beauregard, without flinching, spread her petticoats around
her, and began to sing a song which ended in a refrain of “Tra la la
something or other.” Monsieur de Latour then removed his waistcoat, but
Madame de Beauregard stood, or rather sat, her ground undauntedly.
“Will you force me, madame, to appear _sans culottes_?” asked Monsieur
de Latour in desperation.
“Just as you please, my dear man. I don’t mind a little thing like
that.”
Monsieur de Latour, finding himself defeated, resumed his waistcoat
and coat, and offering his arm to Madame de Beauregard, the old lady
skipped off with him. Monsieur de Latour escorted her out to the
terrace. There sat Mademoiselle Cheri, Mélanie and Eugène de Contiac.
Madame de Beauregard’s sketchy toilet gave a slight shock to all of
them, but the old lady herself remarked casually:
“I know I haven’t got half enough clothes on, but you needn’t look at
me, and you can’t see without looking, that much is certain.”
Eugène de Contiac had in his hands a book of sermons. He made not the
least attempt to conceal this when Madame de Beauregard appeared, but
kept it openly and shamelessly in view.
“So you are at it again!” shrieked Madame de Beauregard. “That’s the
way it has been ever since that idiotic Bertoux paid the two hundred
and fifty thousand francs to your credit in bank. He says I told him to
do it, and perhaps I did, as I really thought you had mended your ways
by that trip to Paris.”
“My dear aunt,” quietly replied Eugène, “Mélanie has forgiven me
that trip to Paris, and I have promised her never to go upon a like
expedition. I was perfectly safe in doing this, as another such week
would be my death. And as you have kindly made me independent, Mélanie
has agreed to marry me, provided Monsieur de Latour gives his consent.”
Monsieur de Latour assumed a very stern and forbidding air, and then
said:
“I must consider it.”
Then Mademoiselle Cheri, rising and going to him with the familiarity
of an old friend, said:
“Come now, Victor, you don’t mean that you will really interfere with
the happiness of these two young people?”
Monsieur de Latour, seeing his chance, remarked significantly:
“Shall we discuss it a little, then?” And the two walked off toward the
orangery.
Once under its green shade, Monsieur de Latour, with the air and
manner of a man of twenty-five making love to a girl of eighteen, said
sentimentally:
[Illustration: “‘I will give my consent upon one condition.’”]
“I will give my consent upon one condition, and it is that you, Séline,
forgive all my follies and faithlessness, and marry me. I am done
with great people. I have nearly been killed by two of them--that
dreadful old lady over yonder and General Granier. I am a changed
man. Instead of being the head of the house of De Latour, I should
like to return to Brionville and boil soap the rest of my life. And
if you, Séline, will go with me, I will promise you to lead a quiet,
respectable and, I hope, respected life the rest of my days.”
Mademoiselle Séline looked at him and her kind eyes grew kinder.
“If that be true, Victor,” she answered sweetly after a moment, “then
we may indeed spend the rest of our lives together. As long as you
aspired to rank and fashion, and courted the society of people above
you, who simply amused themselves at your expense, I could not think
of marrying you. But now that you have become the Victor de Latour of
twenty years ago, well then----”
Mademoiselle Cheri, with a smile, gave her hand, still plump and
pretty, to Monsieur de Latour, who raised it to his lips.
“And now,” she continued, “you will not stand between Mélanie and her
happiness, for I know that those two are sincerely attached to each
other.”
To this Monsieur de Latour, like a true lover, replied: “Your will,
Séline, shall be my law.”
Monsieur de Latour and Mademoiselle Cheri, their countenances beaming,
returned to the group, which had been increased by the appearance of
Louis and Julie, who had come from Heaven knows where. As soon as the
group caught sight of Monsieur de Latour and Mademoiselle Cheri all
knew that something had happened--that something which makes or mars
a lifetime. In this case it was evident that Monsieur de Latour’s
happiness was made forever. His countenance shone like the harvest
moon, he stepped high, as one in whose veins joy is pulsating, and he
radiated satisfaction. Mademoiselle Cheri was smiling and composed, and
her gentle face expressed a tranquil happiness.
“My friends,” said Monsieur de Latour, still holding Mademoiselle
Cheri’s plump hand as they drew near, “felicitate me, I beg of you.
Mademoiselle Cheri has promised to forgive me and to marry me.”
At this Mélanie kissed them both joyfully, and Louis, with a paternal
air, said:
“My dear nephew, I assure you there is no one I would more gladly
welcome as my niece than Mademoiselle Cheri, and I may say that
Mademoiselle de Brésac, who will certainly be your future aunt, feels
as I do.”
“Indeed I do!” cried Julie, laying her hand upon Monsieur de Latour’s
arm. “And I rejoice in the thought of becoming aunt to you and dear
Mademoiselle Cheri----”
“What did you say?” asked Monsieur de Latour incredulously.
