SCENE FIRST.--_An inn on the road to Flourens._
A calash has lately arrived, and the horses are now being baited at
the inn stables. The day is excessively warm and sultry, so that the
young gentleman who came in the calash is having his bread, and a
bottle of the wine for which the inn is famous, served to him under
the great chestnut-tree before the door. It is Oliver Munier, but so
different from the Oliver that left Paris a year before that even his
mother would hardly have known him. He is no longer that peasant lad in
blouse who crouched, shrunk together, in the corner of the great coach
of the rich American uncle, being carried with thunderous rumble to
some hideous and unknown fate which he did not dare to tell even to his
own soul. He wore a silk coat, a satin waistcoat, satin breeches, silk
stockings, a laced hat; he wore fine cambric cuffs at his wrists, and
a lace cravat with a diamond solitaire at his throat, and his manners
befitted his dress.
[Illustration: "THE INNKEEPER SERVED HIM IN PERSON."]
He carried with him a small and curiously wrought iron box, of which he
seemed excessively careful, keeping it close beside him, and every now
and then touching it with his hand, as though to make sure that it had
not been spirited away.
The innkeeper, a merry little pot-bellied rogue, as round as a dumpling
and as red as an apple, served him in person, talking garrulously
the while. Monsieur was on his way to Flourens? Ah! there was great
excitement there to-day. What! Monsieur did not know? He must then be a
stranger not to know that Monseigneur the Marquis had left Paris, and
was coming back to the château to live.
Oliver was interested. He had seen monseigneur in Flourens once some
two or three years before, when he had paid a flying visit to the
château to put on another turn of the screw, and to squeeze all the
money he could from the starving peasants of the estate, to pay some
of his more hungry and clamorous creditors. All Flourens had known
that the marquis was over head and ears in debt, and now the little
gossiping landlord added the supplement. It was, he told Oliver,
through no choice that Monseigneur the Marquis was to come back to
the country again, but because he had no more wherewith to support
his Paris life. He loathed Flourens, and he loved Paris; he hated the
dull life of the country, and he adored the gayety of the city, its
powder, its patches, its masques, its court, its vanity, its show, and,
most of all, its intrigues and its cards. But all these cost money,
for Monseigneur the Marquis had lived like a prince of the blood, and
it had cost a deal. Ah, yes! such little matters as intrigues and the
cards cost treasures of money in Paris, he had heard say. So now the
marquis and the family were coming back again to Flourens.
By the time that the landlord had half done his gossip, Oliver had
finished his bread and wine; then, the horses being refreshed, he bade
the servant whom he had brought down from Paris with him to order out
the calash. The landlord would have assisted Oliver in carrying his
iron box, but Oliver would not permit it. He commanded him somewhat
sharply to let it alone, and he himself stowed it safely within the
calash.
His man-servant was holding the door open for him to enter, and Oliver
already had his foot placed upon the step ready to ascend, when the
clatter of hoofs and the rumble of a coach caught his attention, and he
waited to see it pass.
It was a huge, lumbering affair, as big as a small house, and was
dragged thunderously along by six horses. A number of outriders
surrounded it as it came sweeping along amid a cloud of dust, in the
midst of which the whips of the postilions cracked and snapped like
pistol-shots.
So Oliver waited, with some curiosity, until the whole affair had
thundered by along the road, with its crashing, creaking, rattling
clatter, preceded by the running footmen with their long canes, and
the outriders in their uniform of white and blue. It was all gone in
a moment--a moment that left Oliver standing dumb and rooted. In that
instant of passing he had seen three faces through the open windows of
the coach: the first, that of a stout, red-faced man, thick-lipped,
sensual; second, that of a lady, pale and large-eyed, once beautiful
perhaps, now faded and withered. But the third! The third face was
looking directly at him, and it was the glimpse of it that left him
rooted, bereft of motion. It was the same face that he had seen that
first day in the magic mirror in the master's house; the face that
he had seen in that mirror, and unknown to the master, not once, not
twice, but scores of times--hundreds of times.
The landlord's voice brought him to himself with a shock. "Monsieur has
dropped his handkerchief."
Oliver took the handkerchief mechanically from his hand, and as he
entered the coach like one in a dream, he heard the landlord say, as
his servant closed the door with a clash.
"That was Monseigneur the Marquis on his way to the Château Flourens."
SCENE SECOND.--_The Widow Munier's house in Flourens. Not the poor
rude hut that Oliver had left her in when he first went to Paris, but
the house of the late Doctor Fouchette--the best house in the town.
The Widow Munier is discovered sitting at the window, with her face
close to the glass, looking down the street expectantly._
Oliver had been gone a year, and that year had wrought great changes
with her. All the town knew that a great fortune had come to her, and
she was no longer the poor widow Munier, the relict of Jean Munier the
tailor; she was Madame Munier.
