Monsieur
"La destinée a deux manières de nous briser; en se refusant
à nos désirs et en les accomplissant."
To some the night brings wiser or at all events a second counsel. For
myself, however, it has never been so. In the prosecution of such
small enterprises as have marked a life no more eventful than those
around it, I have always awakened in the morning of the same mind as I
was when sleep laid its quiet hand upon me. It seems, moreover, that I
have made just as many as but no more mistakes than my neighbours.
Taking it likewise as a broad generality, the balance seems, in my
experience, to tell quite perceptibly in favour of those who make up
their minds and hold to that decision firmly, rather than towards such
men as seek counsel of the multitude and trim their sail to the tame
breeze of precedent.
"Always go straight for a jump," my father had shouted to me once,
years ago, while I sat up in a Norfolk ditch and watched my horse
disappear through a gap in the next hedge.
I awoke on the morning after the centenary fêtes without any doubt in
my mind--being still determined to seek a situation for which I was
unfitted.
Having quarrelled with my father, who obstinately refused to pay a few
debts such as no young man living in London could, with self-respect,
avoid, I was still in the enjoyment of a small annual income left to
me by a mother whom I had never seen--upon whose grave in the old,
disused churchyard at Hopton I had indeed been taught to lay a few
flowers before I fully realised the meaning of such tribute. That my
irate old sire had threatened to cut me off with as near an approach
to one shilling as an entail would allow had not given me much
anxiety. The dear old gentleman had done so a hundred times before--as
early, indeed, as my second term at Cambridge, where he had
considerably surprised the waiter at the Bull by a display of honest
British wrath.
It was, in all truth, necessary that I should do something--should
find one of those occupations (heavily salaried) for which, I make no
doubt, as many incompetent youths seek to-day as twenty-five years
ago.
"What you want," John Turner had said, when I explained my position to
him, "is no doubt something that will enable a gentleman to live like
a lord."
Now, Monsieur de Clericy was probably prepared to give two hundred
pounds a year to his secretary. But it was with Mademoiselle--and I
did not even know her Christian name--that I was anxious to treat.
What would she give?
It was, I remember, a lovely morning. What weather these Napoleons
had, from Austerlitz down to the matchless autumn of 1870!
The address printed in the corner of Monsieur de Clericy's card was
unknown to me, although I was passably acquainted with the Paris
streets. The Rue des Palmiers was, I learnt, across the river, and, my
informant added, lay between the boulevard and the Seine. This was a
part of the bright city which Haussmann and Napoleon III had as yet
left untouched--a quarter of quiet, gloomy streets and narrow alleys.
The sun was shining on the gay river as I crossed the bridge of the
Holy Fathers, and the water seemed to dance and laugh in the morning
air. The flags were still flying, for these jolly Parisians are always
loth to take in their bunting. It was, indeed, a gay world in which I
moved that morning.
The Hôtel Clericy I found at the end of the Rue des Palmiers, which
short street the great house closed. Indeed, the Rue des Palmiers was
but an avenue of houses terminated by the gloomy abode of the
Clericys. The house was built behind a high stone wall broken only by
a railed doorway.
I rang the bell and heard its tinkle far away within the dwelling. A
covered way led from the street to the house, and I followed on the
heels of the servant, a smart young Parisian, looking curiously at the
little garden which in London would have been forlorn and smutty. Here
in Paris bright flowers bloomed healthily and a little fountain
plashed with that restful monotony which ever suggests the patios of
Spain.
The young man was one of those modern servants who know their
business.
"Monsieur's name?" he said, sharply.
"Howard."
We were within the dimly lighted hall, with its scent of old carpets
and rusting armour, and he led the way upstairs. He threw open the
drawing-room door and mentioned my name in his short, well-trained
way. There was but one person in the large room, and she did not hear
the man's voice; for she was laughing herself, and was at that moment
chasing a small dog around the room. The little animal, which entered
gaily into the sport, was worrying a dainty handkerchief in his teeth,
and so engaged was he in this destructive purpose that he ran straight
into my hands. I rescued the bedraggled piece of cambric and stood
upright to find mademoiselle standing before me with mirth and a
certain dignified self-possession in her eyes.
