"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival,
"ees a big monkey-house, and all ze monkeys are pulling each ozer's
tails. I pull no tails, _moi_, and I allow no liberties to be
taken wiz my person."
About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him
of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more--
_diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old
world."
"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well--
eh?"
The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed
foot and ankle.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg."
The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acres
marched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or better
than his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him that
he preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit for
telling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horse
and saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle
gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees,
the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs to
perfection, but it wouldn't incubate them.
"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.
Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we
advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant,
hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who
would be charmed to make his acquaintance.
"San Francisco? _Jamais, jamais de la vie!_"
"Come with us to Del Monte?"
"Del Monte?"
We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovely
gardens which ran down to the sea.
"_Jamais--jamais_," repeated the Baron.
"We don't like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," said
Ajax.
"You have right. I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble."
We went home sorely puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private reasons,
and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte. And
it was significant--as Ajax said to me--that a man who could talk so
admirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a word
concerning himself.
At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul. From him we
learned that there was a certain Réné, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy.
The Château Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as
Chaumont or Chénonceau. The Consul possessed an _Almanack de
Gotha_. From this we gleaned two more facts. Réné, Comte de
Bourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever.
"Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be somebody--you say he
is _somebody_--well, somebody else!"
"Another Wilkins," said I.
"Pooh!" ejaculated Ajax.
"No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil's position and rank--he is a
godson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord--would come to California
without my knowledge," said the Consul.
The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how the
Baron fared. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from
the evil-smelling lake. Passing the bungalow, we had noted that six
weeks' uninterrupted sunshine had played havoc with the Baron's
garden. The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted. The sun had
sucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks. Of a sudden, old age had
overtaken him.
He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed our
holiday. We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn't
mention the French Consul. Then, in our turn, we begged for such news
as he might have. He replied solemnly--
"I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles. Old man Dumble ees a fraud.
_Moi_, I abominate frauds--_hein?_ He obtain my money onder
false pretences, is it not so? Ah, yes; but I forgive 'im, because he
is poor. But also, since you go, he obtain my secret--I haf a secret--
under false pretences. Oh, ze _canaille_! I tell 'im that if 'e
were my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit 'im. Because 'e is
_canaille_ I s-s-spit at 'im. _Voilà!_"
The old fellow was trembling with rage and indignation. Ajax said
gravely--
"We foreigners mustn't spit at free-born American citizens. What
spitting is done here, they do themselves."
"You have right. Ze _canaille_ say to me, to _me_, 'Come,'
he say, 'come, Baron, I have one six-shooter, one shot-gun, two
pitchfork, three spade, and one mowing-machine. Take your choice,' he
say, 'and we can fight till ze cows come home!' He use zose words,
_mes amis_, 'till ze cows come home!' _Tiens!_ Ze Frisian-
Holstein cows, who go dry when zey do come home--_hein?_"
He was so furiously angry that we dared not laugh, but we were
consumed with curiosity to know what secret Dumble had stolen. The
Baron did not inform us.
Fortunately for our peace of mind, Dumble came to us early next
morning. He went to the marrow of the matter at once.
"Boys," said he, "I want you to fix up things between me an' that
crazy Frenchman. How's that? Your friend. Wal, he _is_ a Frenchy,
an' he's crazy, as I'm prepared to prove. But I don't want no trouble
with him. He's my neighbour, and there ought to be nothin' between me
an' him."
"There'll always be a barbed wire fence," said Ajax.
"Boys, when that ther' pond o' the Baron's tuk to smellin' like dead
cats, he come to me and asks me to find someone to take keer o' the
bungalow. I undertook the job myself. I was to water them foreign
plants o' his, do odd chores, and sleep in the house nights. He
offered good pay, and I got a few dollars on account. I aimed to treat
the Baron right, as I treat all my neighbours. I meant to do more,
more than was agreed on. That's the right sperit--ain't it? Yas. An'
so, when I found out that there was a room in that ther' bungalow
locked up, by mistake as I presoomed, and that the key o' the little
parlour opened it, why, naterally, boys, I jest peaked in to see if
everything was O.K. As for pryin' and spyin', why sech an idee never
entered my head. Wal, I peaked in an' I saw----"
"Hold on," said Ajax. "What you saw is something which the Baron
wished to be kept secret."
"I reckon so, though why in thunder----"
"Then keep it secret----"
"But, mercy sakes! I saw nothing, not a thing, boys, save two picters
and a few old sticks of furniture. An' seeing that things was O.K., I
shet the door, but doggone it! the cussed key wouldn't lock it. Nex'
morning the Baron found it open, and, Jeeroosalem! I never seen a man
git so mad."
"And that's all?"
"That's all, but me an' the Baron ain't speakin'."
We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, on the
Baron's account than for the sake of old man Dumble. Accordingly, we
tried to persuade the Baron that his secret at any rate was still
inviolate. He listened incredulously.
"He says he saw nothing--but some pictures and old furniture."
"_Mon Dieu!_ an' zey tell 'im nossing. _Saperlipopette!_
Come wiz me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret, too."
We followed him in silence up the path which led to the bungalow, and
into the house. The Baron unlocked a door and unbolted some shutters.
We saw two portraits, splendid portraits of two handsome young men in
uniform. Above the mantelpiece hung an emblazoned pedigree: the
family tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France. The Baron laid
a lean finger upon one of the names.
"I am Réné de Bourgueil-Crotanoy," he said.
We waited. When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was the voice
of a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.
"My boys," said he, indicating the two young men, "zey are dead; no
one of ze old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me--and I, as you see,
am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor tell me so,
always. I was--I am still--proud of my race, of my château. I was not
permitted to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys. They
went to Tonquin; I remained at home, thinking of ze day when zey would
return, and marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. Zey did--not--
return. Zey died. One in battle, one of fever in ze hospital. What was
left for me, _mes amis_? Could I live on in ze place where I had
seen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Paris
ze pitying eyes of friends?"
* * * * *
Years afterwards, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We paid a
pilgrimage to the Château de Bourgueil-Crotanoy, and entered the
chapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A mural
tablet records the names, and the manner of death, of the two sons.
Also a line in Latin:
"'Tis better to die young than to live on to behold the misfortunes
and emptiness of an ancient house."