Several weeks after the wandering woman, who called herself ‘Jane
Peartree,’ became an inmate of Mount Eden, that cosmic creature,
Auguste de Gavrolles, author of the immortal ‘Parfums de la Chair,’ was
entertained at a little supper in the house of Ponto, the art-critic.
The occasion was an interesting one, originating in the fact that London
was about to lose, for a time at least, the light of the French poet’s
presence. Urgent private affairs, no less than the home-sickness of
a great man for the scene of his struggles and his triumphs, were the
reason of his departure. Frankly, as he confessed to his admirers,
London was insufferably _bête_ after the true centre of the universe,
Paris. It contained many choice spirits, notably those who had nourished
their sublime youth with the fiery fleshliness of the Impeccable Master,
but even these could not compensate for the fine atmosphere of Parisian
_salons_, the soul-satisfying sunlight of Parisian streets. In a word,
both duty and pleasure beckoned the cosmic creature back to his Cosmos,
and he was compelled, though with a certain reluctance, to say farewell.
The gathering was a very quiet one Ponto’s house, situated in the
dismally aesthetic region of Chiswick, was a small but elegant artistic
villa, furnished in the superbest spirit of enlightened chilliness and
elegant squalor. There, in a tiny reception room with golden-spotted
walls and a cerulean ceiling, some dozen gentlemen and about half a
dozen ladies assembled; among the company being the young aesthetic
poets, Botticelli Jones and Omar Milde; Lady Milde, mother of the bard,
known in her girlhood as the fair ‘Lachryma’ of the albums; Gass and
Barbius, Ponto’s brother-critics; the editor of the ‘Megatherium’;
Clothilde Max, daughter of the Teutonic patriot, Hermann Max; and a
few others. The affair was affecting, if not festive. There were gay
spongecakes and nondescript confectionery on a sideboard, together with
the finest Marsala wine, for those who sought refreshment. When, in
a few well-chosen words, Ponto wished Godspeed to the guest of the
evening, several persons present were dismally affected. Gavrolles,
more than usually jubilant, replied, thanking perfidious Albion, in the
person of its noblest representatives, for their cordial treatment of
him, a stranger, an exile. He had come to them on his merits, a poor
_artiste_, a lover of the beautiful, a pupil of Gautier, and they had
received him as a brother. He should bear back to his beloved Paris the
memory of their kindness. He should inform his countrymen that France
and England were thenceforth bound together by a tie stronger than
all commercial treaties--the tie of sympathy in poetic aspirations, in
divine Art. He should tell his compatriots that even in England, despite
its Philistinism, despite its climate, there were singers as sweet
and critics as profound as even those who possessed the inestimable
advantages of a Parisian education. Need he mention, as a sample of all
that was superb in song, his friend, Botticelli Jones? Need he cite,
as an example of all that was subtle in perception and perfect in
expression, the name of his friend and host--nay, might he not say, his
brother?--Ponto, prince of critics?
The lank and limp ladies clung around him, with every expression of
sympathy and affection, until the hour of parting came. Then Gavrolles,
with tears in his eyes, read aloud, with considerable emphasis, a French
sonnet which he had composed for the occasion, and in which the names
of many present were touchingly introduced. This effusion was
afterwards passed from hand to hand until it reached the editor of
the ‘Megatherium,’ who claimed the privilege of publishing it in the
forthcoming number of his journal, along with a reply (in the same
language) from Young Botticelli Jones. Finally, the party separated, and
Gavrolles, triumphant, drove home to his lodgings in a hansom cab.
The next evening, bearing with him in a small portmanteau and a morocco
hand-bag all his worldly goods, Gavrolles left Charing Cross by the
night mail, _en route_ for Boulogne.