[Illustration: "THANK YOU, MONSIEUR," SHE SAID, TAKING THE
HANDKERCHIEF FROM MY HAND.]
"Thank you, Monsieur," she said, taking the handkerchief from my hand.
It was evident that she did not recognise me as the stranger who had
accosted her father on the previous day.
I explained my business in as few words as possible.
"The servant," I added, "made a mistake in bringing me to this room. I
did not mean to trouble Mademoiselle; my business is with M. de
Clericy. I am applying for the post of secretary."
She looked at me with a quick surprise, and her eyes lighted on my
clothes with some significance, which made me think that perhaps
Monsieur de Clericy gave less even than two hundred pounds a year to
his amanuensis.
"Ah!" she said, with her thought apparent in her candid eyes. "My
father is at present in his study--engaged, I believe, with Monsieur
Miste."
"Miste?" I echoed, for the name was no less peculiar than her way of
pronouncing it. She seemed to look for some sign that I knew this man.
"Yes--your predecessor."
"Ah! a secretary--a man-machine that writes."
She shook her head with a happy laugh, sinking, as it were, into an
air of interest, which gave a sharp feeling that I had perhaps been
forestalled in other matters by the man called Miste. She looked at
me with such candid eyes, however, that the thought seemed almost a
sacrilege, offered gratuitously to innocence and trustfulness. Her
face was, indeed, a guarantee that if her maiden fancy had been
touched, her heart was at all events free from that deeper feeling
which assuredly leaves its mark upon all who suffer it.
The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former secretary in some way grated
on my hearing, so that instead of retiring from the presence of
mademoiselle as my manners bade me do, I lingered, seeking opportunity
to continue the conversation.
"I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de Clericy," I said. "It is
perhaps inexpedient that the new machine should be seen of the old."
Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught the deep silver note of
sympathy in her voice that was so new and yet familiar. In laughter
the soul surely speaks.
"The word scarcely describes Monsieur Miste," retorted she.
"Does any single word describe him?"
For a moment she reflected. She was without self-consciousness, and
spoke with me, a stranger, as easily as she talked to her father.
"A single word?" she echoed. "Yes--a chimera."
At this moment the sound of voices in the corridor made further delay
impossible.
"Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to ring for the servant to conduct
me to Monsieur de Clericy's study," I said.
"I will show you the room," replied she; "its door is never closed to
me. I hear voices, which probably betoken the departure of Monsieur
Miste."
The sound, indeed, came distinctly enough to our ears, but it was of
one voice only, the benevolent tones of the Vicomte de Clericy,
followed by his pleasant laugh. If Miste made reply, the words must
have been uttered softly, for I heard them not. I opened the door, and
mademoiselle led the way.
A man was descending the broad staircase which I had lately mounted--a
slim man, who stepped gently. He did not turn, but continued his way,
disappearing in the gloom of the large entrance hall. I gathered a
quick impression of litheness and a noiseless footfall, of a sleek,
black head, and something stirring within me, which was stronger than
curiosity. I wondered why he was quitting the Vicomte's service. Such
was my first sight of Charles Miste, and my first knowledge of his
existence.
The Vicomte had returned to his room, closing the door behind him,
upon which mademoiselle now tapped lightly.
"Father," I heard her say as she entered, "a gentleman wishes to see
you."
As I passed her, I caught the scent of some violets she wore in her
dress, and the spring-like freshness of the odour seemed a part of
herself.
The Vicomte received me so graciously that he and not I might have
been the applicant for a situation. Bowing, he peered at me with
short-sighted eyes.
"The English gentleman of yesterday," he said, indicating a chair.
"I took you at your word, Monsieur," I replied, "and now apply for the
post of secretary."
Taking the chair he placed at my disposal, I awaited his further
pleasure. He had seated himself at the writing-table, and was
fingering a pen with thoughtfulness or perhaps hesitation. The table,
I noticed, was bare of the litter which usually cumbers the desk of a
busy man. The calendar lying at his elbow was an ornamental cardboard
trifle, embellished with cupids and simpering shepherdesses--such as
girls send to each other at the New Year. The surroundings, in fact,
were indicative rather of a trifling leisure than of important
affairs. The study and writing-table seemed to me to suggest a
pleasant fiction of labours, to which the Vicomte retired when he
desired solitude and a cigarette. I wondered what my duties might be.
