Marsac returned within three hours, to be confronted by Fontaine with a
pale face and Uncle Maurice’s letter.
For once, Marsac was staggered. The paragraph was already in print, and
the afternoon papers containing it were being cried on the street. He
read the letter carefully, then laid it down, saying, “It is impossible
that he should return. Living on fifteen cents a day for twenty years
must have impaired his constitution to that degree that he cannot stand
the voyage.”
Fontaine, already in the depths of woe, seemed to sink deeper and
deeper. Not so Marsac, whose cheerfulness never left him. All day the
two friends sat in their garret, unable on account of Fontaine’s
dilapidated clothes and Marsac’s want of shoes to go out and get
anything to eat,--for they could still go to a restaurant near the
newspaper office and get a dinner on credit. They both shrank from
admitting their necessities by asking for an advance from the business
office of their newspaper.
Marsac spent the day in patching and cleaning, with awkward industry,
Fontaine’s torn coat and trousers. Never had Fontaine loved and admired
him more. He sang and whistled all day long, made jokes, and pretended
that doing without food and fire was rather an amusing experience.
At nightfall he held up the torn and soiled coat and trousers for
inspection. The poor fellow had done his best, but they were clearly
not presentable. Not even then did his courage and spirits desert him.
He laughed at his own failure, and said gaily,--
“Well, my boy, what a tale this will make to tell when we get rich!
For half the pleasure of rich people consists in telling how happy they
were when they had not a second shirt to their backs.”
[Illustration]
At that moment a servant in the establishment opened the door without
ceremony, and thrust in a huge box, with the name of “Charlevois,
Tailor,” on it. Scarcely was the door shut, when the two young men
tore open the box. There lay several suits of the handsomest mourning
clothes imaginable, with hats and gloves to match; and on top of
everything was pinned a letter. It was from Charlevois, one of the
best tailors in Paris, saying that he had taken the liberty of sending
Monsieur Auguste Fontaine several suits of clothes, asking his
inspection of them. He had read in the papers that evening of Monsieur
Maurice Fontaine’s death, and would be glad to supply Monsieur Auguste
Fontaine’s mourning. Also that his son was in the stationery business,
and had enclosed some samples of stationery.
The two young men gazed intently at each other. Then, without a word,
Fontaine, with Marsac’s help, put on an evening suit, and then a
top-coat, with crape-covered hat and black gloves. He certainly looked
very handsome in his new outfit. It was almost the first time in his
life that he had ever been really well dressed, and the elegantly
simple costume brought out his aristocratic beauty. Marsac looked at
him with the delight of a mother over a beautiful daughter dressed
for her first ball. Fontaine walked up and down, surveying himself
with satisfaction in the cracked mirror. He examined his old coat and
trousers,--they looked worse than ever by comparison. His silence said
eloquently, “I cannot take these gentlemanly habiliments off.” He put
the hat on his head. With Marsac, he moved toward the door; they paused.
“This is the Rubicon,” said Marsac.
“The Rubicon is passed,” replied Fontaine, stepping out.
They went to the restaurant where they had credit to dinner, and were
seen by twenty persons of their acquaintance. As they approached the
desk, on entering, the cashier, a handsome girl, was glancing at an
afternoon paper containing the paragraph about Uncle Maurice. She
recognised Fontaine, whom she had seen before.
“Do you wish a private room, gentlemen?” she asked.
“Certainly,” answered Marsac, solemnly, who had not thought of it
before. “Auguste, you would rather not dine in public to-day?”
Fontaine shook his head, and the two friends in silence, Fontaine with
his eyes bent on the mourning hat he carried, went into a private
dining-room. An obsequious waiter brought a card. Marsac ordered an
excellent dinner with champagne.
[Illustration]
When it came the sight of it was almost too much for the poor
half-starved young fellows. It was the first time they had really dined
in weeks. They made an excuse to send the waiter out of the room, when
they hugged each other and began to dance wildly, and barely had time
before he returned to scuttle back to their chairs and pull long faces
while they devoured fish, flesh, and fowl, entrées, _hors-d’oeuvres_,
and everything else eatable on the table. Marsac, in the waiter’s
absence, begged Fontaine to spare the candelabra, while Fontaine caught
Marsac in the act of chewing the paper off the _marrons glacés_.
“This,” said Marsac, while the waiter was out of the room (for they
kept him on the trot), “may be called our first dress rehearsal. We are
to appear before the public to-morrow,--you as the heir of your Uncle
Maurice, I as the friend of the nephew of his uncle.”
“Do you think we have deceived the waiter?” anxiously asked Fontaine.
“Perfectly. He never saw us order such a dinner before; but I hope he
will see us order a good many more like it. Look solemn--he is coming.”
And the waiter coming in found Marsac urging Fontaine to eat, who
seemed to be in the depths of despondency. When the time came for
feeing the man, Fontaine said sadly,--
“You, Marsac, must pay to-night. I forgot I had changed my clothes.”
“Certainly,” replied Marsac, clapping his hand to his pocket and
producing the two francs--the last they had on earth, which he had
taken the precaution to bring with him--and handing them to the
waiter. Those two francs made everybody in the restaurant believe the
story of Fontaine’s fortune.
After the dinner, which lasted for three hours, they went home, and
Fontaine wrote a note on the black-edged paper to the editor of their
paper, “La Lune,” asking for leave of absence for a few days, owing
to the loss of a near relative. Marsac took it to the office. His
fellow-workers crowded round him, asking questions about the paragraph
which had appeared that afternoon. Marsac confirmed it, but declared
they had not got any particulars as to the amount of the fortune.
“But I should say it will be under three millions,” he added with
entire accuracy.
