CAPTAIN TREVANION’S ADVENTURE.
[Illustration: Trevanion Astonishing the Bully Gendemar]
As the day was now waning apace, and I was still unprovided with any
one who could act as my second, I set out upon a search through the
various large hotels in the neighbourhood, trusting that amid my
numerous acquaintance I should be fortunate enough to find some of them
at Paris. With a most anxious eye I scanned the lists of arrivals at
the usual haunts of my countrymen, in the Rue Rivoli, and the Place
Vendome, but without success; there were long catalogues of “Milors,”
with their “couriers,” &c. but not one name known to me in the number.
I repaired to Galignani’s library, which, though crowded as ever with
English, did not present to me one familiar face. From thence I turned
into the Palais Royale, and at last, completely jaded by walking, and
sick from disappointment, I sat down upon a bench in the Tuilleries
Garden.
I had scarcely been there many minutes when a gentleman accosted me in
English, saying, “May I ask if this be your property?” showing, at the
same time, a pocket-book which I had inadvertently dropped in pulling
out my handkerchief. As I thanked him for his attention, and was about
to turn away, I perceived that he continued to look very steadily at
me. At length he said,
“I think I am not mistaken; I have the pleasure to see Mr. Lorrequer,
who may perhaps recollect my name, Trevanion of the 43rd. The last time
we met was at Malta.”
“Oh, I remember perfectly. Indeed I should be very ungrateful if I did
not; for to your kind offices there I am indebted for my life. You must
surely recollect the street row at the ‘Caserne?’”
“Yes; that was a rather brisk affair while it lasted; but, pray, how
long are you here?”
“Merely a few days; and most anxious am I to leave as soon as possible;
for, independently of pressing reasons to wish myself elsewhere, I have
had nothing but trouble and worry since my arrival, and at this instant
am involved in a duel, without the slightest cause that I can discover,
and, what is still worse, without the aid of a single friend to
undertake the requisite negociation for me.”
“If my services can in any way assist—”
“Oh, my dear captain, this is really so great a favour that I cannot
say how much I thank you.”
“Say nothing whatever, but rest quite assured that I am completely at
your disposal; for although we are not very old friends, yet I have
heard so much of you from some of ours, that I feel as if we had been
long acquainted.”
This was an immense piece of good fortune to me; for, of all the
persons I knew, he was the most suited to aid me at this moment. In
addition to a thorough knowledge of the continent and its habits, he
spoke French fluently, and had been the most renomme authority in the
duello to a large military acquaintance; joining to a consummate tact
and cleverness in his diplomacy, a temper that never permitted itself
to be ruffled, and a most unexceptionable reputation for courage. In a
word, to have had Trevanion for your second, was not only to have
secured odds in your favour, but, still better, to have obtained the
certainty that, let the affair take what turn it might, you were sure
of coming out of it with credit. He was the only man I have ever met,
who had much mixed himself in transactions of this nature, and yet
never, by any chance, had degenerated into the fire-eater; more quiet,
unassuming manners it was impossible to meet with, and, in the various
anecdotes I have heard of him, I have always traced a degree of
forbearance, that men of less known bravery might not venture to
practise. At the same time, when once roused by any thing like
premeditated insult—or pre-determined affront—he became almost
ungovernable, and it would be safer to beard the lion in his den than
cross his path. Among the many stories, and there were a great many
current in his regiment concerning him, there was one so singularly
characteristic of the man, that, as I have passingly mentioned his name
here, I may as well relate it; at the same time premising that, as it
is well known, I may only be repeating an often-heard tale to many of
my readers.
