MADAME GORDELOUP RETIRES FROM BRITISH DIPLOMACY.
[Illustration.]
The reader must be asked to accompany me once more to that room in
Mount Street in which poor Archie practised diplomacy, and whither
the courageous Doodles was carried prisoner in those moments in which
he was last seen of us. The Spy was now sitting alone before her
desk, scribbling with all her energy,--writing letters on foreign
policy, no doubt, to all the courts of Europe, but especially to that
Russian court to which her services were more especially due. She was
hard at work, when there came the sound of a step upon the stairs.
The practised ear of the Spy became erect, and she at once knew who
was her visitor. It was not one with whom diplomacy would much avail,
or who was likely to have money ready under his glove for her behoof.
"Ah, Edouard, is that you? I am glad you have come," she said, as
Count Pateroff entered the room.
"Yes, it is I. I got your note yesterday."
"You are good,--very good. You are always good." Sophie as she said
this went on very rapidly with her letter,--so rapidly that her hand
seemed to run about the paper wildly. Then she flung down her pen,
and folded the paper on which she had been writing with marvellous
quickness. There was an activity about the woman, in all her
movements, which was wonderful to watch. "There," she said, "that is
done; now we can talk. Ah! I have nearly written off my fingers this
morning." Her brother smiled, but said nothing about the letters. He
never allowed himself to allude in any way to her professional
duties.
"So you are going to St. Petersburg?" he said.
"Well,--yes, I think. Why should I remain here spending money with
both hands and through the nose?" At this idea, the brother again
smiled pleasantly. He had never seen his sister to be culpably
extravagant as she now described herself. "Nothing to get and
everything to lose," she went on saying.
"You know your own affairs best," he answered.
"Yes; I know my own affairs. If I remained here, I should be taken
away to that black building there;" and she pointed in the direction
of the workhouse, which fronts so gloomily upon Mount Street. "You
would not come to take me out."
The count smiled again. "You are too clever for that, Sophie, I
think."
"Ah, it is well for a woman to be clever, or she must starve,--yes,
starve! Such a one as I must starve in this accursed country, if I
were not what you call, clever." The brother and sister were talking
in French, and she spoke now almost as rapidly as she had written.
"They are beasts and fools, and as awkward as bulls,--yes, as bulls.
I hate them. I hate them all. Men, women, children,--they are all
alike. Look at the street out there. Though it is summer, I shiver
when I look out at its blackness. It is the ugliest nation! And they
understand nothing. Oh, how I hate them!"
"They are not without merit. They have got money."
"Money,--yes. They have got money; and they are so stupid, you
may take it from under their eyes. They will not see you. But of
their own hearts, they will give you nothing. You see that black
building,--the workhouse. I call it Little England. It is just the
same. The naked, hungry, poor wretches lie at the door, and the great
fat beadles swell about like turkey-cocks inside."
"You have been here long enough to know, at any rate."
"Yes; I have been here long,--too long. I have made my life a
wilderness, staying here in this country of barracks. And what have
I got for it? I came back because of that woman, and she has thrown
me over. That is your fault,--yours,--yours!"
"And you have sent for me to tell me that again?"
"No, Edouard. I sent for you that you might see your sister once
more,--that I might once more see my brother." This she said
leaning forward on the table, on which her arms rested, and looking
steadfastly into his face with eyes moist,--just moist, with a tear
in each. Whether Edouard was too unfeeling to be moved by this
show of affection, or whether he gave more credit to his sister's
histrionic powers than to those of her heart, I will not say; but he
was altogether irresponsive to her appeal. "You will be back again
before long," he said.
"Never! I shall come back to this accursed country never again. No;
I am going once and for all. I will soil myself with the mud of its
gutters no more. I came for the sake of Julie; and now,--how has she
treated me?" Edouard shrugged his shoulders. "And you,--how has she
treated you?"
"Never mind me."
"Ah, but I must mind you. Only that you would not let me manage, it
might be yours now,--yes, all. Why did you come down to that accursed
island?"
"It was my way to play my game. Leave that alone, Sophie." And there
came a frown over the brother's brow.
