Duchesne's story had unfortunately driven all memory of Bubbleton out of
my head; and it was only as we entered the street where the Duchesse de
Montserrat lived that I remembered my friend, and thought of asking the
chevalier's advice about him.
In a few words I explained so much of his character and situation as was
necessary, and was going on to express my fears lest a temperament so
unstable and uncertain should involve its possessor in much trouble,
when Duchesne interrupted me by saying,--
“Be of courage on that head. Your friend, if the man you describe him,
is the very person to baffle the police. They can see to any depth, if
the water be only clear; muddy it, and it matters little how shallow it
be. This Bubbleton might be of the greatest service just now; you must
present me to him, Burke.”
“Most willingly. But first promise that you will not involve my poor
friend in the snares of any plot. Heaven knows, his own faculties are
quite sufficient for his mystification.”
“Plot! snares!--why, what are you thinking of? But come, this is our
halting-place; and here we are, without my even having a moment to give
you any account of my good aunt.”
As he spoke he turned the handle of a large door, which led into a
gloomy _porte cochère_, dimly illuminated by a single old-fashioned
lantern. A fat, unwieldy-looking porter peeped at us from his den in the
conciergerie; and then, having announced our approach by ringing a bell,
he closed the shutter, and left us to find the way ourselves.
Ascending the great spacious stair, the wall alongside which was covered
with family portraits,--grim-looking heroes in mail, or prim dames with
bouquets in their jewelled hands,--we reached a species of gallery, from
which several doors led off. Here a servant, dressed in deep black, was
standing to announce the visitors.
As the servant preceded us along the corridor, I could not help feeling
the contrast of this gloomy mansion, where every footstep had its own
sad echo, with the gorgeous splendor of the Hôtel Clichy. Here, all was
dark, cold, and dreary; there, everything was lightsome, cheerful, and
elegant. What an emblem, to my thinking, were they both of the dynasties
they represented! But the reflection was only made as one half of the
folding-door was thrown open,--the double-door was the prerogative of
the blood-royal,--and we were announced.
The apartment--a large, sombre-looking one--was empty, however, and we
traversed this, and a second similar to it, our names being repeated as
before; when at length the low tones of voices indicated our approach to
the _salon_ where the visitors were assembled.
Dimly lighted by a few lamps, far apart from each other, the apartment
as we entered seemed even larger than it really was. At one end, around
a huge antique fireplace, sat a group of ladies, whom in a glance I
recognized as of the class so distinctively called dowager. They were
seated in deep-cushioned fauteuils, and were mostly employed in some
embroidery work, which they laid down each time they spoke; and resumed,
less to prosecute the labor, than, as it were, from mere habit.
With all the insinuating gracefulness of a well-bred Frenchman, Duchesne
approached the seat next the chimney, and respectfully kissed the hand
extended towards him.
“Permit me, my dear aunt, to present a very intimate friend,--Captain
Burke,” said he, as he led me forward.
At the mention of the word “captain,” I could perceive that every hand
dropped its embroidery-frame, while the group stared at me with no
feigned astonishment. But already the duchess had vouchsafed a very
polite speech, and motioned me to a seat beside her; while the chevalier
insinuated himself among the rest, evidently bent on relieving the stiff
and constrained reserve which pervaded the party. Not even his tact and
worldly cleverness was equal to the task. The conversation, if such
it could be called, was conducted almost in monosyllables,--some stray
question for an absent “marquise,” or a muttered reply concerning a late
“countess,” was the burden; not an allusion even being made to any topic
of the day, nor any phrase dropped which could show that the speakers
were aware of the year or the nation in which they lived and breathed.
It was an inexpressible relief to me when gradually some three or four
other persons dropped in, some of them men, who, by their manner, seemed
favorites of the party. And soon after the entrance of the servant
with refreshments permitted a movement in the group, when I took the
opportunity to stand up and approach Duchesne, as he bent over a table,
listlessly turning over the leaves of a volume.
“Just think of the contradictions of human nature, Burke,” said he, in a
low whisper. “These are the receptions for which the new noblesse
would give half their wealth. These melancholy visits of worn-out
acquaintances, these sapless twigs of humanity, are the envy of
such houses as the Hôtel Clichy; and to be admitted to these gloomy,
moth-eaten _salons_, is a greater honor than an invitation to the
Tuileries. So long as this exists, depend upon it, there is rottenness
in the core of society. But come, let us take our leave; I see you
are well wearied of all this. And now for an hour at Madame de
Lacostellerie's,--_en revanche_.”