After a pause, the old gentleman raised his eyes--the kindest eyes in
the world--to my face, and I perceived beneath his white lashes a
great benevolence, in company with a twinkling sense of humour.
"Does Monsieur know anything of the politics of this unfortunate
country?" he asked, and he leant forward, his elbows on the bare
writing-table, his attitude suggesting the kind encouragement which a
great doctor will vouchsafe to a timid patient. The old Frenchman's
manner, indeed, aroused in me that which I must be allowed to call my
conscience--a cumbrous machine, I admit, hard to set going and soon
running down. The sport of this adventure, entered into in a spirit of
devilry, seemed suddenly to have shrunk to the dimensions of a
somewhat sorry jest. It was, I now reflected, but a poor game to
deceive an innocent girl and an old man as guileless. Innocence is a
great safeguard.
"Monsieur," I answered, on the spur of the moment, "I have no such
qualities as you naturally seek in a secretary. I received my
education at Eton and at Cambridge University. If you want a secretary
to bowl you a straight ball, or pull a fairly strong oar, I am your
man, for I learnt little else. I possess, indeed, the ordinary
education of an English gentleman, sufficient Latin to misread an
epitaph or a motto, and too little Greek to do me any harm. I have,
however, a knowledge of French, which I acquired at Geneva, whither my
father sent me when I--er--was sent down from Cambridge. I have again
quarrelled with my father. It is an annual affair. We usually quarrel
when the hunting ends. This time it is serious. I have henceforth to
make my way in the world. I am, Monsieur, what you would call a bad
subject."
The tolerance with which my abrupt confession was received only made
me the more self-reproachful. The worst of beginning to tell the truth
is that it is so hard to stop. I could not inform him that I had
fallen in love with a tone in his daughter's voice, with a light in
her eyes--I, who had never made serious love to any woman yet. He
would only think me mad.
There were in truth many matters with which I ought to have made the
Vicomte acquainted. My quarrel with my father, for instance, had
originated in my refusal to marry Isabella Gayerson--a young lady with
landed estates and a fortune of eighty thousand pounds. I merely
informed Monsieur, I confess, that my father and I had fallen out over
money matters. Cannot most marriages arranged by loving parents be so
described? To my recitation the old gentleman listened with much
patience, and when I had partially eased my soul he merely nodded,
saying:
"My question is not yet answered, mon ami. Do you know aught of French
politics?"
"Absolutely nothing," was my answer, made in all honesty. And I
thought I was speaking my own dismissal.
Monsieur de Clericy leant back in his chair with a shrug of the
shoulders.
"Well," he muttered, half to himself, "perhaps it is of little
consequence. You understand, Monsieur," he continued in a louder tone,
looking at me kindly, "I like you. I may say it without impertinence,
because I am an old man and you are young. I liked you as soon as I
saw you yesterday. The duties for which I require a secretary are
light. It is chiefly to be near me when I want you. I have my little
estates in the South, in the Bourbonnais, and near to Orleans. I
require some one to correspond with my agents, to travel perhaps to my
lands when a question arises which the bailiffs cannot settle
unaided."
Thus he spoke for some time, and my duties, as he detailed them,
sounded astonishingly light. Indeed, he paused occasionally as if
seeking to augment them by the addition of trivial household tasks.
"Madame, the Vicomtesse," he said, "will also be glad to avail herself
of your services."
The existence of this lady was thus made known to me for the first
time. I have wondered since why, in this conversation, we with one
accord ignored the first question in such affairs--namely, the salary
paid by Monsieur to his secretary.
"I should require you," he said finally, "to live in the Hôtel Clericy
while we are in Paris."
Some years earlier, during a hunting expedition in Africa, I had
stalked a lion all night and far into the following day. On finally
obtaining a sight of my prey, I found him old, disease-stricken and
half-blind. The feelings of that moment I have never forgotten. A
sensation near akin to it--a sort of shame attaching to a pursuit
unworthy of a sportsman--came to me again now, when I was told that I
might live under the roof that sheltered Mademoiselle de Clericy.
"You hesitate," said the Vicomte. "I am afraid it is an essential. I
must have you always at hand."