When the regiment to which Trevanion belonged became part of the army
of occupation in Paris, he was left at Versailles seriously ill from
the effects of a sabre-wound he received at Waterloo, and from which
his recovery at first was exceedingly doubtful. At the end of several
weeks, however, he became out of danger, and was able to receive the
visits of his brother officers, whenever they were fortunate enough to
obtain a day’s leave of absence, to run down and see him. From them he
learned that one of his oldest friends in the regiment had fallen in a
duel, during the time of his illness, and that two other officers were
dangerously wounded—one of whom was not expected to survive. When he
inquired as to the reasons of these many disasters, he was informed
that since the entrance of the allies into Paris, the French officers,
boiling with rage and indignation at their recent defeat, and smarting
under the hourly disgrace which the presence of their conquerors
suggested, sought out, by every means in their power, opportunities of
insult; but always so artfully contrived as to render the opposite
party the challenger, thus reserving to themselves the choice of
weapons. When therefore it is borne in mind that the French are the
most expert swordsmen in Europe, little doubt can exist as to the issue
of these combats; and, in fact, scarcely a morning passed without three
or four English or Prussian officers being carried through the Barriere
de l’Etoile, if not dead, at least seriously wounded, and condemned to
carry with them through life the inflictions of a sanguinary and savage
spirit of revenge.
While Trevanion listened to this sad recital, and scarcely did a day
come without adding to the long catalogue of disasters, he at once
perceived that the quiet deportment and unassuming demeanour which so
strongly characterise the English officer, were construed by their
French opponents into evidences of want of courage, and saw that to so
systematic a plan for slaughter no common remedy could be applied, and
that some “coup d’etat” was absolutely necessary, to put it down once
and for ever.
In the history of these sanguinary rencontres, one name was continually
recurring, generally as the principal, sometimes the instigator of the
quarrel. This was an officer of a chasseur regiment, who had the
reputation of being the best swordsman in the whole French army, and
was no less distinguished for his “skill at fence,” than his
uncompromising hatred of the British, with whom alone, of all the
allied forces, he was ever known to come in contact. So celebrated was
the “Capitaine Augustin Gendemar” for his pursuits, that it was well
known at that time in Paris that he was the president of a duelling
club, associated for the express and avowed object of provoking to
insult, and as certainly dooming to death every English officer upon
whom they could fasten a quarrel.
The Cafe Philidor, at that period in the Rue Vivienne, was the
rendezvous of this reputable faction, and here “le Capitaine” reigned
supreme, receiving accounts of the various “affairs” which were
transacting—counselling and plotting for the future. His ascendancy
among his countrymen was perfectly undisputed, and being possessed of
great muscular strength, with that peculiarly “farouche” exterior,
without which courage is nothing in France, he was in every way
calculated for the infamous leadership he assumed.
It was, unfortunately, to this same cafe, being situated in what was
called the English quarter, that the officers of the 43rd regiment were
in the habit of resorting, totally unaware of the plots by which they
were surrounded, and quite unsuspecting the tangled web of deliberate
and cold-blooded assassination in which they were involved, and here
took place the quarrel, the result of which was the death of
Trevanion’s friend, a young officer of great promise, and universally
beloved in his regiment.
As Trevanion listened to these accounts, his impatience became daily
greater, that his weak state should prevent his being among his brother
officers, when his advice and assistance were so imperatively required,
and where, amid all the solicitude for his perfect recovery, he could
not but perceive they ardently wished for him.
The day at last arrived, and restored to something like his former
self, Trevanion once more appeared in the mess-room of his regiment.
Amid the many sincere and hearty congratulations on his recovered
looks, were not a few half-expressed hints that he might not go much
out into the world for some little time to come. To these friendly
admonitions Trevanion replied by a good-humoured laugh, and a ready
assurance that he understood the intended kindness, and felt in no wise
disposed to be invalided again. “In fact,” said he, “I have come up
here to enjoy life a little, not to risque it; but, among the sights of
your gay capital, I must certainly have a peep at your famed captain,
of whom I have heard too much not to feel an interest in him.”
Notwithstanding the many objections to this, made with a view to delay
his visit to the Philidor to a later period, it was at length agreed,
that they should all repair to the cafe that evening, but upon the
express understanding that every cause of quarrel should be strictly
avoided, and that their stay should be merely sufficient to satisfy
Trevanion’s curiosity as to the personnel of the renomme captain.