After Oliver had been gone to Paris a week, there came a letter for
her from him, and in the letter was money. Every week after came such
another packet with more and more money--enough to lift her from
poverty to opulence. She was no longer obliged to eat cabbage soup, or
live in the poor little hut on the road. Just about that time Doctor
Fouchette died, and, at Oliver's bidding, she took the house for
herself. It was very pleasant to her, but there was one thing that she
could not understand. Her rich American brother-in-law had distinctly
told her that he and Oliver were to go to Paris to choose a house, and
that she was then to be sent for to live with them. She had never been
sent for, and that was what she did not understand. Yet the weekly
letters from Paris compensated for much. In those letters Oliver often
told her that he and his uncle were in business together, and were
growing rich at such a rate as no one had ever grown rich before. They
were in the diamond business, he said, and in a little while he hoped
to come home with more money than an East Indian prince. Then, at last,
a little while after the twelvemonth had gone by, came a letter saying
that he would be home upon the next Wednesday, in the afternoon. So now
Madame Munier was sitting at the parlor waiting for that coming.
A calash came rattling along the stony street, and as it passed, the
good people came to the doors and windows and looked after it. It did
not stop at the inn, but continued straight along until it came to the
door of Madame Munier's house. Then it drew up to the foot-way, and a
servant in livery sprang to the ground and opened the door. A young
gentleman stepped out, carrying an oblong iron box by a handle in the
lid.
In thirty minutes all Flourens knew that Oliver Munier had returned
home; in sixty minutes they knew he was as rich as Croesus.
As Oliver released himself from his mother's embrace, he looked around
him. It was all very different from the little hut on the road that he
had left twelve months ago, but he seemed dissatisfied. He shook his
head.
"It will never do," said he.
"What will never do?" said his mother.
"This house, this furniture--all," said Oliver, with a wave of his hand.
His mother stared. "It is a fine house," said she, "and the furniture
is handsome. What, then, would you have?"
"The house is small; it is narrow; it is mean," said Oliver.
His mother stared wider than ever. "It is the best house in Flourens,"
said she.
"Perhaps," said Oliver; "but it does not please me. It will serve for
us so long as we remain here, but I hope soon to remove to a better
place--one more suitable for people of our condition."
Madame Munier's eyes grew as round as teacups. She began to notice
that Oliver's manners and speech were very different from what they had
been before he left Flourens a year ago. She herself had never used the
barbarous Flourennaise patois.
"Remove to a better place?" she repeated, mechanically. "To one more
suitable for people of our condition?"
"Yes," said Oliver. "I have in my mind a château in Normandy of which I
have heard. I think of buying it."
Madame Munier's wonder had reached as high as it could soar. She began
to wonder whether Oliver had not gone mad.
He gave her scarcely any time to recover before he administered another
and a greater shock.
"Mother," said he, suddenly, "the family returns to the château to-day?"
"Yes," said his mother; "they passed through the town about a half an
hour before you came."
"I know," said Oliver; "I saw them upon the road. There were two ladies
with monseigneur. Do you know who they were?"
"One of them was thin and wrinkled, with black eyes and heavy eyebrows?"
"Yes," said Oliver.
"The other, a young girl, rather pretty?"
"She is beautiful!" said Oliver.
"No doubt they were Madame the Marquise, and Mademoiselle Céleste, the
daughter," said Madame Munier.
There was a little time of silence, and then Oliver gave his mother
that second shock, a shock such as the poor woman never had in her life
before.
"Mother," said he, "I love Mademoiselle Céleste."
Madame Munier opened her eyes and mouth as wide as she was able. "You
what?" she cried.
"I love Mademoiselle Céleste," said Oliver: it was delicious to repeat
those words.
Madame Munier looked slowly all about her, as though she had
dropped from the moon, and knew not as yet where she was. "He loves
Mademoiselle Céleste!" she repeated to herself.
"Yes," said Oliver; "I love her."
"He loves her!" said Madame Munier, mechanically. "He is mad!"
"Mad!" said Oliver. "Why am I mad? Were I a beggar and she a princess
I might still love her. Were I now as I was twelve months ago, poor,
ignorant, dull, a witless, idle sot, satisfied to sit the day through
on the bench in front of the inn yonder, I might still love her! Were
we living in poverty as we were then--you and I--dwelling in that
little stone hut, feeding upon stewed cabbage and onions, I might still
love Céleste de Flourens! Love," cried Oliver--"love is universal; it
is limitless; it is the right of every man, and no one can take it from
him!"
[Illustration: "'MAD!' SAID OLIVER, 'WHY AM I MAD?'"]
Madame Munier listened; she thought that she had never heard any one
talk so beautifully as Oliver. It put the matter in a new light.
"But I am no longer as I was then," continued Oliver. "I have seen
much; I have passed through much; I have lived in Paris. But all would
be of no importance were it not for another thing. Listen, mother! We
are rich, you and I. We are the richest people in France--excepting
one other; yes, the richest people in France! You think me crazy to
love Céleste de Flourens! I tell you, I swear to you, I could to-morrow
buy Flourens from one end to the other--the town, the château, and
all. You do not believe me? Very well, you shall see! But as for this
love of mine, it is not so hopeless nor so mad as you think. To-morrow
you shall go in my coach, with my servant Henri, down to the château
yonder."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," interrupted Madame Munier, sharply.
Oliver only smiled; he did not answer. A habit he had caught from his
master during the last year was to contradict nobody. "To-morrow you
shall go down to the château in my coach, with my servant Henri, and
then you shall see how complaisant the marquis will be."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Madame Munier again. "I will not
go down to the château."
Still Oliver did not seem to hear her. Going to the table, he chose
a key, and unlocking the iron box, brought forth from it a curious
old silver snuffbox, handsomely chased and enamelled with figures and
flowers. "Do you see this box?" said he, holding it up between his
thumb and finger.
