E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Sankar Viswanathan, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net/c/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 20243-h.htm or 20243-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/2/4/20243/20243-h/20243-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/2/4/20243/20243-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
The table of contents is not part of the original book.
DROSS
by
HENRY SETON MERRIMAN
Author of
"With Edged Tools," "The Sowers," Etc.
[Illustration: I WAS MAKING PRETENCE, IN A SHALLOW WAY NO DOUBT, TO
STUDY THE PAPERS ON THE TABLE. AND LUCILLE STANDING BEFORE MY DESK WAS
LOOKING DOWN AT MY BENT HEAD, NOTING PERHAPS THE GREY HAIRS THERE.
THUS WE REMAINED FOR A MINUTE IN SILENCE.]
Herbert S. Stone & Co.
Chicago and New York
MDCCCXCIX
Copyright, MDCCCXCVI
by Herbert S. Stone & Company
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. Mushrooms 1
II. Monsieur 13
III. Madame 25
IV. Disqualified 36
V. C'est la Vie 49
VI. A Glimpse of Home 60
VII. In Provence 72
VIII. In Paris 83
IX. Finance 95
X. The Golden Spoon 107
XI. Theft 118
XII. Ruin 130
XIII. The Shadow Again 141
XIV. A Little Cloud 153
XV. Flight 165
XVI. Exile 177
XVII. On the Track 189
XVIII. A Dark Horse 201
XIX. Sport 213
XX. Underhand 223
XXI. Checkmate 234
XXII. Home 245
XXIII. Wrecked 256
XXIV. An Explanation 267
XXV. Paris Again 277
XXVI. Above the Snow Line 289
XXVII. The Hand of God 300
XXVIII. The Links 312
XXIX. At La Pauline 324
Chapter I
Mushrooms
"La célébrité est comme le feu, qui brûle de près et
illumine de loin."
Under a glorious sky, in the year 1869, Paris gathered to rejoice in
the centenary of the birth of the First Napoleon. A gathering this of
mushroom nobility, soldiery and diplomacy, to celebrate the hundredth
anniversary of the greatest mushroom that ever sprang to life in the
hotbed of internecine strife.
"Adventurers all," said John Turner, the great Paris banker, with whom
I was in the Church of the Invalides; "and yonder," he added,
indicating the Third Napoleon, "is the cleverest."
We had pushed our way into the gorgeous church, and now rubbed elbows
with some that wore epaulettes on peaceful shoulders. There were
ladies present, too. Did not the fair beings contribute to the rise
and fall of that marvellous Second Empire? Representatives of almost
every European power paid homage that day to the memory of a little
Corsican officer of artillery.
As for me, I went from motives of curiosity, as, no doubt, went many
others, if indeed all had so good a call. In my neighbourhood, for
instance, stood a stout gentleman in court uniform, who wept aloud
whenever the organ permitted his grief to be audible.
"Who is that?" I inquired of my companion.
"A Legitimist, who would perhaps accept a Napoleonic post," replied
John Turner, in his stout and simple way.
"And is he weeping because the man who was born a hundred years ago is
dead?"
"No! He is weeping because that man's nephew may perchance note his
emotion."
One could never tell how dense or how acute John Turner really was.
His round, fat face was always immobile and fleshy--no wrinkle, no
movement of lip or eyelid, ever gave the cue to his inmost thought. He
was always good-natured and indifferent--a middle-aged bachelor who
had found life not hollow, but full--of food.
Nature having given me long legs (wherewith to give the slip to my
responsibilities, and also to the bailiffs, as many of my female
relatives have enjoyed saying), I could look over the heads of the
majority of people present, and so saw the Emperor Napoleon III for
the first time in my life. The mind is, after all, a smaller thing
than those who deny the existence of that which is beyond their
comprehension would have us believe. At that moment I forgot to think
of all that lay behind those dull, extinguished eyes. I forgot that
this was a maker of history, and one who will be placed by
chroniclers, writing in the calm of the twentieth century, only second
to his greater uncle among remarkable Frenchmen, and merely wondered
whether Napoleon III perceived the somewhat obtrusive emotion of my
neighbour in the court uniform.
But a keener observer than myself could scarce have discerned the
information on the still, pale features of the Emperor, who, indeed,
in his implacability always reminded me more of my own countrymen than
of the French. The service was proceeding with that cunning rise and
fall of voice and music which, I take it, has won not a few emotional
souls back to the Mother Church. Suddenly John Turner chuckled in a
way that fat people have.
