The next morning the party broke up. Letters had been delivered both to
Savarin and to Graham, which, even had the day for departure not been
fixed, would have summoned them away. On reading his letter, Savarin's
brow became clouded. He made a sign to his wife after breakfast, and
wandered away with her down an alley in the little garden. His trouble
was of that nature which a wife either soothes or aggravates, according
sometimes to her habitual frame of mind, sometimes to the mood of temper
in which she may chance to be,--a household trouble, a pecuniary trouble.
Savarin was by no means an extravagant man. His mode of living, though
elegant and hospitable, was modest compared to that of many French
authors inferior to himself in the fame which at Paris brings a very good
return in francs; but his station itself as the head of a powerful
literary clique necessitated many expenses which were too congenial to
his extreme good-nature to be regulated by strict prudence. His hand was
always open to distressed writers and struggling artists, and his sole
income was derived from his pen and a journal in which he was chief
editor and formerly sole proprietor. But that journal had of late not
prospered. He had sold or pledged a considerable share in the
proprietorship. He had been compelled also to borrow a sum large for
him, and the debt obtained from a retired bourgeois who lent out his
moneys "by way," he said, "of maintaining an excitement and interest in
life," would in a few days become due. The letter was not from that
creditor; but it was from his publisher, containing a very disagreeable
statement of accounts, pressing for settlement, and declining an offer of
Savarin for a new book (not yet begun) except upon terms that the author
valued himself too highly to accept. Altogether, the situation was
unpleasant. There were many times in which Madame Savarin presumed to
scold her distinguished husband for his want of prudence and thrift. But
those were never the times when scolding could be of no use. It could
clearly be of no use now. Now was the moment to cheer and encourage him;
to reassure him as to his own undiminished powers and popularity, for he
talked dejectedly of himself as obsolete and passing out of fashion; to
convince him also of the impossibility that the ungrateful publisher whom
Savarin's more brilliant successes had enriched could encounter the odium
of hostile proceedings; and to remind him of all the authors, all the
artists, whom he in their earlier difficulties had so liberally assisted,
and from whom a sum sufficing to pay the bourgeois creditor when the day
arrived could now be honourably asked and would be readily contributed.
In this last suggestion the homely prudent good-sense of Madame Savarin
failed her. She did not comprehend that delicate pride of honour which,
with all his Parisian frivolities and cynicism, dignified the Parisian
man of genius. Savarin could not, to save his neck from a rope, have
sent round the begging-hat to friends whom he had obliged. Madame
Savarin was one of those women with large-lobed ears, who can be
wonderfully affectionate, wonderfully sensible, admirable wives and
mothers, and yet are deficient in artistic sympathies with artistic
natures. Still, a really good honest wife is such an incalculable
blessing to her lord, that, at the end of the talk in the solitary alley,
this man of exquisite finesse, of the undefinably high-bred temperament,
and, alas! the painful morbid susceptibility, which belongs to the
genuine artistic character, emerged into the open sunlit lawn with his
crest uplifted, his lip curved upward in its joyous mockery, and
perfectly persuaded that somehow or other he should put down the
offensive publisher, and pay off the unoffending creditor when the day
for payment came. Still he had judgment enough to know that to do this
he must get back to Paris, and could not dawdle away precious hours in
discussing the principles of poetry with Graham Vane.
There was only one thing, apart from "the begging-hat," in which Savarin
dissented from his wife.--She suggested his starting a new journal in
conjunction with Gustave Rameau, upon whose genius and the expectations
to be formed from it (here she was tacitly thinking of Isaura wedded to
Rameau, and more than a Malibran on the stage) she insisted vehemently.
Savarin did not thus estimate Gustave Rameau, thought him a clever,
promising young writer in a very bad school of writing, who might do well
some day or other. But that a Rameau could help a Savarin to make a
fortune! No; at that idea he opened his eyes, patted his wife's
shoulder, and called her "enfant."
Graham's letter was from M. Renard, and ran thus:--
MONSIEUR,--I had the honour to call at your apartment this morning,
and I write this line to the address given to me by your concierge
to say that I have been fortunate enough to ascertain that the
relation of the missing lady is now at Paris. I shall hold myself
in readiness to attend your summons. Deign to accept, Monsieur, the
assurance of my profound consideration.
J. RENARD.
This communication sufficed to put Graham into very high spirits.
Anything that promised success to his research seemed to deliver his
thoughts from a burden and his will from a fetter. Perhaps in a few days
he might frankly and honourably say to Isaura words which would justify
his retaining longer, and pressing more ardently, the delicate hand which
trembled in his as they took leave.
On arriving at Paris, Graham despatched a note to M. Renard requesting to
see him, and received a brief line in reply that M. Renard feared he
should be detained on other and important business till the evening, but
hoped to call at eight o'clock. A few minutes before that hour he
entered Graham's apartment.
"You have discovered the uncle of Louise Duval!" exclaimed Graham; "of
course you mean M. de Mauleon, and he is at Paris?"
