his approval while the general ran his hand over the gray bristles on
his scarred head.
"Favours!" roared the general. "Favours, eh? When my men sleep on the
ground in rough weather, I sleep with them. What sort of discipline do
you suppose I'd have if I did not share their hardships time and time
again? Winter campaigns, forced marches--twenty-four hours of it
sometimes in mountain snow. Bah! That is nothing! They need that
training to go through worse, and yet those good fellows of mine,
heavily loaded, never complain. I've seen it so hot, too, that it would
melt a man's boots. It is always one of those imbeciles, then, with
nothing heavier to carry than a clarinet, who slips off to a comfortable
farm."
"_Bien entendu, mon general!_" agreed his aide-de-camp tersely as he
leaned forward and kindled a fresh cigarette over the candle-shade.
Happily I noticed at that moment that the cigarette-box needed
replenishing. It was an excuse at least to leave the room. A moment
later I had tiptoed to the closed kitchen door and stood listening.
Suzette was laughing. The trombonists were evidently very much at ease.
They, too, were laughing. Little pleasantries filtered through the
crack in the heavy door that made me hold my breath. Then I heard the
gurgle of cider poured into a glass, followed swiftly by what I took to
be unmistakably a kiss.
It was all as plain now as Su-Tum-Tum. I dared not break in upon them.
Had I opened the door, the general might have recognized their voices.
Meanwhile, silly nothings were demoralizing the heart of my good
Suzette. She would fall desperately in love with either one or the other
of those _sacre_ virtuosos. Then another thought struck me! One of them
might be Suzette's sweetheart, hailing from her own village, the
manoeuvres at Pont du Sable a lucky meeting for them. A few sentences
that I now hurriedly caught convinced me of my own denseness in not
having my suspicions aroused when they singled out my domain and begged
my hospitality.
The situation was becoming critical. By the light of the crack I
scribbled the following:
"Get those two imbeciles of yours hidden in the hay-loft, quick. The
general wants to see the kitchen," and slipped it under the door,
coughing gently in warning.
There was an abrupt silence--the sound of Suzette's slippered feet--and
the scrap of paper disappeared. Then heavy, excited breathing within.
I dashed upstairs and was down again with the cigarettes before the
general had remarked my tardiness to his aide. At midnight I lighted
their candles and saw them safely up to bed. Then I went to my room
fronting the marsh and breathed easier.
"Her sweetheart from her own village," I said to myself as I blew out my
candle. "The other"--I sighed drowsily--"was evidently his cousin. The
mayor was right. I have a bad habit of spoiling people and pets."
Then again my mind reverted to the general. What if he discovered them?
My only consolation now was that to-day had seen the end of the
manoeuvres, and the soldiers would depart by a daylight train in the
morning. I recalled, too, the awkward little speech of thanks for my
hospitality the trombonists had made to me at an opportune moment
before dinner. Finally I fell into a troubled sleep.
Suzette brought me my coffee at seven.
"Luckily the general did not discover them!" I exclaimed when Suzette
had closed the double door of my bedroom.
"_Mon Dieu!_ What danger we have run!" whispered the little maid. "I
could not sleep, monsieur, thinking of it."
"You got them safely to the haymow?" I inquired anxiously.
"Oh! _Mais oui_, monsieur. But then they slept over the cider-press back
of the big casks. Monsieur advised the hay-loft, but they said the roof
leaked. And had it rained, monsieur--"
"See here," I interrupted, eyeing her trim self from head to foot
savagely. "You've known that little devil with the red ears before."
I saw Suzette pale.
"Confess!" I exclaimed hoarsely, with a military gesture of impatience.
"He comes from your village. Is it not so, my child?"
Suzette was silent, her plump hands twisting nervously at her apron
pocket.
"I am right, am I not? I might have guessed as much when they came."
"Oh, monsieur!" Suzette faltered, the tears welling up from the depths
of her clear trustful eyes.
"Is it not so?" I insisted.
"Oh! Oh! _Mon Dieu, oui_," she confessed half audibly. "He--he is the
son of our neighbor, Monsieur Jacot."
"At Saint Philippe?"
"At Saint Philippe, monsieur. We were children together, Gaston and I.
I--I--was glad to see him again, monsieur," sobbed the little maid. "He
is very nice, Gaston."
"When are you to be married?" I ventured after a moment's pause.
"_Ben--eh ben!_ In two years, monsieur--after Gaston finishes his
military service. He--has a good trade, monsieur."