Next day Paris rang with the story. It cannot be denied that both
Marsac and Fontaine were a little frightened at the sudden and
overpowering success of their little romance. They had not counted
upon the instant and enormous sensation it created. But there was now
no retreat for them. Being once committed to Uncle Maurice, they had
to abide by their own invention; and it taxed even Marsac’s powers to
meet the emergency. Fontaine simply declared that he could not face the
world in his new character, and kept close to his lodgings, to avoid
interrogatories. Naturally that did still more to set the story on its
legs; and when he began to receive letters of condolence mixed with
congratulations, and was forced to reply to them on paper with a black
border an inch deep and signed with inky sealing-wax, even he himself
began to believe that his Uncle Maurice had died and left him a fortune.
Marsac, who was remarkably clever with his brush, made an excellent
picture of Uncle Maurice out of the transformed bull-fighter, and by
dint of artistically smoking it, the newness of the paint was taken
off. He was, however, simply forced to invent a biography of Uncle
Maurice, with names, dates, and events. The first time he was asked
how Uncle Maurice made his money, he was obliged to say how; so he
represented that it was all made in the wine-importing line.
“If I had had a moment to think, I should have said mining operations,”
he said to Fontaine afterward; “but taken unawares, I hit upon the
wine-business. And then I had to explain that he went against the
traditions of his family by engaging in trade, but was immensely
successful, so they forgave him. And then I drew a noble picture of
Uncle Maurice,--for, look you, Fontaine, as we have profited by the old
gentleman, the least we can do is to give him a good character. I have
adorned him with every virtue. If he could come to life, I am sure he
would be pleased with the reputation I have given him.”
“But, Marsac, he _is_ alive! That is the maddening part. Suppose the
real Uncle Maurice should come walking in here some fine day,--what
would you say?”
“I should say, ‘Good morning, Monsieur Fontaine; delighted to see you.
Have a cigar? We heard that you were dead.’ And the old gentleman
would be so pleased at finding himself alive, that he would forgive us
anything.”
Among the first persons to hear the story was Madame Fleury; and the
hardest task before Marsac was when he was stopped by her in the
entresol, one morning, with an inquiry whether the story was true or
not about Fontaine’s uncle’s death.
“Alas! it is only too true,” replied Marsac, sorrowfully.
“I think Monsieur Auguste should have informed me of it,” said Madame
Fleury, “considering our relations.”
“Ah, Madame, you, a widow, can have no idea of the bashfulness of a
young man like Fontaine, in his first love affair. The relations of
men and women are so changed now. I am barely thirty, but I remember
when it was the lady who was diffident. But the last diffident woman, I
understand, has been secured for the Jardin des Plantes.”
Madame Fleury heard this with a smile playing round her handsome mouth.
“I hardly think that the engagement between Monsieur Auguste Fontaine
and me can be called a love affair. It was a business arrangement, pure
and simple. However, if this story about his Uncle Maurice and his
fortune is true, then I shall look forward with more satisfaction than
ever to the 15th of May. But why does not Monsieur Fontaine call to see
me occasionally?”
“Bashfulness, Madame Fleury,--pure bashfulness. I tell you, men and
women have changed places. I predict that in a few years a young man
will no more think of calling on his _fiancée_ than a few years back
his _fiancée_ would have called on him.”
Madame Fleury heard this, uttered in Marsac’s airiest manner, with the
same inscrutable smile. When Marsac left her presence, after an hour’s
laboured explanations, he had not the slightest certainty whether
she believed in Uncle Maurice or not. He rather thought she did not,
from her last remark,--which was that if Monsieur Fontaine really had
inherited two million francs, she would be glad to have the two hundred
he owed her.
However, to have got two hundred francs from Fontaine would have been
like getting oysters out of a strawberry bed. As the days went on, he
got a great many things, like the mourning clothes and black-edged
paper; and he was pursued by tradesmen desiring him to open accounts
with them. But not a franc had he. His absence from the newspaper
office cut off his small salary there; and while dining at his
favourite restaurant every day, smoking the best cigars and enjoying
other luxuries, he often had not one sou to rattle against another.
Marsac kept up his courage, though, by telling him that something
would soon turn up which would enable them to pay their debts, escape
from Madame Fleury’s house, and live like lords. And when that happy
event was accomplished, Marsac promised that Fontaine should be rid of
Madame Fleury, and in a position to ask the hand of Claire Duval, whom
Fontaine grew every day more passionately in love with, although it had
been months since he had seen her. Whenever Fontaine’s courage failed,
Marsac always held out to him the hope of marrying Claire.
“Just let me catch old Duval,--I don’t like to go in search of
him,”--cried Marsac, “and I will give him such an account of you
that he will be throwing his daughter at your head. And as she is a
sweet girl, and I believe is really in love with you, there will be a
marriage, sure. The only thing on my conscience is, that I am putting a
noose around your neck.”
[Illustration]
“A noose! A garland, you mean! Ah, could I live to have Claire for my
wife! But that infernal widow downstairs--”
“Don’t speak of your _fiancée_ in that disrespectful manner,” cried
Marsac, at the same time dodging Fontaine’s new hat, which flew in his
direction.
One night about six weeks after Uncle Maurice’s advent, Fontaine was
in their garret, waiting for Marsac to return. The room was as shabby
as ever, but Fontaine was dressed in the height of the style, although
still in the deepest mourning. His bright face, as he walked about
whistling jovially, with his hands in his trousers pockets (which
were empty, as usual), was in striking contrast to his livery of woe.
Fontaine occasionally had spasms of fear concerning their ruse; but
at twenty-five, with a good appetite, and enough to satisfy it, with
love and hope and a friend like Marsac, one is apt to whistle jovially.