"Yes," said Madame Munier, "I see it; but I will not go to the château."
"It is only a snuffbox," said Oliver. "It is a small thing; but what
then? Within it is a charm--a key with which I hope to unlock the
portals of a new world to us. It shall give us the entrée to the
château."
"I shall not go to the château," said Madame Munier.
"Also," said Oliver, "I will give you a letter, which you will present,
together with this snuffbox, to the marquis; and I shall sign the
letter Oliver de Monnière."
"But that is not your name," said Madame Munier.
"Very well," said Oliver; "but it shall hereafter be our name--yours
and mine--De Monnière. Remember it, mother--De Monnière."
"But what, then, is in the snuffbox?" said Oliver's mother.
"I will show you," said Oliver, and he opened the lid.
"Bah!" said his mother; "and is that all? Do you think that Monseigneur
the Marquis will care for that thing?"
Oliver smiled. "Yes," said he, "he will care for this thing."
Oliver's mother had nearly forgotten herself. "I will not go to the
château," said she.
SCENE THIRD.--_The marquis's apartments at the château._
It is the next day after the marquis has returned to the Château de
Flourens. It is three o'clock in the afternoon, and the marquis is
discovered still in bed. His valet, August, an incomparable fellow,
has been in and out a dozen times; has smoothed the marquis's clothes;
has rearranged a freshly-powdered wig that hung as white as snow upon
the block; has moved a chair here and a table there. But the Marquis
de Flourens has paid no attention to him. He is reading the latest
effusion of the immortal Jean Jacques; for one must keep up with the
world, even if one is compelled to live in Flourens; moreover, as he
often observes, a book suffices somewhat to relieve the ennui.
The Marquis de Flourens looks very droll. He is clad in a loose
dressing-robe of figured cloth, and lies in bed reading his book, with
a chocolate-pot and a delicate cup, with the brown dregs at the bottom,
upon a light table standing at the bedside. His knees are drawn up into
a little white mountain, the lace pillows are tucked in billowy masses
behind him, and his nightcap is pushed a little to one side, giving a
glimpse of his shining, newly-shaven head; his round face, in contrast
with the white pillows behind, as red as a newly-risen sun.
The valet again enters the room, but this time with an object. He bears
upon a silver tray a three-cornered billet and a snuffbox. The marquis
lingeringly finishes the sentence he is reading, and then lays the book
face down upon the bed beside him. "What is it you would have, August?"
said he.
"A lady, monseigneur, has just now stopped at the door in a coach."
[Illustration: "HE IS CLAD IN A LOOSE DRESSING-ROBE OF FIGURED CLOTH,
AND LIES IN BED READING HIS BOOK."]
The marquis sat up as though moved by a spring. "A lady?" he cried.
"Young, beautiful?"
"No," said August, seriously; "old, fat."
The marquis lay back upon the pillows again. "What is it that you have
brought, August?" said he, languidly. August presented the waiter.
"Oh!" said the marquis. "A letter; and what is that--a snuffbox?" He
reached out and took Oliver's three-cornered billet from the waiter.
"This is not a woman's handwriting," said he; "it is the handwriting of
a man."
August said nothing, and the marquis opened the letter. It ran as
follows:
"MONSEIGNEUR,--Having heard, monseigneur, that you have been
interested in collecting odd and unique objects of curiosity and
virtu, I have taken the great liberty of sending by madame my mother
this insignificent trifle, which I hope, monseigneur, you will
condescend to accept.
"OLIVER DE MONNIÈRE."
"M--m--m! What is it the fool is writing about? Curios? I making a
collection of curios? I never collected anything in my life but debts.
The man is crazy! Does he think that I am a snuffy collector of stuffy
curios? Let me see the snuffbox, August."
The incomparable valet presented the waiter.
The marquis took the snuffbox in his hand and looked at it. "It is
handsome," said he; "it is curious. It is solid silver, and is worth--"
he weighed it in his hand--"a hundred livres, perhaps." He pressed the
spring and opened the box as he spoke. It was full of cotton. Something
dropped from it upon the coverlet. The marquis picked it up. It was a
diamond of excessive brilliancy, almost as large as a bean.
The incomparable August was busied in removing the chocolate-pot and
the empty cup, but presently observing the silence, he looked around.
The marquis was holding something between his thumb and forefinger, and
his eyes were as big as teacups. His face was a sight to see. August
was startled out of his composure. He hastily set the waiter with the
china upon the window-seat, and hurried to the bedside.
"What is it, monseigneur?" said he.
His voice roused the marquis.
"Where is the lady who came in the carriage?" he cried, excitedly.
"Run, stop her!" He flung the bedclothes off himself and jumped with
one bound out upon the floor.
Once again August was startled out of his decorum. "Monseigneur!" Then,
recovering himself again: "The lady, monseigneur, is gone."
The gardener, working upon the terrace below, heard the rattle of
a window flung violently open, and, upon looking up, was very much
surprised to behold Monseigneur the Marquis, still clad in his colored
dressing-gown, and with his nightcap thrust tipsily over one side of
his head. So the marquis stood looking out of the window staring into
space, for he had no more idea who it was that had stopped at the door
and had left him a diamond worth twenty-five thousand livres than if
he had never been born. "Ha!" thought he; "the letter; it was signed
Oliver de Monnière." Thereupon he drew his head in and shut the window
again.
