SEGOFFIN'S DISSIMULATION.
It would be far from complimentary to the reader's penetration to
suppose that he had not long since recognised in Onésime's defender
Mlle. Cloarek, who lost her mother at the age of five years, in
consequence of a nervous shock. We trust, too, that the reader's
penetration has served him equally well in the case of Suzanne Roberts,
Sabine's former nurse, and Madame Cloarek's confidential attendant and
housekeeper, and likewise in the case of Captain l'Endurci and his brave
head gunner.
Twelve years have elapsed since we last saw Segoffin, and he is little
changed in appearance. He looks as much like a clown as ever, the only
modifications which time, or rather events, have made in his grotesquely
grave features being, first, a deep scar beginning at the left temple,
and extending to the bottom of the cheek (a wound caused, as he
affirmed, by an unfortunate fall upon a piece of broken glass).
Second, the recent loss of an eye, an unfortunate loss indicated by a
large black patch, and caused, no doubt, by some similar mishap.
In spite of these rather grave injuries to his personal charms, M.
Segoffin held his head as high as ever. A long white cravat, decorated
with bright red polka dots, encircled his throat; his long redingote and
knee-breeches were of the finest brown broadcloth, and his black
stockings were of silk. In his right hand, from which two fingers were
missing,--two fingers carelessly lost, as he declared, from having been
caught in a piece of machinery,--he carried a heavy cane, for he was
quite lame now, in consequence of another accident,--at least, so he
said.
On seeing Segoffin, Dame Roberts, in spite of the taunts with which she
had pursued him for so many years, made no attempt to conceal her
pleasure. In the delight his return caused her, she did not notice, at
first, that Segoffin was all the while endeavouring to present only his
profile, or as nearly a three-quarter view of his face as possible, to
the object of his affections. The fact is, he wished to defer the
explanation of the recent loss of his eye until the latest possible
moment, but the lady, on going a little closer to him, noticed the
disfiguring patch, and exclaimed:
"Good Heavens! what is the matter with your eye, Segoffin?"
"Which eye?"
"Why, your right eye."
"My right eye?"
"Yes. Why do you wear that big black patch over it?"
"I know."
"I should suppose that you did. As for me, I am afraid to guess what the
matter is."
"Nonsense! guess away."
"You have lost an eye."
"There is no undoing that which is done."
"I declare, since monsieur went into business and took you for his
clerk, there is many a soldier at the Invalides that isn't half as much
battered up as you are. How on earth did you lose your eye?"
"The fact is, my sight has been failing for some time past, so I decided
to put on spectacles. I went to purchase a pair. It was at Lyons. Ah,
that rascally optician!" exclaimed Segoffin, shaking his fist in a sort
of retrospective rage.
"Calm yourself, Segoffin, and go on with your story."
"It was a splendid day, and the optician's shop stood in a blaze of
sunlight on the Quai du Rhone, my dear,--in a blaze of sunlight,
remember that."
"What difference does that make?"
"A vast amount of difference. I asked to try some spectacles. The
scoundrel handed me a pair. I put them on my nose. Just at that moment
loud screams were heard on the quay, and curiosity naturally caused me
to run to the door."
"Of course."
"I ran to the door, I say, with the spectacles still on my nose, and I
was looking all around, first to the right, then to the left, to see
where the cries came from, when, happening to look up, I had very much
the same feeling in my right eye as if the ball had been pierced by a
red-hot iron."
"Good Heavens! what caused it?"
"One of the glasses in the pair which the optician had given me was of
great magnifying power," replied Segoffin, "and when I looked up and the
noonday sun shone full on my glasses, it converted the lens I speak of
into a sort of burning-glass. My eye was burned out. You could
positively hear it sizzle."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Dame Roberts. "Did you really lose your eye
in that way?"
"There is no undoing that which is done. But I will say this much, since
I have had but one eye that one has been doing the work of two in the
most remarkable manner. I have the eyes or rather the eye of fifteen, so
to me you look as handsome, as handsome as if you were fifteen, my
dear."
"I have no such juvenile eyes, my poor Segoffin, so I see you exactly as
you are. I certainly regret the accident exceedingly, and I truly hope
this will be the last. Did monsieur have a satisfactory trip, and is he
well?"
"Perfectly."
"And his fits of despondency when he thinks of madame's death?"
"He has them still. He shuts himself up alone for several hours, and
when he appears again one can see that he has been weeping."
"And his disposition?"
"I am a regular firebrand in comparison."
"Then he evinces no more temper while travelling than he does here?"