It was rather before the usual hour of the cafe’s filling, that a
number of English officers, among whom was Trevanion, entered the
“salon” of the “Philidor;” having determined not to attract any unusual
attention, they broke into little knots and parties of threes and
fours, and dispersed through the room, where they either sipped their
coffee or played at dominoes, then, as now, the staple resource of a
French cafe.
The clock over the “comptoir” struck eight, and, at the same instant, a
waiter made his appearance, carrying a small table, which he placed
beside the fire, and, having trimmed a lamp, and placed a large
fauteuil before it, was about to withdraw, when Trevanion, whose
curiosity was roused by the singularity of these arrangements,
determined upon asking for whose comfort they were intended. The waiter
stared for a moment at the question, with an air as if doubting the
seriousness of him who put it, and at last replied—“Pour Monsieur le
Capitaine, je crois,” with a certain tone of significance upon the
latter words.
“Le Capitaine! but what captain?” said he, carelessly; “for I am a
captain, and that gentleman there—and there, too, is another,” at the
same instant throwing himself listlessly into the well-cushioned chair,
and stretching out his legs at full length upon the hearth.
The look of horror which this quiet proceeding on his part, elicited
from the poor waiter, so astonished him that he could not help
saying—“is there any thing the matter with you, my friend; are you
ill?”
“No, monsieur, not ill; nothing the matter with me; but you, sir; oh,
you, sir, pray come away.”
“Me,” said Trevanion; “me! why, my good man, I was never better in my
life; so now just bring me my coffee and the Moniteur, if you have it;
there, don’t stare that way, but do as I bid you.”
There was something in the assured tone of these few words that either
overawed or repressed every rising feeling of the waiter, for his
interrogator; for, silently handing his coffee and the newspaper, he
left the room; not, however, without bestowing a parting glance so full
of terror and dismay that our friend was obliged to smile at it. All
this was the work of a few minutes, and not until the noise of new
arrivals had attracted the attention of his brother officers, did they
perceive where he had installed himself, and to what danger he was
thus, as they supposed, unwittingly exposed.
It was now, however, too late for remonstrance; for already several
French officers had noticed the circumstance, and by their interchange
of looks and signs, openly evinced their satisfaction at it, and their
delight at the catastrophe which seemed inevitable to the luckless
Englishman.
In perfect misery at what they conceived their own fault, in not
apprising him of the sacred character of that place, they stood
silently looking at him as he continued to sip his coffee, apparently
unconscious of every thing and person about him.
There was now a more than ordinary silence in the cafe, which at all
times was remarkable for the quiet and noiseless demeanour of its
frequenters, when the door was flung open by the ready waiter, and the
Capitaine Augustin Gendemar entered. He was a large, squarely-built
man, with a most savage expression of countenance, which a bushy beard
and shaggy overhanging moustache served successfully to assist; his
eyes were shaded by deep, projecting brows, and long eyebrows slanting
over them, and increasing their look of piercing sharpness; there was
in his whole air and demeanour that certain French air of swaggering
bullyism, which ever remained in those who, having risen from the
ranks, maintained the look of ruffianly defiance which gave their early
character for courage peculiar merit.
To the friendly salutations of his countrymen he returned the slightest
and coldest acknowledgments, throwing a glance of disdain around him as
he wended his way to his accustomed place beside the fire; this he did
with as much of noise and swagger as he could well contrive; his sabre
and sabretasch clanking behind, his spurs jangling, and his heavy step,
made purposely heavier to draw upon him the notice and attention he
sought for. Trevanion alone testified no consciousness of his entrance,
and appeared totally engrossed by the columns of his newspaper, from
which he never lifted his eyes for an instant. Le Capitaine at length
reached the fire-place, when, no sooner did he behold his accustomed
seat in the possession of another, than he absolutely started back with
surprise and anger.
