There are in humble life some families which settle their domestic
differences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastily
by the commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In the
European congerie France represents this loud-voiced household, and
Paris--Paris, the city that soon forgets--is the doorstep whereon they
wrangle.
The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances and
changes of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At this
time there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovial
young gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes and
enjoying the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank--the
Comte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri who tried to play a
great part and failed, he was married to an Italian princess and had
no children. He was, therefore, the last of the Bourbons, and passed in
Europe as such. But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy of
the indolent which saith that some one must be last and why not I?
Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. On his
father's side he was descended from sixty-six kings of France. From his
mother he inherited a relationship to many makers of history. For the
Duchesse de Berri's grandmother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Her
mother was aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was a
notable exception to the rule that “Bon sang ne peut mentir.” Her father
was a king of Sicily and Naples. She was a Bourbon married to a Bourbon.
When she was nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next day.
In a year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two years later her
husband died in her arms, assassinated, in a back room of the Opera
House in Paris.
Seven months after her husband's death she gave birth to the Comte de
Chambord, the last of the old Bourbons. She was active, energetic and
of boundless courage. She made a famous journey through La Vendee on
horseback to rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, Charles
X., to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them all. And
her son was the Comte de Chambord, who could have been a king if he had
not been a philosopher, or a coward.
He was waiting till France called him with one voice. As if France had
ever called for anything with one voice!
Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the younger branch
of the Royal line--the Orleans. Louis Philippe--king for eighteen
years--was still alive, living in exile at Claremont. Two years earlier,
in the rush of the revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape to
Newhaven. The Orleans always seek a refuge in England, and always turn
and abuse that country when they can go elsewhere in safety. And England
is not one penny the worse for their abuse, and no man or country was
ever yet one penny the better for their friendship.
Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the people of France.
His reign of eighteen years was marked by one great deed. He threw open
the Palace of Versailles--which was not his--to the public. And then the
people who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been attempted
many times. All the other kings hated him and refused to let their
daughters marry his sons. He and his sons were waiting at Claremont
while the talkers in Paris talked their loudest.
There was a third bone of contention--the Imperial line. At this time
the champions of this morsel were at the summit; for a Bonaparte was
riding on the top of the revolutionary scrimmage.
By the death of the great Napoleon's only child, the second son of his
third brother became the recognised claimant to the Imperial crown.
For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as the rightful
heir. There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born of France. Napoleon's
son, the King of Rome, died in exile, an Austrian. The Duc de Bordeaux,
born eight years after him, never wore the crown, and died in exile,
childless. The Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiled
when he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of one
generation. And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of France
in 1870, perished on the Veldt. The King of Rome lies in his tomb at
Vienna, the Duc de Bordeaux at Goritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge,
the Prince Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of France, born
in the palace of the Tuileries. How are they cast upon the waters of the
world! And where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons now
call to each other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on
the public seat he whom France has always with her, the vaurien--the
worth-nothing.
So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing to be born in a
palace, nor to live in one.
It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when
he emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th
of August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, the
newsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved
a sheet in the face of the passer: “The King is dead! The King is dead!”
And Paris--the city that soon forgets--smiled and asked what King?
Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, the
bad son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happy
hunting-ground always has been, always will be, France.
John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought.
He perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field
open to the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own
mettle.
Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed a
cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin,
was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of
an unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI. lay concealed. He wrote out
a telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villa
near Royan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of the
careful critic.
The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in the
apartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d'Antin. But he did not
open the envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence,
asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days.
And he suspected that it would not.
“When I am gone,” he said to his well-trained servant, “put that into
an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack my
portmanteau for a week.”
Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalists
whom his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner he
was pre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in those
days a long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours,
from whence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, and there take
a boat to Royan--that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde.
“Must have a change--of cooking,” he explained to Mrs. St. Pierre
Lawrence. “Doctor says I am getting too stout.”
He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice her
blank looks.
“So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is
going to be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give
me a bed--a solid one--for a night or two.”
“Oh no!” answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners,
and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. “Did you
not receive my telegram?”
“Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?”
“Well,” admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that he
would ultimately see the telegram, “hardly so fervent as that--”
“Good Lord!” interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda,
which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearing
coffee-cups. “Who is that?”
“Which?” asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow the
direction of his glance.
“Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the other--gad!”
“Why do you say gad?” asked the lady, with surprise.
“Where did he get that face from?” was the reply.
Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and the
August sun was setting over a copper sea.
“Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!” answered Mrs. St. Pierre
Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation.
“The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a
friend of Dormer's.”
“Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the
shade of her lace-trimmed parasol.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, in a voice suddenly hard and
resentful.
“That he chooses his friends well,” returned the banker, with his
guileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt to
be shiny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thus
outwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified,
and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with
her.
“I will be frank with you,” she said. “I telegraphed to tell you that
the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests.”
“What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of my
carriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time of
year, you know, house would be full. I'll just shake hands with Colville
and then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You and
I must have a talk about money, you will remember.”
There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving their
approach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meet
them. He laughed as he came, for John Turner's bulk made him a laughing
matter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invite
them to frank amusement.
The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and after
being introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave without
farther defining his intentions for the evening.
“I do not think it matters much,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence said to her
two guests, when he had left. “And he may not come, after all.”
Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready to
leave something to chance. But Colville shook his head.
It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who had
been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little
music found the English banker complacently installed in the largest
chair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal
waistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it.
“He is my banker from Paris,” whispered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence to
one and another. “He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is no
politician--merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he will
go to sleep.”
During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly
at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and
light refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each
evening the drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to
overflowing. Friends brought their friends and introduced them to
the hostess, who in turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a
distance, driving from Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken
houses for the bathing-season at Royan itself.
“He never makes a mistake,” said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behind
her fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay and
easy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit
his manner to his interlocutor.
To-night there was more music and less conversation.
“Play him to sleep,” Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And at
length Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snored
in the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no way
suffered.
It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who were
talking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman.
Once or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end
of the room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led
the laughter there.
“Oh! but he is charming, my dear,” more than one guest whispered to Mrs.
St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure.
“He will do--he will do,” the men said with a new light of hope in their
grave faces.
Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville
threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep.
“I will come round to-morrow,” he said, bidding his hostess good night.
“I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell
your rentes and leave the money idle at your bank.”
“Yes. I am quite determined,” she answered, gaily, for she was before
her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate
speech as cock-sure.
And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself
at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence
sitting alone in the veranda.
“Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone
away,” she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation.
“Suddenly?”
“Oh no,” she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm
hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense.