That evening Graham found himself in the coupe of the express train to
Strasbourg. He had sent to engage the whole coupe to himself, but that
was impossible. One place was bespoken as far as C-------, after which
Graham might prosecute his journey alone on paying for the three places.
When he took his seat another man was in the further corner whom he
scarcely noticed. The train shot rapidly on for some leagues. Profound
silence in the coupe, save at moments those heavy impatient sighs that
came from the very depths of the heart, and of which he who sighs is
unconscious, burst from the Englishman’s lips, and drew on him the
observant side-glance of his fellow-traveller.
At length the fellow-traveller said in very good English, though
with French accent, “Would you object, sir, to my lighting my little
carriage-lantern? I am in the habit of reading in the night train, and
the wretched lamp they give us does not permit that. But if you wish to
sleep, and my lantern would prevent you doing so, consider my request
unasked.”
“You are most courteous, sir. Pray light your lantern--that will not
interfere with my sleep.”
As Graham thus answered, far away from the place and the moment as his
thoughts were, it yet faintly struck him that he had heard that voice
before.
The man produced a small lantern, which he attached to the window-sill,
and drew forth from a small leathern bag sundry newspapers and
pamphlets. Graham flung himself back, and in a minute or so again came
his sigh.
“Allow me to offer you those evening journals--you may not have had
time to read them before starting,” said the fellow-traveller, leaning
forward, and extending the newspapers with one hand, while with the
other he lifted his lantern. Graham turned, and the faces of the two men
were close to each other--Graham with his travelling-cap drawn over his
brows, the other with head uncovered.
“Monsieur Lebeau!”
“Bon soir, Mr. Lamb!”
Again silence for a moment or so. Monsieur Lebeau then broke it--
“I think, Mr. Lamb, that in better society than that of the Faubourg
Montmartre you are known under another name.” Graham had no heart then
for the stage-play of a part, and answered, with quiet haughtiness,
“Possibly--and what name?”
“Graham Vane. And, sir,” continued Lebeau, with a haughtiness equally
quiet, but somewhat more menacing, “since we two gentlemen find
ourselves thus close, do I ask too much if I inquire why you condescend
to seek my acquaintance in disguise?”
“Monsieur le Vicomte de Mauleon, when you talk of disguise, is it too
much to inquire why my acquaintance was accepted by Monsieur Lebeau?”
“Ha! Then you confess that it was Victor de Mauleon whom you sought when
you first visited the cafe Jean Jacques?”
“Frankly I confess it.”
Monsieur Lebeau drew himself back, and seemed to reflect.
“I see! Solely for the purpose of learning whether Victor de Mauleon
could give you any information about Louise Duval. Is it so?”
“Monsieur le Vicomte, you say truly.”
Again M. Lebeau paused as if in reflection; and Graham, in that state
of mind when a man who may most despise and detest the practice of
duelling, may yet feel a thrill of delight if some homicide would be
good enough to put him out of his misery, flung aside his cap, lifted
his broad frank forehead, and stamped his foot impatiently as if to
provoke a quarrel.
M. Lebeau lowered his spectacles, and, with those calm, keen, searching
eyes of his, gazed at the Englishman.
“It strikes me,” he said, with a smile, the fascination of which not
even those faded whiskers could disguise--“it strikes me that there are
two ways in which gentlemen such as you and I are can converse: firstly,
with reservation and guard against each other; secondly, with perfect
openness. Perhaps of the two I have more need of reservation and wary
guard against any stranger than you have. Allow me to propose the
alternative--perfect openness. What say you?” and he extended his hand.
“Perfect openness,” answered Graham, softened into sudden liking for
this once terrible swordsman, and shaking, as an Englishman shakes, the
hand held out to him in peace by the man from whom he had anticipated
quarrel.
“Permit me now, before you address any questions to me, to put one to
you. How did you learn that Victor de Mauleon was identical with Jean
Lebeau?”
“I heard that from an agent of the police.”
“Ah!”
“Whom I consulted as to the means of ascertaining whether Louise Duval
was alive,--if so, where she could be found.”
