BON REPOS.
On a certain fine morning towards the end of May, Captain Ducie took
train at Euston-square, and late the same afternoon was set down at
Windermere. A fly conveyed himself and his portmanteau to the edge of
the lake. Singling out one from the tiny fleet of pleasure boats
always to be found at the Bowness landing-stage, Captain Ducie seated
himself in the stern, and lighted his cigar. The boatman's sinewy arms
soon pulled him out into the middle of the lake, when the head of the
little craft was set for Bon Repos.
The sun was dipping to the western hills. In his wake he had left a
rack of torn and fiery cloud, as though he had rent his garments in
wrath and cast them from him. Soft, grey mists and purple shadows
were beginning to strike upward from the vales, but on the great
shoulders of Fairfield, and on the scarred fronts of other giants
further away, the sunshine lingered lovingly. It was like the hand of
Childhood caressing the rugged brows of Age.
With that glorious panorama which crowns the head of the lake before
his eyes, with the rhythmic beat of the oars and the soft pulsing of
the water in his cars, with the blue smoke-rings of his cigar rising
like visible aspirations through the evening air, an unwonted peace,
a soft brooding quietude, began to settle down upon the captain's
world-worn spirit; and through the stillness came a faint whisper,
like his mother's voice speaking from the far-off years of childhood,
recalling to his memory things once known, but too long forgotten;
lessons too long despised, but with a vital truth underlying them
which he seemed never to have realized till now. Suddenly the boat's
keel grazed the shingly strand, and there before him, half shrouded in
the shadows of evening, was Bon Repos.
A genuine north-country house, strong, rugged, and homely-looking,
despite its Gallic cognomen. It was built of the rough grey stone of
the district, and roofed with large blue slates. It stood at the head
of a small lawn that sloped gently up from the lake. Immediately
behind the house a precipitous hill covered with a thick growth of
underwood and young trees swept upward to a considerable height. A
narrow, winding lane, the only carriage approach to the house, wound
round the base of this hill, and joined the high road a quarter of a
mile away. The house was only two stories high, but was large enough
to have accommodated a numerous and well-to-do family. The windows
were all set in a framework of plain stone, but on the lower floor
some of them had been modernized, the small square bluish panes having
given place to polished plate glass, of which two panes only were
needed for each window. But this was an innovation that had not spread
far. The lawn was bordered with a tasteful diversity of shrubs and
flowers, while here and there the tender fingers of some climbing
plant seemed trying to smooth away a wrinkle in the rugged front of
the old house.
Captain Ducie walked up the gravelled pathway that led from the lake
to the house, the boatman with his portmanteau bringing up the rear.
Before he could touch either bell or knocker, the door was noiselessly
opened, and a coloured servant, in a suit of plain black, greeted him
with a respectful bow.
"Captain Ducie, sir, if I am not misinformed?"
"I am Captain Ducie."
"Sir, you are expected. Your room is ready. Dinner will be served in
half an hour from now. My master will meet you when you come
downstairs."
The portmanteau having been brought in, and the boatman paid and
dismissed, said the coloured servant, "I will show you to your rooms
if you will allow me to do so. The man appointed to wait upon you will
follow with your luggage in a minute or two." He led the way, and
Ducie followed in silence.
The tired captain gave a sigh of relief and gratitude, and flung
himself into an easy-chair as the door closed behind his conductor.
His two rooms were _en suite_, and while as replete with comfort as
the most thorough-going Englishman need desire, had yet about them a
touch of lightness and elegance that smacked of a taste that had been
educated on the Continent, and was unfettered by insular prejudices.
"At Stapleton I had a loft that was hardly fit for a groom to sleep
in; here I have two rooms that a cardinal might feel proud to occupy.
Vive la Russe!"
