MR. MONROE ARRIVES!
"No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight."
It was ten o'clock when I reached Monsieur Marbois's house and found
my aunt anxiously awaiting me. I had to explain the lateness of my
return and the bespattered condition of my garments by telling her I
had lost my way in the Boulogne woods (which was true, for in those
winding roads Fatima did for a time go astray), and such was her
horror at the thought of the perils to which I had been exposed in
that forest of evil repute that she questioned me not at all about my
visit to St. Cloud, for which I was devoutly thankful. She had
expected that my uncle would be detained all night, so that I had no
explanations to make in his behalf.
The dinner-hour was long past, but she insisted on having a hot supper
prepared for me, and though my conscience assured me I deserved to go
to bed hungry, the little fillet of beef with mushrooms, flanked by an
omelet _au gratin_, which Jacques, my aunt's accomplished chef, sent
up to my room piping hot, with a glass of fine old Burgundy, tasted a
little better to me than I ever remembered anything to have tasted
before. _Le petit souper_ was served in my room, because my aunt had
insisted that my wet clothes should be removed (it had begun to rain
long before we reached the streets of Paris) and I should get into a
hot bath at once to prevent, if possible, the cold she was sure I had
contracted on my wet and perilous ride.
Safe in my own comfortable room, warm and refreshed from my bath, with
a delicious supper smoking before me, the memory of my exciting
adventures and the discomforts of the latter part of the ride, lost in
the dismal woods and chilled to the bone by the cold rain, already
began to grow dim and hazy.
The April rain driving against my windows added to my sense of comfort
and security. It had been a good friend to me in at least two
respects: it had washed out every trace of Fatima's hoof-prints, so
that not even Monsieur Fouché's lynx-eyed police could track me when
the morning light should start them on the trail; and it had ruined my
new puce-colored costume. Remembering how I had rejoiced in the
wearing of it that very morning, its destruction might not seem to be
a cause for thankfulness. But I would never dare to wear it again,
lest some one who had seen me at St. Cloud (most of all, the
chevalier) should recognize it; and yet I might have found it
difficult to frame excuses for not wearing it that would satisfy my
aunt's minute and anxious care for me, which extended to seeing that I
wore the proper suit for every occasion.
But I did not feel quite so secure the next morning, when I saw
posted all over the city flaming accounts of an attack upon the First
Consul's life when he was in his bath, frustrated by the vigilance of
his faithful Mameluke. There followed descriptions of the assassin as
given by various witnesses who had had deadly hand-to-hand encounters
with him, no two descriptions agreeing in any particulars, except that
he was of great stature and rode a mysterious steed that bore him away
on the wings of the wind.
There was great excitement throughout all Paris, and there were not
wanting those who hinted at supernatural agencies. Some of those who
had stood gaping at our swift flight through St. Cloud village were
ready to swear that the horse the assassin rode had wings from his
shoulders and his feet, and one poor lout added a tail and a pair of
horns for the rider!
I might have been amused at all this if it had not been for the
Chevalier Le Moyne. It was almost inevitable that I should meet him
some day in the city, and when he should come to know of my presence
in Paris he would at once connect the assassin of great size and his
wonderful horse with the horse and rider that had snatched
Mademoiselle Pelagie from his grasp at Rock Spring. And I was quite
sure, also, that no considerations of gratitude for his life spared
when he was in my power would deter him from handing me over to the
merciless police with the greatest delight, now that I was in his
power.
So it was not with a perfect sense of security that I went about Paris
for the next day or two, and I left Fatima to pine in her stable
rather than to run the risk of suggesting a resemblance to some St.
Cloud villager while yet the apparition of horse and rider was fresh
in his mind.
I did not see my uncle until late on Tuesday afternoon. He had gone
direct to the Treasury office on Monday morning, and had been summoned
to St. Cloud again Monday afternoon to spend the night. I had fully
made up my mind to make a clean breast of it to him when I should see
him, though I dreaded much the just reprimands I knew I should
receive. It was with a very trembling heart, but striving to keep as
courageous a front as possible, that I obeyed a summons to his private
library late Tuesday afternoon. My uncle was sternness itself.