In one corner of the room was a table with a delicious supper set
out,--sent from the restaurant, which the two young men patronised
liberally. On the rickety writing-table lay a letter, bearing the stamp
of one of the leading theatres in Paris. In the intervals of walking
about, and wondering why Marsac was so late, Fontaine would read and
re-read this letter, with the most evident delight.
At last, just as Fontaine was beginning to be impatient, in walked
Marsac, carrying his violin-case in his hand. He opened it without a
word, and took out four bottles of champagne. Then in solemn silence he
removed his tall hat, which proved to be full of flowers, and these he
arranged in the middle of the supper-table.
[Illustration]
“What are you up to now?” asked Fontaine, in surprise.
“Ladies to supper,” gravely replied Marsac.
Fontaine was astounded. Marsac habitually ran away from respectable
women, declaring he was afraid of them; and for those of another kind
he had nothing but the pity of a refined and honourable soul, which
leaves to harder hearts and more evil natures the condemnation of those
who sin because they are sinned against. Fontaine uttered only one
word,--
“Ladies!”
[Illustration]
“Yes,” said Marsac; “that is, they are ladies to me and to you,--for
they are women, half-starved and hard-working. What does it matter that
they are ballet-girls in a third-rate theatre? Listen. As I was coming
home just now, I saw these two poor creatures standing in front of a
pastry shop close by, eying the cakes in the window, and without a sou
to buy anything with. I overheard them, as they sorrowfully recalled
that their last franc had gone in white satin shoes for the ballet next
week. I have been hungry myself, and so have you, and I felt for them
in my pockets as well as in my heart; but I had no more money than
they. I had credit, though, thanks to your admirable Uncle Maurice, and
a good supper at home, and I said to them that for once they should be
warmed and filled. They are of a grade in society that is not bound by
conventionalities, and were quite willing to go anywhere for a good
meal. So I told them to slip by the concierge,--they will be here in a
few minutes,--and I went and got the wine and the flowers to make it
a little more of a feast for the poor souls; and you and I, Fontaine,
will be the better, not the worse, for this night’s work.”
“Marsac, you are the best fellow that ever lived,” cried Fontaine,
hugging him. Fontaine was always hugging Marsac, and Marsac always
responded by a pat on the head, such as a father gives a small boy.
“And read this letter,” he continued, thrusting the letter in Marsac’s
hand. It ran as follows:--
M. AUGUSTE FONTAINE.
MY DEAR SIR,--Happening, some days ago, to read an account of your
deserved good fortune, I remember having had some correspondence
with you regarding a play,--“A White Marriage.” I chanced to look in
my strong box the same day, and there discovered the play itself,
where it had lain a whole year,--a fate most unworthy of its great
merit, and which could only have occurred by the most astonishing
forgetfulness on my part. I make you ten thousand apologies, and
assure you the loss is mine; for since reading the piece, I beg to
have the honour of presenting it at the Gaieté Theatre. You have
written a play which must command success; for I cannot understand
it, nor can the public, and I presume no more can you. All you have
to do, therefore, is to have it presented, and then sit down and wait
for the critics to explain the play to you as to the rest of the
world. Each one is bound to give a different explanation; they will
get to quarrelling, and your fortune will be made. It is essential,
in the drama of to-day, to be complex; and when you are so complex
that nobody, from the author down, knows what the devil a play is
about, or what problems you are proving or disproving, you will be
placed upon the same pinnacle with Ibsen, Maaterlinck, and the rest of
the Dutch Shakspeares. Ibsen or a skirt dance is what goes nowadays.
There is a slight tendency to clearness in your style, which must be
remedied if you wish to be a really great modern dramatist. And your
play is not really vicious enough: the wife merely gives her husband
an opiate while she escapes with her lover, instead of being driven by
an imperative fate to give him about a quart of corrosive sublimate.
But these are minor faults in a work of great villany, obscurity, and
prolixity, which I hope to have the privilege of presenting.
Yours truly,
M. SAVARY,
_Manager of the Gaieté Theatre_.
Fontaine capered about gleefully, while Marsac read this letter,
and then handed him another note which seemed to give him almost
equal pleasure. It was from a picture-dealer, and briefly announced
that an offer of a thousand francs had been made for “A Rough Sea,”
and he hesitated about taking it: there was a price marked on the
picture,--fifty something; it couldn’t be fifty francs!
“But it was fifty francs, all the same,” cried Marsac; “and a thousand
francs! Good heavens! We shall be as rich as the Rothschilds, and we
shall be able to get away from these quarters and that dreadful woman
downstairs, and I shall marry you to Claire Duval!”
Fontaine’s reply to this was humming a little song with a refrain,
“Claire, I love thee!” which presently made him sigh and look very
gloomy. Marsac, who knew what turn his thoughts were taking, said
slyly,--
“I met old Duval to-day.”
Fontaine jumped as if he had been shot. “And what did he say? How is
Claire? When are you going to let me out of this infernal confinement,
so I can go to see the darling?”
“Fie! fie! and you an engaged man,” cried Marsac; at which Fontaine
groaned and tore his hair. “But,” continued Marsac, “I have some good
news for you. Old Duval has read all the accounts of Uncle Maurice, and
has the most childlike faith in him; and I declare, Auguste, I begin to
believe in the old fellow myself. Anyhow, Monsieur Duval talked with me
a whole hour this afternoon, and you may depend upon it I stuffed him;
and the result is--now, don’t go crazy--that he more than hinted at a
match between you and Claire.”
Fontaine fell on the sofa in an ecstasy, murmuring, “Dear, darling
Claire!”