M. Platzoff was waiting at the foot of the staircase when Ducie went
down. A cordial greeting passed between the two, and the host at once
led the way to the dining-room. Platzoff in his suit of black and
white cravat, with his cadaverous face, blue-black hair, and
chin-tuft, and the elaborate curl on the top of his forehead, looked,
at the first glance, more like a ghastly undertaker's man, or a waiter
at a foreign café, than the host of an English country house. But a
second glance would have shown you his embroidered linen, and the
flashing gems on his fingers; and you could not be long with him
without being made aware that you were in the company of a thorough
man of the world--of one who had travelled much and observed much; of
one whose correspondents kept him _au courant_ with all the chief
topics of the day. He knew, and could tell you, the secret history of
the last new opera; how much had been paid for it, what it had cost to
produce, and all about the great green-room cabal against the new
prima donna. He knew what amount of originality could be safely
claimed for the last new drama that was taking the town by storm, and
how many times the same story had been hashed up before. He had read
the last French novel of any note, and could favour you with a few
personal reminiscences of its author not generally known. As regarded
political knowledge--if all his statements were to be trusted--he was
informed as to much that was going on behind the great drop-scene. He
knew how the wires were pulled that moved the puppets who danced in
public, especially those wires which were pulled at Paris, Vienna, and
St. Petersburg. Before Ducie had been six hours at Bon Repos he knew
more about political intrigues at home and abroad than he had ever
dreamt of in the whole course of his previous life.
The dining-room at Bon Repos was a long low-ceilinged apartment,
panelled with black oak, and fitted up in a rich and sombre style that
was yet very different from the dull heavy formality that obtains
among three-fourths of the dining-rooms in English country houses.
Indeed, throughout the appointments and fittings of Bon Repos there
was a touch of something Oriental grafted on to French taste, combined
with a thorough knowledge and appreciation of insular comfort. From
the dining-room windows a lovely stretch of the lake could be seen
glimmering in the starlight, and our two friends sat this evening over
their wine by the wide open sash, gazing out into the delicious night.
Behind them, in the room, two or three candles were burning in silver
sconces; but at the window they were sitting in that sort of half
light which seems exactly suited for confidential talk. Captain Ducie
took advantage of it after a time to ask his host a question which he
would perhaps have scarcely cared to put by broad daylight.
"Have you heard any news of your lost manuscript?"
"None whatever," answered Platzoff. "Neither do I expect, after this
lapse of time, to hear anything further concerning it. It has probably
never been found, or if found, has (as you suggested at the 'Golden
Griffin') fallen into the hands of some one too ignorant, or too
incurious, to master the secret of the cipher."
"It has been much in my thoughts since I saw you last," said Ducie.
"Was the MS. in your own writing, may I ask?"
"It was in my own writing," answered the Russian. "It was a
confidential communication intended for the eye of my dearest friend,
and for his eye only. It was unfinished when I lost it. I had been
staying a few days at one of your English spas when I joined you in
the train on the day of the accident. The MS., as far as it went, had
all been written before I left home, but I took it with me in my
despatch-box, together with other private papers, although I knew that
I could not add a single line to it while I should be from home. I
have wished a thousand times since that I had left it behind me."
"I have heard of people to whom cryptography is a favourite study,"
said the captain; "people who pride themselves on their ability to
master the most difficult cipher ever invented. Let us hope that your
MS. has not fallen into the hands of one of these clever individuals."
Platzoff shrugged his shoulders. "Let us hope so, indeed," he said.
"But I will not believe in any such untoward event. Too long a time
has elapsed since the loss for me not to have heard something
respecting the MS., had it been found by any one who knew how to make
use of it. Besides, I would defy the most clever reader of cryptography
to master my MS. without----Ah, bah! where's the use of talking about
it? Should not you like some tobacco? Daylight's last tint has
vanished, and there is a chill air sweeping down from the hills."
As they left the window, Platzoff added: "One of the most annoying
features connected with my loss arises from the fact that all my
labour will have to be gone through again--and very tedious work it
is. I am now engaged on a second MS., which is, as nearly as I can
make it, a copy of the first one; and it is a task which must be done
by myself alone. To have even one confidant would be to stultify the
whole affair. Another glass of claret, and then I will introduce you
to my sanctum."
The coloured man who had opened the door for Captain Ducie had been in
and out of the dining-room several times. He was evidently a favourite
servant. Platzoff had addressed him as Cleon, and Ducie had now a
question or two to ask concerning him.
Cleon was a mulatto, tall, agile, and strong. Not bad-looking by any
means, but carrying with him unmistakable traces of the negro blood in
his veins. His hair was that of a genuine African--crisp and black,
and was one mass of short curls; but except for a certain fulness of
the lips his features were of the ordinary Caucasian type. He wore no
beard, but a thin straight line of black moustache. His complexion was
yellow, but a different yellow from that of his master--dusky,
passionate, lava-like; suggestive of fiery depths below. His eyes,
too, glowed with a smothered fire that seemed as if it might blaze out
at any moment, and there was in them an expression of snake-like
treachery that made Captain Ducie shudder involuntarily, as though he
had seen some loathsome reptile, the first time he looked steadily
into their half-veiled depths. One look into each other's eyes was
sufficient for both these men.