"Sit down, sir," he said as I entered, scarcely returning my greeting.
"If you will permit me, I would prefer to stand until I have made an
explanation and my most heart-felt apologies," I replied, determined
to speak quickly and have it over before my courage should desert me.
"I desire no apologies," returned my uncle, a little less sternly, I
thought, "and I particularly desire that you make me no explanations.
If you had any connection with the mysterious assassin and his horse,
I prefer to be able to say that I know nothing at all about it. I may
have my suspicions that only a daredevil young American could
accomplish such feats of prowess as were ascribed to this
'assassin,'--over-power single-handed all the guards of the palace,
and make good his escape on a steed of supernatural swiftness,--but I
prefer that they should remain suspicions; do you understand?"
I bowed silently, too mortified to make any reply.
"I may have my theories, also," continued my uncle, "as to this young
daredevil's presence in the First Consul's closet, and they would
certainly not be those entertained by the police. Yet it would be a
difficult matter to convince any one, least of all the First Consul
and Fouché, that he could be there for any other purpose than
assassination; and should his identity be discovered, I fear no
influence could be brought to bear strong enough to save his life.
Permit me to add, also, that an insatiable curiosity to be present at
councils of state, such as I have no doubt led this young man to
contrive an entrance into the Consul's private apartments, seems to me
only one degree less culpable than the dastardly designs of an
assassin."
It is impossible to describe the scathing tone with which my uncle
uttered this last sentence. Nor, had I been receiving condemnation
from a just judge for the most dastardly crimes, could I have felt
keener humiliation. I dared not lift my eyes, and every pulse in my
body sent the blood in waves to my already scarlet countenance. I
broke out into a great sweat all over my body as I realized that I had
forever forfeited the respect and confidence of my uncle, whom I
greatly honored and admired. I felt that I must make one desperate
effort to regain a little of what I had lost. Not until that moment
did I dream that I would be suspected of deliberately hiding in that
closet for the purpose of eavesdropping, and not to be allowed to
explain to my uncle that my presence there was by accident was almost
more than I could bear.
"Sir," I began, still not lifting my eyes, "you will not permit me to
tell you anything when I had desired to tell you all, but I beg that
you will allow me to say that it was not a spirit of mean curiosity
that moved that young man, but a spirit of foolish and reckless
adventure, of which he bitterly repents--most of all, because he has
forever forfeited the respect and esteem of him whose good opinion he
most prizes. He will return at once to America, where he will be in no
danger of disgracing those whom he honors so highly. That his visit to
Paris, so kindly planned by you, looked forward to with such delight,
and, until the present moment, enjoyed so keenly, should end in such
failure, is a greater bitterness than you can comprehend; but he feels
that he has richly deserved it for his foolish recklessness. He only
prays that in condemning his actions you will not judge too harshly of
his motives, and that if it is possible to retain affection where
esteem is forfeited, he may still be permitted to retain a little of
yours."
I stood with my head bowed for what seemed to me a very long time
before my uncle spoke. Then he said in the kindest of tones:
"Sit down, my boy; 'tis not quite so bad as that."
I looked up quickly. My uncle was actually smiling, and a great load
rolled off my heart. For whereas a moment before I had thought I could
never look any man in the face again, least of all my uncle, it now
seemed to me that there was almost as much of kindly affection in his
glance as I had ever found there. Yet I would not sit down, as my
uncle so kindly insisted, feeling that I deserved still to retain the
attitude of culprit; seeing which, my uncle softened still more.
"Perhaps I have been too hard on you," he said; "it was a foolish
trick, without doubt, and you deserve some punishment for your
thoughtlessness and recklessness. From what I know of you, I can
charge you with no mean motive, and I am not sure but that at your age
an adventure of such kind would have tempted me greatly. I do not mind
saying, also, that I am rather proud of the way you got yourself out
of your scrape, and I am glad there were no more serious results than
a sprained ankle for the Chevalier Le Moyne and a temporary aberration
of mind for the sentry. I am told you sent him spinning in such
fashion that his brains flew out of the top of his head, and it was
some hours before he got them back again. I hear, too, that he insists
it could have been no less a personage than his Satanic Majesty
himself who with a touch of the hand sent his gun flying when he was
in the very act of firing, and then gave him a twirl that sent him
spinning down the terraces in the dark."