“And he is coming to see you very soon, to congratulate you. I told
him you were going nowhere on account of your recent bereavement;
and, listen to this! The old fellow wants to oblige you; and as I
mentioned, by way of corroborative testimony, that you were looking
round for a country-seat, he said he would sell you a villa he has
at Melun for ninety thousand francs. Now, I know that Maurepas, our
editor-in-chief, is wild for that villa; and I have reason to think he
will give a hundred and forty thousand francs for it. Do you see?”
“Yes,” said Fontaine. “I buy it for ninety thousand, and sell it for a
hundred and forty thousand. But will it work?”
“Not if you jump down old Duval’s throat when he offers it to you.”
“I sha’n’t be able to prevent it.”
“Then you will be unworthy of your Uncle Maurice, and I shall be sorry
to have provided you with such a relative.”
A sound was heard outside. Marsac listened intently, thinking it to be
his two friends of the ballet; but it proved not.
“I wonder, as much afraid as you are of women,” said Fontaine, “that
you should have had the courage to ask those two poor creatures here
even for the pleasure of doing a kind action,--for nothing gives you
so much pleasure as that.”
“Pooh!” replied Marsac. “It is not women I fear, it is matrimony; and I
show my regard for the sex by remaining a bachelor. I feel that by not
marrying I shall secure one woman, at least, from eternal misery.”
[Illustration]
Again there was a noise outside the door; and this time it was the two
ballet-girls,--Mademoiselle Marie and Mademoiselle Louise, as they
introduced themselves. Marsac received them with as much kindness and
respect as if they had been banker’s daughters; and as for the girls
themselves, they were tawdry yet shabby, and extraordinarily painted
and bedizened. But the divinity of woman-hood was not extinguished in
them, and modesty itself would not have been abashed in the presence of
the four assembled in the garret of No. 17 Rue Montignal.
Mademoiselle Marie and Mademoiselle Louise wished to be extremely
elegant in the company in which they found themselves; but it must
be admitted that they laughed rather loud, and talked excessively.
However, their account of the way in which they slipped past the
entresol was very amusing, and the two young men roared with laughter;
and then the fun began. But at the very moment that two corks flew out
with a loud report, the door came open with a bang, and Madame Schmid
stalked in.
[Illustration]
Not Banquo’s ghost made a greater sensation at a party than this stout
Alsatian. Fontaine, following his usual tactics, ran behind the screen.
Madame Schmid, with one rapid glance at the table and the champagne,
uttered but one word, “Thieves!” and made a dash for Fontaine, whom she
collared and dragged out.
“Oh, you pretty boy,” she screamed, “this is your poverty,--champagne
and oysters and giving parties, when you can’t pay your wash-bill! I
used to feel sorry for you when you were so poor; but now I know you
are rolling in money, with twenty million francs left you in America,
and owing a poor woman two hundred francs for washing,--that is, you
and that slick-tongued Marsac yonder!”
Marsac was not “yonder,” but directly behind Madame Schmid, and holding
a big tumbler of champagne in one hand, while with the other he deftly
seized her round the waist, and began pouring the champagne down her
throat. At the same time he was talking her down in vigorous tones,
shouting,--
“My dear girl, you really oughtn’t to come here. It will ruin our
reputations to have a handsome young thing like you found in our
apartment.”
Madame Schmid, sputtering, protesting, but obliged to drink the
champagne, willy-nilly, was still able to make a good deal of noise.
“Oh, you hypocrite! you can’t honeyfuggle me--” Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle,
the champagne flowed down her throat.
“Honeyfuggle _you_? Oh, you bewitching creature, _you_ honeyfuggle
_me_! Another glass, Fontaine.”
Another tumbler followed the first, Madame Schmid trying to say, “Stop
hugging me, you impudent--”
The young ladies enjoyed this excessively; and before the second glass
was wholly disposed of, Madame Schmid was struggling with the emotions
produced by the champagne, Marsac’s flattery, and wrath at her unpaid
bill, but being a thrifty Alsatian, the last was by no means forgotten.
Suddenly, amid all the laughing, choking, joking, and commotion, a
voice was heard calling at the foot of the stairs,--
“Monsieur Marsac! Monsieur Fontaine! open the door and help me up
these confounded narrow stairs! I am not built for such Alpine work as
this.”
“Great heavens! it is old Duval!” exclaimed Fontaine, who had dropped
limp into a chair at the first sound of this voice.
“Go and keep him below for a moment,” said Marsac; and with wonderful
quickness he hustled the two girls, nothing loath, into the closet,
where they willingly shut the door, tittering at their own predicament.
It was something else, though, to get rid of Madame Schmid. Marsac had
almost to drag her to the corridor door, she fighting like a tiger,
and Marsac assuring her that it would forever destroy them should a
young and handsome woman like her be found in their apartment. Barely
was she shoved out, and scarcely had Marsac time to seat himself in
a meditative attitude with a book, when Fontaine, with old Duval,
entered; and while greeting him, Marsac could hear Madame Schmid
prancing up and down the corridor in her wrath.
Monsieur Duval, broad, rubicund, benevolent, conceited, and with the
true auriferous air which belongs to the vulgar rich, congratulated
Fontaine on his accession of fortune. Fontaine received this modestly,
while Marsac eulogised Uncle Maurice and pointed out the goodness
indicated in every feature of the portrait hanging on the wall.
“Yes, yes,” said Monsieur Duval, “you have had a great stroke of luck,
young man; and I hope you will be worthy of it.”
To which Fontaine replied that he hoped to prove himself entirely
worthy of his Uncle Maurice’s goodness.
“And now,” cried Monsieur Duval, swelling out his waistcoat, “I must
tell you that I have other objects in calling to see you to-night,
besides congratulating you on your good fortune. One is, to sell you
a piece of property at Melun; and the other is to ask you both to
dine with me at my Passy villa very soon. I wish you to meet my niece
Delphine, who has lately come to live with my daughter and me. Would
to-morrow suit?”
