THE ACCUSATION.
The house selected by Baron Ernest von Steinfeld, wherein to pass what
might possibly be his last season in Paris, was situated in the Rue St
Lazare. It was one of those buildings, of frequent occurrence in modern
Parisian architecture, which seem intended to gratify the taste of such
persons as prefer the English fashion of occupying an entire house, to
the French one of dwelling upon a floor. At the bottom of a paved
courtyard, around three sides of which was built a large mansion
containing many tenants, stood one of those edifices known in French
parlance as pavilions--not that they possess a dome, resemble a tent,
or, for the most part, have any of the qualities of a summer-house, but
because, in Paris, the term "house" is grudgingly bestowed upon a
building of less than five stories and thirty or forty rooms. This
pavilion had but three stories and a dozen rooms; it was a particularly
complete and independent habitation, standing well back from the body of
the house under whose number it was included, and of which, although
detached, it was considered to form part; and having two entrances, one
through the court, the other from a lane running at right angles with
the street. The ground-floor contained, besides a light and commodious
vestibule and servants' offices, only one apartment, a handsome
dining-room, in which, however, it was impossible, for three quarters of
the year, to dine without lamps--the daylight admitted by its one broad
window being greatly limited by the walls of a nook of garden, and by
the impending branches of a laburnum and acacia, which mingled their
boughs in affectionate union, twin lords of a square yard of grass, and
of a fathom's length of flower-bed, and in the spring-time rejoiced the
inmates of the pavilion with the odorous rustle of their yellow clusters
and rose-coloured blossoms. The first floor contained two pleasant
drawing-rooms and a boudoir; the second, bath, bed, and dressing-rooms.
The roof, flat and surrounded by a parapet, commanded a view over the
adjacent gardens of an extensive bathing establishment and _maison de
sante_, and was no unpleasant resort, on a fine day, for persons
desirous to inhale the fresh air, or to scent it with the fumes of
Havana's weed. This pavilion, described by the _Petites Affiches_ as
_fraichement decore_--the said decoration consisting in fresh paint and
paper, and in a profusion of that cheerful French luxury, large and
excellent mirrors--was rented for six months by Baron Steinfeld, who had
hired, for the same period, from a fashionable upholsterer--for a sum
which would almost have furnished the house permanently in a plainer
manner--a complete set of furniture, against whose perfect elegance and
good taste not a syllable could be breathed. His establishment was as
correct as his residence. It consisted, in the first place, of a French
cook, with whose sauces Arthur de Mellay had repeatedly expressed his
willingness to eat a fragment of his father; which offer--considering
the worthy count had been a guardsman in the time of Louis XVI., and,
consequently, was neither young nor tender--was certainly a high
testimonial to the merits of sauce and cook. Then came an Italian
valet, quite as skilful a personage in his way as the professor of
gastronomic science--speaking three or four languages, accumulating
in his own individuality the knowledge and acquirements of a legion of
hair-dressers, tailors, perfumers, and the like--thoroughly versed in
the arcana of the toilet, a secretary in case of need, and a perfect
Mercury in matters of intrigue. The third person of Steinfeld's
household, the last, and also by much the least--physically speaking,
that is to say, but by no means in his own estimation--was one of those
miniature tigers (copied from the English, and essential appendages
to the establishment of a Paris lion), who look as if they had been
subjected to that curious Chinese process by which lofty shrubs and
forest trees are stunted to dimensions that permit the plantation of a
grove in a flower-pot--wizen-faced, top-booted abortions, uniting the
mischief and the proportions of a monkey, and frightfully precocious in
every species of villany. The house also contained, during the day, an
old Frenchwoman, of a species indigenous and confined to Paris--the
patient butt of the cook's ill-humours and of the groom's pranks, with
bearded chin and slipshod feet, and willing for any sort of dirty work,
from the scouring of a kettle to the administration of the remedy
renowned in French pharmacy.
