PARIS.
[Illustration: Mr. O’Leary Creating a Sensation at the Salon des
Etranges]
Nothing more worthy of recording occurred before our arrival at Meurice
on the third day of our journey. My friend O’Leary had, with his usual
good fortune, become indispensable to his new acquaintance, and it was
not altogether without some little lurking discontent that I perceived
how much less often my services were called in request since his having
joined our party; his information, notwithstanding its very scanty
extent, was continually relied upon, and his very imperfect French
everlastingly called into requisition to interpret a question for the
ladies. Yes, thought I, “Othello’s occupation’s gone;” one of two
things has certainly happened, either Mrs. Bingham and her daughter
have noticed my continued abstraction of mind, and have attributed it
to the real cause, the pre-occupation of my affections; or thinking, on
the other hand, that I am desperately in love with one or other of
them, have thought that a little show of preference to Mr. O’Leary may
stimulate me to a proposal at once. In either case I resolved to lose
no time in taking my leave, which there could be no difficulty in doing
now, as the ladies had reached their intended destination, and had
numerous friends in Paris to advise and assist them; besides that I had
too long neglected the real object of my trip, and should lose no time
in finding out the Callonbys, and at once learn what prospect of
success awaited me in that quarter. Leaving my fair friends then to
refresh themselves after the journey, and consigning Mr. O’Leary to the
enjoyment of his meershaum, through the aid of which he had rendered
his apartment like a Dutch swamp in autumn, the only portion of his own
figure visible through the mist being his short legs and heavy shoes.
On reaching the house in the Rue de la Paix, where the Callonbys had
resided, I learned that they were still at Baden, and were not expected
in Paris for some weeks; that Lord Kilkee had arrived that morning, and
was then dining at the Embassy, having left an invitation for me to
dine with him on the following day, if I happened to call. As I turned
from the door, uncertain whither to turn my steps, I walked on
unconsciously towards the Boulevard, and occupied as I was, thinking
over all the chances before me, did not perceive where I stood till the
bright glare of a large gas lamp over my head apprised me that I was at
the door of the well known Salon des Etrangers, at the corner of the
Rue Richelieu; carriages, citadines, and vigilantes were crowding,
crashing, and clattering on all sides, as the host of fashion and the
gaming-table were hastening to their champ de bataille. Not being a
member of the Salon, and having little disposition to enter, if I had
been, I stood for some minutes looking at the crowd as it continued to
press on towards the splendid and brilliantly lighted stairs, which
leads from the very street to the rooms of the palace, for such, in the
magnificence and luxury of its decorations, it really is. As I was on
the very eve of turning away, a large and very handsome cab-horse
turned the corner from the balustrade, with the most perfect
appointment of harness and carriage I had seen for a long time.
While I continued to admire the taste and propriety of the equipage, a
young man in deep mourning sprung from the inside and stood upon the
pavement before me. “A deux heures, Charles,” said he to his servant,
as the cab turned slowly around. The voice struck me as well known. I
waited till he approached the lamp, to catch a glimpse of the face; and
what was my surprise to recognise my cousin, Guy Lorrequer of the 10th,
whom I had not met with for six years before. My first impulse was not
to make myself known to him. Our mutual position with regard to Lady
Jane was so much a mystery, as regarded myself, that I feared the
result of any meeting, until I was sufficiently aware of how matters
stood, and whether we were to meet as friends and relations, or rivals,
and consequently enemies.
Before I had time to take my resolution, Guy had recognised me, and
seizing me by the hand with both his, called, “Harry, my old friend,
how are you? how long have you been here, and never to call on me? Why
man, what is the meaning of this?” Before I had time to say that I was
only a few hours in Paris, he again interrupted me by saying: “And how
comes it that you are not in mourning? You must surely have heard it.”