“I thank you very much for your information. I had no notion that the
police of Paris had divined the original alias of poor Monsieur Lebeau,
though something occurred at Lyons which made me suspect it. Strange
that the Government, knowing through the police that Victor de Mauleon,
a writer they had no reason to favour, had been in so humble a position,
should never, even in their official journals, have thought it prudent
to say so! But, now I think of it, what if they had? They could prove
nothing against Jean Lebeau. They could but say, ‘Jean Lebeau is
suspected to be too warm a lover of liberty, too earnest a friend of
the people, and Jean Lebeau is the editor of La Sens Commun.’ Why, that
assertion would have made Victor de Mauleon the hero of the Reds, the
last thing a prudent Government could desire. I thank you cordially for
your frank reply. Now, what question would you put to me?”
“In one word, all you can tell me about Louise Duval.”
“You shall have it. I had heard vaguely in my young days that a
half-sister of mine by my father’s first marriage with Mademoiselle
de Beauvilliers had--when in advanced middle life he married a second
time--conceived a dislike for her mother-in-law, and, being of age, with
an independent fortune of her own, had quitted the house, taken up her
residence with an elderly female relative, and there had contracted
a marriage with a man who gave her lessons in drawing. After that
marriage, which my father in vain tried to prevent, my sister was
renounced by her family. That was all I knew till, after I came into my
inheritance by the death of both my parents, I learned from my father’s
confidential lawyer that the drawing-master, M. Duval, had soon
dissipated his wife’s fortune, become a widower with one child--a
girl--and fallen into great distress. He came to my father, begging for
pecuniary aid. My father, though by no means rich, consented to allow
him a yearly pension, on condition that he never revealed to his child
her connection with our family. The man agreed to the condition, and
called at my father’s lawyer quarterly for his annuity. But the lawyer
informed me that this deduction from my income had ceased, that M. Duval
had not for a year called or sent for the sum due to him, and that he
must therefore be dead. One day my valet informed me that a young lady
wished to see me--in those days young ladies very often called on me. I
desired her to be shown in. There entered a young creature, almost of my
own age, who, to my amazement saluted me as uncle. This was the child of
my half-sister. Her father had been dead several months, fulfilling very
faithfully the condition on which he had held his pension, and the girl
never dreaming of the claims that, if wise, poor child, she ought not
to have cared for, viz.,--to that obsolete useless pauper birthright,
a branch on the family tree of a French noble. But in pinch of
circumstance, and from female curiosity, hunting among the papers her
father had left for some clue to the reasons for the pension he had
received, she found letters from her mother, letters from my father,
which indisputably proved that she was grandchild to the fue Vicomte de
Mauleon, and niece to myself. Her story as told to me was very pitiable.
Conceiving herself to be nothing higher in birth than daughter to this
drawing-master, at his death, poor, penniless orphan that she was, she
had accepted the hand of an English student of medicine whom she did not
care for. Miserable with this man, on finding by the documents I refer
to that she was my niece, she came to me for comfort and counsel. What
counsel could I or any man give to her but to make the best of what
had happened, and live with her husband? But then she started another
question. It seems that she had been talking with some one, I think her
landlady, or some other woman with whom she had made acquaintance--was
she legally married to this man? Had he not entrapped her ignorance into
a false marriage? This became a grave question, and I sent at once to
my lawyer. On hearing the circumstances, he at once declared that the
marriage was not legal according to the laws of France. But, doubtless,
her English soi-disant husband was not cognisant of the French law, and
a legal marriage could, with his assent, be at once solemnised. Monsieur
Vane, I cannot find words to convey to you the joy that poor girl showed
in her face and in her words when she learned that she was not bound
to pass her life with that man as his wife. It was in vain to talk and
reason with her. Then arose the other question, scarcely less important.
True, the marriage was not legal, but would it not be better on all
accounts to take steps to have it formally annulled, thus freeing her
from the harassment of any claim the Englishman might advance, and
enabling her to establish the facts in a right position, not injurious
to her honour in the eyes of any future suitor to her hand? She would
not hear of such a proposal. She declared that she could not bring to
the family she pined to re-enter the scandal of disgrace. To allow that
she had made such a misalliance would be bad enough in itself; but to
proclaim to the world that, though nominally the wife, she had in fact
been only the mistress of this medical student--she would rather throw
herself into the Seine. All she desired was to fund some refuge, some
hiding-place for a time, whence she could write to the man informing him
that he had no lawful hold on her. Doubtless he would not seek then to
molest her. He would return to his own country, and be effaced from
her life. And then, her story unknown, she might form a more suitable
alliance. Fiery young creature though she was--true De Mauleon in
being so fiery--she interested me strongly. I should say that she was
wonderfully handsome; and though imperfectly educated, and brought up in
circumstances so lowly, there was nothing common about her--a certain je
ne sais quoi of stateliness and race. At all events she did with me what
she wished. I agreed to aid her desire of a refuge and hiding-place. Of
course I could not lodge her in my own apartment, but I induced a female
relation of her mother’s, an old lady living at Versailles, to receive
her, stating her birth, but of course concealing her illegal marriage.
