The Tailor
CHAPTER II
The Ex-Professor of Plessis College
CHAPTER III
The Debtor
CHAPTER IV
Mysteries
CHAPTER V
The Cavalier
CHAPTER VI
Mademoiselle de Soissons
CHAPTER VII
The Lawsuit
CHAPTER VIII
The Chateau Soubise
CHAPTER IX
The Departure
CHAPTER X
The Governor of Henferester
CHAPTER XI
The Supper
CHAPTER XII
Confidences
CHAPTER XIII
Doctor Sphex
CHAPTER XIV
The Councillor Flachsinfingen
CHAPTER XV
The Interview
CHAPTER XVI
The Judgment
CHAPTER XVII
The Adieux
CHAPTER XVIII
The Return
CHAPTER XIX
The Duel
CHAPTER XX
The Abbey
THE MARQUIS OF LETORIERE.
CHAPTER I
THE TAILOR
In 1769 there was in the Rue St. Honoré, not far from the Palais Royal,
a small tailor's shop, having for its sign an enormous pair of gilt
scissors, suspended above the door by an iron triangle.
Master Landry, proprietor of The Golden Scissors, a little lean, pale,
and apathetic man, offered a striking contrast to his wife Madelaine.
She was a woman of thirty-five or forty years, robust and active, with
hard features, and a gait like a man's, and her quick and imperious
voice told that her dominion over her household was absolute.
It was eleven o'clock one dark, rainy day in December. Master Landry,
seated on his counter, plied alternately his scissors and needle, in
company with Martin Kraft, his apprentice, a big, heavy, phlegmatic
German, about twenty years old, whose red and puffed-out cheeks, and
long hair, more yellow than blonde, gave him a stupid air.
The tailor's wife seemed to be in a very bad humor. Landry and his
apprentice maintained a prudent silence, until at length Madeleine
snapped out at her husband, scornfully:
"I give up; thou hast no blood in thy veins; thou would'st allow thyself
to be robbed of thy last customer; imbecile!"
Landry exchanged an elbow-touch and a glance with Martin Kraft, but kept
quiet, handling his needle with redoubled dexterity.
Irritated, no doubt, by the meekness of her victim, the housewife
resumed, addressing her husband vehemently:
"To whom do I speak, if you please?"
The tailor and the apprentice continued mute.
The exasperated woman administered a vigorous slap to her husband,
saying:
"It appears to me that when I speak to a fool, it is thou whom I
address, and thou would'st do well to reply--ill-bred as thou art!"
"By St. Genevieve!" cried the tailor, putting his hand to his cheek, and
turning to his apprentice,--"how's that, Kraft?"
The apprentice answered only by a violent stroke of his iron goose,
applied to the seams of a coat; but this blow had such an expression of
temper, that Dame Landry, with a dexterous hand, inflicted on the
phlegmatic German the same correction she had applied to Landry, saying
to him:
"I'll teach you to censure my conduct, you sluggard!"
"How do you find that, Master Landry?" said the apprentice, in his turn,
looking towards his master.
The latter, hoping to allay his wife's irritation, said, very calmly:
"Now, Madelaine, explain yourself tranquilly; we are both sufficiently
roused to pay attention to what you would say."
"That's lucky; what I have to say will not take long. Idler,
good-for-nothing! see now, one of your best customers, the
valet-de-chambre of the Member of Parliament, no less a personage, has
gone to our neighbor Mathurin."
"What, we're losing our custom?" demanded the tailor of his apprentice
with an air of indignation, coward-like, designing to turn the wrath of
his wife on the unhappy Kraft. "What, Martin, do you give us such
customers? Are you not ashamed? 'Tis not mine who treat us thus.
Gracious! mine are as faithful to me as the thread to the needle--as the
thimble to the finger--as--"
"Tut, tut, tut," said Dame Landry, interrupting, "how you chatter,
Master Landry! That's the reason why the clerk of M. Buston, the
attorney at Châtelet, who has always been your customer, left you more
than a month ago--even he--for that cursed Mathurin!"