“Perfectly,” cried Fontaine, eagerly, but was checked by Marsac with a
look.
“I think you have the poorest memory I ever saw,” said Marsac,
severely, to Fontaine. “Have you forgotten that to-morrow we dine with
the Prince, and next day with the Marshal, the day after with the
Archbishop?”
Duval, a little staggered by these magnificent names, remarked, “I
thought you told me to-day that Monsieur Fontaine was not going into
society on account of his mourning?”
“So he is not,” coolly responded Marsac. “These are merely little
family affairs with people we have always known.”
This did not make old Duval any the less anxious to have them, and
he named a day the next week, which Marsac and Fontaine, after an
elaborate consultation of their notebooks, finally found they could
accept.
[Illustration]
“And now about the villa,” said the old brewer, standing with his feet
wide apart and his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “It’s a very pretty
place at Melun; my daughter is very fond of it; and if you are looking
for a country place, Monsieur Fontaine, you could not do better than
take it, at ninety thousand francs.”
Fontaine, remembering Marsac’s injunction not to be too eager, hummed
and ha’d a little for effect. He was deeply indebted to Monsieur Duval
for his offer; ninety thousand was a mere bagatelle, etc. Old Duval
persisted, and his motive was ridiculously clear; every other word was,
“My daughter is fond of the Melun place,”--“My daughter could scarcely
be persuaded to leave it even for our finer house at Passy.”
Marsac urged the apparently unwilling Fontaine to accept the offer,
mentioning several countesses, duchesses, and princesses of their
acquaintance who thought about buying places at Melun. At every mention
of a title, the old brewer rose to the bait, and was a perfectly happy
man when Fontaine agreed to take the place at ninety thousand, and
expressed his gratitude to Monsieur Duval for favouring him with the
purchase.
The old man then got on the subject of his daughter, varied with
digressions on his niece Delphine, which seemed to amuse him very much.
“A fine, handsome girl she is, but the ‘new woman’ with a vengeance.
Believes in a woman’s having a mission, and all that, and is as deadly
opposed to matrimony as our friend Marsac,”--at which Monsieur Duval
cackled and chuckled with great enjoyment for some time. “By the way,”
he continued, “I expect her and my daughter to call for me on their way
from a dinner, and they will be here before long. Monsieur Fontaine,
will you oblige me by telling the porter to direct them to wait awhile
in case I should not be quite ready to go?”
Monsieur Duval had an object in getting Fontaine out of the way, for
the moment the door closed upon him, he drew his chair up to Marsac’s,
and began very seriously, and mopping his forehead in his anxiety: “You
know, Monsieur Marsac, I have always thought extremely well of Monsieur
Fontaine; and now that he has come into a snug fortune, I should not
mind if he--if my daughter--” Here Monsieur Duval winked, and Marsac
grinned appreciatively.
“I understand perfectly,” answered Marsac.
“About ten millions, I hear,” remarked Monsieur Duval, in a whisper.
“Oh, no, no!” replied Marsac, deprecatingly. “That is a gross
exaggeration. I give you my word, Monsieur Duval, it is nothing like
that. I know more about the matter than anybody except Fontaine, and I
assure you that it is but two millions.”
“And how do you think Monsieur Fontaine feels toward my daughter?”
Marsac knitted his brows thoughtfully. “I really don’t know,” he said
at last; “I have never heard Fontaine mention Mademoiselle Claire
except in general terms; but I know she is a very charming girl, and
any man might be glad and proud to have her. But, Monsieur Duval,” said
Marsac, confidentially, “you have no idea how the poor fellow has been
persecuted with propositions of the sort since his Uncle Maurice’s
death. At the club the dukes and marquises are sometimes four deep
around him, all with an eye on having him for a son-in-law; and as for
the widows, the poor fellow has had to insure his life against their
eating him up.”
This whetted old Duval’s desire considerably. Marsac, seeing this, kept
on.
“Now, here is a letter from the Prince de Landais,” taking up Landais’s
bill,--“I assure you, neither of us knows the man except in a business
way--and here he writes, not only wanting Fontaine to marry his
daughter, but actually asking for money in advance,--about six hundred
and seventy-five francs,--and he takes the tone of a person already
entitled to it!”
“A wretched, aristocratic pauper!” cried old Duval, indignantly.
“At least, the man who marries my Claire will not have a worthless
father-in-law, like this Prince de Landais, to prey upon him!”
“And here is a letter from Madame Schmid, or rather the Baroness
Schmid,”--Marsac made this addition, seeing how quickly Monsieur Duval
had jumped at every title he had named. “She is very particular about
her title, because she has just got one. This woman is a great swell,
but a rude, coarse creature, old enough to be Fontaine’s mother, and
was once a washerwoman, I am told. By the way,”--here Marsac put his
mouth to old Duval’s ear,--“she comes to this apartment in pursuit of
him! He keeps out of her way, refuses to answer her letters, and then
she pursues him here! She was in this room when you were announced
below, and it was with the greatest difficulty we got her out. She is
in the corridor still, I believe.”
Marsac rose, and taking the old brewer by the hand, they tipped to the
corridor door. Monsieur Duval knelt down, and through the keyhole saw
Madame Schmid rampaging up and down the corridor like a caged lioness.
[Illustration]
“Great heavens!” whispered old Duval, “no one can blame Monsieur
Fontaine from running away from such a woman!”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when, Madame Schmid making
a lunge at the door, it flew open, knocking Monsieur Duval sprawling.
Madame Schmid dashed in, walking over the prostrate Monsieur Duval as
if he had been a frog, and began to harangue Marsac violently, swinging
her arms about like a Dutch windmill.
