THE JOURNALIST’S HOUSE.
It was the day after the agreement with M. Bœhmer, and three days after
the ball at the Opera. In the Rue Montorgueil, at the end of a
courtyard, was a high and narrow house. The ground floor was a kind of
shop, and here lived a tolerably well-known journalist. The other
stories were occupied by quiet people, who lived there for cheapness.
M. Reteau, the journalist, published his paper weekly. It was issued on
the day of which we speak; and when M. Reteau rose at eight o’clock,
his servant brought him a copy, still wet from the press. He hastened
to peruse it, with the care which a tender father bestows on the
virtues or failings of his offspring. When he had finished it:
“Aldegonde,” said he to the old woman, “this is a capital number; have
you read it?”
“Not yet; my soup is not finished.”
“It is excellent,” repeated the journalist.
“Yes,” said she; “but do you know what they say of it in the
printing-office?”
“What?”
“That you will certainly be sent to the Bastile.”
“Aldegonde,” replied Reteau, calmly, “make me a good soup, and do not
meddle with literature.”
“Always the same,” said she, “rash and imprudent.”
“I will buy you some buckles with what I make to-day. Have many copies
been sold yet?”
“No, and I fear my buckles will be but poor. Do you remember the number
against M. de Broglie? We sold one hundred before ten o’clock;
therefore this cannot be as good.”
“Do you know the difference, Aldegonde? Now, instead of attacking an
individual, I attack a body; and instead of a soldier, I attack a
queen.”
“The queen! Oh, then there is no fear; the numbers will sell, and I
shall have my buckles.”
“Some one rings,” said Reteau.
The old woman ran to the shop, and returned a minute after, triumphant.
“One thousand copies!” said she, “there is an order!”
“In whose name?” asked Reteau, quickly.
“I do not know.”
“But I want to know; run and ask.”
“Oh, there is plenty of time; they cannot count a thousand copies in a
minute.”
“Yes, but be quick; ask the servant—is it a servant?”
“It is a porter.”
“Well, ask him where he is to take them to.”
Aldegonde went, and the man replied that he was to take them to the Rue
Neuve St. Gilles, to the house of the Count de Cagliostro.
The journalist jumped with delight, and ran to assist in counting off
the numbers.
They were not long gone when there was another ring.
“Perhaps that is for another thousand copies,” cried Aldegonde. “As it
is against the Austrian, every one will join in the chorus.”
“Hush, hush, Aldegonde! do not speak so loud, but go and see who it
is.”
Aldegonde opened the door to a man, who asked if he could speak to the
editor of the paper.
“What do you want to say to him?” asked Aldegonde, rather suspiciously.
The man rattled some money in his pocket, and said:
“I come to pay for the thousand copies sent for by M. le Comte de
Cagliostro.”
“Oh, come in!”
A young and handsome man, who had advanced just behind him, stopped him
as he was about to shut the door, and followed him in.
Aldegonde ran to her master. “Come,” said she, “here is the money for
the thousand copies.”
He went directly, and the man, taking out a small bag, paid down one
hundred six-franc pieces.
Reteau counted them and gave a receipt, smiling graciously on the man,
and said, “Tell the Count de Cagliostro that I shall always be at his
orders, and that I can keep a secret.”
“There is no need,” replied the man; “M. de Cagliostro is independent.
He does not believe in magnetism, and wishes to make people laugh at M.
Mesmer—that is all.”
“Good!” replied another voice; “we will see if we cannot turn the laugh
against M. de Cagliostro;” and M. Reteau, turning, saw before him the
young man we mentioned.
His glance was menacing; he had his left hand on the hilt of his sword,
and a stick in his right.
“What can I do for you, sir?” said Reteau, trembling.
“You are M. Reteau?” asked the young man.
“Yes, sir.”
“Journalist, and author of this article?” said the visitor, drawing the
new number from his pocket.
“Not exactly the author, but the publisher,” said Reteau.
“Very well, that comes to the same thing; for if you had not the
audacity to write it, you have had the baseness to give it publicity. I
say baseness, for, as I am a gentleman, I wish to keep within bounds
even with you. If I expressed all I think, I should say that he who
wrote this article is infamous, and that he who published it is a
villain!”
“Monsieur!” said Reteau, growing pale.
“Now listen,” continued the young man; “you have received one payment
in money, now you shall have another in caning.”
“Oh!” cried Reteau, “we will see about that.”
“Yes, we will see,” said the young man, advancing towards him; but
Reteau was used to these sort of affairs, and knew the conveniences of
his own house. Turning quickly round, he gained a door which shut after
him, and which opened into a passage leading to a gate, through which
there was an exit into the Rue Vieux Augustins. Once there, he was
safe; for in this gate the key was always left, and he could lock it
behind him.
But this day was an unlucky one for the poor journalist, for, just as
he was about to turn the key, he saw coming towards him another young
man, who, in his agitation, appeared to him like a perfect Hercules. He
would have retreated, but he was now between two fires, as his first
opponent had by this time discovered him, and was advancing upon him.