It was an hour past noon on the day succeeding the Countess of M----'s
masquerade, and Steinfeld sat alone at breakfast. It were more correct
to say that he sat at the breakfast table; for the savoury meal before
him was still untasted, and he seemed in no haste to attack it. In vain
the green oysters from Ostend lay invitingly open, and one of Chevet's
pies displayed, through a triangular aperture in its crust, the tender
tints of an exquisite _foie-gras_--the result of the martyrdom of some
unhappy Strasburg duck; in vain a fragrant steam of truffles oozed from
beneath the covers of two silver dishes, fresh from the laboratory of
Macedoine the cook, and mingled its odours with the flowery aroma of a
bottle of Sauterne, from which Rufini the valet had just extracted the
long yellow-sealed cork. Apparently none of these creature-comforts
dwelt in the desires of the baron, who sat sideways to the table, his
chin resting on his hand, gazing upon vacancy with an intenseness
bespeaking deep pre-occupation. One acquainted with Steinfeld's
circumstances would have hesitated little in conjecturing the nature of
the unpleasant reflections in which he seemed absorbed. They might very
well have for motive the unprosperous state of his exchequer, the heavy
incumbrances weighing upon the hereditary acres, the approaching decease
of that convenient but fickle ally, on whose succour half the world
exist, and whose name is Credit. The baron had been anything but a
prudent man. Too careless of the future, he had neglected fortune when
she offered herself to his embrace; and now she revenged herself by
averting her countenance. Of high descent and fair estate, handsome
person and fascinating manners, for some years Steinfeld might have
aspired to the hand of almost any heiress in Vienna or Paris. Numerous
were the matrimonial overtures that had been more or less directly made
to him, at a time when, in love with his bachelorhood, and celebrated
for his _bonnes fortunes_, he looked upon the bonds of Hymen as the
most oppressive of fetters, intolerable even when sheathed in gold. The
match-makers, repulsed without exception, at last renounced all further
attempts upon the hand of the handsome Austrian--as Steinfeld was
generally called in Paris--and declared him an incorrigible partisan of
celibacy. To the unmolested enjoyment of his bachelor bliss the baron
was for some years left, until one morning he awoke to the disagreeable
consciousness that profuse expenditure had done its work, and that ruin
or a rich marriage formed the only alternatives left him. He was fully
alive to the difficulties placed in the way of the latter by the change
in his circumstances. His ancient name and personal advantages remained,
but his fair estate was in the hands of the harpies; and however
disposed romantic young ladies might be to overlook this misfortune,
prudent papas would deem it a serious stumbling-block. Then it was that,
roused by horrid visions of approaching poverty from his usual state of
happy _insouciance_, the baron gathered together the relics of his past
opulence, squeezed and exhausted every remaining resource, and, assuming
a bold front against bad fortune, returned to Paris with much the
feelings of the soldier who screws up all his energies to conquer or to
die. It was no apprehension, however, as to the result of this final
struggle--no nervous trepidation arising from the imminence of his
situation, that now clouded Steinfeld's brow and spoiled his appetite.
On the contrary, he deemed victory secure, and beheld himself, in no
remote perspective, emerging triumphantly from his difficulties, even
as a snake, casting its shabby skin, reappears in glittering scales
of gold. He had not wasted the three months he had passed in Paris,
and was well satisfied with the result of his exertions. His present
uneasiness had a different origin--one similar to the cause by which,
some fifteen hours previously, we saw Sigismund Fatello so deeply moved.
The baron turned and twisted in his hand a letter, to whose contents he
again and again recurred, pondering them intently. Like that received by
the banker, the billet was anonymous; like his, it contained but three
or four lines; but, despite its brevity and want of authenticity,
it proved, on the part of the writer, whoever that might be, an
acquaintance with the baron's most important secret, that did not fail
greatly to disquiet him. Who had thus detected what he deemed so surely
concealed? He strained his eyes and memory, in vain endeavouring to
recognise the handwriting; and more than once, fancying he had done
so, he fetched notes and letters from a desk in the adjoining boudoir,
to compare them with the anonymous epistle. But the comparison always
dissipated his suspicion. Then, taking a pen, and a diminutive sheet of
amber-scented paper, he began a note, but tore the paper after writing
only three words, and threw the fragments impatiently into the fire.
Just then the pavilion bell rang loudly; the next minute there was a
knock at the room door, and Celestin the tiger made his appearance,
bearing a card inscribed with the name of M. Sigismund Fatello, and
an inquiry whether Monsieur le Baron was at home and visible.
On reading the banker's name, Steinfeld made a slight and sudden
movement, almost amounting to a start, but, instantly recovering
himself, he bade his groom show the visitor upstairs. At the same time
he hastily seated himself, ordered Rufini to take off the covers, poured
some wine into a glass, and helped himself from the first dish that came
to hand; so that when Fatello, ushered in by the groom, entered the
apartment, he had all the appearance of one whose whole faculties were
concentrated, for the time being, in the enjoyment of an excellent meal.