It was a wild wintry night, pitch dark, with gusts of rain and sleet;
even the station looked dreary and forlorn, despite the pale brilliance
of the electric light. Wrapt in a large travelling cloak, profusely
trimmed with fur, and wearing an artistic felt hat, the broad brim of
which was drawn down over his face, Gavrolles strolled up and down the
platform with a theatrical swagger, taking care to clutch always his
little handbag of black morocco. When the ticket office opened he
approached the aperture, and, opening a purse full of bright new
sovereigns, took a first-class ticket to Boulogne. He looked at nobody,
heeded nobody, he seemed too obviously wrapt up in his own happy
thoughts. His air, his walk, the feverishly delighted laugh in which
he indulged from time to time, all seemed to betoken some special good
fortune; and what wonder, seeing he had that very day cashed a large
open cheque--payable to ‘Bearer’--at a London bank, and afterwards, at
a neighbouring money-changer’s, converted the greater portion of the
amount into glittering coin of the French realm.
Perhaps, had he been less jubilant and self-involved, he might have
taken some little notice of his fellow-passengers--particularly of two
individuals who, closely wrapped up and muffled almost to the eyes,
observed him from a distance, listened in the shadow when, in a loud
voice, he demanded his ticket, and then, after he had withdrawn, took
two tickets, also for Boulogne, but second-class.
The express left London and plunged into the darkness. Gavrolles found
himself alone--for there were few passengers that night--in the smoking
compartment of a first-class carriage. While the rain hissed upon the
window pane, and the noise of the train drowned even the roaring of the
wind, he opened his little handbag, and eagerly recounted his treasure.
His eye glittered with delight as he fingered the glittering gold
pieces, and found them all safe. Then he wrapt his cloak around him, and
resigned himself to a doze.
At Folkestone the weather looked ugly in the extreme; the wind roared,
and the sea flashed in the darkness, while the packet rocked and
throbbed with an uneasy motion. At first Gavrolles hesitated, but his
horror of sea-sickness yielded to his intense longing to be again among
certain choice spirits on his native soil, and with a few shivering
compatriots he crept on board. Among those who followed him were the two
men who had watched him so curiously at Charing Cross.
The passage was a miserable one. Gavrolles, to whom expense was no
consideration when he was in funds, occupied the deck cabin, and
suffered agonies through seasickness. In the grey of a wintry morning,
he alighted, a piteous spectacle, ghastly, dishevelled, hideous, on the
quay at Boulogne.
Among the groups assembled to see the voyagers alight was a white-haired
woman, respectably but plainly dressed in black. She watched
the passengers alighting one by one, until her eye fell upon a
sinister-looking individual smoking, with serene defiance of the
elements, a clay pipe. She at once greeted him by name, and, leading him
aside, accosted him in French.
‘What! do you come alone? Where are those in your charge?’
‘Calm yourself, madame,’ said the man with gruff politeness. ‘I shall
fulfil my contract. They would not cross in such weather.’
‘But they remain?’
‘Safe in the charge of my wife, at Folkestone. You will find two of them
charming; the third not so good-looking, but _très gentille_. As I wrote
you, one is a domestic servant, another a tradesman’s runaway daughter,
the third a figurante of the theatre. They all seek situations, which I
have promised them, as you are aware.’ ‘But do they understand? With the
last there was a scandal, and I want no more trouble.’
‘Trust my wife, madame; there will be no difficulty. As usual, when they
find themselves under your kind care, they will behave discreetly.’
At this juncture Gavrolles crawled up the gangway, the picture of misery
and collapse. No sooner did the woman espy him than she uttered an
exclamation.
‘I see another friend!’ she exclaimed to her companion. ‘Go on to my
house, and await me there.’
Gavrolles, followed by a porter carrying his portmanteau, elbowed his
way along the pier. Suddenly he felt a touch upon his arm, and, turning
sharply, saw the woman.
‘Well met, Belleisle!’ she said with a grim smile and a not too amiable
compression of the lips.
So worn and washed out was the cosmic creature that at the first glance
he failed to recognise his old companion, Madame de Fontenay.
‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you forget me?’
At last, his glazed and fish-like countenance expressed a dim and
irritated recognition.
‘Is it you, Madame Louise?’
