THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST EXIT.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances.
_As You Like It._
I was waked by my father's voice calling to me from the garden, and so
started up with that strange and sudden sense of trouble which most of
us have experienced at some time or other in our lives.
"Nine o'clock, Basil," cried my father. "Nine o'clock--come down
directly, sir!"
I sprang out of bed, and for some seconds could remember nothing of what
had happened; but when I looked out of the window and saw my father in
his dressing-gown and slippers walking up and down the sunny path with
his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground, it all
flashed suddenly upon me. To plunge into my bath, dress, run down, and
join him in the garden, was the work of but a few minutes.
"Good-morning, sir," I said, breathlessly.
He stopped short in his walk, and looked at me from head to foot.
"Humph!" said he, "you have dressed quickly...."
"Yes, sir; I was startled to find myself so late."
"So quickly," he continued, "that you have forgotten your watch."
I felt my face burn. I had not a word to answer.
"I suppose," said he, "you thought I should not find it out?"
"I had hoped to recover it first," I replied, falteringly; "but...."
"But you may make up your mind to the loss of it, sir; and serve you
rightly, too," interposed my father. "I can tell you, for your
satisfaction, that the man's clothes have been thoroughly examined, and
that your watch has not been found. No doubt it lay somewhere on the
table, and was stolen in the confusion."
I hung my head. I could have wept for vexation.
My father laughed sardonically.
"Well, Master Basil," he said, "the loss is yours, and yours only. You
won't get another watch from me, I promise you."
I retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more; and then we went
in to breakfast.
Our morning meal was more unsociable than usual. I was too much annoyed
to speak, and my father too preoccupied. I longed to inquire after the
Chevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through my
breakfast that I might run round to the Red Lion immediately after.
Before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that "the conjuror
was taken worse," and so my father and I hastened away together.
He had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, and
when we entered the room was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, muttering
to himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience.
"_Pas du tout_," said he fantastically, "_pas du tout, Messieurs_--here
is no deception. You shall see him pass from my hand to the _coffre_,
and yet you shall not find how he does travel."
My father smiled bitterly.
"Conjurer to the last!" said he. "In the face of death, what a mockery
is his trade!"
Wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercely
round; but there was no recognition in his eye.
"Trade, Monsieur!" he echoed. "Trade!--you shall not call him trade! Do
you know who I am, that you dare call him trade? _Dieu des Dieux!
N'est-ce pas que je suis noble, moi?_ Trade!--when did one of my race
embrace a trade? _Canaille!_ I do condescend for my reasons to take your
money, but you shall not call him a trade!"
Exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow,
muttering and flushed. I bent over him, and caught a scattered phrase
from time to time. He was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich and
powerful, poor wretch! and all unconscious of his condition.
"You shall see my Chateaux," he said, "my horses--my carriages.
Listen--it is the ringing of the bells. Aha! _le jour viendra--le jour
viendra_! Conjuror! who speaks of a conjuror? I never was a conjuror! I
deny it: and he lies who says it! _Attendons_! Is the curtain up? Ah! my
table--where is my table? I cannot play till I have my table.
_Scélérats! je suis volé! je l'ai perdu! je l'ai perdu_! Ah, what shall
I do? What shall I do? They have taken my table--they have taken...."
He burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fell
into a troubled sleep.
The landlady sobbed. Hers was a kind heart, and the little Frenchman's
simple courtesy had won her good-will from the first.
"He had real quality manners," she said, disconsolately. "I do believe,
gentlemen, that he had seen better days. Poor as he was, he never
disputed the price of anything; and he never spoke to me without taking
off his hat."
"Upon my soul, Mistress Cobbe," said my father, "I incline to your
opinion. I do think he is not what he seems."
"And if I only knew where to find his friends, I shouldn't care half so
much!" exclaimed the landlady. "It do seem so hard that he should die
here, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave! Surely he
has some one who loves him!"
"There was something said the other day about a child," mused my father.
"Have no papers or letters been found about his person?"
"None at all. Why, Doctor, you were here last night when we searched for
Master Basil's watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of the
kind in his possession. As to his luggage, that's only a carpet-bag and
his conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully as
possible."
The Chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep.
"The proofs," said he. "The proofs! I can do nothing without
the proofs."
My father listened. The landlady shook her head.
"He has been going on like that ever since you left, sir," she said
pitifully; "fancying he's been robbed, and calling out about the
proofs--only ten times more violent. Then, again, he thinks he is going
to act, and asks for his table. It's wonderful how he takes on about
that trumpery table!"
Scarcely had she spoken the words when the Chevalier opened his eyes,
and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed. The cold dew rose upon
his brow; his lips quivered; he strove to speak, and only an
inarticulate cry found utterance. My father flew to his support.
"If you have anything to say," he urged earnestly, "try to say it now!"
The dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despair came
into his wan face.
"Tell--tell" ... he gasped; but his voice failed him, and he could get
no further.
My father laid him gently down. There came an interval of terrible
suspense--a moment of sharp agony--a deep, deep sigh--and then silence.
My father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.
"It is all over," he said; "and his secret, if he had one, is in closer
keeping than ours. Come away, boy; this is no place for you."
* * * * *