“Heard what?” I cried, nearly hoarse from agitation. “Our poor old
friend, Sir Guy, didn’t you know, is dead.” Only those who have felt
how strong the ties of kindred are, as they decrease in number, can
tell how this news fell upon my heart. All my poor uncle’s kindnesses
came one by one full upon my memory; his affectionate letters of
advice; his well-meant chidings, too, even dearer to me than his praise
and approval, completely unmanned me; and I stood speechless and
powerless before my cousin as he continued to detail to me the rapid
progress of Sir Guy’s malady, and attack of gout in the head, which
carried him off in three days. Letters had been sent to me in different
places, but none reached; and at the very moment the clerk of my
uncle’s lawyer was in pursuit of me through the highlands, where some
mistaken information had induced him to follow me.
“You are, therefore,” continued Guy, “unaware that our uncle has dealt
so fairly by you, and indeed by both of us; I have got the
Somersetshire estates, which go with the baronetcy; but the Cumberland
property is all yours; and I heartily wish you joy of having nearly
eight thousand per annum, and one of the sweetest villas that ever man
fancied on Derwentwater. But come along here,” continued he, and he led
me through the crowded corridor and up the wide stair. “I have much to
tell you, and we can be perfectly alone here; no one will trouble
themselves with us.” Unconscious of all around me, I followed Guy along
the gilded and glittering lobby, which led to the Salon, and it was
only as the servant in rich livery came forward to take my hat and cane
that I remembered where I was. Then the full sense of all I had been
listening to rushed upon me, and the unfitness, and indeed the
indecency of the place for such communications as we were engaged in,
came most forcibly before me. Sir Guy, it is true, had always preferred
my cousin to me; he it was who was always destined to succeed both to
his title and his estates, and his wildness and extravagance had ever
met with a milder rebuke and weaker chastisement than my follies and my
misfortunes. Yet still he was my last remaining relative; the only one
I possessed in all the world to whom in any difficulty or trial I had
to look up; and I felt, in the very midst of my newly acquired wealth
and riches, poorer and more alone than ever I had done in my lifetime.
I followed Guy to a small and dimly lighted cabinet off the great
salon, where, having seated ourselves, he proceeded to detail to me the
various events which a few short weeks had accomplished. Of himself he
spoke but little, and never once alluded to the Callonbys at all;
indeed all I could learn was that he had left the army, and purposed
remaining for the winter at Paris, where he appeared to have entered
into all its gaiety and dissipation at once.
“Of course,” said he, “you will give up ‘sodgering’ now; at the best it
is but poor sport after five and twenty, and is perfectly unendurable
when a man has the means of pushing himself in the gay world; and now,
Harry, let us mix a little among the mob here; for Messieurs les
Banquiers don’t hold people in estimation who come here only for the
‘chapons au riz.’ and the champagne glacee, as we should seem to do
were we to stay here much longer.”
Such was the whirl of my thoughts, and so great the confusion in my
ideas from all I had just heard, that I felt myself implicitly
following every direction of my cousin with a child-like obedience, of
the full extent of which I became only conscious when I found myself
seated at the table of the Salon, between my cousin Guy and an old,
hard-visaged, pale-countenanced man, who he told me in a whisper was
Vilelle the Minister.
