"And from his lips those words of insult fell--
His sword is good who can maintain them well."
It was the middle of October; the reflux of the winter season was
beginning to fill Paris, and thither Mohun and Livingstone had returned
from their German tour, the latter decidedly the worse for his
wanderings. He had not suffered much physically, for the hard living
that would have utterly broken up some constitutions had only been able
to make his face thinner, to deepen the bistre tints under the eyes, and
to give a more angular gauntness to his massive frame.
But morally he was not the same man. Play, which had formerly been only
an occasional excitement, had now become a necessary part of his daily
existence. Mohun would never say--perhaps he did not know--how much Guy
had lost during those few months. In spite of several gigantic _coups_
(he broke the bank both at Baden and Hombourg), the balance was
fearfully on the wrong side, so much so that it entailed a heavy
mortgage--the maiden one in his time--on the fair lands of Kerton Manor.
I wonder people have not got tired of quoting "_Heureux en jeu;
malheureux en amour_." It seems one of the least true of all stale,
stupid proverbs. Luck will run itself out in more ways than one; and
sometimes you will never hold a trump, however often the suit changes.
The ancients knew better than we when they called the double-sixes
"Venus's cast." The monotony of Guy's reckless dissipations was soon
broken up by an event which ought to have sobered him.
He had been dining with Mohun at the Trois Frères, and they were
returning late toward the Boulevards, when their attention was attracted
by a group in one of the narrow streets leading out of the Rue Vivienne.
Five or six raffish-looking men had surrounded a fair, delicate girl,
and were preparing to besiege her in form, deriving apparently intense
amusement from the piteous entreaties of their victim to be released.
Not the _roués_ of the Regency after the suppers that have become a
by-word--not the _mousquetaires_ after the wildest of their orgies--were
ever so unrelenting in brutality toward women quite lonely and
undefended as those unshorn ornaments of Young France, when replete with
a dinner at forty _sous_, and with the anomalous liquor that Macon
blushes to own.
In all Europe there is no more genial companion and gallant gentleman
than the aristocrat of France _pur sang_--in all the world no more
terrible adversary than her wiry, well-trained soldier; but, from the
prolific decay of old institutions and prejudices, a mushroom growth has
sprouted of child-atheists and precocious profligates, calculating
debauchees while their cheeks are still innocent of down, who, after the
effervescence of a foul, vicious youth has spent itself, simmer down
into avaricious, dishonest _bourgeois_ and bloated café politicians. The
teeth of the Republican dragon have been drawn, but they are sown
broadcast from Dan even to Beersheba. Ancient realm of Capet, Valois,
and Bourbon--motherland of Du Guesclin and Bayard--you may well be proud
of your Cadmean offspring!
Guy was passing the scene with a careless side-glance when the accent of
the suppliant caught his ear--not French, though she spoke the language
perfectly.
"By G--d," he said, dropping Mohun's arm, "I believe it's an
Englishwoman they are bullying;" and three of his long strides took him
into the midst of the group.
Two of the aggressors reeled back, right and left, from the shock of his
mighty shoulders; and griping another, the tallest, by the collar, he
whirled him some paces off on his back in the streaming kennel, as one
might do with a very weak, light little child. "_Au large, canaille_!"
he said, as he advanced on the two who still kept their feet. These drew
back from his path without a second warning. One indeed, eminent in the
_savate_, made a demonstration for an instant; but his comrade, who had
just gathered himself up, caught his arm, muttering "_Ne t'y frotte pas,
Alphonse. C'est trop dur_." None of them fancied an encounter with the
grim giant who confronted them, his muscles braced and salient, his eyes
gleaming with the _gaudia certaminis_, and his nostrils dilated as if
they snuffed the battle.
So they made way for Guy and his charge to pass, only grinding out
between their teeth the strange guttural blasphemies that characterize
impotent Gallic wrath.
Mohun, a reserve scarcely leas formidable, stood by all the while,
looking on lazily; he saw that his companion was more than equal to the
emergency.
"I hope you have not been much annoyed," Livingstone said, kindly.
"Where were you going to? I shall be too happy to escort you, if you
will allow me."
She named the street, only a few hundred yards off, and tried to thank
him gratefully, but her voice was broken and scarcely audible, and the
blinding tears would rush into her eyes. Poor child! it was very long
since she had heard gentle, courteous words in her mother-tongue. She
recovered herself, however, during their short walk, and they had nearly
reached her destination when Livingstone said, "Forgive me for being
impertinent; I have no right to advise you; but I think you would find
it better not to walk alone, often, at this hour. There is always a
chance of something disagreeable."
He could see her blush painfully as she answered, "I have no one to
accompany me. I work hard at drawing and painting as long as there is
light, and I had gone out to see if I could sell what I have done. But I
fear I am a very poor artist; no one would offer me as much as they had
cost me. And I tried at so many places!"
It was piteous to hear the heavy, heart-broken sigh.
"Perhaps I have better taste," replied Livingstone. "Those print-sellers
are absurdly ignorant of what is good and anonymous. At all events, they
will interest me, as a memorial of to-night. Will you give them to me? I
will promise not to be too critical."
He drew the roll out of her hand as he spoke, replacing it by his
note-case; and before she could open it or make any objection, he
followed Mohun (for they had reached the artist's door by this time),
first raising his hat to her in adieu as courteously as he would have
done to a reigning archduchess.
How much did the case contain? Guy himself could hardly have told you.