"True so far, Monsieur; but do not be too sanguine as to the results of
the information I can give you. Permit me, as briefly as possible, to
state the circumstances. When you acquainted me with the fact that M. de
Mauleon was the uncle of Louise Duval, I told you that I was not without
hopes of finding him out, though so long absent from Paris. I will now
explain why. Some months ago, one of my colleagues engaged in the
political department (which I am not) was sent to Lyons, in consequence
of some suspicions conceived by the loyal authorities there of a plot
against the emperor's life. The suspicions were groundless, the plot a
mare's nest. But my colleague's attention was especially drawn towards a
man not mixed up with the circumstances from which a plot had been
inferred, but deemed in some way or other a dangerous enemy to the
Government. Ostensibly, he exercised a modest and small calling as a
sort of courtier or _agent de change_; but it was noticed that certain
persons familiarly frequenting his apartment, or to whose houses he used
to go at night, were disaffected to the Government,--not by any means of
the lowest rank,--some of them rich malcontents who had been devoted
Orleanists; others, disappointed aspirants to office or the 'cross;' one
or two well-born and opulent fanatics dreaming of another Republic.
Certain very able articles in the journals of the excitable _Midi_,
though bearing another signature, were composed or dictated by this man,
--articles evading the censure and penalties of the law, but very
mischievous in their tone. All who had come into familiar communication
with this person were impressed with a sense of his powers; and also with
a vague belief that he belonged to a higher class in breeding and
education than that of a petty _agent de change_. My colleague set
himself to watch the man, and took occasions of business at his little
office to enter into talk with him. Not by personal appearance, but by
voice, he came to a conclusion that the man was not wholly a stranger to
him,--a peculiar voice with a slight Norman breadth of pronunciation,
though a Parisian accent; a voice very low, yet very distinct; very
masculine, yet very gentle. My colleague was puzzled till late one
evening he observed the man coming out of the house of one of these rich
malcontents, the rich malcontent himself accompanying him. My colleague,
availing himself of the dimness of light, as the two passed into a lane
which led to the agent's apartment, contrived to keep close behind and
listen to their conversation; but of this he heard nothing,--only, when
at the end of the lane, the rich man turned abruptly, shook his companion
warmly by the hand, and parted from him, saying, 'Never fear; all shall
go right with you, my dear Victor.' At the sound of that name 'Victor,'
my colleague's memories, before so confused, became instantaneously
clear. Previous to entering our service, he had been in the horse
business, a votary of the turf; as such he had often seen the brilliant
'sportman,' Victor de Mauleon; sometimes talked to him. Yes, that was
the voice,--the slight Norman intonation (Victor de Mauleon's father had
it strongly, and Victor had passed some of his early childhood in
Normandy), the subdued modulation of speech which had made so polite the
offence to men, or so winning the courtship to women,--that was Victor de
Mauleon. But why there in that disguise? What was his real business and
object? My confrere had no time allowed to him to prosecute such
inquiries. Whether Victor or the rich malcontent had observed him at
their heels, and feared he might have overheard their words, I know not;
but the next day appeared in one of the popular journals circulating
among the _ouvriers_ a paragraph stating that a Paris spy had been seen
at Lyons, warning all honest men against his machinations, and containing
a tolerably accurate description of his person. And that very day, on
venturing forth, my estimable colleague suddenly found himself hustled by
a ferocious throng, from whose hands he was with great difficulty rescued
by the municipal guard. He left Lyons that night; and for recompense of
his services received a sharp reprimand from his chief. He had committed
the worst offence in our profession, _trop de zele_. Having only heard
the outlines of this story from another, I repaired to my _confrere_
after my last interview with Monsieur, and learned what I now tell you
from his own lips. As he was not in my branch of the service, I could
not order him to return to Lyons; and I doubt whether his chief would
have allowed it. But I went to Lyons myself, and there ascertained that
our supposed Vicomte had left that town for Paris some months ago, not
long after the adventure of my colleague. The man bore a very good
character generally,--was said to be very honest and inoffensive; and the
notice taken of him by persons of higher rank was attributed generally to
a respect for his talents, and not on account of any sympathy in
political opinions. I found that the confrere mentioned, and who alone
could identify M. de Mauleon in the disguise which the Vicomte had
assumed, was absent on one of those missions abroad in which he is
chiefly employed. I had to wait for his return, and it was only the day
before yesterday that I obtained the following particulars. M. de
Mauleon bears the same name as he did at Lyons,--that name is Jean
Lebeau; he exercises the ostensible profession of a 'letter-writer,' and
a sort of adviser on business among the workmen and petty bourgeoisie,
and he nightly frequents the cafe Jean Jacques, Rue Faubourg Montmartre.
It is not yet quite half-past eight, and, no doubt, you could see him at
the cafe this very night, if you thought proper to go."
"Excellent! I will go! Describe him!"