"Laughing at your d--d piano-case," he explained.
I had told him shortly before how I had boarded the Calais boat at
Dover in the form and semblance of a piano, snugly housed in one of
Messrs. Erard's cases, while my servant engaged in pleasant converse
on the quay the bailiff who had been set to watch for me: this, while
they were actually slinging me on board. The picture of the surprise
of my fellow-passengers when Loomer gravely unscrewed me and I emerged
from my travelling-carriage in mid-channel had pleased John Turner
vastly. Indeed, he told the story to the end of his days, and even
brought that end within hail at times by an over-indulgence in
apoplectic mirth. He chuckled at it now in the midst of this solemn
service. But I, more easily moved perhaps by outward show and pomp,
could only think of our surroundings. The excitement of giving my
creditors the slip was a thing of the past; for those were rapid days,
and I no laggard, as many took care to tell me, on the heel of the
flying moment.
The ceremony in which we were taking part was indeed strange enough to
rivet the attention of any who witnessed it--strange, I take it, as
any historical scene of a century that saw the rise and fall of
Napoleon I. Strange beyond belief, that this dynasty should arise from
ashes as cold as those that Europe heaped on St. Helena's dead, to
celebrate the birth of its founder!
Who would have dared to prophesy fifty years earlier that a second
Emperor should some day sit upon the throne of France? Who would have
ventured to foretell that this capricious people, loathing as they did
in 1815 the name of Buonaparte, should one day choose by universal
suffrage another of that family to rule over them?
Few of those assembled in the great tomb were of devout enough mind to
take much heed of the service now proceeding at the altar, where the
priest droned and the incense rose in slow clouds towards the dome. We
all stared at each other freely enough, and in truth the faces of
many, not to mention bright uniforms and brilliant names, warranted
the abstraction from holy thought and fervour. The old soldiers lining
the aisle had fought, some at Inkerman, some at Solferino, some in
Mexico, that land of ill-omen. The generals of all nations, mixing
freely in the crowd, bowed grimly enough to each other. They had met
before.
It was indeed a strange jumble of prince and pauper, friend and foe,
patriot and adventurer. And the face that drew my gaze oftenest was
one as still and illegible now as it was on the morning of January 11,
four years later, when I bowed before it at Chiselhurst.
The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none could read--a quiet,
self-possessed enigma--passed down the aisle between his ranked
soldiers, and the religious part of the day's festivities was over.
Paris promised to be _en fête_ while daylight lasted, and at night a
display of fireworks of unprecedented splendour was to close the
festive celebration. There is no lighter heart than that which beats
within the narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian bourgeois, unless
indeed it be that in the trim bodice of madame his wife; and even
within the church walls we could hear the sound of merriment in the
streets.
When the Emperor had gone we all moved towards the doors of the
church, congratulating each other, embracing each other, laughing and
weeping all in one breath.
One near to me seized my hand.
"You are English!" he cried.
"I am."
"Then embrace me."
We embraced.
"Waterloo"--he called it Vatterlo--"is forgotten. It is buried in the
Crimea," cried this emotional son of Gaul. He was a stout man who had
partaken of garlic at déjeûner.
"It is," I answered.
And we embraced again. Then I got away from him. It was gratifying but
inexpedient to be an Englishman at that moment, and John Turner, whose
clothes were made in Paris, silently denied me and edged away. Others
seemed desirous of burying Waterloo also, but I managed the obsequies
of that great victory with a shake of the hand.
"Vive l'Empereur!" they cried. "Long live Napoleon!"
And I shouted as loud as any. Whatever one may think, it is always
wise to agree with the mob.
On the steps of the church I found John Turner awaiting me.
"Finished embracing your new-found friend?" he asked me, with a
shortness which may have been a matter of breath. At all events, it
was habitual with this well-fed philosopher.
"We were forgetting Waterloo," I answered.
At that moment a merry laugh behind us made me turn. It was not
directed towards myself, and was doubtless raised by some incident
which had escaped our notice. The mere fact that this voice was raised
in merriment did not make me wheel round on my heel as if I had been
shot. It was the voice itself--some note of sympathy which I seemed to
have always known and yet never to have heard until this moment. A
strange thing--the reader will think--to happen to a man in his
thirties, who had knocked about the world, doing but little good
therein, as some are ready and even anxious to relate.
Strange it may be, but it was true. I seemed to have known that voice
all my life--and it was only the merry laugh of a heedless girl.
Has any listened to the prattle of the schoolroom without hearing at
odd moments the tone of some note that is not girlish--the voice of
the woman speaking gravely through the chatter of the child?
I seemed to hear that note now, and turning, found the owner of the
voice within touch of me. She was tall and slim, with a certain fresh
immaturity, which was like the scent of the first spring flowers in my
own Norfolk woods at home. Flower-like, too, was her face--somewhat
long and narrow, with a fair flush on it of youth, health and
happiness. The merriest eyes in the world were looking laughingly into
the face of an old gentleman at her side, smiling, happy eyes of
innocent maidenhood. And yet here again I saw the woman in the girl. I
saw a gracious lady, knowing life, and being yet pure, having learned
of good and evil only to remember the good. For the knowledge of evil
is like vaccine--it causes disturbance only when hidden impurity
awaits it.
"Come," said John Turner, taking my arm, "no one else wants to forget
Waterloo."
I went with him a little. Then I paused.
"Who is the young lady coming down the steps behind us?"
John Turner, looking over his shoulder, gave a grunt.
"Old De Clericy and his daughter," he answered. "One of the families
that are too old to keep pace with the times."
[Illustration: "WHO IS THE YOUNG LADY COMING DOWN THE STEPS BEHIND US?"]
We walked on a little.
"There is a chance for you--wants a secretary," muttered my companion.
"Does he?" I exclaimed, stopping. "Then introduce me."
"Not I."
"Why?"
"Can't introduce a man who came across in a piano-case," he answered,
with a laugh, which made me remember that this was a man of station
and some standing in Paris, while I was but a vagabond and
ne'er-do-well.
"Then I'll introduce myself," I said, hastily.
John Turner shrugged his broad shoulders and walked on. As for me, I
stopped and on the impulse of the moment turned.
Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Clericy were coming slowly towards me,
and more than one looked at the fair young girl with a franker
admiration than I cared about, while she was happily unconscious of
it. It would seem that she must lately have left the convent, for the
guileless pink and white of that pure life lingered on her face, while
her eyes danced with an excitement out of all proportion to the
moment. What should she know of Napoleon I, and how rejoice for France
when she knew but little of the dark days through which the great
general had brought that land?
I edged my way towards them through the crowd without pausing to
reflect what I was about to do. I had run away from my creditors, it
is true, but was not called upon to work for my living. The Howards
had not done much of that, so far as I knew; though many of my
ancestors, if one may credit the old portraits at home, had fought for
rights, and even wrongs, with considerable spirit and success.
The throng was a well-dressed one, and consequently of a cold and evil
temper if one worked against it. I succeeded, however, in reaching
Monsieur de Clericy and touched his arm. He turned hastily, as one
possessing foes as well as friends, and showed me a most benevolent
countenance, kindly and sympathetic even when accosted by a total
stranger.
"Monsieur de Clericy?" I asked.
He peered up at me with pleasant, short-sighted eyes while returning
my salute.
"But yes. Am I happy enough to be able to do anything for Monsieur?"
He spoke in a high, thin voice that was almost childlike, and a
feeling of misgiving ran through me that one so young and
inexperienced as Mademoiselle de Clericy should be abroad on such a
day with no better escort than this old man.
"Pardon my addressing you," I said, "but I hear that you are seeking
a secretary. I only ask permission to call at your hotel and apply for
the post."
"But, mon grand monsieur," he said with a delightful playfulness,
spreading out his hands in recognition of my height and east-country
bulk, "this is no time to talk of affairs. To-day we are at pleasure."
"Not all, Monsieur; some are busy enough," I replied, handing him my
card, which he held close to his eyes, after the manner of one who has
never possessed long or keen sight.
"What determination!" he exclaimed, with an old man's tolerance. "Mon
Dieu! these English allies of ours!"
"Well!" he said, after a pause, "if Monsieur honours me with such a
request, I shall be in and at your service from ten o'clock to-morrow
morning."
He felt in his pocket and handed me a card with courtesy. It was quite
refreshing to meet such a man in Paris in 1869--so naïve, so
unassuming, so free from that aggressive self-esteem which
characterized Frenchmen before the war. Since I had arrived in the
capital under the circumstances that amused John Turner so consumedly,
I had been tempted to raise my fist in the face of every second
flaneur I met on the boulevard.
Again I joined my English friend, who was standing where I had left
him, looking around him with a stout, good-natured tolerance.
"Well," he asked, "have you got the situation?"
"No; but I am going to call to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and
obtain it."
"Umph!" said John Turner; "I did not know you were such a scoundrel."