But be sure the Recorder of his many misdeeds knew, and reckoned it to
the uttermost farthing when he wrote down that one kind action on the
credit side.
"Philanthropic, for a change!" Mohun remarked, when his companion joined
him. "Well, it's not worse than many of your vagaries. We shall have you
founding an asylum next, I suppose."
In his heart the savage old cynic approved, but, for the life of him, he
could not check the sneer.
Livingstone made no reply. It was a habit of his very often not to
answer Ralph, and the latter did not mind it in the least. In a few
moments they reached Guy's apartments, where they found about a dozen
men--French and English--awaiting their arrival to begin an unbridled
lansquenet. It was a favorite rendezvous for this purpose. The
thoroughbred gamblers preferred it to the brilliant entertainments of
the Quartier Brèda. They liked to court or fight Fortune by themselves,
without being congratulated in success or compassionated in defeat by
the fair Phrynes and Aspasias, whose sympathy was somewhat expansive,
inasmuch as they always would borrow from the heap whenever any one won,
repaying the loan in kind by smiles and caresses, which cost the happy
recipient about fifteen Napoleons apiece. Here was an Eden from which
Eves were excluded; and on the nights of the _Mercurialia_, the
brightest Peri that ever wore camellias might have knocked at the gate
disconsolately, but in vain.
While the tables were being prepared, Guy began to tell his late
adventure. He spoke of it very lightly, but he thought, if he passed it
over altogether, Mohun would probably betray him.
Immediately there was a great cry for a sight of the performances of the
unknown genius.
Livingstone looked over the drawings himself carefully, and then passed
them to the man who sat nearest him. "I have seen worse," he said.
"There is no signature, and I shall not give you the address. You are
none of you just the patrons she would fancy. You don't care much for
high art."
Among the guests was Horace Levinge, a pale, dark man, with a face that
was decidedly handsome, in spite of its Jewish _contour_, and the
excessive fullness of the scarlet, sensual lips. His grandfather, report
said, had been a prize-fighting Israelite, and afterward a celebrated
betting-man--equally eminent in either ring for an unscrupulous
scoundrelism which made his fortune. His father had added to the family
treasure and importance by cautious usury and adventurous stock-jobbing.
Horace himself was a gentleman at large, with no other profession than
the consistent pursuit of all kinds of debauchery. He was calculating
even in his pleasures, and, they say, kept a regular ledger and daybook
of the moneys disbursed in his vices.
When the drawings came to him, he glanced at them for a moment, and
then threw them down with a little contemptuous laugh.
"I am sorry to spoil your romance, Livingstone, but I have a pretty good
right to recognize the artist's touch. You know her, some of you; it is
Fanny Challoner."
"What! the girl you sent away about three weeks ago?" some one asked.
"Poor thing! she was not sorry, I should think. She had a hard time of
it before she left you."
"Precisely," Levinge replied. "Her modesty and high moral principles,
which I never could quite subdue, gave a zest to the thing at first. You
understand?--a sort of caviare flavor. But at last it bored me horribly.
I really believe she had a conscience. Can you conceive any thing so out
of place? I did offer her a little money when she went away, but she
would not take any, and said she would try to maintain herself honestly.
Bah! I defy her. She was a governess, you know, when I took her first,
so she is trying some of the old accomplishments. I wish you joy of your
_protégée_, Livingstone; and as for her address, if any of you want it,
I will give it you to-morrow."
Before Guy could reply Mohun broke in. While Levinge had been speaking,
the colonel's face had grown very dark and threatening.
"Did her father live near Walmer? And was he a half-pay officer?"
"Quite correct," was the answer. "He died about eighteen months before I
met Fanny. You knew him, perhaps? How interesting! Excuse my emotion."
"I did know him," Ralph said. "He was a gentleman, and well born.
Perhaps that was the reason you could not get on long with his
daughter?"
It is a popular error that a bully is always a coward. Certainly Horace
was an exception to the rule, if such exists. Nothing could be more
calmly insolent than his tone as he answered deliberately,
"How admirable to find Colonel Mohun in the character of the Censor! A
Clodius come to judgment. I should hardly have expected it, from his
past life, either."
The reply came from the depths of Ralph's chest, very distinct, but with
a strange effect of distance and echo, as if the words had been spoken
under the vault of some vast dome.
"You will leave my past life alone, if you are wise. I don't preach
against immorality; it is only brutality that I find simply disgusting."
"Bah!" the other retorted; "it comes to the same thing. I should have
thought Lady Caroline Mannering might have taught you to be less
critical."
The Cuirassier rose from his seat and strode a pace forward, the gray
hair bristling round his savage face like a wild-boar's at bay.
"If you dare to breathe that name again, except with respect and honor,
I'll cram the words down your throat, by the eternal God!"
Levinge crimsoned with passion. The brutal blood of the dead
prize-fighter, who, when he "crossed" a fight, lost it ever by a foul
blow, was boiling in his descendant. He had been drinking too, and, as
the French say--_avait le vin mauvais_--so he answered coolly and
slowly, letting the syllables fall one by one, like drops of hail,
"I shall mention it just as often as it pleases me, and with just so
much respect as is due to Mannering's cast-off wife and your--"
The foul word that was on his lips never left them, for Mohun's threat
was literally fulfilled. His right hand shot out from the shoulder with
a sudden impulse that seemed rather mechanical than an action of the
will, and, catching the speaker full in the mouth, laid him on the
carpet senseless and streaming with blood.