"What do you mean, woman? This Mathurin surely must employ some sorcery
thus to draw those customers to his shop," said Landry, sadly; "for I
defy any workman of the honorable corporation of tailors to do better or
stronger sewing than mine. St. Genevieve, patroness of our good city,
knows if I cabbage the thousandth part of a quarter of a yard of the
cloths which are intrusted to me. It is the same with the trimmings;
and--"
"Heavens! M. Landry, give me rest from the enumeration of your good
qualities. Our neighbor Mathurin is a knave, a cheat it may be; but at
least he bends his wits to his work, he bestirs himself; he makes good
acquaintances; he does not sit all day with his arms crossed as you do."
"Excuse me, it is his legs, madame, which Master L. keeps crossed all
day," said Kraft, sententiously.
"Hear that animal!" cried the housewife, throwing a meaning look at the
apprentice, who lowered his head and began to work furiously with his
goose.
"You have no good customers," said Dame Landry, "none but mechanics,
attorneys' clerks, dry-salters workmen--not a single gentleman."
"As for gentlemen, Madelaine," replied the tailor, hazarding a timid
reproach, "I have one among my customers, and you prevent me from
working for him."
Madelaine colored with anger, and exclaimed: "Do you dare to talk to me
of your Marquis, of your _Monsieur le Charmant_, of that sharper, who
has owed us three hundred livres for more than a year, and from whom you
have never got the first red cent?"
"And yet, ma'am, you wish the custom of such gentlemen!"
"I wish the custom of gentlemen who pay, and not of knaves who only walk
the streets of Paris, with swords at their sides, and hats cocked awry,
to dupe imbeciles like you,--poor trades-people like us."
The tailor raised his hands towards heaven.
"It is easy to see, Madelaine, that you are no better acquainted with
the Marquis than with the Grand Turk. . . . He, a knave; he, a sharper;
he--poor young man--so mild, so gentle, so sad, and then so pretty . . .
one could spend an hour only in looking at him . . . he is like a wax
saint."
"So pretty--so pretty," said the housewife, imitating her husband,
". . . and what does that amount to? Did any one ever see such folly?
Does he pay us any better because he is pretty? Once more, what good has
it done you?"
"This is what it does for me: when I see such a handsome gentleman, poor
and unhappy . . . I am heart-broken, and I have not the courage to ask
for my money. . . . That is what it does for me. In short, Martin Kraft
himself has felt as I do. . . . You sent him to the house of the Marquis
to dun him, and what did Martin Kraft tell you when he came back? That
instead of demanding the money, he had asked him if he did not need a
new coat."
"That only proves that Martin Kraft is a goose like yourself!"
"The fact is, that this gentleman was so beautiful that one would have
said he was a wooden figure painted at Nuremburg," gravely said the
German, who could find no more artistic comparison to express his
admiration.
"Well done!" said Dame Landry, contemptuously shrugging her shoulders;
then adding, "but patience, patience! this very day I will go and show
this charming gentleman that Madelaine Landry does not take her pay in
wheedling."
Just then a carriage stopped before the shop. It was raining in
torrents. The housewife put on a more amiable expression, thinking that
custom might come from the coach; but, to her great astonishment, the
coachman, having descended slowly and clumsily from his seat, looked at
the sign and entered the tailor's shop.
"Master Landry?" he asked, in a loud voice, shaking his great-coat all
dripping with rain.
"At least, there is no need of your shaking yourself like a dog coming
out of the water in order to ask for Master Landry," sharply answered
Madelaine. "What do you want?"
"My good woman, if I shake myself it is because I am soaked--drowned--as
you can see, and I only give you a drop or two."
"Much obliged for your kindness," said the housewife.
"As to Master Landry, I wish to speak to him about a young
gentleman . . . Zounds! what a charming little gentleman! As true as my
name is Jerome Sicard, I never saw such a beauty.--Come now," said the
coachman, interrupting himself, "see how the water is running down my
neck," and he began to shake his hat.
Dame Madelaine was bursting out anew, when the window of the carriage
was lowered. A man about fifty years of age, large, coarse, rubicund,
powdered, and clothed in black, called to the coachman in the voice of a
Stentor. Seeing that his summons was unheeded, he opened the door, got
out of the carriage, and entered the shop.
"Will you tell me, you stupid, why you have stopped here instead of
carrying me to the Soubise Hotel?"
"Excuse me sir; I had to execute a commission for a fine
gentleman." . . . .
