"I came back to New York, and went to Mr. Gilday.
"'Will he marry her?' he said at once.
"'He will marry her,' I said. 'As for her, I want you to say; for I'll not write to her myself, since she wouldn't answer me. Say when she's the wife of Paul Bargee I'll bring the child to her myself, and she's to see me; for I have a word to say to her then,' I said, and I laid my fist down on the table. 'Until then the child stays with me.'
"They've said hard things of Mr. Joseph Gilday, and I know it; but I know all that he did for me. For he didn't turn it over to a clerk; but he took hold himself and saw it through as I had said. And when the divorce was given he called me down and told me that Fanny Montrose was a free woman and no blame to her in the sight of the law.
"Then I said: 'It is well. Now write to Paul Bargee that his week has begun. Until then I keep the child, law or no law.' Then I rose and said: 'I thank you, Mr. Gilday. You've been very kind, and I'd like to pay you what I owe you.'
"He sat there a moment and chewed on his mustache, and he said: 'You don't owe me a cent.'
"'It wasn't charity I came to you for, and I can pay for what I get, Mr. Gilday,' I said. 'Will you give me your regular bill?' I said.
"And he said at last: 'I will.'
"In the middle of the week Paul Bargee's mother came to me and went down on her knees and begged for her son, and I said to her: 'Why should there be one law for him and one law for the likes of me. He's taken my wife; but he sha'n't put her to shame, ma'am, and he sha'n't cast a cloud on the life of my child!'
"Then she stopped arguing, and caught my hands and cried: 'But you won't kill him, you won't kill my son, if he don't?'
"'As sure as Saturday comes, ma'am, and he hasn't made Fanny Montrose a good woman,' I said, 'I'm going to kill Paul Bargee wherever he stands.'
"And Friday morning Mr. Gilday called me down to his office and told me that Paul Bargee had done as I said he should do. And I pressed his hand and said nothing, and he let me sit awhile in his office.
"And after awhile I rose up and said: 'Then I must take the child to her, as I promised, to-night.'
"He walked with me from the office and said: 'Go home to your little girl. I'll see to the tickets, and will come for you at nine o'clock.'
"And at nine o'clock he came in his big carriage, and took me and the child to the station and said: 'Telegraph me when you're leaving to-morrow.'
"And I said: 'I will.'
"Then I went into the car with my little girl asleep in my arms and sat down in the seat, and the porter came and said:
"'Can I make up your berths?'
"And I looked at the child and shook my head. So I held her all night and she slept on my shoulder, while I looked from her out into the darkness, and from the darkness back to her again. And the porter kept passing and passing and staring at me and the child.
"And in the morning we went up to the great house and into the big parlor, and Fanny Montrose came in, as I had said she should, very white and not looking at me. And the child ran to her, and I watched Fanny Montrose catch her up to her breast, and I sobbed. And she looked at me, and saw it. So I said:
"'It's because now I know you love the child and that you'll be kind to her.'
"Then she fell down before me and tried to take my hand. But I stepped back and said:
"'I've made you an honest woman, Fanny Montrose, and now as long as I live I'm going to see you do nothing to disgrace my child.'
"And I went out and took the train back. And Mr. Gilday was at the station there waiting for me, and he took my arm, without a word, and led me to his carriage and drove up without speaking. And when we got to the house, he got out, and took off his hat and made me a bow and said: 'I'm proud to know you, Larry Moore.'"
I don't believe in wedding functions. I don't believe in honeymoons and particularly I abominate the inhuman custom of giving wedding presents. And this is why:
Clara was the fifth poor daughter of a rich man. I was respectably poor but artistic. We had looked forward to marriage as a time when two persons chose a home and garnished it with furnishings of their own choice, happy in the daily contact with beautiful things. We had often discussed our future home. We knew just the pictures that must hang on the walls, the tone of the rugs that should lie on the floors, the style of the furniture that should stand in the rooms, the pattern of the silver that should adorn our table. Our ideas were clear and positive.
Unfortunately Clara had eight rich relatives who approved of me and I had three maiden aunts, two of whom were in precarious health and must not be financially offended.
I am rather an imperious man, with theories that a woman is happiest when she finds a master; but when the details of the wedding came up for decision I was astounded to find myself not only flouted but actually forced to humiliating surrender. Since then I have learned that my own case was not glaringly exceptional. At the time, however, I was nonplused and rather disturbed in my dreams of the future. I had decided on a house wedding with but the family and a few intimate friends to be present at my happiness. After Clara had done me the honor to consult me, several thousand cards were sent out for the ceremony at the church and an addition was begun on the front veranda.
Clara herself led me to the library and analyzed the situation to me, in the profoundest manner.