As we came forward to make our adieux to the duchess, she rose from her
seat, and in so doing her sleeve brushed against a small marble statue
of Louis the Sixteenth, which, had I not opportunely caught it, would
have fallen to the ground.
“Thank you, sir,” said she, graciously. “You have prevented what I
should have deemed a sad accident.”
“Nay, more, Aunt,” said Duchesne, smiling; “he has shown his readiness
to restore the Bourbon.”
This speech, evidently spoken in jest, was repeated from lip to lip in
the circle; and certainly I never felt my awkwardness more oppressive
than when bowing to the party, whose elated looks and pleased
countenances now were turned towards me.
“My poor, bashful friend,” said Duchesne, as we descended the stair;
“get rid of the habit of blushing with all convenient despatch. It has
marred more fortunes than pharo or bouillotte.”
“This, assuredly, is well done!” said the chevalier, as he looked
around him, while we slowly ascended the stairs of the Hôtel Glichy:
the brilliant light, almost rivalling day; the servants in gorgeous
liveries; the air of wealth around on every side, so different from
the sad-colored mansion of the Faubourg; while, as the opening doors
permitted it to be heard, the sound of delicious music came wafted to
the ear.
“I say, Burke,” said he, stopping suddenly, and laying his hand on my
arm, “this might content a man who has seen as much as I have. And the
game is well worth the playing; so here goes!”
The first person I saw as we entered the ante-chamber was Bubbleton. He
was the centre of a knot of foreigners, who, whatever the topic, seemed
highly amused at his discourse.
“That is your friend, yonder,” said Duchesne. “He has the true type of
John Bull about him; introduce me at once.”
Duchesne scarcely permitted me to finish the introduction, when he
extended his hand, and saluted Bubbleton with great cordiality; while
the “general” did not suffer the ceremony to interrupt the flow of
his eloquence, but continued to explain, in the most minute and
circumstantial manner, the conditions of the new peace secretly
concluded between France and England. The incredulity of the listeners
was, I could perceive, considerably lessened by observing the
deferential attention with which Duchesne listened, only interrupting
the speaker by an occasional assent, or a passing question as to the
political relations of some of the great Powers.
“As to Prussia,” said Bubbleton, pompously--“as to Prussia--”
“Well, what of Prussia, General?”
“We have our doubts on that subject,” replied he, looking thoughtfully
around him on the group, who, completely deceived by Duchesne's manner,
now paid him marked attention.
“You'll not deprive her of Genoa, I trust,” said the chevalier, with a
gravity almost inconceivable.
“That is done already,” said Bubbleton. “For my own part, I told
Lauderdale we were nothing without the Bosphorus,--'the key of our
house, as your Emperor called it.”
“He spoke of Russia, if I don't err,” said Duchesne, with an insinuating
air of correction.
“Pardon me, you are wrong. I know Russia well. I travelled through the
steppes of Metchezaromizce with Prince Drudeszitsch. We journeyed three
hundred versts over his own estates, drawn on sledges by his serfs. You
are aware they are always harnessed by the beard, which they wear long
and plaited on purpose.”
“That is towards the Crimea,” interrupted the chevalier.
“Precisely. I remember a curious incident which occurred one night as
we approached Chitepsk. (You know Chitepsk? It is where they confine the
state prisoners,--a miserable, dreary tract, where the snow never melts,
and the frost is so intense you often see a drove of wolves glued fast
to the snow by the feet, and howling fearfully: a strange sight, to
be sure!) Well, the night was falling, and a thin, cutting snowdrift
beginning to drop, when Dru (I always call him so,--short) said to me,--
“'Bub' (he did the same to me) 'Bub,' said he, 'do you remark that
off-side leader?'
“'I see him,' said I.
“'I have been watching the fellow since the last stage, and confound me
if he has ever tightened a trace; and you see he is a right active one,
notwithstanding. He capers along gayly enough. I 'll touch him up a
bit.' And with that he gave a flourish of his knouted whip, and came
down on him with a smarting cut. Lord, how he jumped! Five feet off the
ground at one spring! And, hang me, if he didn't tear off his beard!
There it was, hanging to the pole! A very shocking sight, I must
confess; though Dru did n't seem to mind it. However, we were obliged to
pull up, and get out the team. Well, you would not believe what we saw
when we got down. You 'd never guess who was the off-leader. It was the
Princess Odoznovskoi! Poor thing! the last time I saw her, before that,
she was dancing in the Amber Palace with Prince Alexander. She and her
husband had been banished to Chitepsk, and as he was ill, she had put on
a false beard and was taking a short stage in his place.”