SCENE FOURTH.--_The parlor of the house in Flourens._
Oliver's mother has returned some little time from the château, and
Oliver and she are talking it over between them.
"The marquis will visit us," said Oliver, "within an hour."
"He will do no such thing," said Oliver's mother; "he will not come at
all."
"He will," said Oliver, taking out his brand-new watch from his
breeches pocket and looking at it--"he will be here within a half an
hour."
Oliver's mother sniffed incredulously. Oliver arose from the sofa
where he was sitting and went to the window, and there stood drumming
upon the sill, looking out into the street. Suddenly he drew back. The
rumble of a coach was heard; it stopped before the house. A servant
opened the coach door, and monseigneur himself stepped out.
He had driven over from the château, and had stopped at the inn.
Pierre was standing at the door-way when the marquis leaned out from
the window and beckoned--yes, actually beckoned to him. Pierre was
so surprised that he took off not only his hat, but his wig also,
and stood there bowing in the sun, with his head glistening like a
billiard-ball.
"Do you know, innkeeper, of one Monsieur de Monnière who lives in this
neighborhood?"
"Monsieur de Monnière?" repeated Pierre, blankly.
"Yes," said the marquis, impatiently. "De Monnière--Monsieur de
Monnière. Do you know where Monsieur de Monnière lives?"
"Monsieur de Monnière," repeated Pierre, stupidly; he did not recognize
the name.
The landlady stood in the door of the inn behind: woman are quicker of
wit than men. "Monseigneur means Monsieur Oliver," said she.
The marquis overheard. "Yes," exclaimed he. "Monsieur Oliver--Monsieur
Oliver de Monnière."
"Oh, Monsieur Oliver!" cried Pierre. "Oh yes, I know him as well as I
know myself. He and his respected mother are now living up there on the
hill. You can, monseigneur, see the house with your own eyes. It is
that one with the white wall to the side, and with the apple and pear
trees showing over the top. The rich Dr. Fouchette used to live there.
It is, monseigneur, the finest house in Flourens. Monsieur Oliver
indeed! That is good! I have known Monsieur Oliver ever since--"
But the coach was gone; the marquis had called out to the driver, had
pulled up the window with a click, and now the coach was gone. Pierre
stared after it for a while, and then he put on first his wig and then
his hat, and went into the house again.
So Oliver drew back from the window and turned around. "You see,
mother," said he, "monseigneur comes, as I asserted he would."
Oliver's mother was in a tremendous flutter. "And to think," said she,
"of his coming all the way from the château just because of a little
piece of cut-glass!"
Oliver laughed. "That little piece of cut-glass was worth having,"
said he. "You do not yet know the value of little pieces of cut-glass
like that, my mother."
Madame Munier did not listen to what Oliver was saying. "And to think,"
said she, "of Monseigneur the Marquis visiting me, the Widow Munier!"
"You forget, mother," said Oliver. "You are no longer Widow Munier, you
are Madame de Monnière."
Henri opened the door. "The Marquis de Flourens," he announced; and the
marquis entered the room with his feathered hat and his clouded cane in
his hand.
"This is Monsieur Oliver de Monnière?" said he.
Oliver bowed.
"And this lady?"
"Permit me," said Oliver; "my mother."
Madame de Monnière courtesied so low that she nearly sat down upon
the floor. She was profoundly agitated; she was frightened; she would
rather be somewhere else. She was pleased. Yes, it was delicious having
a marquis visit one in one's own house.
"And you, madame," said the marquis, "if I may be permitted to ask, did
me the honor of calling upon me this morning?"
Madame de Monnière nodded. She was embarrassed at the thought of what
she had done; she could not speak. Oliver spoke for her.
"She obliged me," said he, "by executing a little commission for me.
Pardon me, monseigneur, that, knowing your interest as a collector,
I took the liberty of sending a small specimen to you. I have your
forgiveness?"
"Forgiveness!" exclaimed the marquis. "You ask me to forgive you? My
dear child, I cannot accept such a gift. It is too great!"
"Do not speak so," said Oliver. "It is nothing--a trifle."
"Nothing!" cried the marquis; "a trifle! It is worth twenty-five
thousand livres."
"What then?" said Oliver. "I have many others. You embarrass me by
making so much of such a little thing. Let me beg that you will not
refuse to accept of this trifle--as a connoisseur--as a collector of
curios--"
"Ah!" said the marquis, "there you touch me--as a connoisseur--as a
collector. Well, then, I accept it. But you--you say you have many
others like this?--you are also a connoisseur?"
"Yes," said Oliver. "I have been indulging a very considerable taste in
that direction for the past year. I think I may say now that I have as
fine a collection of diamonds as any in Europe."
"Would that I might be permitted to see them!" said the marquis.
"You shall," said Oliver; "at least some of them. I can show you but a
few at present. If you will pardon me for a moment, I will go and bring
them."
He was gone, and Madame de Monnière and Monseigneur the Marquis were
left alone together. For all this while the poor woman had been sitting
dazed and bewildered. The words that had fallen upon her ears had
overwhelmed her. That bit of glass--that little bit of cut-glass--was
worth twenty-five thousand livres! Twenty-five thousand livres!