“Oh, you deceiver! I know it isn’t worth while to do anything with
Monsieur Fontaine,--you have him under your thumb; but I will bring
you both to terms, that I promise you. And where has Monsieur Fontaine
gone? You have spirited him out of the way,--I know it; you do it every
time I come!”
Marsac’s only reply was to catch her round the waist, and say
soothingly, as he dragged her back to the door, “My dear girl, you will
certainly ruin Fontaine’s reputation if you act in this manner.”
“I don’t care a fig for my reputation,” bawled Madame Schmid,--“it is
money I am after; and money I mean to have, out of Monsieur Fontaine!”
Marsac managed to get her outside the door, which he took the
precaution to lock behind her, and said as he stepped back into the
room, “That’s a sample of what poor Fontaine has had to put up with
since he came into his money. And there is another one--a widow--who is
worse than all.”
“Oh, Jupiter!” was Monsieur Duval’s exclamation, as he picked himself
up off the floor, and dusted his knees and elbows.
“A very handsome woman, a comtesse,--the Comtesse de Fleury. She
got a written promise out of Fontaine, in a moment of weakness--you
understand?”
“Yes--a widow and a moment of weakness! I understand,” said the old
brewer, feelingly.
“It isn’t of the slightest legal value, though, as I can testify that
it was obtained under duress; and Fontaine would give half he is worth
to get rid of her.”
As Marsac said this about the written agreement, he could not help
wishing, with all his heart, that he had it that moment in his
possession.
Monsieur Duval reflected seriously for some minutes before speaking.
“I acknowledge to you,” he said, “that I regard a widow in an affair
of this sort as a person to be reckoned with; and it is I who tell
you so, and I have a head on my shoulders. Now, I hear you have great
influence with Monsieur Fontaine--”
“Not a particle,” Marsac protested vigorously.
“Nonsense! You are trying to fool me! But I will say this to you.
Taking into account my daughter’s fancy for your friend Fontaine, and
his good character and his good birth and his fortune, if you can bring
about an--arrangement--you understand--it will be for the happiness of
the young people.”
“I would do anything for Fontaine’s happiness,” said Marsac.
“Then, couldn’t you--ahem--the widow--Now, you are yourself a very
attractive fellow. Perhaps the widow might make an exchange?”
“Take me, do you mean? My dear sir, I would do anything on earth for
Fontaine but one; and that is, to get married.”
“Ha! ha! That’s the way Delphine talks.”
“I haven’t the remotest idea how to make an offer. It would be like a
horse trying to play the fiddle.”
“Oh, well, you need not mind about that, with a widow. She will do the
business for you.”
“She shall not have a chance, if I can help it--that is,” stammered
Marsac, as he recollected that Madame Fleury had already proposed to
him. “To be very confidential, this particular widow has--er--before
entangling Fontaine--in an interview with me--” Marsac stopped,
blushing; and Monsieur Duval, closing one eye, playfully poked him in
the ribs.
[Illustration]
“My dear young friend,” said he, with an air of superior wisdom,
“she did not want you very much, else she would have had you. Even
I have had to use all my astuteness to keep from being gobbled up by
widows. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty where widows are
concerned. But if you won’t listen to my proposition in that respect,
I am sure you will to one upon another subject. I intend, next month,
reorganising my breweries into a stock company, and I have positive
assurances that the shares will command a premium. If you and your
friend Fontaine can raise ten thousand francs within the next week, I
can let you in on the ground floor; and within three weeks you will
make fifty thousand francs each.”
“You shall have my cheque to-morrow morning,” promptly answered Marsac,
who had not a sou to his credit or in hand.
Old Duval then began to examine the room. The supper-table seemed to
strike him favourably, but the room did not. “It seems to me,” he
said, “that--ahem--your friend might have better quarters. This is
pretty high up.”
“Yes,” answered Marsac, “but we remain here on account of the widow,
the Comtesse de Fleury; and our surroundings are more valuable than you
think, perhaps. We have been collectors in our time, I assure you. Do
you see that sofa?”
“Yes,” said Monsieur Duval, punching the poor old sofa; “but it’s
moth-eaten. It ought to be mended here.”
“It would be sacrilege to touch that sofa. It belonged to Peter the
Great. He made that hole in it. I forget exactly what we paid for it,
but it is insured for forty thousand francs.”
Monsieur Duval’s mouth came wide open with surprise.
“And this mirror,” kept on Marsac, pursuing his advantage. “It is
cracked--but by whom? By Madame Pompadour. One day, the King was very
disobliging to her, and she flew into a passion. She picked up a--”
Here Marsac halted, but his eye travelling round the room fell on their
rusty bellows; he resumed glibly: “She picked up a pair of bellows, and
threw them at the King. His Majesty dodged, and smash went the bellows
against the mirror,--and here are the veritable bellows. The mirror and
bellows are worth, together, about twenty-five thousand francs.”
Old Duval examined them with the highest respect. “I see,” said he,
“they are immensely valuable.”
“And do you see this violin?” Marsac handed the old brewer the violin.
“Ah!” cried Monsieur Duval, delighted to show he knew something about
violins, “a Stradivarius, perhaps?”
“My dear sir,” said Marsac, in a tone of pity, “that violin was old
when Stradivarius was young. It is the identical instrument that Nero
fiddled on when Rome was burning!”
This reduced Monsieur Duval to an amazed silence, during which they
heard laughter and voices on the stairs, and the door opened, admitting
Fontaine and two remarkably pretty girls.
[Illustration]
“Dear papa!” cried one of them, “just as we got to the door the wheel
came off the carriage, and the coachman had to go to a stable after
another carriage--and Monsieur Fontaine brought us up here.”