"Alas! that is exactly what I cannot do at present; for after hearing
what I now tell you, I put the same request you do to my colleague, when,
before he could answer me, he was summoned to the bureau of his chief,
promising to return and give me the requisite description. He did not
return; and I find that he was compelled, on quitting his chief, to seize
the first train starting for Lille upon an important political
investigation which brooked no delay. He will be back in a few days,
and then Monsieur shall have the description."
"Nay; I think I will seize time by the forelock, and try my chance
tonight. If the man be really a conspirator, and it looks likely enough,
who knows but what he may see quick reason to take alarm and vanish from
Paris at any hour?--Cafe Jean Jacques, Rue ------; I will go. Stay; you
have seen Victor de Mauleon in his youth: what was he like then?"
"Tall, slender, but broad-shouldered, very erect, carrying his head high,
a profusion of dark curls, a small black mustache, fair clear complexion,
light-coloured eyes with dark lashes, _fort bel homme_. But he will not
look like that now."
"His present age?"
"Forty-seven or forty-eight. But before you go, I must beg you to
consider well what you are about. It is evident that M. de Mauleon has
some strong reason, whatever it be, for merging his identity in that of
Jean Lebeau. I presume, therefore, that you could scarcely go up to M.
Lebeau, when you have discovered him, and say, 'Pray, Monsieur le
Vicomte, can you give me some tidings of your niece, Louise Duval?' If
you thus accosted him, you might possibly bring some danger on yourself,
but you would certainly gain no information from him."
"True."
On the other hand, if you make his acquaintance as M. Lebeau, how can you
assume him to know anything about Louise Duval?"
"Parbleu! Monsieur Renard, you try to toss me aside on both horns of the
dilemma; but it seems to me that, if I once make his acquaintance as M.
Lebeau, I might gradually and cautiously feel my way as to the best mode
of putting the question to which I seek reply. I suppose, too, that the
man must be in very poor circumstances to adopt so humble a calling, and
that a small sum of money may smooth all difficulties."
"I am not so sure of that," said M. Renard, thoughtfully; "but grant that
money may do so, and grant also that the Vicomte, being a needy man, has
become a very unscrupulous one,--is there anything in your motives for
discovering Louise Duval which might occasion you trouble and annoyance,
if it were divined by a needy and unscrupulous man; anything which might
give him a power of threat or exaction? Mind, I am not asking you to
tell me any secret you have reasons for concealing, but I suggest that it
might be prudent if you did not let M. Lebeau know your real name and
rank; if, in short, you could follow his example, and adopt a disguise.
But no; when I think of it, you would doubtless be so unpractised in the
art of disguise that he would detect you at once to be other than you
seem; and if suspecting you of spying into his secrets, and if those
secrets be really of a political nature, your very life might not be
safe."
"Thank you for your hint; the disguise is an excellent idea, and combines
amusement with precaution. That this Victor de Mauleon must be a very
unprincipled and dangerous man is, I think, abundantly clear. Granting
that he was innocent of all design of robbery in the affair of the
jewels, still, the offence which he did own--that of admitting himself at
night by a false key into the rooms of a wife, whom he sought to surprise
or terrify into dishonour--was a villanous action; and his present course
of life is sufficiently mysterious to warrant the most unfavourable
supposition. Besides, there is another motive for concealing my name
from him: you say that he once had a duel with a Vane, who was very
probably my father, and I have no wish to expose myself to the chance of
his turning up in London some day, and seeking to renew there the
acquaintance that I had courted at Paris. As for my skill in playing any
part I may assume, do not fear; I am no novice in that. In my younger
days I was thought clever in private theatricals, especially in the
transformations of appearance which belong to light comedy and farce.
Wait a few minutes, and you shall see."
Graham then retreated into his bedroom, and in a few minutes reappeared
so changed, that Renard at first glance took him for a stranger. He had
doffed his dress--which habitually, when in Capitals, was characterized
by the quiet, indefinable elegance that to a man of the great world,
high-bred and young, seems "to the manner born"--for one of those coarse
suits which Englishmen are wont to wear in their travels, and by which
they are represented in French or German caricatures,--loose jacket of
tweed with redundant pockets, waistcoat to match, short dust-coloured
trousers. He had combed his hair straight over his forehead, which, as I
have said somewhere before, appeared in itself to alter the character of
his countenance, and, without any resort to paints or cosmetics, had
somehow or other given to the expression of his face an impudent, low-
bred expression, with a glass screwed on to his right eye,--such a look
as a cockney journeyman, wishing to pass for a "swell" about town, may
cast on a servant-maid in the pit of a suburban theatre.
"Will it do, old fellow?" he exclaimed, in a rollicking, swaggering tone
of voice, speaking French with a villanous British accent.
"Perfectly," said Renard, laughing. "I offer my compliments, and if ever
you are ruined, Monsieur, I will promise you a place in our police. Only
one caution,--take care not to overdo your part."
"Right. A quarter to nine; I'm off."