"And what is that to me,--your fine gentleman? I'm in a hurry. Come, get
on the box." . . . .
"One minute, 'squire; I have promised this gentleman to execute his
commission, and do it I will."
"Ah, you refuse to go! Take care! if you don't start immediately, you
shall hear from the lieutenant of police--I give you warning."
"All right, I shall have to pass a night in the lock-up, if you
choose,--you have the right to put me there; but I will keep my promise
to this young gentleman."
After new entreaties and new threats, seeing that he made no impression
on the obstinacy of the coachman, the big man clothed in black, who was
the steward of the Princess of Rohan-Soubise, seated himself, growling.
"But," cried the peevish Madelaine, pulling Sicard by the sleeve, "are
you ever going to say what you have to say to my husband?" And she
pointed to Landry, who had looked on the whole scene with open mouth.
"This is the story," said the coachman; "I was passing, an hour ago,
through a street in the Faubourg St. Honoré. It rained in torrents. I
saw, under the porch of the Hotel Pompadour, a young man who had taken
shelter there. He was so lovely . . . one would have taken him for a
good angel . . . Although it is the middle of winter, he had on a poor
coat of brown cloth trimmed with black lace!!!"
"A coat of brown cloth with black trimmings! That is our coat!" cried
Dame Landry; "that is to say, it is _Monsieur le Charmant_; it is that
cursed marquis; he has only that coat which we have made him on credit
. . . it is easy enough to recognize him."
"Yes, faith, if ever any one deserved to wear embroidered coats, it is
surely he, for as sure as my name is Jerome Sicard, I never saw any one
who looked more like a good angel". . .
"Bah, go away with your good angel! . . . Has he given you money to
bring to us? Where are the three hundred livres that he has owed us for
more than a year?"
"Money! Goodness gracious! No, indeed, he has not sent it! Who would
have the heart to ask it of him? I took him to the Palais Marchand for
nothing." . . .
"Well, wife"--said the tailor, with a triumphant air.
"Hold your tongue, you fool . . . he has cheated this coachman as he has
bewitched and cheated you . . . another proof that he is a rogue."
"Rogue!" cried the worthy Sicard, stamping his foot angrily . . . . "A
cheat! Know, my gossip, that this gentleman cheats no one . . . . If I
carried him for nothing it was because it gave me pleasure to do so.
Seeing him stopped by the rain, I drew my carriage up to the door and
said to him, 'Get in, sir!' 'No, thank you my lad,' he answered, in a
voice sweet as music. 'But you will be wet to the skin.' 'That is very
possible; but tell me only, my friend, what time it is.' 'Eleven
o'clock, sir.' 'Eleven o'clock! and I have business at the Palais
Marchand at half-past eleven,' exclaimed he, involuntarily looking sadly
at the rain and the gutters, which were running like rivers. 'Get in,
then, sir,' I repeated; 'in twenty minutes I will set you down at the
Palais Marchand, while on foot it will take you at least until noon to
get there!' 'I thank you, my lad,' said he, half-smiling, half-sighing,
'but I have no money. So don't lose your time here!' 'No money!' I
cried, opening the door, and almost pushing the little gentleman into my
carriage, for he was slender as a reed. 'By Jupiter, it shall not be
Jerome Sicard, who, for a franc, leaves a gentleman like you to miss an
appointment! Take my number, and you may pay me when you like, sir;' and
without giving him time to answer, I jumped on my seat, and in eighteen
minutes I deposited him safely at the Palais Marchand."
"Well done! he has bewitched everybody, even a hackney-coachman," cried
Dame Landry; "but patience--patience!"
"Shall you soon be done?" cried out the steward of the Princess Soubise.
"In one moment, sir. Arrived at the Palais Marchand, my gentleman said,
'Give me your number, my lad, I only desire to have the power to
recognize your kindness some day, and to pay you as you deserve; for
without your help, I could not have been present at an audience very
important to my lawsuit; but, as you have been so obliging, do me yet
one more favor. I started to go to my tailor to tell him not to fail to
bring me the coat which he promised me for to-night. This tailor keeps
in St. Honoré, at the sign of The Golden Scissors. If it will not take
you too much out of your way to pass this shop and tell the tailor that
the Marquis--Let--Les--Létorière--yes, that's it--of Létorière, will
expect this evening the coat he took the measure for a fortnight since.'