What might have been his first impulse it is hard to say, for, as the
blood rushed to his face and forehead, he clenched his hands firmly,
and seemed for an instant, as he eyed the stranger, like a tiger about
to spring upon its victim; this was but for a second, for turning
rapidly round towards his party, he gave them a look of peculiar
meaning, showing two rows of white teeth, with a grin which seemed to
say, “I have taken my line;” and he had done so. He now ordered the
waiter, in a voice of thunder, to bring him a chair, this he took
roughly from him, and placed, with a crash, upon the floor, exactly
opposite that of Trevanion, and still so near as scarcely to permit of
his sitting down upon it. The noisy vehemence of this action at last
appeared to have roused Trevanion’s attention, for he now, for the
first time, looked up from his paper, and quietly regarded his
vis-a-vis. There could not in the world be a stronger contrast to the
bland look and courteous expression of Trevanion’s handsome features,
than the savage scowl of the enraged Frenchman, in whose features the
strong and ill-repressed workings of passion were twitching and
distorting every lineament and line; indeed no words could ever convey
one half so forcibly as did that look, insult—open, palpable, deep,
determined insult.
Trevanion, whose eyes had been merely for a moment lifted from his
paper, again fell, and he appeared to take no notice whatever of the
extraordinary proximity of the Frenchman, still less of the savage and
insulting character of his looks.
Le Capitaine, having thus failed to bring on the eclaircissement he
sought for, proceeded to accomplish it by other means; for, taking the
lamp, by the light of which Trevanion was still reading, he placed it
at his side of the table, and at the same instant stretching across his
arm, he plucked the newspaper from his hand, giving at the same moment
a glance of triumph towards the bystanders, as though he would say,
“you see what he must submit to.” Words cannot describe the
astonishment of the British officers, as they beheld Trevanion, under
this gross and open insult, content himself by a slight smile and half
bow, as if returning a courtesy, and then throw his eyes downward, as
if engaged in deep thought, while the triumphant sneer of the French,
at this unaccountable conduct, was absolutely maddening to them to
endure.
But their patience was destined to submit to stronger proof, for at
this instant le Capitaine stretched forth one enormous leg, cased in
his massive jack-boot, and with a crash deposited the heel upon the
foot of their friend Trevanion. At length he is roused, thought they,
for a slight flush of crimson flitted across his cheek, and his upper
lip trembled with a quick spasmodic twitching; but both these signs
were over in a second, and his features were as calm and unmoved as
before, and his only appearance of consciousness of the affront, was
given by his drawing back his chair and placing his legs beneath it, as
for protection.
This last insult, and the tame forbearance with which it was submitted
to, produced all their opposite effects upon the by-standers, and looks
of ungovernable rage and derisive contempt were every moment
interchanging; indeed, were it not for the all-absorbing interest which
the two great actors in the scene had concentrated upon themselves, the
two parties must have come at once into open conflict.
The clock of the cafe struck nine, the hour at which Gendemar always
retired, so calling to the waiter for his petit verre of brandy, he
placed his newspaper upon the table, and putting both his elbows upon
it, and his chin upon his hands, he stared full in Trevanion’s face,
with a look of the most derisive triumph, meant to crown the
achievement of the evening. To this, as to all his former insults,
Trevanion appeared still insensible, and merely regarded him with his
never—changing half smile; the petite verre arrived; le Capitaine took
it in his hand, and, with a nod of most insulting familiarity, saluted
Trevanion, adding with a loud voice, so as to be heard on every side—“a
votre courage, Anglais.” He had scarcely swallowed the liqueur when
Trevanion rose slowly from his chair, displaying to the astonished gaze
of the Frenchman the immense proportions and gigantic frame of a man
well known as the largest officer in the British army; with one stride
he was beside the chair of the Frenchman, and with the speed of
lightening he seized his nose by one hand, while with the other he
grasped his lower jaw, and, wrenching open his mouth with the strength
of an ogre, he spat down his throat.
So sudden was the movement, that before ten seconds had elapsed, all
was over, and the Frenchman rushed from the room, holding the fragments
of his jaw-bone, (for it was fractured!) And followed by his
countrymen, who, from that hour, deserted the Cafe Philidor, nor was
there ever any mention of the famous captain during the stay of the
regiment in Paris.