What a study for the man who would watch the passions and emotions of
his fellow-men, would the table of a rouge et noir gambling-house
present—the skill and dexterity which games of other kinds require,
being here wanting, leave the player free to the full abandonment of
the passion. The interest is not a gradually increasing or vacillating
one, as fortune and knowledge of the game favour; the result is
uninfluenced by any thing of his doing; with the last turned card of
the croupier is he rich or ruined; and thus in the very abstraction of
the anxiety is this the most painfully exciting of all gambling
whatever; the very rattle of the dice-box to the hazard player is a
relief; and the thought that he is in some way instrumental in his good
or bad fortune gives a turn to his thoughts. There is something so like
the inevitable character of fate associated with the result of a
chance, which you can in no way affect or avert, that I have,
notwithstanding a strong bias for play, ever dreaded and avoided the
rouge et noir table; hitherto prudential motives had their share in the
resolve; a small loss at play becomes a matter of importance to a sub
in a marching regiment; and therefore I was firm in my determination to
avoid the gambling-table. Now my fortunes were altered; and as I looked
at the heap of shining louis d’or, which Guy pushed before me in
exchange for a billet de banque of large amount, I felt the full
importance of my altered position, mingling with the old and long
practised prejudices which years had been accumulating to fix. There is
besides some wonderful fascination to most men in the very aspect of
high play: to pit your fortune against that of another—to see whether
or not your luck shall not exceed some others—are feelings that have a
place in most bosoms, and are certainly, if not naturally existing,
most easily generated in the bustle and excitement of the
gambling-house. The splendour of the decorations; the rich profusion of
gilded ornaments; the large and gorgeously framed mirrors; the
sparkling lustres; mingling their effect with the perfumed air of the
apartment, filled with orange trees and other aromatic shrubs; the
dress of the company, among whom were many ladies in costumes not
inferior to those of a court; the glitter of diamonds; the sparkle of
stars and decorations, rendered more magical by knowing that the
wearers were names in history. There, with his round but ample
shoulder, and large massive head, covered with long snow-white hair,
stands Talleyrand, the maker and unmaker of kings, watching with a look
of ill-concealed anxiety the progress of his game. Here is Soult, with
his dogged look and beetled brow; there stands Balzac the author, his
gains here are less derived from the betting than the bettors; he is
evidently making his own of some of them, while in the seeming bon
hommie of his careless manners and easy abandon, they scruple not to
trust him with anecdotes and traits, that from the crucible of his
fiery imagination come forth, like the purified gold from the furnace.
And there, look at that old and weather-beaten man, with grey eyebrows,
and moustaches, who throws from the breast-pocket of his frock ever and
anon, a handful of gold pieces upon the table; he evidently neither
knows nor cares for the amount, for the banker himself is obliged to
count over the stake for him—that is Blucher, the never-wanting
attendant at the Salon; he has been an immense loser, but plays on with
the same stern perseverance with which he would pour his bold cavalry
through a ravine torn by artillery; he stands by the still waning
chance with a courage that never falters.
One strong feature of the levelling character of a taste for play has
never ceased to impress me most forcibly—not only do the individual
peculiarities of the man give way before the all-absorbing passion—but
stranger still, the very boldest traits of nationality even fade and
disappear before it; and man seems, under the high-pressure power of
this greatest of all stimulants, resolved into a most abstract state.
Among all the traits which distinguish Frenchmen from natives of every
country, none is more prominent than a kind of never-failing elasticity
of temperament, which seems almost to defy all the power of misfortune
to depress. Let what will happen, the Frenchman seems to possess some
strong resource within himself, in his ardent temperament, upon which
he can draw at will; and whether on the day after a defeat, the moment
of being deceived in his strongest hopes of returned affection—the
overthrow of some long-cherished wish—it matters not—he never gives way
entirely; but see him at the gaming-table—watch the intense, the aching
anxiety with which his eye follows every card as it falls from the hand
of the croupier—behold the look of cold despair that tracks his stake
as the banker rakes it in among his gains—and you will at once perceive
that here, at least, his wonted powers fail him. No jest escapes the
lips of one, that would badinet upon the steps of the guillotine. The
mocker who would jeer at the torments of revolution, stands like a
coward quailing before the impassive eye and pale cheek of a croupier.
While I continued to occupy myself by observing the different groups
about me, I had been almost mechanically following the game, placing at
each deal some gold upon the table; the result however had interested
me so slightly, that it was only by remarking the attention my game had
excited in others, that my own was drawn towards it. I then perceived
that I had permitted my winnings to accumulate upon the board, and that
in the very deal then commencing, I had a stake of nearly five hundred
pounds upon the deal.
“Faites votre jeu, le jeu est fait,” said the croupier, “trente deux.”