'Whether it is out of my way or not,' said I, 'I will go at any rate.'
Then you hired me by the hour, sir;" and the coachman, turning towards
the steward, added: "I have passed through St. Honoré, which has not
put you out at all, and I have executed my commission to this worthy
knight of the thimble and needle." Turning to Landry: "Now, tailor,
don't forget the gentleman's coat, and if you will tell me at what hour
it will be ready, I will come and carry it to his house myself, gratis.
Zounds!--always gratis--for I am sure that to oblige any one who so much
resembles a good angel ought to give one happiness. Now, my master,
excuse me"--and he turned towards the steward of Madame
Rohan-Soubise--"when you are ready we will start."
The steward, witness of this singular scene, felt interested in spite of
himself; he did not hurry in getting into the coach, especially when he
heard Dame Landry cry, in a cross voice, regarding her husband with
surprise and astonishment:
"Have you then dared, in spite of my orders, to promise another coat to
this person who never pays? But you have not begun it, I hope?"
"But, my dear--"
"There is no but about it,--answer me!"
"I have done more than begin it, my dear; I have finished it," said the
tailor, sadly lowering his head.
"You have made this coat? And with what? And when? Why don't you answer
me? For the last week I have not seen you, you and your worthy
apprentice, working on anything but these woollen overcoats and these
shaggy jackets."
Wishing to come to his master's succor, Master Kraft ventured to say:
"It was I, Madame Landry, who bought, with my own savings, five yards of
Segovian cloth, of an amaranth color, and in order to make the garment
complete, three yards of changeable taffeta, for the trimming of the
vest and coat; and we have worked nights, Master Landry and I, in order
that we might not lose our work by day."
"So, while I have been quietly and honestly sleeping, you have been
sitting up like criminals to work upon this beautiful masterpiece!"
cried the housewife.
"Well, what'll you have? This poor little gentleman has not troubled
either of us, Martin Kraft. By St. Genevieve! it was pitiful to see him,
in midwinter, with his miserable brown coat. We could not resist the
pleasure of clothing him like a gentleman as he is. Be easy; sooner or
later he will pay us. I'll put my hand in the fire if he isn't as honest
as he is charming."
Jerome Sicard, a big fellow of thirty years or thereabouts, listened to
the tailor's speech with increasing satisfaction. When it was finished,
he offered Master Landry his great hand, saying: "Take it, worthy
tailor; send your wife immediately to get a bottle of your best wine,
and we will drink together--blast me if we don't! And you, too, worthy
apprentice I you, also, shall share the bottle, for you honor the
scissors and the establishment better than any of your respectable
corporation."
"If you don't drink wine till I bring it to you, you will run no risk of
losing the little wits you have left," said Dame Landry, sharply; "you
deserve, indeed, to hob-nob with my fool of a husband, for, like him,
you have let yourself be bewitched by the first knave who comes along.
But as you do so well the errands of this cheating Marquis, you can go
and tell him that the coat shall not go out of this shop until he has
paid us the three hundred livres that he owes. You can also inform him,
to finish up the matter, that I am going myself to carry his bill, and
if the fine gentleman is not at home I will wait for him,--if he does
not, at least, give me something on account, I will go and find the
commissary, and I'll let you see that I, a woman, have more spunk than
either of you,--you chicken-hearted milk-sops!"
"As to being a sop, I'm sopping wet, that's true enough," said Jerome
Sicard; "but as to being chicken-hearted,--my good granny, if I had my
whip, or only the yard-stick on the counter, and you were _my_ wife, I'd
teach you speedily that I am no chicken, but a full-grown cock--fully
able to teach you better than to refuse a flask of wine to my
friends . . . all this without malice . . . but may the good God
grant that this may give you the happy idea of using your yard-stick
in training your wife, brave tailor!" said Sicard; then addressing
the secretary,--"I am ready, sir."
"That is well," said he, though by no means angry at the detention, for
the scene had amused him.
The coachman gone, Dame Landry took her large cloak, her black mantle,
and a great umbrella, bade her husband bring her the coat of Segovian
cloth made for M. Létorière, which she locked up, and then started in
a white heat of wrath to go and wait for this _Monsieur le Charmant_, as
she derisively called him.