I did not venture to wait for more; but, leaving Duchesne to make the
most of the general, passed onwards towards the _salon_, which already
was rapidly filling with visitors.
The countess received me with more than wonted kindness of manner, and
mademoiselle assumed a tone of actual cordiality I had never perceived
before; while, as she exchanged greetings with me, she said, in a low
voice,--
“Let me speak with you, in the picture-gallery, in half an hour.”
Before I could utter my assent she had passed on, and was speaking to
another.
Somewhat curious to conceive what Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie might
mean by her appointment in the gallery, I avoided the groups where I
perceived my acquaintances were, and strolled negligently on towards the
place of meeting. The gallery was but half lighted, as was customary on
mere nights of visiting, and I found it quite deserted. I was sauntering
slowly along, musing on the strange effects of the half-seen pictures,
where all, save the most forcible and striking tints, were sombred down
to blackness, when I heard a step behind me. I turned my head, and saw
mademoiselle herself. She was alone, and, though she evidently had seen
me, continued to walk onward, without speaking, towards a small boudoir,
which occupied one angle of the gallery. I followed, and we entered it
together.
There was something in the secret interview which, while it excited my
curiosity, served at once to convince me that had I indulged in any hope
of succeeding to her affections, nothing could be less promising,--this
very proof of her confidence was the strongest earnest of her
indifference. But, indeed, I had never any such expectation. My pride
might have been flattered by such a supposition; my heart could never
have sympathized in the emotion.
“We are alone here,” said she, hurriedly, “and we may be missed; so let
me be brief. It will seem strange that I should ask you to meet me here,
but I could not help it. You alone, of all who frequent this, have never
paid me the least attention, nor seemed disposed to flatter me; this
leads me to trust you. I have no other reason but that, and because I am
friendless.” There was a tremulous sadness in the last word which
went to my heart, and I could mark that her breathing was hurried
and irregular for some few seconds after. “Will you promise me your
friendship in what I ask? or, if that be too much, will you pledge
yourself at least to secrecy? Enough, I am quite satisfied. Now, tell
me, who is this Chevalier Duchesne?--what is he?”
I ran over in a few words all I knew of him, dwelling on whatever might
most redound to his credit; his distinguished military career, his
undoubted talent, and, lastly, alluding to his family, to which I
conceived the question might most probably apply.
“Oh, it is not that,” said she, vehemently, “I wish to know. I care not
for his bravery, nor his birth either. Tell me, what are the sources of
his power? How is he admitted everywhere, intimate with every one, with
influence over all? Why does Fouché fear, and Talleyrand admit him? I
know they do this; and can you give me no clew, however faint, to
guide me? The Comte de Lacostellerie was refused the Spanish contract;
Duchesne interferes, and it is given him. There is a difficulty about a
card for a private concert at St. Cloud; Duchesne sends it. Nor does it
end here. _You_ know”--here her voice assumed a forced distinctness,
as though it cost her an effort to speak calmly--“of his duel with the
Prince Dobretski; but perhaps you may not know how he has obtained an
imperial order for his recall to St. Petersburg?”
“Of that I never heard. Can it be possible?”
“Have you, then, never tasted of his arbitrary power,” said she, smiling
half superciliously, “that these things seem strange to you? or does
he work so secretly that even those most intimate with him are in
ignorance? But this must be so.” She paused for a second or two, and
then went on: “And now, brief as our acquaintance with him has been, see
what influence he already possesses over my mother! Even to her I dare
not whisper my suspicions; while to you, a stranger,” added she, with
emotion, “I must speak my fears.”
“But are they not groundless?” said I, endeavoring to calm the agitation
she suffered from. “In all that you have mentioned, I can but trace the
devotion of one seeking to serve, not injure; to be loved, not dreaded.”
Scarce had I said these words, when I heard a noise behind me, and
before I could turn round, Duchesne stood beside us.
“I implore your pardon, Mademoiselle,” said he, in a voice of
well-affected timidity, “nor should I venture to interrupt so
interesting a conference, but that the Comtesse de Lacostellerie had
sent me to look for you.”
“You could scarcely have come more apropos, sir. The conversation was
entirely of yourself,” said she, haughtily, as if in defiance of him.
“How could I possibly have merited so great an honor, Mademoiselle?”
replied he, bowing with the deepest respect; “or is it to the kindness
of a _friend_ I am indebted for such interest?”
There was an evident sneer in the way he uttered the word “friend,”
while a sidelong glance he gave beneath his deep eyelashes was still
more decisive of his feeling.
