“How long, Chemist?”
“Two hours, perhaps.”
“So long?”
After a moment he said dreamily: “It is but a step.”
The Little Chemist nodded, though he did not understand. The Cure
stooped over him.
“A step, my son?” he asked, thinking he spoke of the voyage the soul
takes.
“To the Tuileries,” answered Valmond, and he smiled. The Cure’s brow
clouded; he wished to direct the dying man’s thoughts elsewhere. “It
is but a step--anywhere,” he continued; and looked towards the Little
Chemist. “Thank you, dear monsieur, thank you. There is a silver
night-lamp in my room; I wish it to be yours. Adieu, my friend.”
The Little Chemist tried to speak, but could not. He stooped and kissed
Valmond’s hand, as though he thought him still a prince, and not the
impostor which the British rifles had declared him. To the end, the
coterie would act according to the light of their own eyes.
“It is now but a step--to anything,” repeated Valmond.
The Cure understood him at last. “The longest journey is short by the
light of the grave,” he responded gently.
Presently the door opened, admitting the avocat. Valmond calmly met
Monsieur Garon’s pained look, and courteously whispered his name.
“Your Excellency has been basely treated,” said the avocat, his lip
trembling.
“On the contrary, well, dear monsieur,” answered the ruined adventurer.
“Destiny plays us all. Think: I die the death of a soldier, and my
crusade was a soldier’s vision of conquest. I have paid the price. I
have--”
He did not finish the sentence, but lay lost in thought. At last he
spoke in a low tone to the avocat, who quickly began writing at his
dictation.
The chief clause of the record was a legacy of ten thousand francs to
“my faithful Minister and constant friend, Monsieur Parpon;” another of
ten thousand to Madame Joan Degardy, “whose skill and care of me merits
more than I can requite;” twenty thousand to “the Church of St. Nazaire
of the parish of Pontiac,” five thousand to “the beloved Monsieur Fabre,
cure of the same parish, to whose good and charitable heart I come
for my last comforts;” twenty thousand to “Mademoiselle Madelinette
Lajeunesse, that she may learn singing under the best masters in Paris.”
To Madame Chalice he left all his personal effects, ornaments, and
relics, save a certain decoration given the old sergeant, and a ring
once worn by the Emperor Napoleon. These were for a gift to “dear
Monsieur Garon, who has honoured me with his distinguished friendship;
and I pray that our mutual love for the same cause may give me some
title to his remembrance.”
Here the avocat stopped him with a quick, protesting gesture.
“Your Excellency! your Excellency!” he said in a shaking voice, “my
heart has been with the man as with the cause.”
Other legacies were given to Medallion, to the family of Lagroin, of
whom he still spoke as “my beloved General who died for me;” and ten
francs to each recruit who had come to his standard.
After a long pause, he said lingeringly: “To Mademoiselle Elise Malboir,
the memory of whose devotion and solicitude gives me joy in my last
hour, I bequeath fifty thousand francs. In the event of her death, this
money shall revert to the parish of Pontiac, in whose graveyard I wish
my body to lie. The balance of my estate, whatever it may now be, or may
prove to be hereafter, I leave to Pierre Napoleon, third son of Lucien
Bonaparte, Prince of Canino, of whom I cherish a reverent remembrance.”
A few words more ended the will, and the name of a bank in New York was
given as agent. Then there was silence in the room, and Valmond appeared
to sleep.
Presently the avocat, thinking that he might wish to be alone with the
Cure, stepped quietly to the door and opened it upon Madame Chalice. She
pressed his hand, her eyes full of tears, passed inside the room, going
softly to a shadowed corner, and sat watching the passive figure on the
bed.
What were the thoughts of this man, now that his adventure was over
and his end near? If he were in very truth a prince, how pitiable, how
paltry! What cheap martyrdom! If an impostor, had the game been worth
the candle?--Death seemed a coin of high value for this short, vanished
comedy. The man alone could answer, for the truth might not be known,
save by the knowledge that comes with the end of all.
She looked at the Cure, where he knelt praying, and wondered how much of
this tragedy the anxious priest would lay at his own door.
“It is no tragedy, dear Cure” Valmond said suddenly, as if following her
thoughts.
“My son, it is all tragedy until you have shown me your heart, that I
may send you forth in peace.”
He had forgotten Madame Chalice’s presence, and she sat very still.
“Even for our dear Lagroin,” Valmond continued, “it was no tragedy. He
was fighting for the cause, not for a poor fellow like me. As a soldier
loves to die, he died--in the dream of his youth, sword in hand.”
“You loved the cause, my son?” was the troubled question. “You were all
honest?”
Valmond made as if he would rise on his elbow, in excitement, but the
Cure put him gently back. “From a child I loved it, dear Cure,” was the
quick reply. “Listen, and I will tell you all my story.”
He composed himself, and his face took on a warm light, giving it a look
of happiness almost.
“The very first thing I remember was sitting on the sands of the
sea-shore, near some woman who put her arms round me and drew me to
her heart. I seem even to recall her face now, though I never could
before--do we see things clearer when we come to die, I wonder? I never
saw her again. I was brought up by my parents, who were humble peasants,
on an estate near Viterbo, in Italy. I was taught in the schools, and I
made friends among my school-fellows; but that was all the happiness I
had; for my parents were strict and hard with me, and showed me no love.
At twelve years of age I was taken to Rome, and there I entered the
house of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, as page. I was always near the person
of His Highness.”
He paused, at sight of a sudden pain in the Cure’s face. Sighing, he
continued:
“I travelled with him to France, to Austria, to England, where I learned
to speak the language, and read what the English wrote about the Great
Napoleon. Their hatred angered me, and I began to study what French and
Italian books said of him. I treasured up every scrap of knowledge I
could get. I listened to all that was said in the Prince’s palace, and I
was glad when His Highness let me read aloud private papers to him. From
these I learned the secrets of the great family. The Prince was seldom
gentle with me--sometimes almost brutal, yet he would scarcely let me
out of his sight. I had little intercourse then with the other servants,
and less still when I was old enough to become a valet; and a valet I
was to the Prince for twelve years.”
The Cure’s hand clasped the arm of his chair nervously. His lips
moved, but he said nothing aloud, and he glanced quickly towards Madame
Chalice, who sat moveless, her face flushed, her look fixed on Valmond.
So, he was the mere impostor after all--a valet! Fate had won the
toss-up; not faith, or friendship, or any good thing.
“All these years,” Valmond continued presently, his voice growing
weaker, “I fed on such food as is not often within the reach of valets.
I knew as much of the Bonapartes, of Napoleonic history, as the Prince
himself, so much so, that he often asked me of some date or fact of
which he was not sure. In time, I became almost like a private secretary
to him. I lived in a dream for years; for I had poetry, novels,
paintings, music, at my hand all the time, and the Prince, at the end,
changed greatly, was affectionate indeed, and said he would do good
things for me. I became familiar with all the intrigues, the designs of
the Bonapartes; and what I did not know was told me by Prince Pierre,
who was near my own age, and who used me always more like a friend than
a servant.
“One day the Prince was visited by Count Bertrand, who was with the
Emperor in his exile, and I heard him speak of a thing unknown to
history: that Napoleon had a son, born at St. Helena, by a countess
well known in Europe. She had landed, disguised as a sailor, from a
merchant-ship, and had lived in retirement at Longwood for near a year.
After the Emperor died, the thing was discovered, but the governor of
the island made no report of it to the British Government, for the event
would have reflected on himself; and the returned exiles kept the matter
a secret. It was said that the child died at St. Helena. The story
remained in my mind, and I brooded on it.
“Two years ago Prince Lucien died in my arms. When he was gone, I
found that I had been left five hundred thousand francs, a chateau,
and several relics of the Bonapartes, as reward for my services to the
Prince, and, as the will said, in token of the love he had come to bear
me. To these Prince Pierre added a number of mementoes. I went to visit
my parents, whom I had not seen for many years. I found that my mother
was dead, that my father was a drunkard. I left money for my father with
the mayor, and sailed for England. From London I came to New York; from
New York to Quebec. All the time I was restless, unhappy. I had had to
work all my life, now I had nothing to do. I had lived close to great
traditions, now there was no habit of life to keep them alive in me. I
spent money freely, but it gave me no pleasure. I once was a valet to
a great man, now I had the income of a gentleman, and was no gentleman.
Ah, do you not shrink from me, Monsieur le Cure?”
The Cure did not reply, but made a kindly gesture, and Valmond
continued:
“Sick of everything, one day I left Quebec hurriedly. Why I came here I
do not know, save that I had heard it was near the mountains, was quiet,
and I could be at peace. There was something in me which could not
be content in the foolishness of idle life. All the time I kept
thinking--thinking. If I were only a Napoleon, how I would try to do
great things! Ah, my God! I loved the Great Napoleon. What had the
Bonapartes done? Nothing--nothing. Everything had slipped away from
them. Not one of them was like the Emperor. His own legitimate son was
dead. None of the others had the Master’s blood, fire, daring in his
veins. The thought grew on me, and I used to imagine myself his son. I
loved his memory, all he did, all he was, better than any son could
do. It had been my whole life, thinking of him and the Empire, while I
brushed the Prince’s clothes or combed his hair. Why should such tastes
be given to a valet? Some one somewhere was to blame, dear Cure.
I really did not conceive or plan imposture. I was only playing a
comedian’s part in front of the Louis Quinze, till I heard Parpon sing a
verse of ‘Vive Napoleon!’ Then it all rushed on me, captured me--and the
rest you know.”
The Cure could not trust himself to speak yet.
“I had not thought to go so far when I began. It was mostly a whim. But
the idea gradually possessed me, and at last it seemed to me that I was
a real Napoleon. I used to wake from the dream for a moment, and I tried
to stop, but something in my blood drove me on--inevitably. You were all
good to me; you nearly all believed in me. Lagroin came--and so it has
gone on till now, till now. I had a feeling what the end would be. But
I should have had my dream. I should have died for the cause as no
Napoleon or Bonaparte ever died. Like a man, I would pay the penalty
Fate should set. What more could I do? If a man gives all he has, is not
that enough? ... There is my whole story. Now, I shall ask your pardon,
dear Cure.”
“You must ask pardon of God, my son,” said the priest, his looks showing
the anguish he felt.
“The Little Chemist said two hours, but I feel”--his voice got very
faint “I feel that he is mistaken.” He murmured a prayer, and crossed
himself thrice.
The Cure made ready to read the office for the dying. “My son,” he said,
“do you truly and earnestly repent you of your sins?”
Valmond’s eyes suddenly grew misty, his breathing heavier. He scarcely
seemed to comprehend.
“I have paid the price--I have loved you all. Parpon--where are
you?--Elise!”
A moment of silence, and then his voice rang out with a sort of sob.
“Ah, madame,” he cried chokingly, “dear madame, for you I--”
Madame Chalice arose with a little cry, for she knew whom he meant, and
her heart ached for him. She forgot his imposture--everything.
“Ah, dear, dear monsieur!” she said brokenly.
He knew her voice, he heard her coming; his eyes opened wide, and
he raised himself on the couch with a start. The effort loosened the
bandage at his neck, and blood gushed out on his bosom.
With a convulsive motion he drew up the coverlet to his chin, to hide
the red stream, and said gaspingly:
“Pardon, madame.”
Then a shudder passed through him, and with a last effort to spare
her the sight of his ensanguined body,’ he fell face downward,
voiceless--for ever.
The very earth seemed breathing. Long waves of heat palpitated over the
harvest-fields, and the din of the locust drove lazily through. The far
cry of the king-fisher, and idly clacking wheels of carts rolling down
from Dalgrothe Mountain, accented the drowsy melody of the afternoon.
The wild mustard glowed so like a golden carpet, that the destroying
hand of the anxious farmer seemed of the blundering tyranny of labour.
Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too gay for sorrow to pass
that way; but a blind girl, led by a little child, made a lane through
the red luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity and valour, and
the remnant of an unfulfilled manhood, lay beaten to death.
Destiny, which is stronger than human love, or the soul’s fidelity, had
overmastered self-sacrifice and the heart of a woman. This woman had
opened her eyes upon the world again, only to find it all night, all
strange; she was captive of a great darkness.
As she broke through the hedge of lilacs by the Cure’s house, the crowd
of awe-stricken people fell back, opening a path for her to the door.
She moved as one unconscious of the troubled life and the vibrating
world about her.
The hand of the child admitted her to the chamber of death; the door
closed, and she stood motionless.
The Cure made as if to rise and go towards her, but Madame Chalice,
sitting sorrowful and dismayed at the foot of the couch, by a motion of
her hand stopped him.
The girl paused a moment, listening. “Your Excellency,” she whispered.
It was as if a soul leaned out of the casement of life, calling into
the dark and the quiet which may not be comprehended by mortal man.
“Monsieur--Valmond!”
Her trembling hands were stretched out before her yearningly. The Cure
moved. She turned towards the sound with a pitiful vagueness.
“Valmond, O Valmond!” again she cried beseechingly, her clouded eyes
straining into the silence.
The cloak dropped from her shoulders, and the loose robe enveloping
her fell away from a bosom that throbbed with the passion of a great
despair. Nothing but silence.
She moved to the wall like a little child feeling its way, ran her hand
vaguely along it, and touched a crucifix. With a moan she pressed her
lips to the nailed feet, and came on gropingly to the couch. She reached
down towards it, but drew back as if in affright; for a dumb, desolating
fear was upon her.
But with that direful courage which is the last gift to the hopeless,
she stooped down again, and her fingers touched Valmond’s cold hands.
They ran up his breast, to his neck, to his face, and fondled it, as
only life can fondle death, out of that pitiful hunger which never can
be satisfied in this world; then they moved with an infinite tenderness
to his eyes, now blind like hers, and lingered there in the kinship of
eternal loss.
A low, anguished cry broke from her: “Valmond--my love!” and she fell
forward upon the breast of her lost Napoleon.
When the people gathered again in the little church upon the hill,
Valmond and his adventure had become almost a legend, so soon are men
and events lost in the distance of death and ruin.
The Cure preached, as he had always done, with a simple, practical
solicitude; but towards the end of his brief sermon he paused, and, with
a serious tenderness of voice, said:
“My children, vanity is the bane of mankind; it destroys as many souls
as self-sacrifice saves. It is the constant temptation of the human
heart. I have ever warned you against it, as I myself have prayed to
be kept from its devices--alas! how futilely at times. Vanity leads to
imposture, and imposture to the wronging of others. But if a man repent,
and yield all he has, to pay the high price of his bitter mistake,
he may thereby redeem himself even in this world. If he give his life
repenting, and if the giving stays the evil he might have wrought, shall
we be less merciful than God?
“My children” (he did not mention Valmond’s name), “his last act was
manly; his death was pious; his sin was forgiven. Those rifle bullets
that brought him down let out all the evil in his blood.
“We, my people, have been delivered from a grave error. Forgetting--save
for our souls’ welfare--the misery of this vanity which led us astray,
let us remember with gladness all of him that was commendable in our
eyes: his kindness, eloquence, generous heart, courage, and love of
Mother Church. He lies in our graveyard; he is ours; and, being ours,
let us protect his memory, as though he had not sought us a stranger,
but was of us: of our homes, as of our love, and of our sorrow.
“And so atoning for our sins, as did he, may we at last come to the
perfect pardon, and to peace everlasting.”
EPILOGUE
I
(EXTRACT FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY MADAME CHALICE TO MONSIEUR PADRE, CURE
OF THE PARISH OF PONTIAC, THREE MONTHS AFTER VALMOND’S DEATH.)
“... And here, dear Cure, you shall have my justification for writing
you two letters in one week, though I should make the accident a habit
if I were sure it would more please you than perplex you.