"You dear, old, impracticable goose," she said with the wisdom of just twenty, "what do you know about such things? How much do you suppose it will cost us to furnish a house the way we want?"
I said airily, "Oh, about five hundred dollars."
"Take out your pencil," said Clara scornfully, "and write."
When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with a groan, I was dumbfounded. I said:
"Clara, do you think it is wise—do you think we have any right to get married?"
"Of course we have."
"Then we must make up our minds to boarding."
"Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it."
"But how?"
"Wedding presents," said Clara triumphantly, "now do you see why it must be a church wedding?"
I began to see.
"But isn't it a bit mercenary?" I said feebly. "Does every one do it?"
"Every one. It is a sort of tax on the unmarried," said Clara with a determined shake of her head. "Quite right that it should be, too."
"Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute to our future welfare?"
"An invitation to the house."
"Well, to the house—then?"
"Certainly."
"Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are always shown."
For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had made our calculations.
I capitulated.
I pass over the wedding. In theory I have grown more and more opposed to such exhibitions. A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, and nothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of the guests. When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived together five years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them, but at the outset—however, I will not insist—I am doubtless cynically inclined. I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered the pitfalls of the honeymoon (there's another mistaken theory—but let that pass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in the midst of our wedding presents. I say in the midst advisably. Clara sat helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the fireplace.
"My dear Clara," I said, with just a touch of asperity, "you've had your way about the wedding. Now you've got your wedding presents. What are you going to do with them?"
"If people only wouldn't have things marked!" said Clara irrelevantly.
"But they always do," I replied. "Also I may venture to suggest that your answer doesn't solve the difficulty."
"Don't be cross," said Clara.
"My dear," I replied with excellent good-humor, "I'm not. I'm only amused—who wouldn't be?"
"Don't be horrid, George," said Clara.
"Itisdeliciously humorous," I continued. "Quite the most humorous thing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made a profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are not happy."
"Why, George?"
"Wedding presents," I said savagely, "exactly that, my dear. This being forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don't want, you never will want, and which you've got to live with or lose your friends."
"Oh, George!" said Clara, gazing around helplessly, "it is terrible, isn't it?"
"Look at that rug you are sitting on," I said, glaring at a six by ten modern French importation. "Cauliflowers contending with unicorns, surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets—expensive! And until the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and on and on living over that, and why?—because dear Isabel will be here once a week!"
"I thought Isabel would have better taste," said Clara.
"She has—Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it," I said, "she did it on purpose!"
"George!"
"Exactly that. Have you noticed that married people give the most impossible presents? It is revenge, my dear. Society has preyed upon them. They will prey upon society. Wait until we get a chance!"
"It is awful!" said Clara.
"Let us continue. We have five French rugs; no two could live together. Five rooms desecrated. Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished by your Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years. I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture."
"So do I."
"Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids."
"Now, George!"
"It is."
"Well, it was your Aunt Susan."
"It was, but who suggested it? I pass over the bedrooms. I will simply say that they are nightmares. Expensive nightmares! I come to the lamps—how many have we?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered, laced and tasseled. So much for useful presents. Now for decoration. We have three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination). Two, thank heaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live with and why?—so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it his own. We have water colors and etchings which we don't want, and a photograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one's house. Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marble reproduction of the Venus de Milo. These things will be our artistic home. Then there are vases—"
"Now you are losing your temper."
"On the contrary, I'm reserving it. I shan't characterize the bric-Ã -brac, that was to be expected."
"Don't!"
"At least that is not marked. I come at last to the silver. Give me the list."
Clara sighed and extended it.
"Four solid silver terrapin dishes."
"Marked."
"Marked—Terrapin—ha! ha! Two massive, expensive, solid silver champagne coolers."
"Marked."
"Marked, my dear—for each end of the table when we give our beefsteak dinners. Almond dishes."
"Don't!"
"Forty-two individual, solid or filigree almond dishes; forty-two, Clara."
"Marked."
"Right again, dear. One dozen bonbon dishes, five nouveau riche sugar shakers (we never use them), three muffineers—in heaven's name, what's that? Solid silver bread dishes, solid silver candlesticks by the dozen, solid silver vegetable dishes, and we expect one servant and an intermittent laundress to do the cooking, washing, make the beds and clean the house besides."
"All marked," said Clara dolefully.
"Every one, my dear. Then the china and the plates, we can't even eat out of the plates we want or drink from the glasses we wish; everything in this house, from top to bottom has been picked out and inflicted upon us against our wants and in defiance of our own taste and we—we have got to go on living with them and trying not to quarrel!"
"You have forgotten the worst of all," said Clara.
"No, my darling, I have not forgotten it. I have thought of nothing else, but I wanted you to mention it."
"The flat silver, George."