“From time to time I went to see her. But one day I found this restless
bright-plumaged bird flown. Among the ladies who visited at her
relative’s house was a certain Madame Marigny, a very pretty young
widow. Madame Marigny and Louise formed a sudden and intimate
friendship. The widow was moving from Versailles into an apartment at
Paris, and invited Louise to share it. She had consented. I was
not pleased at this; for the widow was too young, and too much of a
coquette, to be a safe companion to Louise. But though professing much
gratitude and great regard for me, I had no power of controlling the
poor girl’s actions. Her nominal husband, meanwhile, had left France,
and nothing more was heard or known of him. I saw that the best thing
that could possibly befall Louise was marriage with some one rich enough
to gratify her taste for luxury and pomp; and that if such a marriage
offered itself, she might be induced to free it from all possible
embarrassment by procuring the annulment of the former, from which she
had hitherto shrunk in such revolt. This opportunity presented itself.
A man already rich, and in a career that promised to make him
infinitely richer, an associate of mine in those days when I was rapidly
squandering the remnant of my inheritance--this man saw her at the opera
in company with Madame Marigny, fell violently in love with her, and
ascertaining her relationship to me, besought an introduction. I was
delighted to give it; and, to say the truth, I was then so reduced to
the bottom of my casket, I felt that it was becoming impossible for me
to continue the aid I had hitherto given to Louise, and--what then would
become of her? I thought it fair to tell Louvier--”
“Louvier--the financier?”
“Ah, that was a slip of the tongue, but no matter; there is no reason
for concealing his name. I thought it right, I say, to tell Louvier
confidentially the history of the unfortunate illegal marriage. It did
not damp his ardour. He wooed her to the best of his power, but she
evidently took him into great dislike. One day she sent for me in much
excitement, showed me some advertisements in the French journals which,
though not naming her, evidently pointed at her, and must have been
dictated by her soi-disant husband. The advertisements might certainly
lead to her discovery if she remained in Paris. She entreated my consent
to remove elsewhere. Madame Marigny had her own reason for leaving
Paris, and would accompany her. I supplied her with the necessary
means, and a day or two afterwards she and her friend departed, as I
understood, for Brussels. I received no letter from her; and my own
affairs so seriously pre-occupied me, that poor Louise might have passed
altogether out of my thoughts, had it not been for the suitor she had
left in despair behind. Louvier besought me to ascertain her address;
but I could give him no, other clue to it than that she said she was
going to Brussels, but should soon remove to some quiet village. It
was not for a long time--I can’t remember how long--it might be several
weeks, perhaps two or three months, that I received a short note from
her stating that she waited for a small remittance, the last she would
accept from me, as she was resolved, so soon as her health would permit,
to find means to maintain herself--and telling me to direct to her,
Poste restante, Aix-la-Chapelle. I sent her the sum she asked, perhaps a
little more, but with a confession reluctantly wrung from me that I was
a ruined man; and I urged her to think very seriously before she refused
the competence and position which a union with M. Louvier would insure.
“This last consideration so pressed on me that, when Louvier called on
me, I think that day or the nests I gave him Louise’s note, and told him
that, if he were still as much in love with her as ever, les absents ont
toujours tort, and he had better go to Aix-la-Chapelle and find her
out; that he had my hearty approval of his wooing, and consent to his
marriage, though I still urged the wisdom and fairness, if she would
take the preliminary step--which, after all, the French law frees as
much as possible from pain and scandal--of annulling the irregular
marriage into which her childlike youth had been decoyed.