“Prince Pierre, son of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, arrived in New York two
days ago, and yesterday morning he came to the Atlantic Bank, and asked
for my husband. When he made known his business, Harry sent for me, that
I might speak with him.
“Dear Cure, hearts and instincts were right in Pontiac: our unhappy
friend Valmond was that child of Napoleon, born at St. Helena, of whom
he himself spoke at his death in your home. His mother was the Countess
of Carnstadt. At the beginning of an illness which followed Napoleon’s
death, the child was taken from her by Prince Lucien Bonaparte, and was
brought up and educated as the son of poor peasants in Italy. No one
knew of his birth save the companions in exile of the Great Emperor.
All of them, with the exception of Count Bertrand, believed, as Valmond
said, that the child had died in infancy at St. Helena.
“Prince Lucien had sworn to the mother that he would care personally
for the child, and he fulfilled his promise by making him a page in his
household, and afterwards a valet--base redemption of a vow.
“But even as Valmond drew our hearts to him, so at last he won Prince
Lucien’s, as he had from the first won Prince Pierre’s.
“It was not until after Valmond’s death, when receiving the residue of
our poor friend’s estate, that Prince Pierre learned the whole truth
from Count Bertrand. He immediately set sail for New York, and next week
he will secretly visit you, for love of the dead man, and to thank
you and our dear avocat, together with all others who believed in and
befriended his unfortunate kinsman.
“Ah, dear Cure, think of the irony of it all--that a man be driven, by
the very truth in his blood, to that strangest of all impostures--to
impersonate himself--He did it too well to be the mere comedian; I felt
that all the time. I shall show his relics now with more pride than
sorrow. Prince Pierre dines with us to-night. He looks as if he had
the Napoleonic daring,--or rashness,--but I am sure he has not the good
heart of our Valmond Napoleon....”
II
The haymakers paused and leaned upon their forks, children left the
strawberry vines and climbed upon the fences, as the coach from the
distant city dashed down the street towards the four corners, and the
welcoming hotel, with its big dormer windows and well-carved veranda.
As it whirled by, the driver shouted something at a stalwart forgeron,
standing at the doorway of his smithy, and he passed it on to a
loitering mealman and a lime-burner.
A girl came slowly over the crest of a hill. Feeling her way with a
stick, she paused now and then to draw in long breaths of sweet air
from the meadows, as if in the joy of Nature she found a balm for the
cruelties of Destiny.
Presently a puff of smoke shot out from the hillside where she stood,
and the sound of an old cannon followed. From the Seigneury, far over,
came an answering report; and Tricolors ran fluttering up on flagstaffs,
at the four corners, and in the Cure’s garden.
The girl stood wondering, her fine, calm face expressing the quick
thoughts which had belonged to eyes once so full of hope and blithe
desire. The serenity of her life--its charity, its truth, its cheerful
care for others, the confidence of the young which it invited, showed in
all the aspect of her. She heard the flapping of the flag in the Cure’s
garden, and turned her darkened eyes towards it. A look of pain crossed
her face, and a hand trembled to her bosom, as if to ease a great
throbbing of her heart. These cannon shots and this shivering pennant
brought back a scene at the four corners, years before.
Footsteps came over the hill: she knew them, and turned.
“Parpon!” she said, with a glad gesture.
Without a word he placed in her hand a bunch of violets that he carried.
She lifted them to her lips. “What is it all?” she asked, turning again
to the Tricolor.
“Louis Napoleon enters the Tuileries,” he answered. “But ours was the
son of the Great Emperor!” she said. “Let us be going, Parpon: we will
plats these on his grave.” She pressed the violets to her heart.
“France would have loved him, as we did,” said the dwarf, as they moved
on.
“As we do,” the blind girl answered softly.
Their figures against the setting sun took on a strange burnished
radiance, so that they seemed as mystical pilgrims journeying into
that golden haze, which veiled them in beyond the hill, as the Angelus
sounded from the tower of the ancient church.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE “VALMOND TO PONTIAC”:
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You cannot live long enough to atone for that impertinence