COUNT MAXIME GAËTAN DE LHORAILLES.
Before explaining to the reader the cause of the infernal noise which
suddenly rose to disturb the tranquility of the people assembled in the
pulquería, we are obliged to go back a little distance.
About three years before the period in which our story opens, on a cold
and rainy December night, eight men, whose costumes and manners showed
them to belong to the highest Parisian society, were assembled in an
elegant private room of the Café Anglais.
The night was far advanced; the wax candles, two-thirds consumed, only
spread a mournful light; the rain lashed the windows, and the wind
howled lugubriously. The guests, seated round the table and the relics
of a splendid supper, seemed, in spite of themselves, to have been
infected by the gloomy melancholy that brooded over nature, and, lying
back on their chairs, some slept, while others, lost in thought, paid no
attention to what was going on around them.
The clock on the mantelpiece slowly struck three, and the last sound had
scarcely died away ere the repeated cracking of a postilion's whip could
be heard beneath the windows of the room.
The door opened and a waiter came in.
"The post-chaise the Count de Lhorailles ordered is waiting," he said.
"Thanks," one of the guests said, dismissing the waiter by a
sign.
The latter went out, and closed the door after him. The few words he had
uttered had broken the charm which enchained the guests; all sat up, as
if aroused from sleep suddenly; and turning to a young man of thirty,
they said,--
"It is really true that you are going?"
"I am," he answered, with a nod of affirmation.
"Where to, though? People do not usually part in this mysterious way,"
one of the guests continued.
The gentleman to whom the remark was addressed smiled sorrowfully.
The Count de Lhorailles was a handsome man, with expressive features,
energetic glance, and disdainful lip; he belonged to the most ancient
nobility, and his reputation was perfectly established among the "lions"
of the day. He rose, and looking round the circle, said,--
"Gentlemen, I can perfectly well understand that my conduct appears to
you strange. You have a right to an explanation from me, and I am most
desirous to give it to you. It was, indeed, for that purpose that I
invited you to the last supper we shall enjoy together. The hour for my
departure has struck--the chaise is waiting. Tomorrow I shall be far
from Paris, and within a week I shall have left France never to return.
Listen to me."
The guests made a marked movement as they gazed on the count.
"Do not be impatient, gentlemen," he said; "the story I have to tell you
is not long, for it is my own. In two words, here it is:--
"I am completely ruined. I have only a small sum of money left, on which
I should starve in Paris, and end in a month by blowing out my brains--a
gloomy perspective which possesses no attractions for me, I assure you.
On the other hand, I have such a fatal skill with arms, that, without
any fault of my own, I enjoy a reputation as a duellist, which weighs on
me fearfully, especially since my deplorable affair with that poor
Viscount de Morsens, whom I was obliged to kill against my will, in
order to close his mouth and put a stop to his calumnies. In short, for
the reasons I have had the honour of imparting to you, and an infinity
of others it is needless for you to know, and which I am convinced would
interest you very slightly, France has become odious to me to such a
degree that I am most anxious to quit it. So now a parting glass of
champagne, and good-by to all."
"A moment," remarked the guest who had already spoken. "You have not
told us, count, to what country you intend to proceed."
"Can't you guess? To America. I am allowed to possess a certain amount
of courage and intelligence, and therefore am going to a country where,
if I may believe all I hear, those two qualities are sufficient to make
the fortune of their possessor. Have you any more questions to ask me,
baron?" he added, turning to his questioner.
The latter, ere replying, remained for some moments plunged in serious
reflections; at length he raised his head, and fixed a cold and
searching glance on the count.
"You really mean to go, my friend?" he said quite seriously. "You swear
it on your honour?"
"Yes, on my honour."
"And you are really resolved to make for yourself, in America, a
position at the least equal to that you held here?"
"Yes," he said sharply, "by all means possible."
"That is good. In your turn listen to me, count, and if you will profit
by what I am about to reveal to you, you may perhaps, by the help of
Heaven, succeed in accomplishing the wild projects you have formed."
All the guests drew round curiously; the count himself felt interested
in spite of himself.
The Baron de Spurtzheim was a man of about five-and-forty. His bronzed
complexion, his marked features, and the strange expression of his eye
gave him a peculiar aspect, which escaped the notice of the vulgar herd,
and caused him to be regarded as a really remarkable man by all
intelligent persons.
The only thing known about the baron was his colossal fortune, which he
spent royally. As for his antecedents, everyone was ignorant of them,
although he was received in the first society. It was merely remarked
vaguely that he had been a great traveller, and had resided for several
years in America; but nothing was more uncertain than these rumours, and
they would not have been sufficient to open the _salons_ of the noble
suburb to him, had not the Austrian ambassador, without his knowledge,
served as his guarantee most warmly in several delicate circumstances.
The baron was more intimately connected with the count than with his
other companions. He seemed to feel a certain degree of interest in him;
and several times, guessing his friend's embarrassed circumstances, he
had delicately offered him his assistance. The Count de Lhorailles,
though too proud to accept these offers, felt equally grateful to the
baron, and had allowed him to assume a certain influence over him,
without suspecting it.
"Speak, but be brief, my dear baron," the count said. "You know that the
chaise is waiting for me."
Without replying, the baron rang the bell. The waiter came in.
"Dismiss the postilion, and tell him to return at five o'clock. You can
go."
The waiter bowed and went out.
The count, more and more amazed at his friend's strange conduct, did not
make the least observation. However, he poured out a glass of champagne,
which he emptied at a draught, crossed his arms, leant back in his
chair, and waited.
"And now, gentlemen," the baron said in his sarcastic and incisive
voice, "as our friend De Lhorailles has told us his history, and we are
becoming confidential, why should I not tell you mine? The weather is
fearful--it is raining torrents. Here we are, comfortably tiled in: we
have champagne and regalias--two excellent things when not abused. What
have we better to do? 'Nothing,' I hear you say. Listen to me, then, for
I believe what I have to tell you will interest you the more, because
some among you will not be vexed to know the whole truth about me."
The majority of the guests burst into a laugh at this remark. When their
hilarity was calmed the baron began:--
"As for the first part of my story, I shall imitate the count's brevity.
In the present age gentlemen find themselves so naturally beyond the
pale of the law through the prejudices of blood and education, that they
all are fated to pass through a rough apprenticeship to life, by
devouring in a few years, they know not how, the paternal fortune. This
happened to me, gentlemen, as to yourselves. My ancestors in the middle
ages were, to a certain extent, freebooters. True blood always shows
itself. When my last resources were nearly exhausted, my instincts were
aroused, and my eyes fixed on America. In less than ten years I amassed
there the colossal fortune which I now have the distinguished honour,
not of dissipating--the lesson was too rude, and I profited by it--but
of spending in your honourable company, while careful to keep my capital
intact."
"But," the count exclaimed impatiently, "how did you amass this colossal
fortune, as you yourself term it?"
"About a million and a half," the baron coolly remarked.
A shudder of covetousness ran through the whole party.
"A colossal fortune indeed," the count continued; "but, I repeat, how
did you acquire it?"
"If I had not intended to reveal it to you, my dear fellow, you may be
sure I would not have abused your patience by making you listen to the
trivialities you have just heard."
"We are listening," the guests shouted.
The baron coolly looked at them all.
"In the first place let us drink a glass of champagne to our friend's
success," he said in a sarcastic tone.
The glasses were filled and emptied again in a twinkling, so great was
the curiosity of the auditors. After putting down his glass before him
the baron lighted a regalia, and, turning to the count, said to him,--
"I am now addressing myself more particularly to you, my friend. You are
young, enterprising, gifted with an iron constitution and an energetic
will. I am convinced, that if death does not thwart your plans, you will
succeed, whatever may be the enterprise you undertake, or the objects
you propose to yourself. In the life you are about to begin, the
principal cause of success, I may say almost the only one, is a thorough
knowledge of the ground on which you are about to manoeuvre, and the
society you propose entering. If, on my entrance upon that adventurous
life, I had possessed the good fortune of meeting a friend willing to
initiate me into the mysteries of my new existence, my fortune would
have been made five years earlier. What no one did for me I am willing
to do for you. Perhaps, at a later date you will be grateful for the
information I have given you, and which will serve as your guide in the
inextricable maze you are about to enter. In the first place, lay down
this principle: the people among whom you are about going to live are
your natural enemies. Hence you will have to support a daily, hourly
struggle. All means must appear to you good to emerge from the battle a
victor. Lay on one side your notions of honour and delicacy. In America
they are vain words, useless even to make dupes, from the very simple
reason that no one believes in them. The sole deity of America is gold.
