DIFFICULTIES.
While we walked together towards Meurice, I explained to Trevanion the
position in which I stood; and having detailed, at full length, the
fracas at the Salon, and the imprisonment of O’Leary, entreated his
assistance in behalf of him, as well as to free me from some of my many
embarrassments.
It was strange enough—though at first so pre-occupied was I with other
thoughts, that I paid but little attention to it—that no part of my
eventful evening seemed to make so strong an impression on him as my
mention of having seen my cousin Guy, and heard from him of the death
of my uncle. At this portion of my story he smiled, with so much
significance of meaning, that I could not help asking his reason.
“It is always an unpleasant task, Mr. Lorrequer, to speak in any way,
however delicately, in a tone of disparagement of a man’s relatives;
and, therefore, as we are not long enough acquainted—”
“But pray,” said I, “waive that consideration, and only remember the
position in which I now am. If you know any thing of this business, I
entreat you to tell me—I promise to take whatever you may be disposed
to communicate, in the same good part it is intended.”
“Well, then, I believe you are right; but, first, let me ask you, how
do you know of your uncle’s death; for I have reason to doubt it?”
“From Guy; he told me himself.”
“When did you see him, and where?”
“Why, I have just told you; I saw him last night at the Salon.”
“And you could not be mistaken?”
“Impossible! Besides, he wrote to me a note which I received this
morning—here it is.”
“Hem—ha. Well, are you satisfied that this is his handwriting?” said
Trevanion, as he perused the note slowly twice over.
“Why, of course—but stop—you are right; it is not his hand, nor do I
know the writing, now that you direct my attention to it. But what can
that mean? You, surely, do not suppose that I have mistaken any one for
him; for, independent of all else, his knowledge of my family, and my
uncle’s affairs, would quite disprove that.”
“This is really a complex affair,” said Trevanion, musingly. “How long
may it be since you saw your cousin—before last night, I mean?”
“Several years; above six, certainly.”
“Oh, it is quite possible, then,” said Trevanion, musingly; “do you
know, Mr. Lorrequer, this affair seems much more puzzling to me than to
you, and for this plain reason—I am disposed to think you never saw
your cousin last night.”
“Why, confound it, there is one circumstance that I think may satisfy
you on that head. You will not deny that I saw some one, who very much
resembled him; and certainly, as he lent me above three thousand franks
to play with at the table, it looks rather more like his act than that
of a perfect stranger.”
“Have you got the money?” asked Trevanion dryly.
“Yes,” said I; “but certainly you are the most unbelieving of mortals,
and I am quite happy that I have yet in my possession two of the
billets de banque, for, I suppose, without them, you would scarcely
credit me.” I here opened my pocket-book, and produced the notes.
He took them, examined them attentively for an instant, held them
between him and the light, refolded them, and, having placed them in my
pocket-book, said—“I thought as much—they are forgeries.”
“Hold!” said I, “my cousin Guy, whatever wildness he may have
committed, is yet totally incapable of—”
“I never said the contrary, replied Trevanion, in the same dry tone as
before.
“Then what can you mean, for I see no alternative between that and
totally discrediting the evidence of my senses?”
“Perhaps I can suggest a middle course,” said Trevanion; “lend me,
therefore, a patient hearing for a few moments, and I may be able to
throw some light upon this difficult matter. You may never have heard
that there is, in this same city of Paris, a person so extremely like
your cousin Guy, that his most intimate friends have daily mistaken one
for the other, and this mistake has the more often been made, from the
circumstances of their both being in the habit of frequenting the same
class in society, where, knowing and walking with the same people, the
difficulty of discriminating has been greatly increased. This
individual, who has too many aliases for one to know which to
particularise him by, is one of that numerous order of beings whom a
high state of civilization is always engendering and throwing up on the
surface of society; he is a man of low birth and mean connexions, but
gifted with most taking manners and an unexceptionable address and
appearance; these advantages, and the possession of apparently
independent means, have opened to him the access to a certain set of
people, who are well known and well received in society, and obtained
for him, what he prizes much more, the admission into several clubs
where high play is carried on. In this mixed assemblage, which sporting
habits and gambling, (that grand leveller of all distinctions,) have
brought together, this man and your cousin Guy met frequently, and,
from the constant allusion to the wonderful resemblance between them,
your eccentric cousin, who, I must say, was never too select in his
acquaintances, frequently amused himself by practical jokes upon their
friends, which served still more to nurture the intimacy between them;
and from this habit, Mr. Dudley Morewood, for such is his latest
patronymic, must have enjoyed frequent opportunities of hearing much of
your family and relations, a species of information he never neglected,
though at the moment it might appear not so immediately applicable to
his purposes. Now, this man, who knows of every new English arrival in
Paris, with as much certainty as the police itself, would at once be
aware of your being here, and having learned from Guy how little
intercourse there had been of late years between you, would not let
slip an opportunity of availing himself of the likeness, if any thing
could thereby turn to his profit.”