“You have lost, by Jove,” said Guy, in a low whisper, in which I could
detect some trait of agitation.
“Trente et une,” added the croupier. “Rouge perd, et couleur.”
There was a regular buz of wonder through the room at my extraordinary
luck, for thus, with every chance against me, I had won again.
As the croupier placed the billets de banque upon the table, I
overheard the muttered commendations of an old veteran behind me, upon
the coolness and judgment of my play; so much for fortune, thought I,
my judgment consists in a perfect ignorance of the chances, and my
coolness is merely a thorough indifference to success; whether it was
now that the flattery had its effect upon me, or that the passion for
play, so long dormant, had suddenly seized hold upon me, I know not,
but my attention became from that moment rivetted upon the game, and I
played every deal. Guy, who had been from the first betting with the
indifferent success which I have so often observed to attend upon the
calculations of old and experienced gamblers, now gave up, and employed
himself merely in watching my game.
“Harry,” said he at last, “I am completely puzzled as to whether you
are merely throwing down your louis at hazard, or are not the deepest
player I have ever met with.”
“You shall see,” said I, as I stooped over towards the banker, and
whispered, “how far is the betting permitted?”
“Fifteen thousand francs,” said the croupier, with a look of surprise.
“Then be it,” said I; “quinze mille francs, rouge.”
In a moment the rouge won, and the second deal I repeated the bet, and
so continuing on with the like success; when I was preparing my rouleau
for the fifth, the banquier rose, and saying—
“Messiers, la banque est fermee pour ce soir,” proceeded to lock his
casette, and close the table.
“You are satisfied now,” said Guy, rising, “you see you have broke the
banque, and a very pretty incident to commence with your first
introduction to a campaign in Paris.”
Having changed my gold for notes, I stuffed them, with an air of
well-affected carelessness, into my pocket, and strolled through the
Salon, where I had now become an object of considerably more interest
than all the marshals and ministers about me.
“Now, Hal,” said Guy, “I’ll just order our supper in the cabinet, and
join you in a moment.”
As I remained for some minutes awaiting Guy’s return, my attention was
drawn towards a crowd, in a smaller salon, among whom the usual silent
decorum of the play-table seemed held in but small respect, for every
instant some burst of hearty laughter, or some open expression of joy
or anger burst forth, by which I immediately perceived that they were
the votaries of the roulette table, a game at which the strict
propriety and etiquette ever maintained at rouge et noir, are never
exacted. As I pressed nearer, to discover the cause of the mirth, which
every moment seemed to augment, guess my surprise to perceive among the
foremost rank of the players, my acquaintance, Mr. O’Leary, whom I at
that moment believed to be solacing himself with his meershaum at
Meurice. My astonishment at how he obtained admission to the Salon was
even less than my fear of his recognising me. At no time is it
agreeable to find that the man who is regarded as the buffo of a party
turns out to be your friend, but still less is this so, when the
individual claiming acquaintance with you presents any striking
absurdity in his dress or manner, strongly at contrast with the persons
and things about him; and thus it now happened—Mr. O’Leary’s external
man, as we met him on the Calais road, with its various accompaniments
of blouse-cap, spectacles, and tobacco-pipe, were nothing very outre or
remarkable, but when the same figure presented itself among the elegans
of the Parisian world, redolent of eau de Portugal, and superb in the
glories of brocade waistcoats and velvet coats, the thing was too
absurd, and I longed to steal away before any chance should present
itself of a recognition. This, however, was impossible, as the crowd
from the other table were all gathered round us, and I was obliged to
stand fast, and trust that the excitement of the game, in which he
appeared to be thoroughly occupied, might keep his eye fixed on another
quarter; I now observed that the same scene in which I had so lately
been occupied at the rouge et noir table, was enacting here, under
rather different circumstances. Mr. O’Leary was the only player, as I
had just been—not, however, because his success absorbed all the
interest of the bystanders, but that, unfortunately, his constant want
of it elicited some strong expression of discontent and mistrust from
him, which excited the loud laughter of the others; but of which, from
his great anxiety in his game, he seemed totally unconscious.