To acquire gold the American is capable of everything; but not, as in
old Europe, under the cloak of honesty, and by roundabout process, but
frankly, openly, without shame, and without remorse. This laid down,
your line of conduct is ready traced. There is no project, however
extravagant it may appear, which in that country does not offer chances
of success; for the means of execution are immense, and almost
impossible of control. The American is the man who has best comprehended
the strength of association: hence it is the lever by means of which his
schemes are carried out. On arriving there alone, without friends or
acquaintances, however intelligent and determined you may be, you will
be lost, because you find yourself alone in the face of all."
"That is true," the count muttered with conviction.
"Patience!" the baron replied with a smile. "Do you think I intend to
send you into action without a cuirass? No, no, I will give you one, and
magnificently tempered, too, I assure you."
All those present looked with amazement on this man, who had grown
enormously in their esteem in a few moments. The baron feigned not to
perceive the impression he produced, and in a minute or so he continued,
laying a stress on every word, as if wishful to engrave it more deeply
on the count's memory:--
"Remember what I am about to tell you; it is of the utmost importance
for you not to forget a word, my friend; from that positively depends
the success of your trip to the New World."
"Speak--I am not losing a syllable!" the count interrupted him with a
species of febrile impatience.
"When strangers began to flock to America, a company of bold fellows
was formed without faith or law, and without pity as without weakness,
who, denying all nationality, as they issued from every people, only
recognised one government, that which they themselves instituted on
Tortoise Island, a desolate rock, lost in the middle of the ocean--a
monstrous government; for violence was at its basis, and it only
admitted of right being might. These bold companions, attached to each
other by a Draconian charter, assumed the name of Brethren of the Coast,
and were divided into two classes--the Buccaneers and the Filibusters.
"The buccaneers, wandering, through the primeval forests, hunted oxen,
while the filibusters scoured the seas, attacking every flag, plundering
every vessel under the pretext of making war on the Spaniards, but in
reality stripping the rich for the benefit of the poor--the only means
they discovered to restore the balance between the two classes. The
Brethren of the Coast, continually recruited from all the rogues of the
new world, became powerful--so powerful, indeed, that the Spaniards
trembled for their possessions, and a glorious King of France did not
disdain to treat with them, and send an ambassador to them. At last,
through the very force of circumstances, like all powers which are the
offspring of anarchy, and consequently possess no inherent vitality,
when the maritime nations recognised their own strength, the Brethren of
the Coast grew gradually weaker, and finally disappeared entirely. By
forcing them into obscurity, it was supposed that they were not merely
conquered, but annihilated; but it was not so, as you shall now see. I
ask your pardon for this long and tedious prologue, but it was
indispensable, so that you should better comprehend the rest I have to
explain to you."
"It is nearly half past four," observed the count; "we have not more
than forty minutes left us."
"That period, though so short, will be sufficient," the baron answered.
"I resume my narrative. The Brethren of the Coast were not destroyed,
but transformed. They yielded with extraordinary cleverness to the
exigencies of that progress which threatened to outstrip them: they had
changed their skin--from tigers they had become foxes. The Brethren of
the Coast were converted into _Dauph'yeers_. Instead of boldly boarding
the enemies' ships, sword and hatchet in hand, as they formerly did,
they became insignificant, and dug mines. At the present day the
Dauph'yeers are the masters and kings of the New World; they are nowhere
and everywhere, but they reign; their influence is felt in all ranks of
society; they are found on every rung of the ladder, but are never seen.
They detached the United States from England; Peru, Chili and Mexico,
from Spain. Their power is immense, the more so because it is secret,
ignored and almost denied, which displays their strength. For a secret
society to be denied existence is a real power. There is not a
revolution in America in which the influence of the Dauph'yeers does not
step forward valorously, either to insure its triumph or to crush it.
They can do everything--they are everything: without their golden circle
nothing is possible. Such have the Brethren of the Coast become, in less
than two centuries, by the force of progress! They are the axis round
which the New World revolves though it little suspects it. It is a
wretched lot for that magnificent country to have been condemned, ever
since its discovery, to undergo the tyranny of bandits of every rank,
who seem to have undertaken the mission of exhausting her in every way,
while never giving her the chance of liberating herself."
There was a lengthened silence: each was reflecting on what he had just
heard. The baron himself had buried his face in his hands, and was lost
in that world of ideas which he had evoked, and which now assailed him
in a mass with sensations of mingled pain and bitterness.
The distant sound of a rapidly approaching vehicle recalled the count to
the gravity of the situation.
"Here is my chaise," he said. "I am about to set out, and I know
nothing."