Monseigneur the Marquis himself had said so! Twenty-five thousand
livres! and Oliver had given it to the marquis as a trifle! Twenty-five
thousand livres! and she with her own ears had heard Oliver say that he
had many more bits of glass like it! Yes, he had gone this very moment
to bring them there and show them to the marquis. Twenty-five thousand
livres! Was she dreaming or was she waking? Twenty-five thousand
livres! She was amazed; she was bewildered; she was stupefied. In the
midst of all, the marquis turned to her.
"And you, madame," said he, "why did you not wait this morning, and let
me at least thank you for this magnificent gift?"
Madame de Monnière's head was spinning. "Twenty-five thousand livres!"
said she.
"Ah, I see," said the marquis. "You are embarrassed at the
considerableness of it. It is, indeed, from one point of view, a
treasure; but we connoisseurs, madame, we collectors, we frequently
exchange these little precious curiosities. It is our habit."
Madame de Monnière rose for a moment to the surface of her
bewilderment. "Yes," said she; "that is true;" and thereupon sank again
into the gulf. "Twenty-five thousand livres!" she murmured to herself.
Just then Oliver returned. In his hand he carried a small box of
curiously-wrought iron. Unlocking it, he raised the lid, removed a
layer of cotton, and then, tilting it, emptied upon the table a handful
of diamonds, that fell flashing and sparkling like broken fragments
of sunlight. One or two of the gems rolled across the table and fell
hopping to the floor, but Oliver did not appear to notice them. There
was a pause of blank and utter silence. Madame de Monnière herself
could not have been more amazed at the sight she beheld than was the
Marquis de Flourens. Oliver spread out the gems upon the table with his
hand, as though they were so many glass beads.
It was the marquis who broke the silence. "Mon Dieu!" he whispered at
last, and fetched a breath so deep that it seemed to come from the pit
of his stomach. Then he roused himself. "You have dropped some upon the
floor," said he. "I saw them fall." And he would have stooped to find
them.
Oliver smiled. "It is of no importance," said he. "Henri will find them
by-and-by."
For a while the marquis examined the stones in silence, picking out
some of the larger gems, and scrutinizing them closely and critically,
one after another. "It is a most magnificent collection, my young
friend," said he at last. "I never saw a finer lot of diamonds in my
life, excepting the King's."
"Oh, these are but a few," said Oliver. "I am sorry that I have not
some of my larger and finer stones to show you."
"Only a few?" repeated the marquis. "And how much, then, do you suppose
that this collection of diamonds is worth?"
"That would be hard to tell," said Oliver, smiling. "But perhaps not
more than half a million livres. None of the stones are very large or
fine."
[Illustration: "OLIVER SPREAD OUT THE GEMS UPON THE TABLE WITH HIS
HAND."]
"Not large? Not fine?" cried the marquis, and he picked out a diamond
from among the rest. "What, then, do you call this?"
"It is off color," said Oliver.
"It is a treasure that a king might covet!" cried the marquis,
enthusiastically.
Oliver laughed. "You admire it?" said he. "Then do me the favor to
accept it."
The marquis rose to his feet. "Oh," he cried, "this is too much! I do
not dare."
"You pain me by refusing," said Oliver. "As a connoisseur, monseigneur,
as a collector--"
"Ah!" said the marquis, "there you touch me again. As a
collector--well, then, I accept it," and he slipped it into his
waistcoat pocket. "Embrace me, Oliver!"
Oliver's mother was long past wondering at anything, or else she might
have thought it a little strange to see Oliver--Oliver, the son of Jean
Munier, the tailor--clasped in the arms of Monseigneur the Marquis of
Flourens.
The marquis released Oliver from his embrace and sat down again. "But
tell me," said he, "you and madame, you then live here?"
He looked around, and Oliver's eyes followed his. It certainly was a
poor house for one who could empty half a million livres' worth of
diamonds upon a table.
"For the present," said Oliver, "yes. We have been very poor, my mother
and I." He paused. The marquis's eyes were resting intently upon him,
and he felt that the other waited for further explanation. He had
already arranged a story, but now that the time had come to tell it,
his courage almost failed. "My uncle," said he at last, "came back from
America about a year ago, and found us very poor--my mother and me. He
was rich." Again he paused for a moment, and then continued: "He came
from Brazil, where he was the owner of a diamond mine."
"But this uncle of yours," said the marquis, "where is he now?"
"He is dead," said Oliver. "He is in heaven."
Oliver's mother heard what he said through all the buzzing of the
thoughts in her head. "So, then," thought she to herself, "my
brother-in-law is dead, is he?"
"And you?" said the marquis.
"I?" said Oliver. "I have inherited his fortune. It is all in diamonds."
Madame Munier pricked up her ears. She was growing interested. Her
Oliver, then, had inherited a fortune.
"And your uncle's name--what was it?" said the marquis.
"His name?" said Oliver. "His name was Henri, the Chevalier de
Monnière-Croix."
"The devil!" whispered Oliver's mother to herself. "I did not know that
we were so well connected." She was past being surprised at anything
now.
"De Monnière-Croix?" repeated the marquis. "De Monnière-Croix? The name
is not familiar."
"Perhaps not," said Oliver. "My uncle was very young--a mere
child--when he went to America, and for the twelve months past since
his return to France he and I have been living quietly together in
Paris, where he was engaged in settling his affairs."