“Stop,” cried I; “you have opened my eyes completely, for now I
remember that, as I continued to win last night, this man, who was
playing hazard at another table, constantly borrowed from me, but
always in gold, invariably refusing the billets de banque as too high
for his game.”
“There his object was clear enough; for besides obtaining your gold, he
made you the means of disseminating his false billets de banque.”
“So that I have been actually playing and winning upon this fellow’s
forgeries,” said I; “and am perhaps at this very instant inscribed in
the ‘Livre noir’ of the police, as a most accomplished swindler; but
what could be the intention of his note of this morning?”
“As to that,” said Trevanion, “it is hard to say; one thing you may
assuredly rely upon—it is not an unnecessary epistle, whatever be its
object; he never wastes his powder when the game flies too high; so we
must only wait patiently for the unravelment of his plans, satisfied
that we, at least, know something. What most surprises me is, his
venturing, at present, to appear in public; for it is not above two
months since an escapade of his attracted so much attention of the play
world here, that he was obliged to leave, and it was supposed that he
would never return to Paris.”
“One piece of good fortune there is at least,” said I, “which, I can
safely say repays me for any and all the annoyance this unhappy affair
may cause me; it is, that my poor old uncle is still alive and well.
Not all my anticipated pleasures, in newly acquired wealth, could have
afforded me the same gratification that this fact does, for, although
never so much his favourite as my cousin, yet the sense of
protection—the feeling of confidence, which is inseparable from the
degree of relationship between us—standing, as he has ever done, in the
light of a father to me, is infinitely more pleasurable than the
possession of riches, which must ever suggest to me, the recollection
of a kind friend lost to me for ever. But so many thoughts press on
me—so many effects of this affair are staring me in the face—I really
know not which way to turn, nor can I even collect my ideas
sufficiently, to determine what is first to be done.”
“Leave all that to me,” said Trevanion; “it is a tangled web, but I
think I can unravel it; meanwhile, where does the Militaire reside?
for, among all your pressing engagements, this affair with the
Frenchman must come off first; and for this reason, although you are
not really obliged to give him satisfaction, by his merely producing
your card, and insisting that you are to be responsible for the
misdeeds of any one who might show it as his own address, yet I look
upon it as a most fortunate thing, while charges so heavy may be at
this moment hanging over your head, as the proceedings of last night
involve, that you have a public opportunity of meeting an antagonist in
the field—thereby evincing no fear of publicity, nor any intention of
absconding; for be assured, that the police are at this moment in
possession of what has occurred, and from the fracas which followed,
are well disposed to regard the whole as a concerted scheme to seize
upon the property of the banque, a not uncommon wind-up here after luck
fails. My advice is therefore, meet the man at once; I shall take care
that the prefect is informed that you have been imposed upon by a
person passing himself off as your relative, and enter bail for your
appearance, whenever you are called upon; that being done, we shall
have time for a moment’s respite to look around us, and consider the
other bearings of this difficult business.”
“Here, then, is the card of address,” said I; “Eugene Dejoncourt
Capitaine de Cavalerie, No. 8, Chausse D’Antin.”
“Dejoncourt! why, confound it, this is not so pleasant; he is about the
best shot in Paris, and a very steady swordsman besides, I don’t like
this.”
“But you forget he is the friend, not the principal here.”
“The more good fortune yours,” said Trevanion, drily; “for I
acknowledge I should not give much for your chance at twenty paces
opposite his pistol; then who is the other?”
“Le Baron d’Haulpenne,” said I, “and his name is all that I know of
him; his very appearance is unknown to me.”
“I believe I am acquainted with him,” said Trevanion; “but here we are
at Meurice. Now I shall just write a few lines to a legal friend, who
will manage to liberate Mr. O’Leary, whose services we shall need, two
persons are usual on each side in this country, and then, ‘a
l’ouvrage.’”
The note written and despatched; Trevanion jumped into a cab, and set
out for the Chausse D’Antin; leaving me to think over, as well as I
could, the mass of trouble and confusion that twenty-four hours of life
in Paris had involved me in.