"Soloist?" I asked grimly.
"No, monsieur--tailor for ladies. We shall live in Paris," she added,
and for an instant her eyes sparkled; then again their gaze reverted to
the now sadly twisted apron pocket, for I was silent.
"No more Suzette then!" I said to myself. No more merry, willing little
maid-of-all-work! No more hot mussels steaming in a savory sauce! Her
puree of peas, her tomato farcies, the stuffed artichokes, and her
coffee the like of which never before existed, would vanish with the
rest. But true love cannot be argued. There was nothing to do but to
hold out my hand in forgiveness. As I did so the general rang for his
coffee.
"_Mon Dieu!_" gasped Suzette. "He rings." And flew down to her kitchen.
An hour later the general was sauntering leisurely up the road through
the village over his morning cigar. The daylight train, followed rapidly
by four extra sections, had cleared Pont du Sable of all but two of the
red-trousered infantry--my trombonists! They had arrived an hour and
twenty minutes late, winded and demoralized. They sat together outside
the locked station unable to speak, pale and panic-stricken.
The first object that caught the general's eye as he slowly turned into
the square by the little station was their four red-trousered legs--then
he caught the glint of their two brass trombones. The next instant heads
appeared at the windows. It was as if a bomb had suddenly exploded in
the square.
The two trombonists were now on their feet, shaking from head to foot
while they saluted their general, whose ever-approaching stride struck
fresh agony to their hearts. He was roaring:
"_Canailles! Imbeciles!_ A month of prison!" and "_Sacre bon Dieu's!_"
were all jumbled together. "Overslept! Overslept, did you?" he bellowed.
"In a chateau, I'll wager. _Parbleu!_ Where then? Out with it!"
"_Pardon, mon general!_" chattered Gaston. "It was in the stone house of
the American gentleman by the marsh."
* * * * *
We lunched together in my garden at noon. He had grown calm again under
the spell of the Burgundy, but Suzette, I feared, would be ill.
"Come, be merciful," I pleaded.
"He is the fiance of my good Suzette; besides, you must not forget that
you were all my guests."
The general shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "They were lucky to have
gotten off with a month!" he snapped. "You saw that those little devils
were handcuffed?" he asked of his aide.
"Yes, my general, the gendarme attended to them."
"You were my guests," I insisted. "Hold me responsible if you wish."
"Hold _you_ responsible!" he exclaimed. "But you are a foreigner--it
would be a little awkward."
"It is my good Suzette," I continued, "that I am thinking of."
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment again ran his hands
thoughtfully over the bristles of his scarred head. He had a daughter of
his own.
"The coffee," I said gently to my unhappy Suzette as she passed.
"_Oui! Oui_, monsieur," she sighed, then suddenly mustering up her
courage, she gasped:
"_Oh, mon general!_ Is it true, then, that Gaston must go to jail? _Ah!
Mon Dieu!_"
"_Eh bien_, my girl! It will not kill him, _Sapristi!_ He will be a
better soldier for it."
"Be merciful," I pleaded.
"_Eh bien! Eh bien!_" he retorted. "_Eh bien!_" And cleared his throat.
"Forgive them," I insisted. "They overslept. I don't want Suzette to
marry a jail-bird."
Again he scratched his head and frowned. Suzette was in tears.
"Um! Difficult!" he grumbled. "Order for arrest once given--" Then he
shot a glance at me. I caught a twinkle in his eye.
"_Eh bien!_" he roared. "There--I forgive them! Ah, those _sacre_
musicians!"
Suzette stood there trembling, unable even to thank him, the colour
coming and going in her peasant cheeks.
"Are they free, general?" I asked.
"Yes," he retorted, "both of them."
"Bravo!" I exclaimed.
"Understand that I have done it for the little girl--and _you_. Is that
plain?"
"Perfectly," I replied. "As plain as Su-Tum-Tum!" I added under my
breath as I filled his empty glass in gratefulness to the brim.
"Halt!" shouted the general as the happiest of Suzettes turned toward
her kitchen.
"Eh--um!" he mumbled awkwardly in a voice that had suddenly grown thick.
Then he sprang to his feet and raised his glass.
"A health to the bride!" he cried.