"Your way to play your game! Yes; and what has become of mine? You
have destroyed mine; but you think nothing of that. After all that I
have gone through, to have nothing; and through you,--my brother! Ah,
that is the hardest of all,--when I was putting all things in train
for you!"
"You are always putting things in train. Leave your trains alone,
where I am concerned."
"But why did you come to that place in the accursed island? I am
ruined by that journey. Yes; I am ruined. You will not help me to get
a shilling from her,--not even for my expenses."
"Certainly not. You are clever enough to do your own work without my
aid."
"And is that all from a brother? Well! And now that they have drowned
themselves,--the two Claverings,--the fool and the brute; and she can
do what she pleases--"
"She could always do as she pleased since Lord Ongar died."
"Yes; but she is more lonely than ever now. That cousin who is the
greatest fool of all, who might have had everything,--mon Dieu! yes,
everything;--she would have given it all to him with a sweep of her
hand, if he would have taken it. He is to marry himself to a little
brown girl, who has not a shilling. No one but an Englishman could
make follies so abominable as these. Ah, I am sick,--I am sick when
I remember it!" And Sophie gave unmistakeable signs of a grief which
could hardly have been self-interested. But in truth she suffered
pain at seeing a good game spoilt. It was not that she had any wish
for Harry Clavering's welfare. Had he gone to the bottom of the sea
in the same boat with his cousins, the tidings of his fate would have
been pleasurable to her rather than otherwise. But when she saw such
cards thrown away as he had held in his hand, she encountered that
sort of suffering which a good player feels when he sits behind the
chair of one who plays up to his adversary's trump, and makes no
tricks of his own kings and aces.
"He may marry himself to the devil, if he please;--it is nothing to
me," said the count.
"But she is there;--by herself,--at that place;--what is it called?
Ten--bie. Will you not go now, when you can do no harm?"
"No; I will not go now."
"And in a year she will have taken some other one for her husband."
"What is that to me? But look here, Sophie, for you may as well
understand me at once. If I were ever to think of Lady Ongar again as
my wife, I should not tell you."
"And why not tell me,--your sister?"
"Because it would do me no good. If you had not been there she would
have been my wife now."
"Edouard!"
"What I say is true. But I do not want to reproach you because of
that. Each of us was playing his own game; and your game was not my
game. You are going now, and if I play my game again I can play it
alone."
Upon hearing this Sophie sat awhile in silence, looking at him. "You
will play it alone?" she said at last. "You would rather do that?"
"Much rather, if I play any game at all."
"And you will give me something to go?"
"Not one sou."
"You will not;--not a sou?"
"Not half a sou,--for you to go or stay. Sophie, are you not a fool
to ask me for money?"
"And you are a fool,--a fool who knows nothing. You need not look at
me like that. I am not afraid. I shall remain here. I shall stay and
do as the lawyer tells me. He says that if I bring my action she must
pay me for my expenses. I will bring my action. I am not going to
leave it all to you. No. Do you remember those days in Florence?
I have not been paid yet, but I will be paid. One hundred and
seventy-five thousand francs a year,--and after all I am to have none
of it! Say;--should it become yours, will you do something for your
sister?"
"Nothing at all;--nothing. Sophie, do you think I am fool enough to
bargain in such a matter?"
"Then I will stay. Yes;--I will bring my action. All the world shall
hear, and they shall know how you have destroyed me and yourself.
Ah;--you think I am afraid; that I will not spend my money. I will
spend all,--all,--all; and I will be revenged."
"You may go or stay; it is the same thing to me. Now, if you please,
I will take my leave." And he got up from his chair to leave her.
"It is the same thing to you?"
"Quite the same."
"Then I will stay, and she shall hear my name every day of
her life;--every hour. She shall be so sick of me and of you,
that,--that--that-- Oh, Edouard!" This last appeal was made to him
because he was already at the door, and could not be stopped in any
other way.
"What else have you to say, my sister?"
"Oh, Edouard, what would I not give to see all those riches yours?
Has it not been my dearest wish? Edouard, you are ungrateful. All men
are ungrateful." Now, having succeeded in stopping him, she buried
her face in the corner of the sofa and wept plentifully. It must be
presumed that her acting before her brother must have been altogether
thrown away; but the acting was, nevertheless, very good.
"If you are in truth going to St. Petersburg," he said, "I will bid
you adieu now. If not,--au revoir."
"I am going. Yes, Edouard, I am. I cannot bear this country longer.
My heart is being torn to pieces. All my affections are outraged.
Yes, I am going;--perhaps on Monday;--perhaps on Monday week. But
I go in truth. My brother, adieu." Then she got up, and putting a
hand on each of his shoulders, lifted up her face to be kissed. He
embraced her in the manner proposed, and turned to leave her. But
before he went she made to him one other petition, holding him by the
arm as she did so. "Edouard, you can lend me twenty napoleons till I
am at St. Petersburg?"
"No, Sophie; no."
"Not lend your sister twenty napoleons!"
"No, Sophie. I never lend money. It is a rule."
"Will you give me five? I am so poor. I have almost nothing."
"Things are not so bad with you as that, I hope?"
"Ah, yes; they are very bad. Since I have been in this accursed
city,--now, this time, what have I got? Nothing,--nothing. She was to
be all in all to me,--and she has given me nothing! It is very bad to
be so poor. Say that you will give me five napoleons;--O my brother!"
She was still hanging by his arm, and, as she did so, she looked up
into his face with tears in her eyes. As he regarded her, bending
down his face over hers, a slight smile came upon his countenance.
Then he put his hand into his pocket, and taking out his purse,
handed to her five sovereigns.
"Only five?" she said.
"Only five," he answered.
"A thousand thanks, O my brother." Then she kissed him again, and
after that he went. She accompanied him to the top of the stairs,
and from thence showered blessings on his head, till she heard the
lock of the door closed behind him. When he was altogether gone she
unlocked an inner drawer in her desk, and, taking out an uncompleted
rouleau of gold, added her brother's sovereigns thereto. The sum he
had given her was exactly wanted to make up the required number of
twenty-five. She counted them half-a-dozen times, to be quite sure,
and then rolled them carefully in paper, and sealed the little packet
at each end. "Ah," she said, speaking to herself, "they are very
nice. Nothing else English is nice, but only these." There were many
rolls of money there before her in the drawer of the desk;--some ten,
perhaps, or twelve. These she took out one after another, passing
them lovingly through her fingers, looking at the little seals at the
ends of each, weighing them in her hand as though to make sure that
no wrong had been done to them in her absence, standing them up one
against another to see that they were of the same length. We may be
quite sure that Sophie Gordeloup brought no sovereigns with her to
England when she came over with Lady Ongar after the earl's death,
and that the hoard before her contained simply the plunder which she
had collected during this her latest visit to the "accursed" country
which she was going to leave.
But before she started she was resolved to make one more attempt upon
that mine of wealth which, but a few weeks ago, had seemed to be
open before her. She had learned from the servants in Bolton Street
that Lady Ongar was with Lady Clavering, at Clavering Park, and she
addressed a letter to her there. This letter she wrote in English,
and she threw into her appeal all the pathos of which she was
capable.--
Mount Street, October, 186--.
DEAREST JULIE,--I do not think you would wish me to go
away from this country for ever,--for ever, without
one word of farewell to her I love so fondly. Yes; I
have loved you with all my heart,--and now I am going
away,--for ever. Shall we not meet each other once, and
have one embrace? No trouble will be too much to me for
that. No journey will be too long. Only say, Sophie, come
to your Julie.
I must go, because I am so poor. Yes; I cannot live longer
here without having the means. I am not ashamed to say to
my Julie, who is rich, that I am poor. No; nor would I be
ashamed to wait on my Julie like a slave if she would let
me. My Julie was angry with me, because of my brother! Was
it my fault that he came upon us in our little retreat,
where we was so happy? Oh, no. I told him not to come. I
knew his coming was for nothing,--nothing at all. I knew
where was the heart of my Julie!--my poor Julie! But he
was not worth that heart, and the pearl was thrown before
a pig. But my brother--! Ah, he has ruined me. Why am I
separated from my Julie but for him? Well; I can go away,
and in my own countries there are those who will not wish
to be separated from Sophie Gordeloup.
May I now tell my Julie in what condition is her poor
friend? She will remember how it was that my feet brought
me to England,--to England, to which I had said farewell
for ever,--to England, where people must be rich like my
Julie before they can eat and drink. I thought nothing
then but of my Julie. I stopped not on the road to make
merchandise,--what you call a bargain,--about my coming.
No; I came at once, leaving all things,--my little
affairs,--in confusion, because my Julie wanted me to
come! It was in the winter. Oh, that winter! My poor bones
shall never forget it. They are racked still with the
pains which your savage winds have given them. And now it
is autumn. Ten months have I been here, and I have eaten
up my little substance. Oh, Julie, you, who are so rich,
do not know what is the poverty of your Sophie!
A lawyer have told me,--not a French lawyer, but an
English,--that somebody should pay me everything. He says
the law would give it me. He have offered me the money
himself,--just to let him make an action. But I have
said,--No. No; Sophie will not have an action with her
Julie. She would scorn that; and so the lawyer went away.
But if my Julie will think of this, and will remember her
Sophie,--how much she have expended, and now at last there
is nothing left. She must go and beg among her friends.
And why? Because she have loved her Julie too well. You,
who are so rich, would miss it not at all. What would
two,--three hundred pounds be to my Julie?
Shall I come to you? Say so; say so, and I will go at
once, if I did crawl on my knees. Oh, what a joy to see
my Julie! And do not think I will trouble you about money.
No; your Sophie will be too proud for that. Not a word
will I say, but to love you. Nothing will I do, but to
print one kiss on my Julie's forehead, and then to retire
for ever; asking God's blessing for her dear head.
Thine,--always thine,
SOPHIE.
Lady Ongar, when she received this letter, was a little perplexed by
it, not feeling quite sure in what way she might best answer it. It
was the special severity of her position that there was no one to
whom, in such difficulties, she could apply for advice. Of one thing
she was quite sure,--that, willingly, she would never again see
her devoted Sophie. And she knew that the woman deserved no money
from her; that she had deserved none, but had received much. Every
assertion in her letter was false. No one had wished her to come,
and the expense of her coming had been paid for her over and over
again. Lady Ongar knew that she had money,--and knew also that she
would have had immediate recourse to law, if any lawyer would have
suggested to her with a probability of success that he could get more
for her. No doubt she had been telling her story to some attorney, in
the hope that money might thus be extracted, and had been dragging
her Julie's name through the mud, telling all she knew of that
wretched Florentine story. As to all that Lady Ongar had no doubt;
and yet she wished to send the woman money!
There are services for which one is ready to give almost any
amount of money payment,--if only one can be sure that that money
payment will be taken as sufficient recompence for the service
in question. Sophie Gordeloup had been useful. She had been very
disagreeable,--but she had been useful. She had done things which
nobody else could have done, and she had done her work well. That she
had been paid for her work over and over again, there was no doubt;
but Lady Ongar was willing to give her yet further payment, if only
there might be an end of it. But she feared to do this, dreading
the nature and cunning of the little woman,--lest she should take
such payment as an acknowledgment of services for which secret
compensation must be made,--and should then proceed to further
threats. Thinking much of all this, Julie at last wrote to her Sophie
as follows:--
Lady Ongar presents her compliments to Madame Gordeloup,
and must decline to see Madame Gordeloup again after what
has passed. Lady Ongar is very sorry to hear that Madame
Gordeloup is in want of funds. Whatever assistance Lady
Ongar might have been willing to afford, she now feels
that she is prohibited from giving any by the allusion
which Madame Gordeloup has made to legal advice. If Madame
Gordeloup has legal demands on Lady Ongar which are
said by a lawyer to be valid, Lady Ongar would strongly
recommend Madame Gordeloup to enforce them.