“Quite right,” replied Monsieur Duval, looking fondly at his daughter.
“You know Monsieur Marsac; but I must present him to _you_, Delphine.
Oh, you two should get on famously,--you are both such haters of
marriage!”
The instant Marsac’s eyes lighted on Delphine, he felt a singular
sensation. She was slight and tall, with a patrician beauty of face
and figure, and an air of self-possession second only to Madame
Fleury’s. Delphine, too, felt an instant attraction toward Marsac, with
his bright eyes, his alert look of intelligence, and his gentlemanly
figure. This perception of Marsac’s charm caused her to say lightly,
yet with a faint blush,--
“I am not exactly a hater of marriage. I only regard it as a primitive
and somewhat unintelligent arrangement.”
The effect of these few words from the lips of a woman he had seen but
sixty seconds, produced a strange effect on Marsac. He felt a slight
chill of disappointment; but he answered in his old strain, “Just what
I have often longed to say, Mademoiselle, but never had the courage.”
“But I have,” remarked Delphine, showing her beautiful teeth in
a smile. “Women, you know, have much more real courage than men.
Especially is this true in times of great calamity.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Marsac, with energy. “I have often noticed, at
the wedding ceremony, the bride is always much more composed than the
groom.”
Being launched into the discussion, Delphine’s next blow at the
masculine sex was this: “One phase of the question has frequently
occurred to me. Does the higher education unfit men for marriage?”
Marsac shook his head, unable to find an answer to this proposition,
which he frankly acknowledged had never before presented itself to him.
Fontaine and Claire had listened to this in silence, but the furtive
looks exchanged between them showed a silent protest against it, and
also a very deep interest in each other. Old Duval laughed at the
discussion between Marsac and Delphine, and then they gathered round
the table to have a glass of champagne while waiting for the carriage.
Both the young men urged Monsieur Duval and the young ladies to
partake of what Marsac called their frugal supper, and Monsieur Duval
chuckled at the idea of such frugality, while declining it.
[Illustration]
The young people talked gaily together while sipping champagne, and
blessed the coachman for taking so long to bring another carriage.
Marsac and Delphine seemed to find it impossible to get away from the
question of marriage, albeit they tried to outdo each other in railing
at it. Delphine declared that a woman should keep her eyes open at
the moment of marrying even the best of men, and Marsac recommended
that she should keep her eyes half shut ever afterward. Claire charmed
Fontaine by saying sweetly, after this,--
“I should scorn to watch the man I married. I should want to have every
confidence in him.”
“Then, Mademoiselle, you would need to kill him immediately after the
ceremony,” counselled Marsac.
Then the conversation turned on Uncle Maurice. Marsac and Fontaine
had a number of ready-made anecdotes respecting the old man and his
honourable career in New York, which they told with gravity and
effect. Marsac declared that he felt like going in mourning himself,
so grateful was he for what Uncle Maurice had done for Fontaine;
while Fontaine, with perfect truth, said that he thought more of his
Uncle Maurice than of any relative he had in the world. Every moment
passed in one another’s society drew these four young hearts closer
together,--Fontaine and Claire willingly, and Marsac and Delphine
loudly protesting and abusing the emotions which, just born in their
hearts, yet grew like Jonah’s gourd.
At last, however, this accidental half-hour--which brought so much
happiness to Fontaine and Claire, and turned the world topsy-turvy for
Marsac and Delphine--came to an end. The carriage was reported, the
Duval party rose to go, after the two young men had reiterated their
promise to dine on the Saturday at Passy, old Duval saying,--
“Of course, it is most kind of you to come to us, with all your
engagements with marshals and dukes and princes; but,” with a
significant look at Marsac, “some of those titled people you want to
keep at long range.”
“Especially the Prince de Landais and the Baroness Schmid,” boldly
responded Marsac.
The door was open, and the Duvals were going out after saying good-bye
for the tenth time, when the two young men saw coming up the stairs the
compact figure and shrewd face of Maurepas, their editor-in-chief. He
met old Duval face to face on the landing.
“Delighted to see you, Monsieur Duval,” cried Maurepas. “I was going to
see you to-morrow; but if you will pardon a busy man for introducing
business, just let me ask you to give me the refusal of that villa you
have at Melun until I can get to see you.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it is the day after the ball. I have just
in effect sold it to Monsieur Fontaine,” replied Monsieur Duval, going
on downstairs.
Maurepas entered the room with the air of a chagrined man, and throwing
down his hat, said crossly,--
“So, Fontaine, that newspaper story is true, and you have come into a
great fortune?”
“Not so very great,” answered Fontaine, modestly,--“only a couple of
million francs.”
“Oh, Lord!” sniffed Maurepas, “how our ideas have expanded! Well, I am
glad your old uncle cut up so handsomely.”
“Monsieur Maurepas,” said Marsac, severely, “I beg you will at least
respect Fontaine’s mourning attire. It is exceedingly painful to us to
have Monsieur Maurice Fontaine’s death alluded to in that flippant and
heartless manner.”
Monsieur Maurepas sniffed louder than ever, but did not pursue the
objectionable subject. “Well,” he said, “I suppose Fontaine will give
up journalism now?”
“I don’t know,” responded Fontaine, dubiously; “I always liked my
profession.”
“In that case,” replied Maurepas, “I will make you an offer. I know
what you can do.”
Fontaine could not forbear remarking, “You used to say I couldn’t do
anything!”
“My dear fellow,” answered Maurepas, coolly, “that was before you were
talked about. Now, as the most talked-about young man in Paris, your
name is worth something to a newspaper, even if your ideas are not. I
will make you this proposition. If you will give ‘La Lune’ three signed
articles a week, of a thousand words each, I will give you five hundred
francs a week. I make but one stipulation,--your name must be signed to
them, but Marsac must write them.”
