It would appear that John Turner had business south of the Seine,
though his clients were few in the Faubourg St. Germain. For this placid
British banker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, it
was said, had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family
of the Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellows
in their panic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed and
calm man of business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days of
the Terror, and did his duty by the clients whom he despised.
On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turner
moved to the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate the
action of his little stout legs, which took so short a stride that his
progress suggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to the
left again, and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing
behind the Tuileries.
His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where the
travelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found a
welcome. His clothes and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, no
one, passing by with a casual glance, would have turned to look a second
time at a figure so typical of the Paris streets.
Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossed
the quay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the trees
by the river wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge,
toward him, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr.
Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk.
After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, and
stationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow,
and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would need
to step into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, a
courtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction.
“Look here, Sep,” said Turner, “you are not going to pass an old
schoolfellow like that.”
Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loose
strides. Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked back
at his interlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. This
gave place to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognition
was complete.
“What have you got there?” asked Turner, pointing with his stick at the
carpet-bag. “A kitten?”
“No--no,” replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure that
none could overhear.
“A Nanteuil--engraved from his own drawing, Jack--a real Nanteuil. I
have just been to a man I know--the print-shop opposite the statue on
the Quai Voltaire--to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it.
He says that I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil--a proof
before letters.”
“Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?”
“No, no, quite the contrary,” Marvin replied, in a confidential whisper.
“Stolen--dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus.”
And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who has
not laughed for long--perhaps for years.
“Ah, Jack,” he said; “you are still up to a joke.”
“Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and have
luncheon, and tell me all about it.”
So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchless
cuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angel
unawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin's appearance, although
the amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, were
gentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many good
things both French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all those
faults, which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is
none on earth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in
his heart he is vastly amused.
It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign his
carpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter.
“If it wasn't a Nanteuil,” he explained in a whisper to his friend, “I
should have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is honest and in every
way to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil--ad vivum--Jack. There are none
like him. It is priceless.”
“You used not to be a miser,” said Turner, panting on the stairs, when
at last the bag was concealed in a safe place. “What matter what the
value may be, so long as you like it?”
“Oh! but the value is of great importance,” answered Septimus, rather
sheepishly.
“Then you have changed a good deal since you and I were at Ipswich
school together. There, sit down at this table. I suppose you are
hungry. I hope you are. Try and think--there's a good fellow--and
remember that they have the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain't
of the first water, but their cook is without match. Yes, you have
changed a good deal, if you think of money.”
Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in the last few
minutes.
“I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. I have come to
Paris to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, I suppose you would call it in
the financial world. Pro aris et focis, old friend. I want money for
the altar and the hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them in
Farlingford for more money, for I know they have none. And the church is
falling about our ears. The house wants painting. It is going the way of
the church, indeed.”
“Ah!” said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare. “So you have
to sell an engraving. It goes to the heart, I suppose?”
Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumption
of cheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than his
companion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, which
always rings somewhere in a forced laugh.
“One has to face it,” he replied. “Ne cedas malis, you know. I suddenly
found it was necessary. It was forced upon me, in fact. I found that my
niece was secretly helping to make both ends meet. A generous action,
made doubly generous by the manner in which it was performed.”
“Miriam?” put in John Turner, who appeared to be absorbed in the
all-important document before him.
“Yes, Miriam. Do you know her? Ah! I forgot. You are her guardian and
trustee. I sometimes think my memory is failing. I found her out quite
by accident. It must have been going on for quite a long time. Heaven
will reward her, Turner! One cannot doubt it.”
He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the basket offered to
him by a waiter, and began to eat as if famished.
“Steady, man, steady,” exclaimed Turner, leaning forward with a
horror-stricken face to restrain him. “Don't spoil a grand appetite on
bread. Gad! I wish I could fall on my food like that. You seem to be
starving.”
“I think I forgot to have any breakfast,” said Marvin, apologetically.
“I dare say you did!” was the angry retort. “You always were a bit of
an ass, you know, Sep. But I have ordered a tiptop luncheon, and I'll
trouble you not to wolf like that.”
“Well--well, I'm sorry,” said the other, who, even in the far-off days
at Ipswich school, had always been in the clouds, while John Turner
moved essentially on the earth.
“And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder,” went on Turner,
with a glance, of which the keenness was entirely disarmed by the
good-natured roundness of his huge cheeks. “I know a man who will buy
it--at a good price, too. Where did you get it?”
“Ah! that is a long story,” replied Marvin, looking dreamily out of
the window. “I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a long
story.”
“Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Normande. I see you've
nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun.”
It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus
Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressed
John Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass
after glass of Burgundy.
“A queer story,” he ejaculated, breathlessly. “Go on. And you bought
this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you
where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say.”
“Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I
do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?”
“I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was
too much. Where did he get it?”
“He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman
who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other
papers, which he burnt, I believe.”
“And then he died?”
“Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son.”
“The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the
son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this langue
fourree, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind
you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son.”
And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid
aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of
this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the
room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation.
“Dormer Colville,” he repeated. “Does he come into it?”
“He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure
good-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a
charming man. So unselfish and disinterested.”
“Who? The Marquis?”
“No; Dormer Colville.”
“Oh yes!” said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. “Yes; a
charming fellow.”
And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon
was finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they
would be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag from
downstairs.
“We will have a look at your precious engraving,” he said, “while we
smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and I
may tell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics of
that period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. I
think my client would give you as good a price as any; and I suppose
you want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made up your
mind to the sacrifice?”
Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forced
jocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before.
“Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!” was the reply,
with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculated
to wear that expression naturally.
“What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention as
a probable price?” asked Turner, carelessly.
“Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousand
francs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however.
Such a good fellow, he is. So honest.”
“Yes, he is likely to be that,” said Turner, with his broad smile. He
was a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his coffee with a
feeling of charity toward his fellow-men. “You would find lots of honest
men in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give me
the print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten thousand francs help
you out of your difficulties?”
“I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties,” objected the
Reverend Septimus, with heightened colour.
“Don't you? Memory IS bad, is it not? Would ten thousand francs paint
the rectory, then?”
“It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half that
sum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world aequo
animo.”
“I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don't know
much about such things myself, but I should put the price down at ten
thousand francs.”
“But the man in the Quai Voltaire?”
“Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the Quai
Voltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?”
“It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert of
that period it should not be impossible, however.” Septimus Marvin was
all awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm.
“Do you know why? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar way--poufs
de sentiment, these curls are called. They were only worn for a brief
period. In those days the writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau had a
certain vogue among the idle classes. The women showed their sentiments
in the dressing of their hair. Very curious--very curious. And here, in
the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest.”
“The deuce there is!” ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar.
“A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period.”
“I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best for
you. I'm less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it,
I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face.”
“Yes,” agreed Septimus Marvin, with a sharp sigh. “It is a beautiful
face.”
And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turner
tucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company.
“By the way,” said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, “you never
told me what sort of a man this young fellow is--this Loo Barebone?”
“The dearest fellow in the world,” answered Marvin, with eyes aglow
behind his spectacles. “To me he has been as a son--an elder brother, as
it were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, you know, when Sep
was born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven's way is not always marked
very clearly.”
He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he remembered
something and came back.
“I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite hoped, at
one time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of heart.”
“What?” interrupted Turner. “The mate of a coasting schooner!”
“He is more than that, my friend,” answered Septimus Marvin, nodding his
head slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such a manner
as to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed the
bridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking.