A MARRIAGE NOT "A LA MODE."
The marriage took place in a little out-of-the-way Protestant chapel
beyond the barriers, at about a quarter before ten o'clock the next
morning. Dalrymple and I were there first; and Madame de Courcelles,
having, in order to avoid observation, come part of the distance in a
cab and part on foot, arrived a few minutes later. She was very pale,
and looked almost like a _religieuse_, with her black veil tied closely
under her chin, and a dark violet dress, which might have passed for
mourning. She gave her hand to Dalrymple without speaking; then knelt
down at the communion-table, and so remained till we had all taken our
places. As for Dalrymple, he had even less color than she, but held his
head up haughtily, and betrayed no sign of the conflict within.
It was a melancholy little chapel, dusty and neglected, full of black
and white funereal tablets, and damp as a vault. We shivered as we stood
about the altar; the clergyman's teeth chattered as he began the
marriage service; and the echoes of our responses reverberated forlornly
up among the gothic rafters overhead. Even the sunbeams struggled sadly
and palely down the upper windows, and the chill wind whistled in when
the door was opened, bringing with it a moan of coming rain.
The ceremony over, the books signed in the vestry, and the clergyman,
clerk, and pew-opener duly remunerated for their services, we prepared
to be gone. For a couple of moments, Dalrymple and his bride stood apart
in the shadow of the porch. I saw him take the hand on which he had just
placed the ring, and look down upon it tenderly, wistfully--I saw him
bend lower, and lower, whispering what no other ears might hear--saw
their lips meet for one brief instant. Then the lady's veil was lowered;
she turned hastily away; and Dalrymple was left standing in the
doorway alone.
"By Heaven!" said he, grasping my hand as though he would crush it.
"This is hard to bear."
I but returned the pressure of his hand; for I knew not with what words
to comfort him. Thus we lingered for some minutes in silence, till the
clergyman, having put off his surplice, passed us with a bow and went
out; and the pew-opener, after pretending to polish the door-handle with
her apron, and otherwise waiting about with an air of fidgety
politeness, dropped a civil curtsey, and begged to remind us that the
chapel must now be closed.
Dalrymple started and shook himself like a water-dog, as if he would so
shake off "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."
"_Rex est qui metuit nihil_!" said he; "but I am a sovereign in bad
circumstances, for all that. Heigho! Care will kill a cat. What shall we
do with ourselves, old fellow, for the rest of the day?"
"I hardly know. Would you like to go into the country?"
"Nothing better. The air perhaps would exorcise some of these
blue-devils."
"What say you to St. Germains? It looks as if it must rain before night;
yet there is the forest and...."
"Excellent! We can do as we like, with nobody to stare at us; and I am
in a horribly uncivilized frame of mind this morning."
With this, we turned once more toward Paris, and, jumping into the first
cab that came by, were driven to the station. It happened that a train
was then about to start; so we were off immediately.
There were no other passengers in the carriage, so Dalrymple infringed
the company's mandate by lighting a cigar, and I, finding him
disinclined for talk, did the same thing, and watched the passing
country. Flat and uninteresting at first, it consisted of a mere sandy
plain, treeless, hedgeless, and imperfectly cultivated with struggling
strips of corn and vegetables. By and by came a line of stunted
pollards, a hamlet, and a little dreary cemetery. Then the landscape
improved. The straight line of the horizon broke into gentle
undulations; the Seine, studded with islets, wound through the
meadow-land at our feet; and a lofty viaduct carried us from height to
height across the eddying river. Then we passed into the close green
shade of a forest, which opened every here and there into long vistas,
yielding glimpses of
"--verdurous glooms, and winding mossy ways."
Through this wood the line continued to run till we reached our
destination. Here our first few steps brought us out upon the Place,
directly facing the old red and black chateau of St. Germain-en-Laye.
Leaving this and the little dull town behind us, we loitered for some
time about the broad walks of the park, and then passed on into the
forest. Although it was neither Sunday nor a fête-day, there were
pleasure parties gipseying under trees--Parisian cockneys riding
raw-boned steeds--pony-chaises full of laughing grisettes dashing up and
down the broad roads that pierce the wood in various directions--old
women selling cakes and lemonade--workmen gambling with half-pence on
the smooth turf by the wayside--_bonnes_, comely and important, with
their little charges playing round them, and their busy fingers plying
the knitting-needles as they walked--young ladies sketching trees, and
prudent governesses reading novels close by; in short, all the life and
variety of a favorite suburban resort on an ordinarily fine day about
the beginning of autumn.
Leaving the frequented routes to the right, we turned into one of the
many hundred tracks that diverge in every direction from the beaten
roads, and wandered deeper and deeper into the green shades and
solitudes of the forest. Pausing, presently, to rest, Dalrymple threw
himself at full length on the mossy ground, with his hands clasping the
back of his head, and his hat over his eyes; whilst I found a luxurious
arm-chair in the gnarled roots of a lichen-tufted elm. Thus we remained
for a considerable time puffing away at our cigars in that sociable
silence which may almost claim to be an unique privilege of masculine
friendship. Women cannot sit together for long without talking; men can
enjoy each other's companionship for hours with scarcely the interchange
of an idea.
Meanwhile, I watched the squirrels up in the beech-trees and the dancing
of the green leaves against the sky; and thought dreamily of home, of my
father, of the far past, and the possible future. I asked myself how,
when my term of study came to an end, I should ever again endure the old
home-life at Saxonholme? How settle down for life as my father's
partner, conforming myself to his prejudices, obeying all the demands of
his imperious temper, and accepting for evermore the monotonous routine
of a provincial practice! It was an intolerable prospect, but no less
inevitable than intolerable. Pondering thus, I sighed heavily, and the
sigh roused Dalrymple's attention.
"Why, Damon," said he, turning over on his elbow, and pushing up his
hat to the level of his eyes, "what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, nothing--at least, nothing new."
"Well, new or old, what is it? A man must be either in debt, or in love,
when he sighs in that way. You look as melancholy as Werter redivivus!"
"I--I ought not to be melancholy, I suppose; for I was thinking of
home."
Dalrymple's face and voice softened immediately.
"Poor boy!" he said, throwing away the end of his cigar, "yours is not a
bright home, I fear. You told me, I think, that you had lost
your mother?"
"From infancy."
"And you have no sisters?"
"None. I am an only child."
"Your father, however, is living?"
"Yes, my father lives. He is a rough-tempered, eccentric man;
misanthropic, but clever; kind enough, and generous enough, in his own
strange way. Still--"
"Still what?"
--"I dread the life that lies before me! I dread the life without
society, without ambition, without change--the dull house--the bounded
sphere of action--the bondage.... But of what use is it to trouble you
with these things?"
"This use, that it does you good to tell, and me to listen. Sympathy,
like mercy, blesseth him that gives and him that takes; and if I cannot
actually help you, I am, at all events, thankful to be taken out of
myself. Go on--tell me more of your prospects. Have you no acquaintance
at Saxonholme whose society will make the place pleasant to you? No
boyish friends? No pretty cousins? No first-loves, from amongst whom to
choose a wife in time to come?"
I shook my head sadly.
"Did I not tell you that my father was a misanthrope? He visits no one,
unless professionally. We have no friends and no relations."
"Humph! that's awkward. However, it leaves you free to choose your own
friends, when you go back. A medical man need never be without a
visiting connection. His very profession puts a thousand opportunities
in his way."
"That is true; but--"
"But what?"
"I am not fond of the profession. I have never liked it. I would give
much to relinquish it altogether."
Dalrymple gave utterance to a prolonged and very dismal whistle.
"This," said he gravely, "is the most serious part of the business. To
live in a dull place is bad enough--to live with dull people is bad
enough; but to have one's thoughts perpetually occupied with an
uncongenial subject, and one's energies devoted to an uncongenial
pursuit, is just misery, and nothing short of it! In fact 'tis a moral
injustice, and one that no man should be required to endure."
"Yet I must endure it."
"Why?"
"Because it is too late to do otherwise."
"It is never too late to repair an evil, or an error."
"Unless the repairing of it involved a worse evil, or a more fatal
error! No--I must not dream now of turning aside from the path that has
been chosen for me. Too much time and too much money have been given to
the thing for that;--I must let it take its course. There's no help
for it!"
"But, confound it, lad! you'd better follow the fife and drum, or go
before the mast, than give up your life to a profession you hate!"
"Hate is a strong word," I replied. "I do not actually hate it--at all
events I must try to make the best of it, if only for my father's sake.
His heart is set on making a physician of me, and I dare not
disappoint him."
Dalrymple looked at me fixedly, and then fell back into his old
position.
"Heigho!" he said, pulling his hat once more over his eyes, "I was a
disobedient son. My father intended me for the Church; I was expelled
from College for fighting a duel before I was twenty, and then, sooner
than go home disgraced, enlisted as a private soldier in a cavalry corps
bound for foreign service. Luckily, they found me out before the ship
sailed, and made the best of a bad bargain by purchasing me a cornetcy
in a dragoon regiment. I would not advise you to be disobedient, Damon.
My experience in that line has been bitter enough,"
"How so? You escaped a profession for which you were disinclined, and
entered one for which you had every qualification."
"Ay; but think of the cursed _esclandre_--first the duel, then the
expulsion, then my disappearance for two months ... My mother was in bad
health at the time, too; and I, her favorite son--I--in short, the
anxiety was too much for her. She--she died before I had been six weeks
in the regiment. There! we won't talk of it. It's the one subject
that ..."
His voice faltered, and he broke off abruptly.
"I wish you were going with me to Berlin," said he, after a long silence
which I had not attempted to interrupt.
"I wish with all my heart that I were!"
"And yet," he added, "I am glad on--on her account, that you remain in
Paris. You will call upon her sometimes, Arbuthnot?"
"If Madame De Cour.... I mean, if Mrs. Dalrymple will permit me."
An involuntary smile flitted across his lips--the first I had seen there
all the day.
"She will be glad--grateful. She knows that I value you, and she has
proof that I trust you. You are the only possessor of our secret."
"It is as safe with me," I said, "as if I were dead, and in my grave."
"I know it, old fellow. Well--you will see her sometimes. You will write
to me, and tell me how she is looking. If--if she were to fall ill, you
would not conceal it from me? and in case of any emergency--any
annoyance arising from De Caylus ..."
"Were she my own sister," I said, earnestly, "she would not find me
readier to assist or defend her. Of this, Dalrymple, be assured."
"Thank you," he said, and stretched up his hand to me. "I do believe you
are true--though there are few men, and still fewer women, of whom I
should like to say as much. By the way, Arbuthnot, beware of that little
flirt, Madame de Marignan. She has charming eyes, but no more heart than
a vampire. Besides, an entanglement with a married woman!... _cela ne se
peut pas, mon cher_. You are too young to venture on such dangerous
ground, and too inexperienced."
I smiled--perhaps somewhat bitterly--for the wound was still fresh, and
I could not help wincing when any hand came near it.
"You are right," I replied. "Madame de Marignan is a dangerous woman;
but dangerous for me no longer. However, I have paid rather dearly for
my safety."
And with this, I told him the whole story from beginning to end,
confessing all my follies without reservation. Surprised, amused,
sometimes unable to repress a smile, sometimes genuinely compassionate,
he heard my narrative through, accompanying it from time to time with
muttered comments and ejaculations, none of which were very flattering
to Madame de Marignan. When I had done, he sprang to his feet, laid his
hand heavily upon my shoulder, and said:--
"Damon, there are a great many disagreeable things in life which wise
people say are good for us, and for which they tell us we ought to be
grateful in proportion to our discomfort. For my own part, however, I am
no optimist. I am not fond of mortifying the flesh, and the eloquence of
Socrates would fail to persuade me that a carbuncle was a cheerful
companion, or the gout an ailment to be ardently desired. Yet, for all
this, I cannot say that I look upon your adventure in the light of a
misfortune. You have lost time, spent money, and endured a considerable
amount of aggravation; but you have, on the other hand, acquired ease
of manner, facility of conversation, and just that necessary polish
which fits a man for society. Come! you have received a valuable lesson
both in morals and manners; so farewell to Madame de Marignan, and let
us write _Pour acquit_ against the score!"
Willing enough to accept this cheerful view, I flourished an imaginary
autograph upon the air with the end of my cane, and laughingly dismissed
the subject.
We then strolled back through the wood, treading the soft moss under our
feet, startling the brown lizards from our path and the squirrels from
the lower branches of the great trees, and, now and then, surprising a
plump little green frog, which went skipping away into the long grass,
like an animated emerald. Coming back to the gardens, we next lingered
for some time upon the terrace, admiring the superb panorama of
undulating woodland and cultivated champaign, which, seen through the
golden haze of afternoon, stretched out in glory to the remotest
horizon. To our right stood the prison-like chateau, flinging back the
sunset from its innumerable casements, and seeming to drink in the warm
glow at every pore of its old, red bricks. To our left, all lighted up
against the sky, rose the lofty tree-tops of the forest which we had
just quitted. Our shadows stretched behind us across the level terrace,
like the shadows of giants. Involuntarily, we dropped our voices. It
would have seemed almost like profanity to speak aloud while the first
influence of that scene was upon us.
Going on presently towards the verge of the terrace, we came upon an
artist who, with his camp-stool under his arm, and his portfolio at his
feet, was, like ourselves, taking a last look at the sunset before going
away. As we approached, he turned and recognised us. It was Herr Franz
Müller, the story-telling student of the _Chicards_ club.
"Good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he, lifting his red cap, and letting
it fall back again a little on one side. "We do not see many such
sunsets in the course of the summer."
"Indeed, no," replied Dalrymple; "and ere long the autumn tints will be
creeping over the landscape, and the whole scene will assume a different
character. Have you been sketching in the forest?"
"No--I have been making a study of the chateau and terrace from this
point, with the landscape beyond. It is for an historical subject which
I have laid out for my winter's work."
And with this, he good-naturedly opened his folio and took out the
sketch, which was a tolerably large one, and represented the scene under
much the same conditions of light as we now saw it.
"I shall have a group of figures here," he said, pointing to a spot on
the terrace, "and a more distant one there; with a sprinkling of dogs
and, perhaps, a head or two at an open window of the chateau. I shall
also add a flag flying on the turret, yonder."
"A scene, I suppose, from the life of Louis the Thirteenth," I
suggested.
"No--I mean it for the exiled court of James the Second," replied he.
"And I shall bring in the King, and Mary of Modena, and the Prince their
son, who was afterwards the Pretender."
"It is a good subject," said Dalrymple. "You will of course find
excellent portraits of all these people at Versailles; and a lively
description of their court, mode of life, and so forth, if my memory
serves me correctly, in the tales of Anthony, Count Hamilton. But with
all this, I dare say, you are better acquainted than I."
"_Parbleu!_ not I," said the student, shouldering his camp-stool as if
it were a musket, and slinging his portfolio by a strap across his back;
"therefore, I am all the more obliged to you for the information. My
reading is neither very extensive nor very useful; and as for my
library, I could pack it all into a hat-case any day, and find room for
a few other trifles at the same time. Here is the author I chiefly
study. He is my constant companion, and, like myself, looks somewhat the
worse for wear."
Saying which, he produced from one of his pockets a little, greasy,
dog-eared volume of Beranger, about the size of a small snuff-box, and
began singing aloud, to a very cheerful air, a song of which a certain
faithless Mademoiselle Lisette was the heroine, and of which the refrain
was always:--
"_Lisette! ma Lisette,
Tu m'as trompé toujours;
Je veux, Lisette,
Boire à nos amours_."
To this accompaniment we walked back through the gardens to the railway
station, where, being a quarter of an hour too soon, our companion
amused himself by "chaffing," questioning, contradicting, and otherwise
ingeniously tormenting the check-takers and porters of the
establishment. One pompous official, in particular, became so helplessly
indignant that he retired into a little office overlooking the platform,
and was heard to swear fluently, all by himself, for several minutes.
The time having expired and the doors being opened, we passed out with
the rest of the home-going Parisians, and were about to take our places,
when Müller, climbing like a cat to the roof-seats on the top of the
second-class carriages, beckoned us to follow.
"Who would be shut up with ten fat people and a baby, when fresh air can
be breathed, and tobacco smoked, for precisely the same fare?" asked he.
"You don't mean to say that you came down to St. Germains in one of the
dens below?"
"Yes, we did," I replied; "but we had it to ourselves."
"So much the worse. Man is a gregarious animal, and woman also--which
proves Zimmerman to have been neither, and accounts for the brotherhood
of _Les Chicards_. Would you like to see how that old gentleman looks
when he is angry?"
"Which? The one in the opposite corner?"
"The same."
"Well, that depends on circumstances. Why do you ask?"
"Because I'll engage to satisfy your curiosity in less than ten
minutes."
"Oh, no, don't affront him," said I. "We shall only have a scene."
"I won't affront him. I promise not to utter a syllable, either
offensive or defensive."
"Leave him alone, then, poor devil!"
"Nonsense! If he chooses to be annoyed, that's his business, and not
mine. Now, you'll see."
And Müller, alert for mischief, stared fixedly at the old gentleman in
the opposite corner for some minutes--then sighed--roused himself as if
from a profound reverie--seized his portfolio--took out a pencil and
sketch-book--mended the pencil with an elaborate show of fastidiousness
and deliberation--stared again--drew a deep breath--turned somewhat
aside, as if anxious to conceal his object, and began sketching rapidly.
Now and then he paused; stole a furtive glance over his shoulder; bit
his lip; rubbed out; corrected; glanced again; and then went on rapidly
as before.
In the meanwhile the old gentleman, who was somewhat red and irascible,
began to get seriously uncomfortable. He frowned, fidgeted, coughed,
buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jealously watched every proceeding
of his tormentor. A general smile dawned upon the faces of the rest of
the travellers. The priest over the way pinched his lips together, and
looked down demurely. The two girls, next to the priest, tittered behind
their handkerchiefs. The young man with the blue cravat sucked the top
of his cane, and winked openly at his companions, both of whom were
cracking nuts, and flinging the shells down the embankment. Presently
Müller threw his head back, held the drawing off, still studiously
keeping the back of it towards the rest of the passengers; looked at it
with half-closed eyes; stole another exceedingly cautious glance at his
victim; and then, affecting for the first time to find himself observed,
made a vast show of pretending to sketch the country through which we
were passing.
The old gentleman could stand it no longer.
"Monsieur," said he, angrily. "Monsieur, I will thank you not to take my
portrait. I object to it. Monsieur."
"Charming distance," said Müller, addressing himself to me "Wants
interest, however, in the foreground. That's a picturesque tree yonder,
is it not?"
The old gentleman struck his umbrella sharply on the floor.
"It's of no use, Monsieur," he exclaimed, getting more red and excited.
"You are taking my portrait, and I object to it. I know you are taking
my portrait."
Müller looked up dreamily.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur," said he. "Did you speak?'
"Yes, Monsieur. I did speak. I repeat that you shall not take my
portrait."
"Your portrait, Monsieur?"
"Yes, my portrait!"
"But, Monsieur," remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candor
and surprise, "I never dreamed of taking your portrait!"
"_Sacre non_!" shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of the
umbrella. "I saw you do it! Everybody saw you do It!"
"Nay, if Monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that I was simply
sketching from nature, as the train...."
"An impudent subterfuge, sir!" interrupted the old gentleman. "An
impudent subterfuge, and nothing less!"
Müller drew himself up with immense dignity.
"Monsieur," he said, haughtily, "that is an expression which I must
request you to retract. I have already assured you, on the word of a
gentleman...."
"A gentleman, indeed! A pretty gentleman! He takes my portrait, and...."
"I have not taken your portrait, Monsieur."
"Good heavens!" cried the old gentleman, looking round, "was ever such
assurance! Did not every one present see him in the act? I appeal to
every one--to you, Monsieur--to you, Mesdames,--to you, reverend
father,--did you not all see this person taking my portrait?"
"Nay, then, if it must come to this," said Müller, "let the sketch be
evidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is really
the portrait of Monsieur--and if they think it like?"
Saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it is
true, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but--the head of an ass,
with a thistle in its mouth!
A simultaneous explosion of mirth followed. Even the priest laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks, and Dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was,
could not help joining in the general shout. As for the old gentleman,
the victim of this elaborate practical joke, he glared at us all round,
swore that it was a premeditated insult from beginning to end, and,
swelling with suppressed rage, flung himself back into his corner, and
looked resolutely in the opposite direction.