Fontaine hesitated for a moment, but Marsac answered for him: “Done!”
“And another thing. There is to be a great journalists’ dinner given
on the 17th, and I want you, when called upon, to make a speech in the
name of the younger members of the staff of ‘La Lune.’”
“I couldn’t! I wouldn’t! I never made a speech in my life.”
“But you could. What’s the matter with Marsac composing the speech, and
your delivering it?”
“None in the world,” answered Marsac, laughing. “So you can put him
down for the 17th.”
“And now about the Melun villa,” continued Maurepas, after making a
memorandum in his note-book. “I dare not go home to my wife without the
promise of that place. I told her I would see Monsieur Duval to-day,
but I forgot it. I don’t know what you paid for it, but I will give you
a hundred thousand francs for it.”
The prospect of making a clear ten thousand francs delighted Fontaine
so that he could not speak for a moment,--when, catching Marsac’s eye
fixed upon him, he understood the signal, and gave an evasive answer,
which Maurepas pooh-poohed. Marsac then interfered.
“The fact is,” he said, with his most candid manner, “I am against you
there, Monsieur Maurepas. I want Fontaine to keep the villa. He wants
to buy a great hotel on the Avenue de l’Alma for seven hundred and
fifty thousand francs. I tell him it is much too expensive for him, and
I don’t think his Uncle Maurice would have approved of it.”
Fontaine had never heard of the Avenue de l’Alma house, but he assented
promptly. Maurepas, however, being intensely anxious for the villa,
cut short the discussion about the Avenue de l’Alma house by offering
one hundred and ten thousand francs for the villa. Fontaine, dying
to accept, glanced at Marsac, who began to whistle softly. Maurepas,
growing more eager, jumped his bid immediately to one hundred and
twenty thousand francs. Fontaine thought Marsac crazy, when he rose,
buttoned his coat, and said,--
“Pray excuse us, Monsieur Maurepas. We have an engagement at a little
supper to-night at the Archbishop’s,--quite an informal little affair.”
[Illustration]
“A hundred and thirty thousand francs!” cried Maurepas. “I am a great
fool; but--”
Marsac handed Fontaine’s crape-covered hat to him.
“A hundred and forty thousand for the villa, and may the devil take
it!” said Maurepas, in desperation.
“No!” joyfully shouted Fontaine, who saw acquiescence in Marsac’s eye.
“I’ll take it!”
“Make one condition, my dear fellow,” said Marsac, earnestly, to
Fontaine. “If you will be such a fool as to sell the villa, make
Monsieur Maurepas promise you not to mention the price to Monsieur
Duval. The old gentleman thought he was selling it to you for a mere
song, and he will never forgive you if he finds out you re-sold it
immediately at so small an advance.”
“Yes, yes,” said Fontaine; and Maurepas, who was making out a little
memorandum of the transaction, added readily,--
“Yes, yes. I will not mention it.”
“Stop,” cried Marsac. “It would be as well to tell Monsieur Duval that
Fontaine got a large advance on it. That will reconcile old Duval to
his selling it.”
“I’ll tell the old fellow anything you like. Only sign this little
memorandum, Fontaine, and you can pass the papers over directly to me
as soon as you get them. And if you will take a cheque to bind the
bargain--”
Fontaine could scarcely refrain from embracing the editor on the spot,
but obeying a telegraphic signal from Marsac, he merely said, “If it
is any inconvenience to you--”
“It is not the slightest; and it will please my wife to know it is
settled,” answered Maurepas, taking out a cheque-book and rapidly
writing a cheque for twenty thousand francs.
[Illustration]
In ten minutes the informal but binding agreement was made and signed,
and Maurepas took his departure.
Fontaine and Marsac, left alone, sat looking intently at each other,
simply stunned by their good fortune. Marsac, finding words unable
to express his rapture, turned a double handspring over the sofa,
when Fontaine, rushing up to him, hugged and kissed him violently.
After this, they stood grasping each other for five minutes in silent
rapture, when Marsac’s countenance, losing its blissful expression,
became suddenly grave.
“Fontaine, this is glorious; but tell me one thing. What is that
singular sensation which I felt the instant my eyes rested on Delphine?
I feel it now. It is most peculiar and penetrating, and, although
agitating, not unpleasant.”
“Love, you idiot!”
“You alarm me,” said Marsac, anxiously. “Tell me it is something
less dangerous, -- locomotor ataxia or paresis: I have been told the
symptoms are somewhat alike.”
“I tell you that you are in love with Delphine, just as I am in love
with my sweet Claire; and you need not fight and struggle against it.
Love is lord of all. No man has lived until he has loved.”
“But is there no way out of love? A course of Plato and a low diet--”
“Not a particle of good!”
Marsac relapsed into gloom, until Fontaine, whacking him on the back,
cried exultingly,--
“Think, Marsac, twenty thousand francs in hand; thirty thousand more
coming; forty thousand francs profit each from the brewery shares we
can now buy; a thousand francs for a picture; a play placed; clothes
enough for two years,--hurrah for Uncle Maurice!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for Uncle Maurice!” shouted Marsac, capering
wildly about.
Fontaine ran and opened the closet door to let out the two
ballet-girls, who had gone to sleep. He pulled them out, and began
dancing gaily with them; while Marsac, finding Madame Schmid at the
keyhole listening, dragged her in out of the corridor, and seizing her
round the waist, began to waltz furiously, both of them hurrahing for
Uncle Maurice at the top of their lungs, and singing doggerel verses
made up as they danced, and all ending with a joyous refrain of,--
“Houp-là! for Uncle Maurice!”
[Illustration]