“Faites votre jeu, Messieurs,” said the croupier.
“Wait a bit till I change this,” said Mr. O’Leary, producing an English
sovereign; the action interpreted his wishes, and the money was
converted into coupons de jeu.
I now discovered one great cause of the mirth of the bystanders, at
least the English portion of them. Mr. O’Leary, when placing his money
upon the table, observed the singular practice of announcing aloud the
amount of his bet, which, for his own information, he not only reduced
to English but also Irish currency; thus the stillness of the room was
every instant broken by a strong Irish accent pronouncing something of
this sort—“five francs,” “four and a penny”—“ten francs,” “eight and
three ha’pence.” The amusement thus caused was increased by the
excitement his losses threw him into. He now ceased to play for several
times, when at last, he made an offering of his usual stake.
“Perd,” said the croupier, raking in the piece with a contemptuous air
at the smallness of the bet, and in no way pleased that the interest
Mr. O’Leary excited should prevent the other players from betting.
“Perd,” said O’Leary, “again. Divil another song you sing than ‘perd,’
and I’m not quite clear you’re not cheating all the while—only, God
help you if you are!”
As he so said, the head of a huge black-thorn stick was half protruded
across the table, causing renewed mirth; for, among other regulations,
every cane, however trifling, is always demanded at the door; and thus
a new subject of astonishment arose as to how he had succeeded in
carrying it with him into the salon.
“Here’s at you again,” said O’Leary, regardless of the laughter, and
covering three or four numbers with his jetons.
Round went the ball once more, and once more he lost.
“Look now, divil a lie in it, he makes them go wherever he pleases.
I’ll take a turn now at the tables; fair play’s a jewel—and we’ll see
how you’ll get on.”
So saying, he proceeded to insinuate himself into the chair of the
croupier, whom he proposed to supersede by no very gentle means. This
was of course resisted, and as the loud mirth of the bystanders grew
more and more boisterous, the cries of “a la porte, a la porte,” from
the friends of the bank, rung through the crowd.
“Go it, Pat—go it, Pat,” said Guy, over my shoulder, who seemed to take
a prodigious interest in the proceedings.
At this unexpected recognition of his nativity, for Mr. O’Leary never
suspected he could be discovered by his accent; he looked across the
table, and caught my eye at once.
“Oh, I’m safe now! stand by me, Mr. Lorrequer, and we’ll clear the
room.”
So saying, and without any further provocation, he upset the croupier,
chair and all, with one sudden jerk upon the floor, and giving a
tremendous kick to the casette, sent all the five-franc pieces flying
over him; he then jumped upon the table, and brandishing his
black-thorn through the ormolu lustre, scattered the wax-lights on all
sides, accompanying the exploit by a yell that would have called up all
Connemara at midnight, if it had only been heard there; in an instant,
the gens d’armes, always sufficiently near to be called in if required,
came pouring into the room, and supposing the whole affair had been a
preconcerted thing to obtain possession of the money in the bank,
commenced capturing different members of the company who appeared, by
enjoying the confusion, to be favouring and assisting it. My cousin Guy
was one of the first so treated—a proceeding to which he responded by
an appeal rather in favour with most Englishmen, and at once knocked
down the gen d’arme; this was the signal for a general engagement, and
accordingly, before an explanation could possibly be attempted, a most
terrific combat ensued. The Frenchmen in the room siding with the gen
d’armerie, and making common cause against the English; who, although
greatly inferior in number, possessed considerable advantage, from long
habit in street-rows and boxing encounters. As for myself, I had the
good fortune to be pitted against a very pursy and unwieldy Frenchman,
who sacre’d to admiration, but never put in a single blow at me; while,
therefore, I amused myself practising what old Cribb called “the one,
two,” upon his fat carcase, I had abundant time and opportunity to
watch all that was doing about me, and truly a more ludicrous affair I
never beheld. Imagine about fifteen or sixteen young Englishmen, most
