A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT--DREAMS OF LOVE
At the door stood Fritz the Fool, carrying in his arms what in the
gathering dusk looked like a bundle. This bundle was human--a man who
was but half a man. Embracing Fritz, with one arm tightly clutching
the Fool's neck, the figure commenced to speak the moment the door was
opened.
"I only am to blame; learning that you were in the study, I insisted
upon being brought here immediately; carry me in gently, Fool, and set
me in that chair."
The chair indicated was close to the writing-table, by which the
Advocate was standing.
"Fritz made me acquainted with your arrival," continued the intruder,
"and I hastened here without delay. When I tell you that I live two
miles off, eight hundred feet above the level of this valley, you will
realise the jolting I have had in my wheeled chair. Fritz, you can
leave us; but be within call, as you must help to get me home again.
Is there any need for me to introduce myself?" he asked.
"Master Lamont," said the Advocate.
"As much as is left of me; but I manage to exist. I have proved that a
man can live without legs. You received my letter?"
"Yes; and I thank you for your attention. My wife," said the Advocate,
introducing Adelaide. Attracted by the dulcet voice of Pierre Lamont,
she had come out of the deeper shadows of the room. Dionetta had
spoken truly; this thin, shrivelled wreck of mortality had a voice as
sweet as honey.
"I cannot rise to pay my respects to you," said Pierre Lamont, his
lynx eyes resting with profound admiration upon the beautiful woman,
"but I beg you to believe that I am your devoted slave." Adelaide bent
her head gracefully, and smiled upon the old lawyer. "One of my great
anxieties is to know whether I have arranged the villa to your
satisfaction. Christian Almer was most desirous that the place should
be made pleasant and attractive, and I have endeavoured to carry out
his instructions."
"We owe you a debt of gratitude," said Adelaide; "everything has been
charmingly done."
"I am repaid for my labour," said Pierre Lamont gallantly. "You must
be fatigued after your journey. Do not let me detain you. I shall
remain with the Advocate but a very few minutes, and I trust you will
allow me to make another and a longer visit."
"We shall always be happy to see you," said Adelaide, as she bowed and
left the room.
"You are fortunate, comrade," said Pierre Lamont, "both in love and
war. Your lady is the most beautiful I have ever beheld. I am
selfishly in hopes that you will make a long stay with us; it will put
some life into this sleepy valley. Is Christian Almer with you?"
"No; but I may induce him to come. It is to you," said the Advocate,
pointing to the pile of newspapers, "that I am indebted for these."
"I thought you would find something in them to interest you. I see you
have one of the papers in your hand, and that you were reading it
before I intruded upon you. May I look at it? Ah! you have caught up
the scent. It was the murder of the flower-girl I meant."
"Have you formed an opinion upon the case?"
"Scarcely yet; it is so surrounded with mystery. In my enforced
retirement I amuse myself by taking up any important criminal case
that occurs; and trying it in my solitude, acting at once the parts of
judge and counsel for the prosecution and defence. A poor substitute
for the reality; but I make it serve--not to my satisfaction, I
confess, although I may show ingenuity in some of my conclusions. But
I miss the cream, which lies in the personality of the persons
concerned. This case of Gautran interests and perplexes me; were I
able to take an active part, it is not unlikely I should move in it. I
envy you, brother; I should feel proud if I could break a lance with
you; but we do not live in an age of miracles, so I must be content,
perforce, with my hermit life. What I read does not always please me;
points are missed--almost wilfully missed, as it seems to me--strong
links allowed to fall, disused, false inferences drawn, and, in the
end, a verdict and sentence which half make me believe that justice
limps on crutches. 'Fools, fools, fools!' I cry; 'if I were among you
this should not be.' But what can an old cripple do? Grumble? Yes; and
extract a morsel of satisfaction from his discontent--which tickles
his vanity. That men's deserts are not meted out to them troubles me
more now than it used to do. The times are too lenient of folly and
crime. I would have the old law revived. 'To the doer as he hath
done'--thus saith the thrice ancient word--so runs the 'Agamemnon.' If
my neighbour kill my ass, I would knock his on the head. And this
Gautran, if he be guilty, deserves the death; if he be innocent,
deserves to live and be set free. But to allow a poor wretch to be
judged by public passions--Heaven send us a beneficent change!"
The voice of the speaker was so sweet, and the arguments so palatable
to the Advocate, and so much in accordance with his own views, that he
listened with pleasure to this outburst. He recognised in the cripple
huddled up in the chair one whose pre-eminence in his craft had been
worthily attained.
"I am pleased we have met," he said, and the eyes of Pierre Lamont
glistened.
He soon brought his visit to a close, and while Fritz the Fool was
being summoned, he said that in the morning he would send the Advocate
all the papers he could gather which might help to throw a light on
the case of Gautran.
"You have spoken with Fritz, he tells me."
"I have; he appears to me worth studying."
"There is salt in the knave; he has occasionally managed to overreach
me. Fool as he is, he has a head with brains in it. Farewell."
Now, although the old lawyer, while he was with the Advocate, seemed
to think of nothing but his more celebrated legal brother, it was far
different as he was carried in his wheeled chair to his home on the
heights. He had his own servant to propel him; Fritz walked by his
side.