[Illustration: The general]
* * * * *
[Illustration: a formal garden]
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MILLION OF MONSIEUR DE SAVIGNAC
The bay of Pont du Sable, which the incoming tide had so swiftly filled
at daylight, now lay a naked waste of oozing black mud. The birds had
gone with the receding sea, and I was back from shooting, loafing over
my pipe and coffee in a still corner among the roses of my wild garden,
hidden behind the old wall, when that Customhouse soldier-gardener of
mine, Pierre, appeared with the following message:
"Monsieur de Savignac presents his salutations the most distinguished
and begs that monsieur will give him the pleasure of calling on him _a
propos_ of the little spaniel."
What an unexpected and welcome surprise! For weeks I had hunted in vain
for a thoroughbred. I had never hoped to be given one from the kennels
of Monsieur de Savignac's chateau.
"Enchanted, Pierre!" I cried--"Present my compliments to Monsieur de
Savignac. Tell him how sincerely grateful I am, and say that he may
expect me to-morrow before noon."
I could easily imagine what a beauty my spaniel would be, clean-limbed
and alert like the ones in the coloured lithographs. "No wonder," I
thought, as Pierre left me, "that every peasant for miles around spoke
of this good Monsieur de Savignac's generosity. Here he was giving me a
dog. To me, his American neighbour, whom he had never met!"
As I walked over to the chateau with Pierre the next morning, I recalled
to my mind the career of this extraordinary man, whose only vice was his
great generosity.
When Monsieur de Savignac was twenty-one he inherited a million francs,
acquired a high hat with a straight brim, a standing collar, well open
at the throat (in fashion then under Napoleon III.), a flowing cravat--a
plush waistcoat with crystal buttons, a plum-coloured broadcloth coat
and trousers of a pale lemon shade, striped with black, gathered tight
at the ankles, their bottoms flouncing over a pair of patent-leather
boots with high heels.
He was tall, strong and good-natured, this lucky Jacques de Savignac,
with a weakness for the fair sex which was appalling, and a charm of
manner as irresistible as his generosity. A clumsy fencer, but a good
comrade--a fellow who could turn a pretty compliment, danced better than
most of the young dandies at court, drove his satin-skinned pair of bays
through the Bois with an easy smile, and hunted hares when the shooting
opened with the dogged tenacity of a veteran poacher.
When he was twenty-one, the Paris that Grevin drew was in the splendour
of an extravagant life that she was never to see again, and never has.
One could _amuse_ one's self then--ah! _Dame, oui!_
There is no emperor now to keep Paris gay.
What suppers at Vefour's! What a brilliant life there was in those days
under the arcades of the dear old Palais Royal, the gay world going
daily to this mondaine cloister to see and be seen--to dine and
wine--to make conquests of the heart and dance daylight quadrilles.
Paris was ordered to be daily _en fete_ and the host at the Tuileries
saw to it that the gaiety did not flag. It was one way at least from
keeping the populace from cutting one another's throats, which they did
later with amazing ferocity.
There were in those good old days under Louis Napoleon plenty of places
to gamble and spend the inherited gold. Ah! it was Rabelaisian enough!
What an age to have been the recipient of a million at twenty-one! It
was like being a king with no responsibilities. No wonder de Savignac
left the university--he had no longer any need of it. He dined now at
the Maison Doree and was seen nightly at the "Bal Mabille" or the
"Closerie des Lilas," focussing his gold-rimmed monocle on the flying
feet and lace _frou-frous_ of "Diane la Sournoise," or roaring with
laughter as he chucked gold louis into the satined lap of some
"Francine" or "Cora" amid the blare of the band, and the flash of
jewels strung upon fair arms and fairer necks of woman who went nightly
to the "Bal Mabille" in smart turnouts and the costliest gowns money
could buy--and after the last mad quadrille was ended, on he went to
supper at Bignon's where more gaiety reigned until blue dawn, and where
the women were still laughing and merry and danced as easily on the
table as on the floor.
What a time, I say, to have inherited a million! And how many good
friends he had! Painters and musicians, actors and wits (and there
_were_ some in those days)--no king ever gathered around him a jollier
band.
It was from one of these henchmen of his that de Savignac purchased his
chateau (long since emptied of its furniture)--from a young nobleman
pressed hard for his debts, like most young noblemen are--and so the
great chateau close to my Village of Vagabonds, and known for miles
around, became de Savignac's.
What house parties he gave then!--men and women of talent flocked under
his hospitable roof--indeed there was no lack of talent--some of it
from the Opera--some of it from the Conservatoire, and they brought
their voices and their fiddles with them and played and sang for him for
days, in exchange for his feudal hospitality--more than that, the
painter Paul Deschamps covered the ceiling of his music room with chubby
cupids playing golden trumpets and violins--one adorable little fellow
in the cove above the grand piano struggling with a 'cello twice as high
as himself, and Carin painted the history of love in eight panels upon
the walls of the old ballroom, whose frescoes were shabby enough, so I
am told, when de Savignac purchased them.