Rising from his chair, with an air of jovial cordiality, he hastened to
welcome the banker.
"An unexpected pleasure, my dear Fatello," said he. "What favourable
chance procures me so early a visit? You are come to breakfast, I hope.
Rufini, a knife and fork for M. Fatello."
"I have breakfasted, M. le Baron," replied Fatello, with a dryness
amounting almost to incivility. "If my call is untimely my business is
pressing----and private," he added, with a glance at the Italian, who
stood in respectful immobility behind his master's chair.
"Leave the room, Rufini," said Steinfeld.
The well-drilled valet bowed in silence, and glided noiselessly from the
apartment.
"Now, then, my good friend," said the Austrian, in the same gay
off-hand tone as before, "I am all ear and attention. What is up?
Nothing bad, I hope; nothing so serious as to spoil my appetite. I have
heard a proverb condemning discourse between a full man and a hungry
one."
Fatello made no immediate reply. There was something very peculiar in
his aspect. His lips were pale and compressed, and his brows slightly
knit. He seemed constraining himself to silence until he felt he could
speak calmly on a subject which roused anger and indignation in his
breast. Whilst seemingly engrossed by his breakfast, Steinfeld lost not
a look or motion of his visitor's, not a line of his physiognomy, or a
glance of his small piercing eye. And the baron, notwithstanding his
assumed careless levity of manner, did not feel altogether at his ease.
"You have not turned conspirator, I hope," said he, when Fatello, after
a short but awkward pause, still remained silent. "No Henri-quinquist
plot, or plan to restore the glorious days of the guillotine and
the Goddess of Liberty? No, no; a Croesus of your calibre, my dear
Fatello, would not mix in such matters. Your plotters are hungry dogs,
with more debts than ducats. Talking of hunger--I am grieved you have
breakfasted. This mushroom omelet does honour to Macedoine."
The baron would have talked on--for at that moment any sort of babble
seemed to him preferable to silence. But Fatello, who had not heard a
word he had said, suddenly rose from his seat, rested his hands upon
the table, and leaning forward, with eyes sternly fixed upon Steinfeld,
uttered these remarkable words, in tones rendered harsh and grating by
the effort that made them calm:
"Monsieur le Baron de Steinfeld, you are courting my wife!"
The most expert physiognomist would have failed to detect upon the
countenance of the ex-diplomatist any other expression than one of
profound astonishment, tinged by that glow of indignation an innocent
man would be likely to feel at an unfounded accusation, abruptly and
brutally brought. After sustaining for a few seconds Fatello's fixed and
angry gaze, his features relaxed into a slightly contemptuous smile.
"The jest is surely in questionable taste, my dear M. Fatello. And the
severity of your countenance might alarm a man with a conscience less
clear than mine."
"I jest not, sir, with my honour and happiness," retorted Fatello, with
a rude fierceness that brought a flush to the baron's cheek--a flame of
anger which the next moment, however, dispelled.
"Then, my dear M. Fatello," said Steinfeld, "since, instead of a
bad jest, you mean sober earnest, I can only say you are grossly
misinformed, and that your suspicions are as injurious to Madame
Fatello, as your manner of expressing them is insulting to myself."
"I have no suspicions," replied Fatello, "but a certainty."
"Impossible!" said the baron. "Name my accuser. He shall account for
the base calumny."
"He desires no better," replied Fatello, sternly. "I myself accuse you.
No slanderous tongues, but my own ears, are evidence against you. And
yourself, sir, shall confess what you now so stubbornly deny. You were
at last night's masquerade."
"I was so."
"In hussar uniform--crimson vest and white pelisse."
Steinfeld bowed assent. "The uniform of the regiment to which I formerly
belonged."
"A black domino was on your arm."
"_Ma foi!_" cried the baron, with a laugh that sounded rather forced,
"if you demand an account of all the masks I walked and danced with, I
shall hardly be able to satisfy you. Dominoes there were, doubtless;
and, of all colours, black amongst the rest."
"You equivocate, sir," said Fatello, angrily. "I will aid your memory.
The domino I mean was your companion early in the night. The domino I
mean danced once with you (a waltz), and afterwards walked with you
through the rooms, in deep conversation. The domino I mean stood with
you for more than ten minutes beside the fountain in the conservatory.