"You were right, Fritz, you were right," said Pierre Lamont, and he
smacked his lips, and his eyes kindled with the fire of youth, "she is
a rare piece of flesh and blood--as fair as a lily, as ripe as a peach
ready to drop from the wall. With passions of her own, Fritz; her
veins are warm. To live in the heart of such a woman would be to live
a perpetual summer. What say you, Fritz?"
"Nothing."
"That is a fool's answer."
"Then the fools are the real wise men, for there is wisdom in silence.
But I say nothing because I am thinking."
"A mouse in labour. Beware of bringing forth a mountain; it will rend
you to pieces."
Fritz softly hummed a tune as they climbed the hills. Only once did he
speak till they arrived at Pierre Lamont's house; it was in reply to
the old lawyer, who said:
"It is easier going up the hills than coming down."
"That depends," said Fritz, "upon whether it is the mule or the man on
his back."
Pierre Lamont laughed quietly; he had a full enjoyment of Fritz's
humour.
"I have been thinking," said Fritz when the journey was completed----
"Ah, ah!" interrupted Pierre Lamont; "now for the mountain."
"--Upon the reason that made so fair a lady--young, and warm, and
ripe--marry an icicle."
"There is hidden fire, Fritz; you may get it from a stone."
"I forgot," said Fritz, with a sly chuckle, "that I was speaking to an
old man."
"Rogue!" cried Pierre Lamont, raising his stick.
"Never stretch out your hand," said Fritz, darting away, "for what you
cannot reach."
"Fritz, Fritz, come here!"
"You will not strike?"
"No."
"I will trust you. There are lawyers I would not, though every word
they uttered was framed in gold."
"So, you have been thinking of the reason that made so fair a lady
marry an icicle?"
"Yes."
"The icicle is celebrated."
"That is of no account."
"He is rich."
"That is good."
"He is much older than she. He may die, and leave her a young widow."
"That is better."
"Then she may marry again--a younger man."
"That is best Master Lamont, you have a head."
"And your own love-affair, Fritz, is that flourishing, eh? Have the
pretty red lips kissed a 'Yes' yet?"
"The pretty red lips have not been asked. I bide my time. My peach is
not as ripe as the icicle's. I'll go and look after it, Master Lamont.
It needs careful watching; there are poachers about."
Fritz departed to look after his peach, and Pierre Lamont was carried
into his study, where he sat until late in the night, surrounded by
books and papers.
The Advocate was also in his study until two hours past midnight,
searching newspaper after newspaper for particulars and details of the
murder of the unfortunate girl whose body had been found in the wildly
rushing Rhone. And while he pondered and mused, and ofttimes paced the
room with thoughtful face, his wife lay sleeping in her holiday home,
with smiles on her lips, and joy in her heart, for she was dreaming of
one far away. And her dream was of love.
And Dionetta, the pretty maid, also slept, with her hands clasped at
the back of her head; and her lady was saying to her: "Really and
truly, Dionetta, you have not a lover? Women are made for love. It is
the only thing in life worth living for." And a blush, even in her
sleep, stole over her fair face and bosom. For her dream was of love.
And Pierre Lamont lived over again the days of his youth, and smirked
and languished, and made fine speeches, and moved amidst a paradise of
fair faces, all of which bore the likeness of one whom he had but just
seen for the first time. And, old as he was, his dream was of love.
And Fritz the Fool tossed in his bed, and muttered:
"Too fair! too fair! If I were rich she might tempt me to be false to
one, and make me vow I would lay down my life for her. It is a good
thing for me that I am a fool."
And Gautran in his prison cell writhed upon his hard bed in the midst
of the darkness; for by his side lay the phantom of the murdered girl,
and his despair was deep and awful.
And in the mountains, two hundred miles distant from the House of
White Shadows, roamed Christian Almer in the moonlight, struggling
with all his mental might with a terror which possessed him. The spot
he had flown to was ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, and
his sleeping-room was in the hut of a peasant, mountain-born and
mountain-reared, who lived a life of dull contentment with his goats,
and wife, and children. Far away in the heights immense forests of
fir-trees were grouped in dark, solemn masses. Not a branch stirred; a
profound repose reigned within their depths, while the sleepless
waterfalls in the lower heights, leaping, and creeping, and dashing
over chasm and precipice, proclaimed the eternal wakefulness of
Nature. The solitary man gazed upon these majestic signs in awe and
despair.
"There is no such thing as oblivion," he muttered; "there is no such
thing as forgetfulness. These solitudes, upon which no living creature
but myself is to be seen, are full of accusing voices. My God! to die
and be blotted out for ever and ever were better than this agony! I
strive and strive, and cannot rid myself of the sin. I will conquer
it--I will--I will--I will!"
But even as he spoke there gleamed upon him from a laughing cascade
the vision of a face so beautiful as to force a groan from his lips.
He turned from the vision, and it shone upon him with a tender wooing
in every waterfall that met his sight. Trembling with the force of a
passion he found it impossible to resist, he walked to his mountain
home, and threw himself upon his couch. He was exhausted with
sleepless nights, and in a short time he fell into a deep slumber. And
a calm stole over his troubled soul, for his dreams were of love!