of them powerful, athletic fellows, driving an indiscriminate mob of
about five times their number before them, who, with courage enough to
resist, were yet so totally ignorant of the boxing art, that they
retreated, pell-mell, before the battering phalanx of their sturdy
opponents—the most ludicrous figure of all being Mr. O’Leary himself,
who, standing upon the table, laid about him with a brass lustre that
he had unstrung, and did considerable mischief with this novel
instrument of warfare, crying out the entire time, “murder every
mother’s son of them,” “give them another taste of Waterloo.” Just as
he had uttered the last patriotic sentiment, he received a slight
admonition from behind, by the point of a gen d’arme’s sword, which
made him leap from the table with the alacrity of a harlequin, and come
plump down among the thickest of the fray. My attention was now
directed elsewhere, for above all the din and “tapage” of the encounter
I could plainly hear the row-dow-dow of the drums, and the measured
tread of troops approaching, and at once guessed that a reinforcement
of the gen d’armerie were coming up. Behind me there was a large
window, with a heavy scarlet curtain before it; my resolution was at
once taken, I floored my antagonist, whom I had till now treated with
the most merciful forbearance, and immediately sprung behind the
curtain. A second’s consideration showed that in the search that must
ensue this would afford no refuge, so I at once opened the sash, and
endeavoured to ascertain at what height I was above the ground beneath
me; the night was so dark that I could see nothing, but judging from
the leaves and twigs that reached to the window, that it was a garden
beneath, and auguring from the perfumed smell of the shrubs, that they
could not be tall trees, I resolved to leap, a resolve I had little
time to come to, for the step of the soldiers was already heard upon
the stair. Fixing my hat then down upon my brows, and buttoning my coat
tightly, I let myself down from the window-stool by my hands, and fell
upon my legs in the soft earth of the garden, safe and unhurt. From the
increased clamour and din overhead, I could learn the affray was at its
height, and had little difficulty in detecting the sonorous accent and
wild threats of my friend Mr. O’Leary, high above all the other sounds
around him. I did not wait long, however, to enjoy them; but at once
set about securing my escape from my present bondage. In this I had
little difficulty, for I was directed by a light to a small door,
which, as I approached, found that it led into the den of the
Concierge, and also communicated by another door with the street. I
opened it, therefore, at once, and was in the act of opening the
second, when I felt myself seized by the collar by a strong hand; and
on turning round saw the sturdy figure of the Concierge himself, with a
drawn bayonet within a few inches of my throat, “Tenez, mon ami,” said
I quietly, and placing half a dozen louis, some of my recent spoils, in
his hand, at once satisfied him that, even if I were a robber, I was at
least one that understood and respected the conveniences of society. He
at once relinquished his hold and dropped his weapon, and pulling off
his cap with one hand, to draw the cord which opened the Porte Cochere
with the other, bowed me politely to the street. I had scarcely had
time to insinuate myself into the dense mass of people whom the noise
and confusion within had assembled around the house, when the double
door of the building opened, and a file of gens d’armerie came forth,
leading between them my friend Mr. O’Leary and some others of the
rioters—among whom I rejoiced to find my cousin did not figure. If I
were to judge from his disordered habiliments and scarred visage, Mr.
O’Leary’s resistance to the constituted authorities must have been a
vigorous one, and the drollery of his appearance was certainly not
decreased by his having lost the entire brim of his hat—the covering of
his head bearing, under these distressing circumstances, a strong
resemblance to a saucepan.
As I could not at that moment contribute in any way to his rescue, I
determined on the following day to be present at his examination, and
render him all the assistance in my power. Meanwhile, I returned to
Meurice, thinking of every adventure of the evening much more than of
my own changed condition and altered fortunes.