The domino I mean was my wife; and you, Baron Steinfeld, are a villain!"
During this singular conversation Steinfeld had sat, leaning back in his
large elbow-chair, in an attitude of easy indifference--one slippered
foot thrown carelessly over the other, and his hands thrust into the
pockets of his damask dressing-gown. On receiving this last outrageous
insult, his lip blanched with passion, his whole person quivered as with
an electric shock, and he half rose from his semi-recumbent position.
But the baron was a man of vast self-command; one of those cool-headed
cool-hearted egotists who rarely act upon impulse, or compromise their
interests by ill-timed impetuosity. The first choleric movement,
prompting him to throw Fatello downstairs, was checked with wonderful
promptitude, and with little appearance of effort. In reality, however,
the effort was a violent one. As a soldier at the triangles bites a
bullet with the rage of pain, so Steinfeld clenched his hands till the
strong sharp nails almost cut into the palm. As he did so, a paper in
his pocket rustled against his knuckles. It was the note so mysteriously
conveyed to him at the masquerade, and which he had been pondering when
Fatello was announced. To one so quick-witted, the mere touch of the
paper was as suggestive as a volume of sage counsels. In an instant
every sign of annoyance disappeared from his features; he rose quietly
from his seat, and with easy dignity and an urbane countenance
confronted Fatello, who stood gloomy and lowering before the fire.
"I see, M. Fatello," he said, "that you are bent upon our cutting each
other's throats; but, strange as it may seem, after the terms you have
employed, I still hope to avert the unpleasant necessity. For one moment
moderate your language, and give me time for brief explanation. If I
rightly understand you, it is from your own observations you thus accuse
me; and I presume you did me the honour of a personal surveillance at
last night's ball?"
Fatello, his violence checked for the moment from further outbreak by
the baron's courtesy and coolness, made a gesture of sullen assent.
"And that you overheard a part, but not the whole, of my conversation
with the black domino in question?"
"I heard enough, and too much," replied Fatello, with a savage scowl
at his interlocutor. "This is idle talk, mere gain of time. Baron
Steinfeld!" cried the banker, in a voice that again rose high above
its usual pitch, "you are----"
"Stop!" interrupted Steinfeld, speaking very quickly, but with an
extraordinary and commanding calmness, which again had its effect.
"Descend not to invective, M. Fatello. There is always time for
violence. Hear reason. You are in error, an error easily explained.
I certainly saw Madame Fatello at the ball, saw and spoke with
her--patience, sir, and hear me! But the domino, of my conversation
with whom you heard a part, was _not_ Madame Fatello, but Mademoiselle
Gonfalon. You take little interest in the frivolities of a masquerade,
and are possibly unaware that the two ladies' dresses were exactly
similar. You can have heard our conversation but imperfectly, or you
would not have wronged me by this suspicion."
Whilst uttering these last sentences, Steinfeld redoubled the keenness
of the scrutiny with which he regarded the banker's uncomely and
agitated physiognomy. But although piquing himself, as a former
diplomatist, on skill in reading men's thoughts through their faces,
he was unable to decipher the expression of Fatello's countenance on
receiving this plausible explanation of the error into which he had been
led by the sisters' identity of costume. As he proceeded with it, the
banker's lips, slightly parting, gave his face an air of stupefied
wonderment, in addition to its previously inflamed and angry aspect.
When Steinfeld concluded an explanation uttered with every appearance of
sincerity and candour, and in that flexible and affable tone which, when
he chose to employ it, imparted to his words a peculiarly seductive and
persuasive charm, Fatello's lips were again firmly closed, and curled
with a curious and inexplicable smile. This faded away; he struck his
left hand against his forehead, and remained for some moments plunged in
thought, as if he hastily retraced in his memory what he had heard the
night before, to see how it tallied with the explanation just given him.
Thus, at least, Steinfeld interpreted his manner; and although the
Austrian's countenance preserved its serenity, his heart throbbed
violently against his ribs during the banker's brief cogitation. The
result of this was evidently satisfactory to Fatello, from whose brow,
when his hand again dropped by his side, the lowering cloud had
disappeared, replaced by affability and regret.
"I see," he said, with better grace than might have been expected from
him, and taking a step towards Steinfeld, "that nothing remains for me
but to implore your pardon, baron, for my unwarrantable suspicions, and
for the harsh and unbecoming expressions into which they betrayed me.
Jealousy is an evil counsellor, and blinds to the simplest truths.
I scarce dare hope you will forgive my intemperate conduct, without
exacting the hostile meeting for which I was just now as eager as I at
present am to avoid it. If you insist I must not refuse, but I give you
my word that if I have a duel with you to-day, nothing shall induce me
to depart from the defensive."
"I should be unreasonable," replied Steinfeld, graciously, "if I exacted
ampler satisfaction than this handsome apology, for what, after all,
was no unnatural misconception. Ten years ago I might have been more
punctilious, but after three or four encounters of the kind, a duel
avoided, when its real motive is removed, is a credit to a man's good
sense, and no slur upon his courage."
"No one will ever attack yours, my dear baron," said Fatello. "I only
hope you will always keep what has passed between us this morning as
profound a secret as I, for my own sake, certainly shall do. I am by no
means disposed to boast of my part in the affair."
Steinfeld bowed politely, and the two men exchanged, with smiles upon
their faces, a cordial grasp of the hand.
"Out of evil cometh good," said the banker, sententiously, subsiding
upon the silken cushions of a _causeuse_ that extended its arms
invitingly at the chimney-corner. "I am delighted to find that the
leaden bullet I anticipated exchanging with you is likely to be
converted into a golden ring, establishing so near a connection between
us as to render our fighting a duel one of the least probable things in
the world. My dear baron, I shall rejoice to call you brother-in-law."
"It would be a great honour for me," replied Steinfeld, "but you
overrate the probability of my enjoying it. Nothing has passed between
Mademoiselle Gonfalon and myself to warrant my reckoning on her
preference."
"Tush, tush! baron," said Fatello, apparently not heeding, or not
noticing the somewhat supercilious turn of Steinfeld's phrases, "you
forget the new and not very creditable occupation to which the demons
of jealousy and suspicion last night condemned me. You forget that I
tracked you in the promenade, and lay in ambush by the fountain, or
you would hardly put me off with such tales as these."
The baron winced imperceptibly on being thus reminded how closely his
movements had been watched.
"You are evidently new at the profession of a scout," said he,
jestingly, "or you would have caught more correctly my conversation with
your amiable sister-in-law. Mademoiselle Gonfalon is a charming person;
the mask gives a certain license to flirtation, and a partial hearing
of what passed between us has evidently misled you as to its precise
import."
"Not a bit of it!" cried Fatello, with an odd laugh--"I heard better
than you think, I assure you; and what I did hear quite satisfied me
that you are a smitten man, and that Sebastiana is well disposed to
favour your suit."
"I must again protest," said Steinfeld, expressing himself with some
embarrassment, "that the thought of becoming Mademoiselle Gonfalon's
husband, great as the honour would be, has never yet been seriously
entertained by me; and that, however you may have been misled by the
snatches of our conversation you overheard, nothing ever passed between
us exceeding the limits of allowable flirtation--the not unnatural
consequence of Mademoiselle Sebastiana's fascinating vivacity, and of
the agreeable footing of intimacy on which, for the last three months,
I have found admittance at your hospitable house."
Sigismund Fatello preserved, whilst the baron waded through the
intricacies of his artificial and complicated denial, a half-smile
of polite but total incredulity.
"My dear baron," said he gravely, when Steinfeld at last paused, "I am
sure you are too honourable a man to trifle with the affections of any
woman. I know you as the very opposite character to those heartless and
despicable male coquets, who ensnare susceptible hearts for the cruel
pleasure of bruising or breaking them, and sacrificing, in their vile
egotism, the happiness of others to the indulgence of a paltry vanity.
I detect the motives of your present reserve, and, believe me, I
appreciate their delicacy. Rumour, that eternal and impertinent gossip,
has asserted that Baron Ernest von Steinfeld has impaired, by his open
hand and pursuit of pleasure, the heritage of his forefathers. I do
not mean that this has become matter of common report; but we bankers
have opportunities of knowing many things, and can often read in our
bill-books and ledgers the histories of families and individuals. In
short, it is little matter how I know that your affairs, my dear baron,
are less flourishing than they might be, or than you could wish. But
this, after all, is an unimportant matter. The dirty acres are still
there--the Schloss Steinfeld still stands firm upon its foundation, and
though there be a bit of a mortgage on the domain, and some trouble with
refractory Jews, it is nothing, I am sure, but what a clear head and a
little ready cash will easily dispose of."
It was natural to suppose that a lover, whose position on the brink of
ruin made him scruple to ask the hand of his mistress of her nearest
male relative and protector, and who found his embarrassments suddenly
smoothed over and made light of by the very person who might be
expected to exaggerate them, would be the last man to place fresh
stumbling-blocks on the path to happiness thus unexpectedly cleared
before him. Steinfeld, however, appeared little disposed to chime
in with the banker's emollient view of his disastrous financial
position. With an eagerness that bespoke either the most honourable
punctiliousness, or very little anxiety to become the husband of
Mademoiselle Gonfalon, he set Fatello right.
"I heartily wish," said he, "matters were no worse than you suppose.
You quite underrate my real embarrassments. My estate is mine only
nominally; not a farthing it produces comes into my pocket; the very
castle and its furniture are pledged; some houses in Vienna, and a few
thousand florins of Austrian _rentes_, derived from my mother, melted
away years ago; I am deeply in debt, and harassed on all sides by duns
and extortioners. I calculated my liabilities the other day--why I know
not, for I have no chance of clearing them--and I found it would require
three hundred thousand florins to release my lands and pay my debts. You
see, my dear M. Fatello, I am not a very likely match for an heiress."
Fatello had listened with profound attention to the insolvent
balance-sheet exhibited by the baron.
"Three hundred thousand florins--six hundred thousand francs," said he,
musingly--"allowing for usury and overcharges, might doubtless be got
rid of for a hundred thousand less. Well, baron, when Sebastiana marries
she will have more than that tacked to her apron. Her father left her
something like half a million, and I have not let the money lie idle.
She is a richer woman by some thousand louis d'ors than she was at his
death. I don't carry her account in my head, but I daresay her fortune
would clear your lands, and leave a nice nest-egg besides. And although
she certainly might find a husband in better plight as regards money
matters, yet, as you are so much attached to each other, and happiness,
after all, is before gold, I shall make no difficulties. I noticed the
girl was absent and sentimental of late, but never guessed the real
cause. Ah, baron! you fascinating dogs have much to answer for!"
Whilst Fatello thus ran on, with, as usual, more bluntness than good
breeding, Steinfeld was evidently on thorns; and at the first appearance
of a pause in the banker's discourse, he impatiently struck in.
"I must beg your attention, M. Fatello," said he, "whilst I repeat what
you evidently have imperfectly understood--that it has never entered my
head to gain Mademoiselle Gonfalon's affections, and that I have no
reason to believe I should succeed in the attempt. I again repeat, that
nothing but the most innocent and unimportant flirtation has passed
between us. I am deeply sensible of your kind intentions--grateful for
your generous willingness to overlook my unfortunate circumstances, and
to promote my marriage with your sister-in-law; but, flattering and
advantageous as such a union would be to me, I am not certain it would
lead to that happiness which you justly deem preferable to wealth. I
doubt whether my disposition and that of Mademoiselle Sebastiana would
exactly harmonise. Moreover, necessitous though I am, it goes against
my pride to owe everything to my wife. It would pain me to see her
dowry swallowed up by my debts. Let us drop the subject, I entreat you.
To-morrow you will appreciate and rejoice at my hesitation. I fully
comprehend the generous impulse that prompts you. Having done me an
injustice, you would compensate me beyond my merits. Thanks, my good
friend; but believe me, if happiness resides not in wealth, neither is
it found in hasty or ill-assorted unions. And, to tell you the truth,
however politic a rich marriage might be in the present critical state
of my affairs, I long ago made a vow against matrimony, which I still
hesitate to break."
"You are the best judge of your own motives," said Fatello, stiffly,
"but you quite misconstrue mine. It never entered my head to view you
as a victim, or to think myself called upon to atone, by providing you
with a rich and handsome wife, for the jealousy you so successfully
proved groundless. Such compensation would be excessive for so slight
an injury. No, no, baron--you have quite mistaken me. As the nearest
connection and natural guardian of Mademoiselle Gonfalon, it is my duty
to watch over her, and not to allow her feelings to be trifled with. For
some time past I have suspected her affections were engaged, but it
never occurred to me they were fixed upon you. Well--last night I go to
a ball, and, actuated by suspicions to which it is unnecessary to recur,
I listen to your conversation with my sister-in-law. To a plain man
like myself, it bore but one interpretation--that you have sought and
won her heart. You deny this, and assert your language to have been that
of common gallantry and compliment, such as may be addressed to any
woman without her inferring serious intentions. Here, then, we are
gravely at issue. You maintain my ears deceived me; I persist in
crediting their evidence. Fortunately, an arbiter is easily found. I
shall now return home, see my sister-in-law, and confess to her my
eavesdropping, keeping its real motive and my visit to you profoundly
secret. From her I shall learn how matters really stand. If her account
agree with Baron Steinfeld's, I shall ever more mistrust my hearing; if
the contrary, and that the baron, himself a sworn foe to marriage, has
compromised the happiness of a young and confiding woman, why, then, he
will not be surprised if I seek of him, for so grave an offence, the
reparation which a short time ago I was ready to afford him for one
comparatively insignificant." And Fatello bowed formally, and with
severe countenance moved towards the door. But before he could leave the
room, Steinfeld, who had stood for a moment thoughtful and perplexed,
hurried to intercept him, and laid his hand upon the lock.