There were times also when the chateau was full to overflowing with
guests, so that the late comers were often quartered in a low two-story
manor close by, that nestled under great trees--a cosey, dear old place
covered with ivy and climbing yellow roses, with narrow alleys leading
to it flanked by tall poplars, and a formal garden behind it in the
niches of whose surrounding wall were statues of Psyche and Venus, their
smooth marble shoulders stained by rain and the drip and ooze of
growing things. One of them even now, still lifts its encrusted head to
the weather.
During the shooting season there were weeks when he and his guests shot
daily from the crack of dawn until dark, the game-keepers following with
their carts that by night were loaded with hares, partridges, woodcock
and quail--then such a good dinner, sparkling with repartee and good
wine, and laughter and dancing after it, until the young hours in the
morning. One was more solid in those days than now--tired as their dogs
after the day's hunt, they dined and danced themselves young again for
the morrow.
And what do you think they did after the Commune? They made him mayor.
Yes, indeed, to honour him--Mayor of Hirondelette, the little village
close to his estate, and de Savignac had to be formal and dignified for
the first time in his life--this good Bohemian--at the village fetes, at
the important meetings of the Municipal Council, composed of a dealer in
cattle, the blacksmith and the notary. Again, in time of marriage,
accident or death, and annually at the school exercises, when he
presented prizes to the children spic and span for the occasion, with
voices awed to whispers, and new shoes. And he loved them all--all those
dirty little brats that had been scrubbed clean, and their ruddy cheeks
polished like red apples, to meet "Monsieur le Maire."
He was nearing middle life now, but he was not conscious of it, being
still a bachelor. There was not as yet, a streak of gray in his
well-kept beard, and the good humour sparkled in his merry eyes as of
old. The only change that had occurred concerned the million. It was no
longer the brilliant solid million of his youth. It was sadly torn off
in places--there were also several large holes in it--indeed, if the
truth be told, it was little more than a remnant of its once splendid
entirety. It had been eaten by moths--certain shrewd old wasps, too, had
nested in it for years--not a sou of it had vanished in speculation or
bad investment. Monsieur de Savignac (this part of it the cure told me)
was as ignorant as a child concerning business affairs and stubbornly
avoided them. He had placed his fortune intact in the Bank of France,
and had drawn out what he needed for his friends. In the first year of
his inheritance he glanced at the balance statement sent him by the
bank, with a feeling of peaceful delight. As the years of his generosity
rolled on, he avoided reading it at all--"like most optimists," remarked
the cure, "he did not wish to know the truth." At forty-six he married
the niece of an impoverished old wasp, a gentleman still in excellent
health, owing to de Savignac's generosity. It was his good wife now, who
read the balance statement.
For a while after his marriage, gaiety again reigned at the chateau, but
upon a more economical basis; then gradually they grew to entertain less
and less; indeed there were few left of the moths and old wasps to give
to--they had flown to cluster around another million.
Most of this Pierre, who was leading me through the leafy lane that led
to de Savignac's home, knew or could have known, for it was common talk
in the country around, but his mind to-day was not on de Savignac's
past, but on the dog which we both were so anxious to see.
* * * * *
"Monsieur has never met Monsieur de Savignac?" ventured Pierre as we
turned our steps out of the brilliant sunlight, and into a wooded path
skirting the extensive forest of the estate.
"Not yet, Pierre."
"He is a fine old gentleman," declared Pierre, discreetly lowering his
voice. "Poor man!"
"Why _poor_, Pierre?" I laughed, "with an estate like this--nonsense!"
"Ah! Monsieur does not know?"--Pierre's voice sunk to a whisper--"the
chateau is mortgaged, monsieur. There is not a tree or a field left
Monsieur de Savignac can call his own. Do you know, monsieur, he has no
longer even the right to shoot over the ground? Monsieur sees that low
roof beyond with the single chimney smoking--just to the left of the
chateau towers?"
I nodded.
"That is where Monsieur de Savignac now lives. It is called the
garconniere."
"But the chateau, Pierre?"
"It is rented to a Peruvian gentleman, monsieur, who takes in boarders."
"Pierre!" I exclaimed, "we go no farther. I knew nothing of this. I am
not going to accept a dog from a gentleman in Monsieur de Savignac's
unfortunate circumstances. It is not right. No, no. Go and present my
deep regrets to Monsieur de Savignac and tell him--tell him what you
please. Say that my rich uncle has just sent me a pair of pointers--that
I sincerely appreciate his generous offer, that--"
Pierre's small black eyes opened as wide as possible. He shrugged his
shoulders twice and began twisting thoughtfully the waxed ends of his
moustache to a finer point.
"Pardon, monsieur," he resumed after an awkward pause, "but--but
monsieur, by not going, will grieve Monsieur de Savignac--He will be so
happy to give monsieur the dog--so happy, monsieur. If Monsieur de
Savignac could not give something to somebody he would die. Ah, he
gives everything away, that good Monsieur de Savignac!" exclaimed
Pierre. "I was once groom in his stables--_oui_, monsieur, and he
married us when he was Mayor of Hirondelette, and he paid our
rent--_oui_, monsieur, and the doctor and...."
"We'll proceed, Pierre," said I. "A man of de Savignac's kind in the
world is so rare that one should do nothing to thwart him."
We walked on for some distance along the edge of a swamp carpeted with
strong ferns. Presently we came to a cool, narrow alley flanked and
roofed by giant poplars. At the end of this alley a wicket gate barred
the entrance to the courtyard of the garconniere.
As we drew nearer I saw that its ancient two-story facade was completely
covered by the climbing mass of ivy and yellow roses, the only openings
being the Louis XIV. windows, and the front door, flush with the
gravelled court, bordered by a thick hedge of box.
"Monsieur the American gentleman for the dog," announced Pierre to the
boy servant in a blue apron who appeared to open the wicket gate.
A moment later the door of the garconniere opened, and a tall, heavily
built man with silver white hair and beard came forth to greet me.
I noticed that the exertion of greeting me made him short of breath, and
that he held his free hand for a second pressed against his heart as he
ushered me across his threshold and into a cool, old-fashioned sitting
room, the walls covered with steel engravings, the furniture upholstered
in green rep.
"Have the goodness to be seated, monsieur," he insisted, waving me to an
armchair, while he regained his own, back of an old-fashioned desk.
"Ah! The--little--dog," he began, slowly regaining his breath. "You are
all the time shooting, and I heard you wanted one. It is so difficult to
get a really--good--dog--in this country. Francois!" he exclaimed, "You
may bring in the little dog--and, Francois!" he added, as the boy
servant turned to go--"bring glasses and a bottle of Musigny--you will
find it on the shelf back of the Medoc." Then he turned to me: "There
are still two bottles left," and he laughed heartily.
"Bien, monsieur," answered the boy, and departed with a key big enough
to have opened a jail.
The moment had arrived for me to draw forth a louis, which I laid on his
desk in accordance with an old Norman custom, still in vogue when you
accept as a gift a dog from an estate.
"Let your domestics have good cheer and wine to-night," said I.
"Thank you," he returned with sudden formality. "I shall put it aside
for them," and he dropped the gold piece into a small drawer of his
desk.
I did not know until Pierre, who was waiting outside in the court, told
me afterwards, that his entire staff of servants was composed of the boy
with the blue apron and the cook--an old woman--the last of his faithful
servitors, who now appeared with a tray of trembling glasses, followed
by the boy, the dusty cobwebbed bottle of rare Musigny and--my dog!
Not a whole dog. But a flub-dub little spaniel puppy--very blond--with
ridiculously long ears, a double-barrelled nose, a roly-poly stomach and
four heavy unsteady legs that got in his way as he tried to navigate in
a straight line to make my acquaintance.
"_Voila!_" cried de Savignac. "Here he is. He'll make an indefatigable
hunter, like his mother--wait until he is two years old--He'll stand to
his day's work beside the best in France----"
"And what race is he? may I ask, Monsieur de Savignac."
"Gorgon--Gorgon of Poitou," he returned with enthusiasm. "They are
getting as rare now as this," he declared, nodding to the cobwebbed
bottle, as he rose, drew the cork, and filled my glass.
While we sipped and chatted, his talk grew merry with chuckles and
laughter, for he spoke of the friends of his youth, who played for him
and sang to him--the thing which he loved most of all, he told me.
"Once," he confessed to me, "I slipped away and travelled to Hungary.
Ah! how those good gipsies played for me there! I was drunk with their
music for two weeks. It is stronger than wine, that music of the
gipsies," he said knowingly.