I did not want to laugh, but I could not quite suppress a sheepish
grin at this picture of the dazed sentry, seeing which my uncle threw
back his head and laughed in a way I am sure he learned in America,
for I have never heard the like from these ever-smiling Parisians. I
would have liked to laugh with him, so jolly did it sound, and my
heart growing lighter every moment; but I did not quite dare. In a
minute my uncle stopped as suddenly as he had begun, and was all
seriousness again.
"Well, well, my boy, it's all over," he said, "and I am thankful there
was no bloodshed, and not very sorry that the chevalier must go
limping for a while. I like not that fellow, and I don't understand
why he is hanging around the First Consul so much of late. As to your
going back to America, it would be the worst possible thing to do. You
might as well make a confession at once. No; you must go about exactly
as you have always done, no more, no less--certainly no less. And you
must ride Fatima, but always at a moderate pace, and be sure you make
no exhibitions of her training."
I hardly knew how to thank my uncle, and I told him so. I was indeed
glad not to be sent back to America, and I had no doubt that he was
right about the wisdom of showing myself in public places with Fatima.
I was glad, too, to hear him say that he did not like the Chevalier Le
Moyne. I thought I could have enlightened him as to the chevalier's
reasons for hanging around the First Consul, but my uncle did not know
that I had ever seen Chevalier Le Moyne before, and I could not
explain to him without telling him also about the Comtesse de Baloit;
and--I knew not why, but I shrank greatly from mentioning her name to
my uncle. So I held my peace about the chevalier, and instead made
many promises as to my future conduct, and expressed many regrets for
the past.
I was leaving the room, feeling myself partly at least restored to my
self-respect, when my uncle called me back.
"I've a piece of news that may interest you," he said. "The
President's envoy, Mr. Monroe, has arrived, and I am going to call on
him at Mr. Livingston's this evening. Would you like to go with me?"
I thanked him much, and assured him that I was greatly honored and
pleased at his invitation (which did, indeed, seem to me like a sign
that his confidence in me had returned), and then I hastily left the
room with my head in a whirl. Mr. Monroe had arrived! Then so also had
mademoiselle. I knew of no way to quiet the tumult of my heart and
brain but to go for a ride on Fatima, though in my state of excitement
it was hard work keeping her down to the moderate pace my uncle had
recommended.
I sought the Champs-Élysées, for it was the fashionable hour for
driving, and I hoped that she might be taking the air there with all
the rest of the world, though I hardly thought it probable so soon
after her arrival. I rode slowly up and down the avenue, bowing to
many acquaintances, and looking eagerly at every beautiful woman,
whether I knew her or not, for fear that, seeing her in a strange city
with strange surroundings, I might pass her and not know her.
I was about to give up the quest and go home, when I saw coming toward
me a carriage that had just turned into the avenue from a street
leading to the Faubourg St. Germain. It was more magnificent than any
I had seen, with outriders in gorgeous liveries, but I thought that
hardly accounted for the way people were staring, stopping to look
back when the carriage had passed, and the young men bowing to the
ground. My heart began to beat tumultuously, as if it knew what my
eyes were soon to look upon; yet I am not sure that I really believed
it until it burst upon me, a vision of dazzling loveliness. Had I
forgotten how beautiful she was? or was it that the fine Parisian hat
and dress had added the transcendent touch? Unconsciously I drew
Fatima to one side, so dazzled was I by her radiance; and so she did
not see me, though she was looking eagerly from side to side, trying
to take in at once all this wonderful Paris of which she had heard so
much. She seemed to me like a happy child, eyes and lips smiling with
delight, and I was happy just to be looking at her, though I liked not
the face of the proud and haughty lady who sat beside her, and who, I
feared, would never let her speak to her old St. Louis friend.
The carriage passed, and I, too, looked back, as did all the rest of
the world. Alas! in one moment was my joy turned to bitterness; for,
sitting with his back to the horses and facing Pelagie, a proud smile
as of ownership on his evil but handsome face, sat the Chevalier Le
Moyne!