"You are really too hasty, Fatello," said he, "and not altogether
reasonable. What ill weed have you trodden upon, that makes you so
captious this morning? Own that our conversation has taken an odd turn!
Would any one believe that you, Fatello the millionnaire press a
marriage between your sister, the wealthy Mademoiselle Gonfalon, and
myself, the needy Baron Steinfeld--and that it is I, the ruined
spendthrift, from whom the obstacles to the match proceed? Neither in
romance nor in real life has the case a precedent. And you may be
assured the world will not applaud your wisdom, nor Mademoiselle
Sebastiana feel grateful for your zeal."
"For the world's applause I care not that," replied Fatello, snapping
his fingers. "As to my sister, I have neither will nor power to
constrain her. I do but afford her the protection she is entitled to at
my hands. I press her upon no man, but neither do I suffer her to be
trifled with. Sebastiana Gonfalon does not lack suitors, I can assure
you."
"Unquestionably," said Steinfeld, with an absent air; "Mademoiselle
Gonfalon is indeed a most charming person, and, were she penniless,
would still be a prize to any man. I only wish I enjoyed the place in
her good opinion you so erroneously imagine me to occupy."
"Well, well," said Fatello, striving to get at the door, before which
the baron had planted himself, "since error there is, it will soon be
cleared up. You cannot blame me, baron, for preferring, in so delicate
an affair, the testimony of my own ears to that of any one person. But
if two unite against me, I shall think myself crazed or bewitched, and
shall at least be silenced and confounded, if not entirely convinced."
"Answer me one question," said Steinfeld. "If yesterday, before you
overheard a part of my conversation with your sister, I had asked of you
her hand, exposing to you at the same time the state of my fortunes, or
rather of my misfortunes, would you then have sanctioned my suit and
pleaded my cause with Mademoiselle Gonfalon? Would you, and will you
now--for, believe me, I need it more than you think--add the weight of
your arguments and advocacy to the prepossession you persist in thinking
your sister has in my favour, a prepossession of whose existence I
hardly dare flatter myself?"
"Why not?" said Fatello, with an air of straightforward cordiality. "Why
not? You are not rich, certainly, but Sebastiana is rich enough for
both. You have high birth, talents, interest with the Emperor, and,
once married, with your debts paid, and your wild oats sown, you may
take ambition instead of pleasure for a mistress, and aspire to high
employment. Why not return to diplomacy, for which you are so admirably
qualified, and come back to us as Austrian ambassador? Believe me,
baron, there is a fine career before you, if you will but pursue it."
"Perhaps," said Steinfeld, smiling to himself, like a man to whom a
bright perspective is suddenly thrown open; "and, as you say, the
first step would be a suitable marriage, which, by ridding me of all
encumbrance, might enable me to climb lightly and steadily the hill
of wealth and honours."
"And a millionaire brother-in-law to give you an occasional push by the
way," added Fatello, with one of his heavy, purse-proud smiles; "pushes
you may repay in kind, for diplomatist and financier should ever hunt in
couples."
"My dear Fatello," said Steinfeld, "the prospect is too charming to be
lightly relinquished. You must think strangely of my first reluctance
to avail myself of your friendly disposition in my favour; but I so
little suspected it, I was so bewildered by its sudden revelation, so
embarrassed by my own difficulties--and then pride, you know--a morbid
fear of being thought mercenary; in short, you will make allowance for
my strange way of meeting your kind encouragement. I can only say, that
since you deem me worthy of her, and if you can obtain her consent (a
more difficult task, I fear, than you imagine), I shall be the happiest
of men as the husband of the adorable Sebastiana."