“Monsieur, let me pass, if you please,” said Reteau to the young man
who guarded the gate.
“Monsieur,” cried the one who followed him, “stop the fellow, I beg!”
“Do not be afraid, M. de Charny; he shall not pass.”
“M. de Taverney!” cried Charny; for it was really he who was the first
comer.
Both these young men, on reading the article that morning, had
conceived the same idea, because they were animated with the same
sentiments, and, unknown to each other, had hastened to put it in
practise. Each, however, felt a kind of displeasure at seeing the
other, divining a rival in the man who had the same idea as himself.
Thus it was that with a rather disturbed manner Charny had called out,
“You, M. de Taverney!”
“Even so,” replied the other, in the same way; “but it seems I am come
too late, and can only look on, unless you will be kind enough to open
the gate.”
“Oh!” cried Reteau, “do you want to murder me, gentlemen?”
“No,” said Charny, “we do not want to murder you; but first we will ask
a few questions, then we will see the end. You permit me to speak, M.
de Taverney?”
“Certainly, sir; you have the precedence, having arrived first.”
Charny bowed; then, turning to Reteau, said:
“You confess, then, that you have published against the queen the
playful little tale, as you call it, which appeared this morning in
your paper?”
“Monsieur, it is not against the queen.”
“Good! it only wanted that.”
“You are very patient, sir!” cried Philippe, who was boiling with rage
outside the gate.
“Oh, be easy, sir,” replied Charny; “he shall lose nothing by waiting.”
“Yes,” murmured Philippe; “but I also am waiting.”
Charny turned again to Reteau. “Etteniotna is Antoinette transposed—oh,
do not lie, sir, or instead of beating, or simply killing you, I shall
burn you alive! But tell me if you are the sole author of this?”
“I am not an informer,” said Reteau.
“Very well; that means that you have an accomplice; and, first, the man
who bought a thousand copies of this infamy, the Count de Cagliostro;
but he shall pay for his share, when you have paid for yours.”
“Monsieur, I do not accuse him,” said Reteau, who feared that he should
encounter the anger of Cagliostro after he had done with these two.
Charny raised his cane.
“Oh, if I had a sword!” cried Reteau.
“M. Philippe, will you lend your sword to this man?”
“No, M. de Charny, I cannot lend my sword to a man like that; but I
will lend you my cane, if yours does not suffice.”
“Corbleu! a cane!” cried Reteau. “Do you know that I am a gentleman?”
“Then lend me your sword, M. de Taverney; he shall have mine, and I
will never touch it again!” cried Charny.
Philippe unsheathed his sword, and passed it through the railings.
“Now,” said Charny, throwing down his sword at the feet of Reteau, “you
call yourself a gentleman, and you write such infamies against the
Queen of France; pick up that sword, and let us see what kind of a
gentleman you are.”
But Reteau did not stir; he seemed as afraid of the sword at his feet
as he had been of the uplifted cane.
“Morbleu!” cried Philippe, “open the gate to me!”
“Pardon, monsieur,” said Charny, “but you acknowledged my right to be
first.”
“Then be quick, for I am in a hurry to begin.”
“I wished to try other methods before resorting to this, for I am not
much more fond of inflicting a caning than M. Reteau is of receiving
one; but as he prefers it to fighting, he shall be satisfied;” and a
cry from Reteau soon announced that Charny had begun.
The noise soon attracted old Aldegonde, who joined her voice to her
master’s.
Charny minded one no more than the other; at last, however, he stopped,
tired with his work.
“Now have you finished, sir?” said Philippe.
“Yes.”
“Then pray return me my sword, and let me in.”
“Oh, no, monsieur!” implored Reteau, who hoped for a protector in the
man who had finished with him.
“I cannot leave monsieur outside the door,” said Charny.
“Oh, it is a murder!” cried Reteau. “Kill me right off, and have done
with it!”
“Be easy,” said Charny; “I do not think monsieur will touch you.”
“You are right,” said Philippe; “you have been beaten—let it suffice;
but there are the remaining numbers, which must be destroyed.”
“Oh yes!” cried Charny. “You see, two heads are better than one; I
should have forgotten that. But how did you happen to come to this
gate, M. de Taverney?”
“I made some inquiries in the neighborhood about this fellow, and
hearing that he had this mode of escape, I thought by coming in here,
and locking the gate after me, I should cut off his retreat, and make
sure of him. The same idea of vengeance struck you, only more in a
hurry, you came straight to his house without any inquiries, and he
would have escaped you if I had not luckily been here.”
“I am rejoiced that you were, M. de Taverney. Now, fellow, lead us to
your press.”
“It is not here,” said Reteau.
“A lie!” said Charny.
“No, no,” cried Philippe, “we do not want the press; the numbers are
all printed and here, except those sold to M. de Cagliostro.”
“Then he shall burn them before our eyes!”
And they pushed Reteau into his shop.