"Not a bit more."
"And really when one remembers what monsieur was a dozen years ago,
Segoffin!"
"There is as much difference as there is between day and night."
"That reminds me that Mlle. Sabine had another of her nervous attacks
to-day, when something reminded her of her poor mother's death. How
fortunate it is that she did not recognise monsieur in his Breton
costume on that terrible night. The poor child still believes that it
was a stranger who killed her mother."
"And she must never be allowed to suspect anything to the contrary."
"The complete change in monsieur's character makes that a comparatively
easy matter."
"All the effect of a business career. When monsieur lost his position
after poor madame's death, he said to himself: 'I have barely enough to
support my daughter for a few years. I was evidently not intended for a
judicial career. I have a taste for commerce, so I will try commerce.'
And a very wise decision it has proved on his part, for he has not only
accumulated a handsome fortune for his daughter, but transformed himself
into the most lamb-like of men, and you have commerce to thank for it
all; for you must see for yourself that if a merchant went about beating
his customers over the head and kicking them in the stomach, he wouldn't
make many sales."
"You are and always will be the same exasperating creature, Segoffin!"
exclaimed the housekeeper, impatiently. "Years of travel and business
have made no change in you, mentally, understand; physically--it is
different--"
"Hold, my ungrateful friend," said Segoffin, drawing a peculiarly shaped
box from his pocket, and gallantly offering it to Suzanne. "This is the
way in which I avenge myself for your abuse."
"What is it, Segoffin?"
"Some little tokens of friendly regard, for you know that in your secret
heart you are really very fond of me."
But as the housekeeper opened the box, and unfolded a piece of paper in
which the present was wrapped, she recoiled almost in terror.
"The paper is burnt at one end, and stained with blood at the other,"
she exclaimed, in dismay.
"Oh, yes," replied M. Cloarek's clerk, imperturbably, "it is a piece
of--no matter what, that I used to light my candle with, and when I was
wrapping the pin and the earrings up, I pricked my finger,--awkward as
usual, you see."
The housekeeper took out a pair of enormous gold earrings, and a large
gold pin ornamented with an anchor surmounted by a crown. We will here
add, for the information of the reader, that in those days sailors in
the royal navy of England still wore earrings, and fastened their
woollen shirts with large gold or silver pins.
The housekeeper, more grateful for the kindly feeling than for the
present itself, as she had no intention of dragging down her ears with
these rings, fastened the pin in her dress.
"Really, you are too kind," she said. "These earrings and this pin,
especially, are in perfect taste, and as we live so near the sea the
selection of a pin surmounted with an anchor is extremely appropriate.
But here, M. Traveller," continued Suzanne, taking the red worsted
comforter she had been knitting from the table, "you see you are not the
only person who thinks of the absent."
"What, Suzanne, this comforter--"
"Is intended to keep you warm and comfortable in the winter."
"Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, I shall never forget--"
But Segoffin's protestations of gratitude were, unfortunately,
interrupted by the entrance of M. Cloarek and his daughter, arm in arm.
Yvon, who was now forty-two years of age, had changed very little in
appearance. His hair was beginning to turn gray, and his skin was much
sunburned; but he seemed to have gained in strength and vigour, his face
was radiant, and his eyes were full of joyful tears.
"Come and let me take a good look at you, my child," he exclaimed, as he
led his daughter to the light, and gazed at her with anxious tenderness,
as if to satisfy himself that the health of this idolised child had
improved since they parted; then, again enfolding her tenderly in his
arms, he added:
"Ah, my beloved child, I can embrace you with a thankful heart, for I
can see that you are much stronger than when I went away."
Then, addressing Dame Roberts for the first time, he said, with a
friendly shake of the hand:
"I thank you with all my heart for your care and attentions, Suzanne,
for I know how much you must have aided in Sabine's restoration to
health."
And again turning to his daughter, Cloarek held out his arms.
"One more embrace, my child, one more!" he cried.
"Fathers and daughters as well as lovers like to be alone together after
a long absence, my dear," Segoffin whispered to the housekeeper.
"You are right, Segoffin," replied Suzanne, starting toward the door.
"Ah, Suzanne, what a fine opportunity this would be for a tender
interview if we wanted one," said M. Cloarek's clerk as he followed Dame
Roberts into the adjoining room.
"Unfortunately love is blind, my poor Segoffin, and you are only half
blind yet."
"That will not prevent you from becoming Madame Segoffin," responded our
friend, in tones of the most profound conviction. "That which is to be,
will be."