"Patience!" the baron replied. "Take leave of your friends, and we will
start."
Yielding, in spite of himself, to the influence of this singular man,
the count obeyed, without dreaming of offering the slightest opposition.
He rose, embraced each of his old friends, exchanged with them hearty
hand-shakings, received their auguries of success, and left the room,
followed by the baron.
The post-chaise was waiting in front of the house. The young men had
opened the windows, and were waving fresh adieux to their friend. The
count turned a long look on the Boulevard. The night was gloomy, though
the rain no longer fell; the sky was black; and the gas-jets glinted
feebly in the distance like stars lost in a fog.
"Farewell," he said in a stifled voice, "farewell! Who knows whether I
shall ever return?"
"Courage!" a stern voice whispered in his ear.
The young man shuddered: the baron was at his side.
"Come, my friend," he said, as he helped him to enter the carriage, "I
will accompany you to the barrier."
The count got in and fell back on a cushion.
"The Normandy road," the baron shouted to the postilion, as he shut the
door.
The driver cracked his whip, and the chaise started at a gallop.
"Good-by, good-by!" the young men loudly shouted as they leant out of
the windows of the Café Anglais.
For a long time the two remained silent. At length the baron took the
word.
"Gaëtan!" he said.
"What would you?" the latter replied.
"I have not yet finished my narrative."
"It is true," he muttered distractedly.
"Do you not wish me to end it?"
"Speak, my friend."
"In what a tone you say that, my good fellow! Your mind is wandering in
imaginary space; you are doubtlessly dreaming of those you are leaving.
"Alas!" murmured the count with a sigh, "I am alone in the world. What
have I to regret? I possess neither friends nor relations."
"Ungrateful man!" The baron said in a reproachful tone.
"It is true: Pardon me, my dear fellow; I did not think of what I was
saying."
"I pardon you, but on condition that you listen to me."
"I promise it."
"My friend, it you desire success, the friendship and protection of
those Dauph'yeers I mentioned are indispensable for you."
"How can I obtain them--I, a wretched stranger? How I tremble on
thinking of the country in which I dreamed of creating such a glorious
future! The veil that covered my eyes is fallen. I see the extravagance
of my projects, and all hope abandons me."
"Already?" exclaimed the baron sternly. "Child without energy, to
abandon a contest even before having engaged in it! Man without strength
and courage! I will give you the means, if you like, of obtaining the
friendship and protection so necessary for you."
"You!" the count said, quivering with excitement.
"Yes, I! Do you fancy I have been amusing myself with torturing your
mind for the last two hours, like the jaguar plays with the lamb, for
the mere pleasure of deriding you? No, Gaëtan. If you had that thought,
you were wrong, for I am fond of you. When I learned your scheme I
applauded, from the bottom of my heart, that resolution which restored
you to your proper place in my mind. When you this night frankly avowed
to us your position, and explained your plans, I found myself again in
you; my heart beat; for a moment I was happy: and then I vowed to open
to you that path so wide, so great, and so noble, that if you do not
succeed, it will be because you do not desire to do so."
"Oh!" the count said energetically, "I may succumb in the contest which
begins this day between myself and humanity at large, but fear nothing,
my friend; I will fall nobly like a man of courage."
"I am persuaded of it, my friend. I have only a few more words to say to
you. I, too, was a Dauph'yeer, and am so still. Thanks to my brethren, I
gained the fortune I now possess. Take this portfolio: put round your
neck this chain, from which a medallion hangs; then, when you are alone,
read these instructions contained in the portfolio, and act as they
prescribe. If you follow them point for point, I guarantee your success.
That is the present I reserved for you, and which I would not give you
till we were alone."
"O heavens!" the count said with effusion.
"Here we are at the barrier," the baron remarked, as he stopped the
carriage. "It is time for us to separate. Farewell, my friend! Courage
and good will! Embrace me. Above all, remember the portfolio and the
medallion."
The two men remained for a long time in each other's arms. At length the
baron freed himself by a vigorous effort, opened the door, and leaped
out on the pavement.
"Farewell!" he cried for the last time; "Farewell, Gaëtan, remember me."
The post-chaise was bowling along the high road at full speed. Strange
to say, both men muttered the same word, shaking heads with
discouragement, when they found themselves alone--one walking at full
speed along the footpath, the other buried in the cushions.
That word was "Perhaps!"
The reason was that, despite all their efforts to deceive each other,
neither of them hoped.