Clavering Park, October, 186--.
This she wrote, acting altogether on her own judgment, and sent off
by return of post. She almost wept at her own cruelty after the
letter was gone, and greatly doubted her own discretion. But of whom
could she have asked advice? Could she have told all the story of
Madame Gordeloup to the rector or to the rector's wife? The letter
no doubt was a discreet letter; but she greatly doubted her own
discretion, and when she received her Sophie's rejoinder, she hardly
dared to break the envelope.
Poor Sophie! Her Julie's letter nearly broke her heart. For sincerity
little credit was due to her;--but some little was perhaps due. That
she should be called Madame Gordeloup, and have compliments presented
to her by the woman,--by the countess with whom and with whose
husband she had been on such closely familiar terms, did in truth
wound some tender feelings within her bosom. Such love as she had
been able to give, she had given to her Julie. That she had always
been willing to rob her Julie, to make a milch-cow of her Julie, to
sell her Julie, to threaten her Julie, to quarrel with her Julie
if aught might be done in that way,--to expose her Julie; nay, to
destroy her Julie if money was to be so made;--all this did not
hinder her love. She loved her Julie, and was broken-hearted that her
Julie should have written to her in such a strain.
But her feelings were much more acute when she came to perceive that
she had damaged her own affairs by the hint of a menace which she
had thrown out. Business is business, and must take precedence of
all sentiment and romance in this hard world in which bread is so
necessary. Of that Madame Gordeloup was well aware. And therefore,
having given herself but two short minutes to weep over her Julie's
hardness, she applied her mind at once to the rectification
of the error she had made. Yes; she had been wrong about the
lawyer,--certainly wrong. But then these English people were so
pig-headed! A slight suspicion of a hint, such as that she had made,
would have been taken by a Frenchman, by a Russian, by a Pole, as
meaning no more than it meant. "But these English are bulls; the men
and the women are all like bulls,--bulls!"
She at once sat down and wrote another letter; another in such an
ecstasy of eagerness to remove the evil impressions which she had
made, that she wrote it almost with the natural effusion of her
heart.--
DEAR FRIEND,--Your coldness kills me,--kills me! But
perhaps I have deserved it. If I said there were legal
demands I did deserve it. No; there are none. Legal
demands! Oh, no. What can your poor friend demand legally?
The lawyer--he knows nothing; he was a stranger. It was my
brother spoke to him. What should I do with a lawyer? Oh,
my friend, do not be angry with your poor servant. I write
now not to ask for money,--but for a kind word; for one
word of kindness and love to your Sophie before she have
gone for ever! Yes; for ever. Oh, Julie, oh, my angel;
I would lie at your feet and kiss them if you were here.
Yours till death, even though you should still be hard to
me,
SOPHIE.
To this appeal Lady Ongar sent no direct answer, but she commissioned
Mr. Turnbull, her lawyer, to call upon Madame Gordeloup and pay to
that lady one hundred pounds, taking her receipt for the same. Lady
Ongar, in her letter to the lawyer, explained that the woman in
question had been useful in Florence; and explained also that she
might pretend that she had further claims. "If so," said Lady Ongar,
"I wish you to tell her that she can prosecute them at law if she
pleases. The money I now give her is a gratuity made for certain
services rendered in Florence during the illness of Lord Ongar." This
commission Mr. Turnbull executed, and Sophie Gordeloup, when taking
the money, made no demand for any further payment.
Four days after this a little woman, carrying a very big bandbox in
her hands, might have been seen to scramble with difficulty out of
a boat in the Thames up the side of a steamer bound from thence for
Boulogne. And after her there climbed up an active little man, who,
with peremptory voice, repulsed the boatman's demand for further
payment. He also had a bandbox on his arm,--belonging, no doubt, to
the little woman. And it might have been seen that the active little
man, making his way to the table at which the clerk of the boat
was sitting, out of his own purse paid the passage-money for two
passengers,--through to Paris. And the head and legs and neck of that
little man were like to the head and legs and neck of--our friend
Doodles, alias Captain Boodle, of Warwickshire.