"That is speaking to the purpose," said Fatello; "and, for my part, I
repeat that I shall be happy to call you brother-in-law. I will do my
best for you with Sebastiana, to whom I will at once communicate your
formal demand in marriage. But, pshaw! you rogue," added he, with a
clumsy attempt at archness, "you have made pretty sure of her consent,
and need no brotherly advocate."
"Indeed you are mistaken," replied Steinfeld, earnestly. "I only wish
I were as confident, and with good reason, as you think me."
"Well, well, no matter," said the banker. "You shall shortly hear your
fate."
"I shall be on thorns till I learn it," said the baron. "And, my dear
Fatello," said he, detaining the banker, who, after shaking hands with
him, was about to leave the room, "it is perhaps not necessary to
refer--at least not weigh upon--our conversation at last night's
masquerade. It might vex Mademoiselle Gonfalon--to learn that she had
been overheard--or--she might doubt your having heard, and think I
had been confiding to you a presumptuous and unfounded belief of her
partiality for myself. Women, you know, are susceptible on these points;
it might indispose her towards me, and lessen my chance. In short," he
added, with a smile, "if you will be guided by an _ex-roue_, now
reformed, but who has some little experience of the female heart, you
will confine yourself to the communication of my proposals, without
reference to anything past, and apply all your eloquence to induce
Mademoiselle Sebastiana to receive them as favourably as yourself."
Fatello nodded knowingly.
"Ay, ay," said he, "I see I need not despair of my ears. They do not
serve me so badly. But never fear, baron--I will know nothing, except
that you are desperately in love, and that your life depends on your
suit's success. That is the established formula, is it not?"
When the baron--after escorting Fatello, in spite of his resistance,
to the door of the pavilion, where the banker's carriage awaited
him--re-entered the breakfast-room, the joyous and hopeful expression
his countenance had worn during the latter part of his conversation with
his visitor was exchanged for one of anxiety and doubt. Instead of
returning to the breakfast, of which he had scarcely eaten a mouthful,
he drew his arm-chair to the fire, threw himself into it, and fell into
a brown study. The attentive valet, who came in full of concern for his
master's interrupted meal, was sharply dismissed, with an order to admit
no callers. After a short time, however, Steinfeld's cogitations
apparently assumed a rosier hue. The wrinkles on his brow relaxed their
rigidity, he ceased to gnaw his mustache, and at length a smile dawned
upon his features, and grew till it burst into a laugh. Something or
other inordinately tickled the baron's fancy; for he lay back in his
chair and laughed heartily, but silently, with the eyes rather than the
mouth, for nearly a minute. Then getting up, and lounging pensively
through the room, he indulged in a soliloquy of muttered and broken
sentences, which, like the secret cipher of a band of conspirators, were
unintelligible without a key. Their obscurity was increased by a style
of metaphor borrowed from the card-table, and which a man of such
correct taste as Steinfeld would doubtless have scrupled to employ in
conversation with any one but himself.
"What an odd caprice of fate!" he said. "A strange turn in the game,
indeed! The card I most feared turns up trumps! It rather deranges my
calculations; but perhaps it is as good a card as the other. Decidedly
as sure a one. What certainty that yonder pedantic booby is right in his
prognostics? And then there was no avoiding it. Provided, only, Fatello
is silent about last night. If not, all is spoilt. And if she makes a
scene! Your Spanish dames are reputed fiery as Arabs; but I take her for
one of the milder sort--rather a pining than a storming beauty. What if
I were to miss both, by some infernal _quiproquo_ or other? Query, too,
whether Sebastiana accepts; but I think, with Fatello to back me, I need
not fear much on that score. I detect his motives. To your rich upstart,
money is dirt compared with descent, connection, title. He would like
to be an ambassador's brother-in-law, the near connection of a family
dating from Charlemagne--he, the man of nothing, with plebeian written
on his front. Upwards of half a million. Seven hundred thousand, I
daresay. I had reckoned on nearly double, and now I may lose both. Well,
_a la grace du diable_. I will go take a gallop."
And in another half hour the aspirant to the hand and fortune of
Sebastiana Gonfalon was cantering round the Bois de Boulogne, followed
at the prescribed distance by Celestin, who, mounted on a fine English
horse, near sixteen hands high, bore no slight resemblance to an ape
exalted on an elephant.