“As your prospective aunt, dear Victor,” Julie reiterated, with the
calmest air in the world. “Of course, if I marry Louis, I shall be your
aunt.”
“Come,” said Monsieur de Latour, a little upset by the turn of the
conversation, “let us stop all this nonsense. I haven’t the slightest
objection to your marrying Louis. I like the scamp, in spite of the
annoyance that he has caused me, and I believe him to be an excellent
fellow, but I can’t be made further ridiculous by this uncle and
nephew business. There has been quite enough of it, and I desire you
to stop it. So I propose that to-day we shall straighten out the
relationship and correct the mistake that you made, and I will hand
over the three hundred thousand francs with which I agreed to endow
Louis. It is worth that much to get rid of his patronising airs and
infernal meddling.”
At this Monsieur de Latour found himself struggling in Louis’s embrace
and almost felt his ribs cracking, while Julie nearly strangled him
with kisses. Madame de Beauregard’s clear old voice cut the morning air
as she proclaimed:
“Good Heavens! all the world seems to be getting married. I shall
ring up General Granier over the telephone and tell him that I mean
to marry him just as soon as I have time to attend to anything. Let
me see--automobiling this morning, casino in the afternoon, dinner in
the evening; automobiling to-morrow morning, casino in the afternoon,
ball in the evening--well, I shall arrange to get married as soon as
possible; but one leads such a gay life in Dinard that it’s very hard
to find time to do anything, even to get married.”
To judge, however, from the radiance of happiness which played upon
every face assembled upon the terrace of the Chateau of Montplaisir
that sunny August morning, it was plain that each of them, except
Madame de Beauregard, would easily and quickly find time for the
perfect union of hearts and souls and minds which awaited in marriage
each pair of lovers.
[Illustration]
WHERE LOVE CONQUERS.
The Reckoning.
By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
The author’s intention is to treat, in a series of four or five
romances, that part of the war for independence which particularly
affected the great landed families of northern New York, the Johnsons,
represented by Sir William, Sir John, Guy Johnson, and Colonel Claus;
the notorious Butlers, father and son, the Schuylers, Van Rensselaers,
and others.
The first romance of the series, Cardigan, was followed by the second,
The Maid-at-Arms. The third, in order, is not completed. The fourth is
the present volume.
As Cardigan pretended to portray life on the baronial estate of Sir
William Johnson, the first uneasiness concerning the coming trouble,
the first discordant note struck in the harmonious councils of the
Long House, so, in The Maid-at-Arms, which followed in order, the
author attempted to paint a patroon family disturbed by the approaching
rumble of battle. That romance dealt with the first serious split in
the Iroquois Confederacy; it showed the Long House shattered though
not fallen; the demoralization and final flight of the great landed
families who remained loyal to the British Crown; and it struck the
key-note to the future attitude of the Iroquois toward the patriots of
the frontier--revenge for their losses at the battle of Oriskany--and
ended with the march of the militia and continental troops on Saratoga.
The third romance, as yet incomplete and unpublished, deals with the
war-path and those who followed it led by the landed gentry of Tryon
County; and ends with the first solid blow delivered at the Long House,
and the terrible punishment of the Great Confederacy.
The present romance, the fourth in chronological order, picks up the
thread at that point.
The author is not conscious of having taken any liberties with history
in preparing a framework of facts for a mantle of romance.
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
NEW YORK, _May 26, 1904_.
WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
IOLE
Colored inlay on the cover, decorative borders, headpieces, thumb-nail
sketches, and tail-pieces. Frontispiece and three full-page
illustrations. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.25.
Does anybody remember the opera of The Inca, and that heart-breaking
episode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase
his professional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction
of his middle-aged relatives in order to inter them for the sake of
practice?
If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this:
“It was in bleak November
When I slew them, I remember,
As I caught them unawares
Drinking tea in rocking-chairs.”
And so he talked them to death, the subject being “What Really Is
Art?” Afterward he was sorry--
“The squeak of a door,
The creak of a floor,
My horrors and fears enhance;
And I wake with a scream
As I hear in my dream
The shrieks of my maiden aunts!”
Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly
respectable pseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily
immune in their polygamous chastity (for every suitor for favor is
popularly expected to be wedded to his particular art)--I repeat, it
is very dreadful to suggest that these impeccable old ladies are in
danger of being talked to death.
But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and
the trousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is
a day of dinkiness and of thumbs.
Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb: “Art talked to death
shall rise again.” Let us also recollect that “Dinky is as dinky
does;” that “All is not Shaw that Bernards;” that “Better Yeates than
Clever;” that words are so inexpensive that there is no moral crime
in robbing Henry to pay James.
Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, slab furniture,
and woodchuck literature--save only the immortal verse:
“And there the wooden-chuck doth tread;
While from the oak trees’ tops
The red, red squirrel on the head
The frequent acorn drops.”
Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope
that those cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will
continue throughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by
the million-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where
thumb and forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectual
exhaustion:
“L’arr! Kesker say l’arr?”
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.