“Louvier left me for Aix-la-Chapelle. The very next day came that cruel
affliction which made me a prey to the most intolerable calumny, which
robbed me of every friend, which sent me forth from my native country
penniless, and resolved to be nameless--until--until--well, until my
hour could come again--every dog, if not hanged, has its day;--when that
affliction befell me, I quitted France, heard no more of Louvier nor of
Louise; indeed, no letter addressed to me at Paris would have reached--”
The man paused here, evidently with painful emotion. He resumed in the
quiet matter-of-fact way in which he had commenced his narrative.
“Louise had altogether faded out of my remembrance until your question
revived it. As it happened, the question came at the moment when I
meditated resuming my real name and social position. In so doing, I
should of course come in contact with my old acquaintance Louvier; and
the name of Louise was necessarily associated with us. I called on him,
and made myself known. The slight information I gave you as to my niece
was gleaned from him.
“I may now say more. It appears that when he arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle
he found that Louise Duval had left it a day or two previously, and
according to scandal had been for some time courted by a wealthy and
noble lover, whom she had gone to Munich to meet. Louvier believed
this tale: quitted Aix indignantly, and never heard more of her. The
probability is, M. Vane, that she must have been long dead. But if
living still, I feel quite sure that she will communicate with me
some day or other. Now that I have reappeared in Paris in my own
name--entered into a career that, for good or for evil, must ere long
bring my name very noisily before the public--Louise cannot fail to hear
of my existence and my whereabouts; and unless I am utterly mistaken
as to her character, she will assuredly inform me of her own. Oblige
me with your address, and in that case I will let you know. Of course
I take for granted the assurance you gave me last year, that you only
desire to discover her in order to render her some benefit, not to
injure or molest her?”
“Certainly. To that assurance I pledge my honour. Any letter with which
you may favour me had better be directed to my London address; here is
my card. But, M. le Vicomte, there is one point on which pray pardon me
if I question you still. Had you no suspicion that there was one reason
why this lady might have quitted Paris so hastily, and have so shrunk
from the thought of a marriage so advantageous, in a worldly point
of view, as that with M. Louvier,--namely, that she anticipated the
probability of becoming the mother of a child by the man whom she
refused to acknowledge as a husband?”
“That idea did not strike me until you asked me if she had a child.
Should your conjecture be correct, it would obviously increase her
repugnance to apply for the annulment of her illegal marriage. But if
Louise is still living and comes across me, I do not doubt that, the
motives for concealment no longer operating, she will confide to me the
truth. Since we have been talking together thus frankly, I suppose I
may fairly ask whether I do not guess correctly in supposing that this
soi-disant husband, whose name I forget,--Mac--something, perhaps,
Scotch-I think she said he was Ecossais,--is dead and has left by will
some legacy to Louise and any child she may have borne to him?”
“Not exactly so. The man, as you say, is dead; but he bequeathed no
legacy to the lady who did not hold herself married to him. But there
are those connected with him who, knowing the history, think that some
compensation is due for the wrong so unconsciously done to her, and yet
more to any issue of a marriage not meant to be irregular or illegal.
Permit me now to explain why I sought you in another guise and name than
my own. I could scarcely place in M. Lebeau the confidence which I now
unreservedly place in the Vicomte de Mauleon.”
“Cela va sans dire. You believed, then, that calumny about the jewels;
you do not believe it now?”
“Now! my amazement is, that any one who had known you could believe it.”
“Oh, how often, and with tears of rage in my exile--my wanderings--have
I asked that question of myself! That rage has ceased; and I have but
one feeling left for that credulous, fickle Paris, of which one day I
was the idol, the next the byword. Well, a man sometimes plays chess
more skilfully for having been long a mere bystander. He understands
better how to move, and when to sacrifice the pieces. Politics, M. Vane,
is the only exciting game left to me at my years. At yours, there is
still that of love. How time flies! we are nearing the station at which
I descend. I have kinsfolk of my mother’s in these districts. They are
not Imperialists; they are said to be powerful in the department. But
before I apply to them in my own name, I think it prudent that M. Lebeau
should quietly ascertain what is their real strength, and what would be
the prospects of success if Victor de Mauleon offered himself as depute
at the next election. Wish him joy, M. Vane! If he succeed, you will
hear of him some day crowned in the Capitol, or hurled from the Tarpeian
rock.”
Here the train stopped. The false Lebeau gathered up his papers,
readjusted his spectacles and his bag, descended lightly, and, pressing
Graham’s hand as he paused at the door, said, “Be sure I will not forget
your address if I have anything to say. Bon voyage!”