‘Yes; it is I!--And you? It is many a long day since we met, though I
have often inquired after you in vain. You are a sly rascal, Belleisle;
you forget old friends, old services, old debts. Ah! but _I_ remember.’
‘I have been in England,’ replied Gavrolles, surveying her with strong
dislike.
‘Ah, yes, so I heard. Have you been fortunate there, _mon ami?_’
‘On the contrary. But you? You live here?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman.
‘You follow the old trade, madame?’
The woman nodded, and the two passed on in conversation. Gavrolles did
not look back, or he would have seen, still watching him with curiosity,
the two men who had followed him from Charing Cross.
Gavrolles slept that night in the Hôtel de Rouen, a chilly place,
half-hotel, half-prison, in a back street of Boulogne. Here he had the
pleasure of meeting two or three gentlemen of his acquaintance, who
earned their money at the card table and in the billiard room, and spent
it in dingy dissipation, like cavaliers of pleasure.
With one of these individuals, an elderly man in a seedy military
undress, and with the face and manners of a fire-eater, Gavrolles
strolled out next morning, cigar in mouth. Roaming along by the sea, he
came face to face, in a quiet spot, with two Englishmen--James Forster
and Edgar Sutherland.
Gavrolles started and turned livid, clinging to his companion’s arm, as
Sutherland accosted him.
‘I salute you, Monsieur Gavrolles. A word with you, if you please.’
‘What do you seek with me?’ cried Gavrolles, shrilly, ‘I see you are not
alone. If _monsieur le mari_ yonder wishes to recede from his bargain,
it is too late. As for you, monsieur, I once warned you; and, as we are
no longer in England, beware!’
Sutherland smiled. Forster, who looked pale as death, was about to
interpose, when the younger man continued: ‘Monsieur Gavrolles, it is
precisely because we are no longer in England that I accost you. Once,
in London, you did me the honour to express a hope that we might meet on
French soil. It was simply to realise that hope that my friend supplied
you with money. You came--_we_ followed--you understand?’
Gavrolles shrank back from the powerful figure, and eyed the determined
face with baleful hate.
‘I have no quarrel with you. I--I do not know you.’ Before Sutherland
could say another word Forster interfered.
‘The man is right. As I said to you from the first--his quarrel is with
me. Listen to me, man!’ he continued, facing Gavrolles. ‘I am not a
duellist, I know nothing of your weapons, but unless you consent to
fight me I shall have you arrested as an extortioner and a thief.
You are still wanted in London, and if you refuse----’
Gavrolles, who had been watching the speaker keenly, and had paid
particular attention to his words, answered with a scowl:--
‘With you it is another affair, monsieur. I am at your service.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as you please. I am sorry that we could not end our little
disagreement amicably, but since you are determined----’
And Gavrolles shrugged his shoulders.
Sutherland pulled Forster aside, while Gavrolles, with an ugly smile,
turned and volubly explained matters to his companion.
‘You are mad!’ Sutherland cried. ‘You should have left this affair to
me. He is an expert duellist, and may kill you.’
‘And if he does, so much the better.’
‘You are determined?’
‘Yes. For God’s sake settle the matter as soon as possible.’
Here Gavrolles’ companion with pompous dignity approached Sutherland.
‘Monsieur, that is my card. I am the Chevalier de Beauvoisin, and
I represent my friend. Where and when can I see you and arrange the
preliminaries?’
‘Now, on this spot.’
The two men walked aside, and remained for some minutes in conversation.
Then Sutherland returned to Forster, took his arm, and led him away.
‘It is arranged for to-morrow at daybreak,’ he said, ‘on the sands
yonder, two miles from Boulogne. As you are the challenger, they had the
choice of weapons. They have chosen pistols.’
‘Very well.’
‘Have you ever practised at a mark?’
Forster-shook his head.
‘I have never fired a pistol in my life.’
‘Then it is an ugly affair. Let me entreat you, accept me as your
substitute--I will force them to consent----’
‘No,’ answered Forster with determination. ‘It is my place, not yours. I
shall either avenge my poor martyred wife or follow her to the grave.’