The marquis was looking steadily at him. "Is your family of long
descent?" said he.
"Not very; as I said, my father was very poor; you know, monseigneur,
how sadly poor people of good family may be in the country--" He
hesitated, and then stopped.
"But," said the marquis, presently, "you say your uncle is dead. Had
he, then, no other heirs than you? Had he no children?"
"No," said Oliver.
"And you inherit all--_all_ his wealth?"
"All."
"It is then considerable?"
"It is one of the greatest fortunes in France."
"Can you prove that to me?"
"I can."
"Embrace me, my dear child!"
As the marquis rode back again to the château he sat in the corner of
the coach, meditating deeply over all that he had seen and heard. "The
Chevalier de Monnière-Croix," he muttered to himself--"the Chevalier de
Monnière-Croix." Then he suddenly aroused himself from his meditations,
thrust his thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out
the diamond that Oliver had given him. He held it in a dozen different
lights, examining it keenly and critically. Finally he thrust it back
again into the pocket whence he had taken it. "At least," said he,
"his diamonds are real. Why, then, should he not be of noble family
if he chooses? A half a million livres' worth of diamonds, and that,
as he tells me, only a small part of his wealth! Very well, then, his
uncle was a chevalier and he is a prince--the Prince de Golconda, if he
chooses."
Oliver stood for a long while looking out of the window after the
marquis's coach had driven away. He felt very uneasy; he wished that he
had not told those lies; they frightened him. He felt as if he could
see them already flying home again to roost. But he need not have been
afraid. And then, besides, if there was a cloud, it had had a silver
edge: the last words that the marquis had uttered had been: "My dear
Oliver, let me hope that we may soon see you at the château--you and
your mother" (that was an after-thought), "for my daughter Céleste will
find it very stupid with no young people about. I shall not, however,
be able to show you my collection of diamonds, unfortunately; they are
at present--ahem!--in Paris."
SCENE FIFTH.--_A garden at the Château de Flourens._
A garden such as Watteau loved to paint--bosky trees, little stretches
of grassy lawn, white statues of nymphs and fauns peering from among
the green leaves, a statue of a naiad pouring water from a marble urn,
green with moss, into a marble basin, green with moss.
In front of all, the smooth river, dusked and dappled now and then by
little breezes that slowly sway the tops of the tall poplar-trees. The
little birds sing, and patches of sunlight and shadow flicker upon the
grass.
Enter Oliver and Mademoiselle Céleste. She carries a pink parasol that
makes her face glow like a rose leaf, and Oliver walks by her side.
That morning Oliver had paid his first visit to the château. His master
had trained him well in the ways of the world during the twelvemonth
he had lived with him in Paris; nevertheless, he came to the château
quivering with trepidation. But now the trepidation had passed and
gone, and it was all like the bewildering glamour of some strange
dream--the presence of his love no longer dumbly reflected from the
smooth, passionless mirror, but in warm living flesh and blood,
breathing and articulate. She spoke; she smiled; it was divine. A
little wind blew a gauze of hair across her soft cheek now and then
as they walked together; her sleeve brushed against Oliver's arm, and
Oliver's heart quivered and thrilled.
That night was to him but a succession of dreams, coming one after
another like a continuous panorama, only each separate picture centred
in one figure, and Oliver himself walked along beside her, and told her
that he loved her. It was a deliciously restless night.
After Oliver had gone home, the marquis lingered for a moment or two in
madame's apartment, standing with his back to the fireplace listening
while she talked to him.
[Illustration: "ENTER OLIVER AND MADEMOISELLE CÉLESTE."]
"I do not like him," said she; "he is ostentatious. Who ever heard of
wearing diamond knee and shoe buckles in the country? The solitaire
pin in his cravat was enormous."
"It was a magnificent diamond," said the marquis.
"He is an adventurer," replied the marquise.
The marquis felt in his waistcoat pocket, and brought out the two
diamonds that Oliver had given him. He held them in the palm of his
hand under the nose of the marquise. "Bah!" said he; "you talk like a
fool, Matilde. Do adventurers, then, give away seventy-five thousand
livres' worth of diamonds as though they were chestnuts? Did you ever
hear of an adventurer who carried around a half a million livres' worth
of diamonds in a little box? No; he may not be an aristocrat, but he is
certainly an Aladdin."
So Oliver was made welcome at the château whenever he chose to come. By
the time that a month had passed, he had grown into a certain intimacy.
They all liked him; even madame had condoned his diamonds and liked
him. Then one morning the marquis received an astounding letter from
his protégé.
"Monseigneur," it said, "I recognize in you a true and kind friend, a
man of the world upon whom I can depend." (Oliver's master in Paris had
done wonders for him; he really wrote very well.) "I am, monseigneur,
troubled and harassed. I am young and without experience. I now have
with me here my whole fortune, which consists entirely of diamonds--the
gleaning of years from my American uncle's mines in Brazil. I do not
think that I overestimate, monseigneur, in saying that that fortune
is worth--" (I will not repeat what the figures were, they were so
tremendous, so unbelievable, that the marquis laid the letter down, and
gazed around him bewildered. "If this is true," said he, drawing a deep
breath, "my young friend is the richest man in France." Thereupon he
picked up the letter, and read the figures over again, and then over
again. "He must have made a mistake of a cipher," said the marquis.
But no; the amount was not only given in numbers, but written out in
full--there could be no mistake. The marquis resumed the reading of
the epistle.) "I am," continued the letter, "tormented with fears at
having this vast amount in my house"--"I should think so," muttered the
marquis to himself--"which, though at present a profound secret, may at
any time be discovered. What dangers I would then be in, I leave you
to judge for yourself. I have, monseigneur, no friends, no relatives,
of sufficient age and experience to advise me in my difficulties.
Accordingly I turn to you, who have shown me so much kindness, and
beseech you that you will so far continue it--I may say increase it--as
to take charge of this treasure, and advise me as to how I may best
dispose of it."
Such was the matter of Oliver's letter. The Marquis de Flourens sat
for a long while meditating very deeply and seriously upon what he had
read. That same morning Oliver received a note from him, "Bring your
little fortune, my child," it said. "What a father may do for a son, I
will do for you."
SCENE SIXTH.--_The marquis's cabinet. The marquis discovered seated at
a table, drumming upon it with his fingers, and awaiting the coming
of Oliver, who has just been announced. Enter Oliver, carrying a
stout iron-bound box, which he deposits upon the table._
"Your treasure is in that box?" says the marquis.
Oliver nodded. He was very pale.
The marquis arose, and not only locked the door, but even covered the
key-hole from the drilling of inquisitive eyes.
"Now, my dear child," said he, turning to Oliver with a smile, "let us
see what we have in our box;" and he drew his chair again to the table
beside which Oliver was standing.
They were both of them agitated--the marquis from expectancy, and
Oliver from the great cast of the die of his life, which he had
determined that day to make. The hand with which he unlocked the box
was as cold as ice.
The contents of the box was covered with a layer of cotton. Oliver
removed it, and then by two straps lifted out a shallow wooden tray
covered with purple velvet, and filled with a glittering mass of
diamonds of the purest water, nearly all of them large and fine. The
marquis's eyes gleamed as brightly as the stones themselves.
Below the tray was another layer of cotton. Oliver removed it and then
another tray; then another layer of cotton and another tray, until
there were eight of them spread upon the table--it could hold no more.
"There are two more trays in the box," said Oliver, "but it is not
necessary that I should show you them; these are sufficient."
The marquis did not reply; he was overwhelmed by what he beheld; it
seemed to him that he saw the treasures of Golconda. Oliver observed
his silence, and, looking up, saw that his face had grown white with
the intensity of his emotions. At last he drew a deep breath, and
raised his eyes to Oliver's; then feeling in his pocket, he drew forth
his handkerchief and wiped his face. His voice was husky when he
spoke. "But this vast, this unbelievable treasure," said he, "what
security shall I give you if you intrust it to me to manage for you?"
The opportunity for Oliver's _coup_ had arrived. The marquis himself
had given him the very chance which he sought, but now that he was
face to face with it, he trembled, he hesitated, he feared to put his
happiness to the test of speech. Yet he knew that now or never was the
time to cast the die of his hopes upon the table of fate. He braced
himself, gathered all the force of his will, and as the blinding rush
of resolution overwhelmed him, he saw only the marquis's face and the
marquis's eyes looking into his.
"Your security," said he, hoarsely--and his voice sounded in his ears
as though it was not his own--"your security--let it--let it be--your
daughter."
The words were spoken. There came a long pause of deep, intense
silence, through which Oliver could hear the throbbing blood singing in
his ears. The marquis never moved a hair, but sat looking into Oliver's
eyes. Oliver felt a dry, hard lump gather in his throat; he tried to
swallow it. The marquis pushed back his chair and arose. Oliver's eyes
dumbly followed his motion. The marquis began walking up and down the
room, but he did not say "No." After a while he stopped before one of
the windows and there stood a while, with his hands clasped behind him,
looking out upon the lawn and the river beyond. Minute after minute
passed in a straining tensity of silence. Oliver began to feel as
though he could bear it no longer. Suddenly the marquis spoke:
"My daughter?" said he, half aloud and half to himself. The words meant
nothing, but they were not words of refusal. Oliver felt a great wave
of blinding hope sweep over him. Suddenly the marquis turned and came
back to the table. He motioned Oliver to a chair. "Let us talk this
matter over," said he, seriously, and they both sat down. Oliver's
heart thumped within him like a trip-hammer. "Do you know," said the
marquis, "what a thing it is that you ask? Do you know that you ask an
alliance with one of the noblest houses of France?" Oliver could not
answer. "And you," continued the marquis, "who are you? I do not know
you; nobody knows you. You may be what you represent yourself to be;
you may be an adventurer."
Oliver's heart was sinking like a plummet of lead. "My diamonds are
real," he croaked.
[Illustration: "'DO YOU KNOW,' SAID THE MARQUIS, 'WHAT A THING IT IS
THAT YOU ASK?'"]
The marquis smiled, and then a long space of silence fell. At last
he spoke again, and his words shot through Oliver's heart like a dart.
"What settlement, then, would you propose to make upon your wife?" said
he.
"Wife!" Oliver's heart thrilled with the sudden keenness of that
pang of sharp delight. His brain whirled in an eddy of dizzy light.
At last, with a supreme effort, he found his tongue. "Anything," he
cried--"anything that you choose!"
The marquis smiled again. "We are ardent," said he. "I see that if this
matter is to be carried forward, I must act not only as a father, but
as a friend. I confess to you, Oliver, that I am deeply in debt, that
Flourens is mortgaged to the last inch. Would you be willing to release
Flourens, and then settle the estate upon your wife?"
"Yes," said Oliver, eagerly.
The marquis's smile grew wider than ever. "That is good," said he. "But
you must know that you are one of the richest men in France, Oliver.
You should do even more than that for your wife."
"I will settle upon her everything that I have in the world," said
Oliver.
The marquis laughed. "Ah!" said he, "we are certainly too ardent--far
too ardent. Half of your fortune would be sufficient; or
three-quarters of it, at the most."
"She shall have either, as you may choose," said Oliver.
"I suppose," said the marquis, "that it will be best that I should
manage her fortune for her?"
"Yes," said Oliver. "And you shall manage mine also, if you choose."
The marquis saw that there was no limit to Oliver's complacency. "And
you will subscribe to that?" said he.
"Yes," said Oliver. "I am willing to subscribe to anything."
The marquis rose from the chair, and opened his arms. "Embrace me, my
son," said he.
Oliver could have cried with happiness. "And may I," said he,
tremulously, when the marquis had released him from his arms--"may I
then--" He hesitated; he could not believe that he had reached such a
dizzy pinnacle of happiness.
The marquis laughed. "You will find mademoiselle in the garden," said
he.
SCENE SEVENTH.--_The Watteau-like garden described before--the trees,
the statues, the fountains, the flowers, the river. Mademoiselle
Céleste is discovered sitting in the shade, reading, and making just
such a picture as the great artist would have painted upon a fan._
Enter Oliver, running down the steps of a terrace, dizzy with joy, like
one in the bewildering glamour of a golden dream. He seemed to tread
upon air! The blue sky, green foliage, the flowers, the statues, the
rivers, swam together in a confusion of bewildered delight. At the
sound of his footsteps she raises her eyes, and lays aside her book,
and greets him with the smile of an acquaintance.
"Oh!" said she; "it is you, then? I have been waiting for you."
Oliver's heart was fluttering within him. At first he could not speak,
and she must have read his joy and his secret in his face, for the rosy
hue upon her cheeks deepened.
He sank upon his knees beside her. "I love you," he whispered,
tremulously.
Her face was turned away from him, but she did not withdraw the hand
which he held. There was a long time of silence. Oliver raised her hand
to his lips.
"But my father," she murmured at last.
"He bade me seek you here," cried Oliver, eagerly. Then again: "Oh,
Céleste, I love you! I love you!"
She turned her face towards him; her eyes met his then. Could he
believe it? Was it real? His lips met others, soft, warm, fragrant.
The flowers, the parterres, the trees, the blue sky, the white marble
statues--all dissolved into a golden ether. Flourens? It was heaven!
Madame the Marquise made no objection to it all. She had become
accustomed to Oliver and his diamonds. He was a pleasant, cheerful,
handsome fellow. It made her heart feel lighter to have him about. As
was said, she had forgiven the ill taste of the display of diamonds,
and now expressed her approval of the arrangement. Oliver's heaven was
without a cloud.
SCENE EIGHTH.--_The marquis's private closet._
A month had passed--a month of delight, of joy, of love; and then
one morning the Marquis de Flourens let fall a torpedo in the midst
of Oliver's little paradise. That morning, when Oliver went to the
château, the marquis sent for him. Oliver found him seated at the
table, playing idly with a gold pencil-case. He did not ask Oliver to
be seated, but went directly to the point.
[Illustration: "HE SANK ON HIS KNEES BESIDE HER."]
"A week from next Monday," said he, "we shall go to Paris. You also, my
dear Oliver."
Oliver stood like one stunned. He made no answer, but his mind, in a
single sweep, cleared the whole horizon. To Paris! He remembered the
master's commands--those commands so terribly absolute; he remembered
his threats of punishment if he (Oliver) should disobey that mandate.
What was that threat? Oliver remembered it well. It was that that
terrible mysterious being, who had so nearly doomed him to a dreadful,
unspeakable death, would crush him, would annihilate him, would make
him wish a thousand times, in his torments, that he had never been
born. Those were almost the very words, and Oliver had not forgotten
them. He had learned much of his master in the year that he had lived
with him, and he knew that that threat was not idle. He knew that the
master would do as he said to the last jot and tittle. That cool,
smiling, sinister devil! He could destroy all of this happiness as
easily as one can destroy a beautiful soap-bubble that a child has
created from nothing.
"I do not wish to go to Paris," said Oliver, huskily.
The marquis's face darkened. "Not wish to go to Paris?" he repeated.
"But you must go, Oliver."
"No," said Oliver; "I do not wish to go. I shall not go. I would rather
stay here at Flourens. I do not like Paris."
The marquis came over and took Oliver by the button of his coat. His
face was not pleasant to see. "You do not like Paris!" said he. "Very
well; then you shall stay here, my dear Oliver--you and your fortune.
But in that case, my child, you need never come here to the château
again. You comprehend me?"
Oliver looked out of the window. Céleste was waiting for him upon the
terrace. Never had she looked so exquisitely beautiful. He groaned.
"Then I will go," said he.
The marquis opened his arms. "Embrace me, Oliver," he cried.
Oliver yielded himself to the caress, but he wished the marquis to the
devil.