By this time we were half-way to Paris, and the student, satisfied with
his success, packed up his folio, brought out a great meerschaum with a
snaky tube, and smoked like a factory-chimney.
When we alighted, it was nearly five o'clock.
"What shall we do next?" said Dalrymple, pulling drearily at his
moustache. "I am so deuced dull to-day that I am ashamed to ask anybody
to do me the charity to dine with me--especially a _bon garçon_ like
Herr Müller."
"Don't be ashamed," said the student, laughingly, "I would dine with
Pluto himself, if the dishes were good and my appetite as sharp
as to-day."
"_Allons_, then! Where shall we go; to the _Trois Frères_, or the
_Moulin Rouge_, or the _Maison Dorée_?"
"The _Trois Frères_" said Müller, with the air of one who deliberates on
the fate of nations, "has the disadvantage of being situated in the
Palais Royal, where the band still continues to play at half-past five
every afternoon. Now, music should come on with the sweets and the
champagne. It is not appropriate with soup or fish, and it distracts
one's attention if injudiciously administered with the made dishes,"
"True. Then shall we try the _Moulin Rouge_?"
Müller shook his head.
"At the _Moulin Rouge_" said he, gravely, "one can breakfast well; but
their dinners are stereotyped. For the last ten years they have not
added a new dish to their _carte_; and the discovery of a new dish, says
Brillat Savarin, is of more importance to the human race than the
discovery of a new planet. No--I should not vote for the
_Moulin Rouge_."
"Well, then, Véfours, Véry's, the Café Anglais?"
"Véfours is traditional; the Café Anglais is infested with English; and
at Véry's, which is otherwise a meritorious establishment, one's
digestion is disturbed by the sight of omnivorous provincials, who drink
champagne with the _rôti_, and eat melon at dessert."
Dalrymple laughed outright.
"At this rate," said he, "we shall get no dinner at all! What is to
become of us, if neither Véry's, nor the _Trois Frères_, nor the _Moulin
Rouge_, nor the _Maison Dorée_...."
"_Halte-là!"_ interrupted the student, theatrically; "for by my halidom,
sirs, I said not a syllable in disparagement of the house yelept Dorée!
Is it not there that we eat of the crab of Bordeaux, succulent and
roseate? Is it not there that we drink of Veuve Cliquot the costly, and
of that Johannisberger, to which all other hocks are vinegar and water?
Never let it be said that Franz Müller, being of sound mind and body,
did less than justice to the reputation of the _Maison Dorée_."
"To the _Maison Dorée_, then," said Dalrymple, "with what speed and
appetite we may! By Jove! Herr Franz, you are a _connoisseur_ in the
matter of dining."
"A man who for twenty-nine days out of every thirty pays his sixty-five
centimes for two dishes at a student's Restaurant in the Quartier Latin,
knows better than most people where to go for a good dinner when he has
the chance," said Müller, philosophically. "The ragoûts of the
Temple--the _arlequins_ of the _Cité_--the fried fish of the Odéon
arcades--the unknown hashes of the _guingettes_, and the 'funeral baked
meats' of the Palais Royal, are all familiar to my pocket and my palate.
I do not scruple to confess that in cases of desperate emergency, I have
even availed myself of the advantages of _Le hasard_."
"_Le hasard_." said I. "What is that?"
"_Le hasard de la fourchette_," replied the student, "is the resort of
the vagabond, the _gamin_, and the _chiffonier_. It lies down by the
river-side, near the Halles, and consists of nothing but a shed, a fire,
and a caldron. In this caldron a seething sea of oleaginous liquid
conceals an infinite variety of animal and vegetable substances. The
arrangements of the establishment are beautifully simple. The votary
pays his five centimes and is armed by the presiding genius of the place
with a huge two-pronged iron fork. This fork he plunges in once;--he may
get a calf's foot, or a potato, or a sheep's head, or a carrot, or a
cabbage, or nothing, as fate and the fork direct. All men are gamblers
in some way or another, and _Le hasard_ is a game of gastronomic chance.
But from the ridiculous to the sublime, it is but a step--and while
talking of _Le hasard_ behold, we have arrived at the _Maison Dorée_."