"Monsieur Cleon and I are born enemies, and he knows it as well as I
do," murmured Ducie to himself, after the first secret signal of
defiance had passed between the two. "Well, I never was afraid of any
man in my life, and I'm not going to begin by being afraid of a
valet." With that he shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back
contemptuously on the mulatto.
Cleon in his suit of black and white tie, with his quiet stealthy
movements and unobtrusive attentions, would have been pronounced bon
style as a gentleman's gentleman in the grandest of Belgravian
mansions. Had he suddenly come into a fortune, and gone into society
where his antecedents were unknown, five-sixths of his male associates
would have pronounced him "a deuced gentlemanly fellow." The remaining
one-sixth might have held a somewhat different opinion.
"That coloured fellow seems to be a great favourite with you,"
remarked Ducie, as Cleon left the room.
"And well he may be," answered Platzoff. "On two separate occasions I
owed my life to him. Once in South America, when a couple of brigands
had got me at their mercy, and were about to try the temper of their
knives on my throat. He potted them both one after the other. On the
second occasion be rescued me from a tiger in the jungle, who was
desirous of dining _à la Russe_. I have not made a favourite of Cleon
without having my reasons for so doing."
"He seems to me a shrewd fellow, and one who understands his
business."
"Cleon is not destitute of ability. When I settled at Bon Repos I made
him major-domo of my small establishment, but he still retains his old
position as my body-servant. I offered long ago to release him; but he
will not allow any third person to come between himself and me, and I
should not feel comfortable under the attentions of any one else."
Platzoff opened the door as he ceased speaking and led the way to the
smoking-room.
As you lifted the curtain and went in, it was like passing at one step
from Europe to the East--from the banks of Windermere to the shores of
the Bosphorus. It was a circular apartment with a low cushioned divan
running completely round it, except where broken by the two doorways,
curtained with hangings of dark brown. The floor was an arabesque of
different coloured tiles covered here and there with a tiny square of
bright-hued Persian carpet. The walls were panelled with stamped
leather to the height of six feet from the ground; above the panelling
they were painted of a delicate cream colour with here and there a
maxim or apothegm from the Koran, in the Arabic character, picked out
in different colours. From the ceiling a silver lamp swung on chains
of silver. In the centre of the room was a marble table on which were
pipes and hookahs, cigars and tobaccos of various kinds. Smaller
tables were placed here and there close to the divan for the
convenience of smokers.
Platzoff having asked Ducie to excuse him for five minutes, passed
through the second doorway, and left the captain to an undisturbed
survey of the room. He came back in a few minutes, but so transformed
in outward appearance that Ducie scarcely knew him. He had left the
room in the full evening costume of an English gentleman: he came back
in the turban and flowing robes of a follower of the Prophet. But
however comfortable his Eastern habit might be, M. Platzoff lacked the
quiet dignity and grave repose of your genuine Turkish gentleman.
"I am going to smoke one of these hookahs; let me recommend you to try
another," said Platzoff as he squatted himself cross-legged on the
divan.
He touched a tiny gong, and Cleon entered.
"Select a hookah for Monsieur Ducie, and prepare it."
So Cleon, having chosen a pipe, tipped it with a new amber mouthpiece,
charged the bowl with fragrant Turkish tobacco, handed the stem to
Ducie, and then applied the light. The same service was next performed
for his master. Then he withdrew, but only to reappear a minute or two
later with coffee served up in the Oriental fashion--black and strong,
without sugar or cream.
"This is one of my little smoke-nights," said Platzoff as soon as they
were alone. "Last night was one of my big smoke-nights."
"You speak a language I do not understand."
"I call those occasions on which I smoke opium my big smoke-nights."
"Can it be true that you are an opium smoker?" said Ducie.
"It can be and is quite true that I am addicted to that so-called
pernicious habit. To me it is one of the few good things this world
has to offer. Opium is the key that unlocks the golden gates of
Dreamland. To its disciples alone is revealed the true secret of
subjective happiness. But we will talk more of this at some future
time."