“Few probably owe more to their friends than the Chevalier Duchesne,”
said mademoiselle, tauntingly, as she took my arm to return to the
_salon_.
“True, most true!” replied he, with a low and deferential bow; “and I
hope I am not the man to forget my debts to either friends or enemies.”
I turned round rapidly as he said this. Our eyes met, and we exchanged a
short, brief glance of open defiance. His, however, as quickly changed;
and an easy smile of careless indifference succeeded, as he lounged
after us towards the _salon_, where now a considerable number of
persons were assembled, and a more than usual excitement prevailed. Some
generals of the imperial staff were also there; and the rumor ran that
the negotiations with England had been suddenly interrupted, and that
the negotiators had demanded their passports.
“That is not all, Madame,” said an old officer to the countess. “The
accounts from Mayence are threatening. Large bodies of Prussian troops
are reported on the march from the eastward. The telegraph has been
actively at work since noon, and several couriers have been sent off
from the War Office.”
“What is to come next?” said the countess, sighing, as she thought
of Paris once more deserted by its gay Court and brilliant crowd of
officers, the only society of the period.
“What next, Madame?” said Duchesne, taking up the word. “_Parbleu!_ the
thing is easily told. A conscription, a march, a bivouac, and a battle
will form act the first. Then a victory; and a bulletin and an imperial
edict, showing that Prussia, both by her language and geographical
position, was intended by Providence to belong to France; that Prussians
have no dearer wish than to be thrashed and taxed,--the honor of
becoming a portion of the Grande Nation being an ample recompense for
any misfortune.”
“And so it is, Monsieur,” broke in a bluff, hard-featured veteran, whose
coarse and weather-beaten traits bespoke one risen from the ranks; “he
is no Frenchman who says otherwise.”
“To your good health, Colonel,” said Duchesne, as he lifted a glass
of champagne to his lips. “Such patriotism is really refreshing in our
degenerate days. I wish you every success in your campaign; though what
is to reward your valor in that miserable land of beer and Protestantism
I cannot possibly conceive.”
“To-morrow; let me see you to-morrow, in the afternoon.” said
mademoiselle, in a whisper, as she passed close to me.
As I nodded in acknowledgment, Duchesne turned slightly around, and I
saw in his eyes he had overheard the words, though uttered in a mere
whisper. Still he went on,--
“As for us who remain ingloriously behind you, we have nothing to do but
to read your exploits in the 'Moniteur.' And would to Heaven the worthy
editor would print his battles in better fashion! The whole page usually
looks more like a beaten than a conquering army; wounded vowels and
broken consonants at every step, and the capital letters awkward,
hard-featured fellows, as though risen from the ranks.”
“_Tonnerre de Dieu_, sir! do you mean an insult to me?” said the old
colonel, in a voice which, though intended for a whisper, was heard over
the whole circle.
“An insult, my dear colonel? nothing within a thousand leagues of
such. I was only speaking of the 'type' of our army, which may be very
efficient, but is scarcely too good-looking.”
No words can convey the sarcastic tone in which the speech was
delivered, nor the mortification of the indignant colonel, who felt, but
knew not how to reply to, such a taunt. Happily Madame de Lacostellerie
interposed, and by skilfully changing the topic of conversation, averted
further unpleasantness.
My desire to learn something accurately as to the state of events made
me anxious to reach my quarters, and I took the first opportunity of
quitting the _salon_. As I passed through the outer room, Duchesne
was standing against a sideboard, holding a glass in his hand. It was
necessary that I should pass him closely, and I was preparing to salute
him with the distant courtesy of our present acquaintance, when he said,
in his former tone of easy raillery,--
“Going so early? Won't you have a glass of wine before you leave?”
“No, I thank you,” said I, coldly, and going on towards the door.
“Nor wait for the concert; Grassini will be here in half an hour?”
I shook my head in negation; and as I passed out I heard him humming,
with an emphasis which there was no mistaking, the couplet of a popular
song of the day which concluded thus,--
“To-day for me; To-morrow for thee,--But will that to-morrow ever be?”
That Duchesne intended to challenge me seemed now almost certain; and I
ran over in my mind the few names of those I could ask to be my friends
on such an occasion, but without being able to satisfy myself on the
subject. A moment's recollection might have taught me that it was a
maxim with the chevalier never to send a message, but in every case
to make the adversary the aggressor; he had told me so over and over
himself. That, however, did not occur to me at the moment, and I walked
onward, thinking of our meeting. Could I have known what was passing in
_his_ mind, I should have spared many serious and some sad thoughts to
my own.