"The flat silver, my darling. Twelve dozen, solid silver and teaset to match, bought without consulting us, by your two rich bachelor uncles in collusion. We wanted Queen Anne or Louis Seize, simple, dignified, something to live with and grow fond of, and what did we get?"
"Oh, dear, they might have asked me!"
"But they don't, they never do, that is the theory of wedding presents, my dear. We got Pond Lily pattern, repoussé until it scratches your fingers. Pond Lily pattern, my dear, which I loathe, detest, and abominate!"
"I too, George."
"And that, my dear, we shall never get rid of; we not only must adopt and assume the responsibility, but must pass it down to our children and our children's children."
"Oh, George, it is terrible—terrible! What are we going to do?"
"My darling Clara, we are going to put a piece of bric-Ã -brac a day on the newel post, buy a litter of puppies to chew up the rugs, select a butter-fingered, china-breaking waitress, pay storage on the silver and try occasionally to set fire to the furniture."
"But the flat silver, George, what of that?"
"Oh, the flat silver," I said gloomily, "each one has his cross to bear, that shall be ours."
We were, as has been suggested, a relatively rich couple. That's a pun! At the end of five years a relative on either side left us a graceful reminder. The problem of living became merely one of degree. At the end of this period we had made considerable progress in the building up of a home which should be in fact and desire entirely ours. That is, we had been extensively fortunate in the preservation of our wedding presents. Our twenty-second housemaid broke a bottle of ink over the parlor rug, her twenty-one predecessors (whom I had particularly selected) had already made the most gratifying progress among the bric-Ã -brac, two intelligent Airdale puppies had chewed satisfactory holes in the Art Nouveau furniture, even the Sistine Madonna had wrenched loose from its supports and considerately annihilated the jewel-studded Oriental lamp in the general smashup.
Our little home began at last to really reflect something of the artistic taste on which I pride myself. There remained at length only the flat silver and a few thousand dollars' worth of solid silver receptacles for which we had now paid four hundred dollars storage. But these remained, secure, fixed beyond the assaults of the imagination.
One morning at the breakfast table I laid down my cup with a crash.
Clara gave an exclamation of alarm.
"George dear, what is it?"
For all reply I seized a handful of the Pond Lily pattern silver and gazed at it with a savage joy.
"George, George, what has happened?"
"My dear, I have an idea—a wonderful idea."
"What idea?"
"We will spend the summer in Lone Tree, New Jersey."
Clara screamed.
"Are you in your senses, George?"
"Never more so."
"But it's broiling hot!"
"Hotter than that."
"It is simply deluged with mosquitoes."
"Thereareseveral mosquitoes there."
"It's a hole in the ground!"
"It certainly is."
"And the only people we know there are the Jimmy Lakes, whom I detest."
"I can't bear them."
"And, George, there areburglars!"
"Yes, my dear," I said triumphantly, "heaven be praised thereareburglars!"
Clara looked at me. She is very quick.
"You are thinking of the silver."
"Of all the silver."
"But, George, can we afford it?"
"Afford what?"
"To have the silver stolen."
"Supposing there was a burglar insurance, as a reward."
The next moment Clara was laughing in my arms.
"Oh, George, you are a wonderful, brilliant man: how did you ever think of it?"
"I just put my mind to it," I said loftily.
We went to Lone Tree, New Jersey. We went there early to meet the migratory spring burglar. We released from storage two chests and three barrels of solid silver wedding presents, took out a burglar insurance for three thousand dollars and proceeded to decorate the dining-room and parlor.
"It looks rather—rather nouveau riche," said Clara, surveying the result.
"My dear, say the word—it is vulgar. But what of that? We have come here for a purpose and we will not be balked. Our object is to offer every facility to the gentlemen who will relieve us of our silver. Nothing concealed, nothing screwed to the floor."
"I think," said Clara, "that the champagne coolers are unnecessary."
The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace.
"As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in the best of taste," I admitted. "We might leave them in the hall for umbrellas and canes. But then they might be overlooked, and we must take no chances on a careless burglar."
Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the natural thing to do. Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individual almond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars and cigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting from every ledge and table. The dining-room was worse—but then solid silver terrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almond dishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriate decorations.
"I'm sure the burglars will never come," said Clara, woman fashion.
"If there's anything will keep them away," I said, a little provoked, "it's just that attitude of mind."
"Well, at any rate, I do hope they'll be quick about it, so we can leave this dreadful place."
"They'll never come if you're going to watch them," I said angrily.
We had quite a little quarrel on that point.
The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of our wedding silver. Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to my faith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient. When July passed unfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered.
"They will never come," said Clara firmly.
"My dear," I replied, "the last time they came in July. All the more reason that they should change to August."
"They will never come," said Clara a second time.
"Let's bait the hook," I said, trying to turn the subject into a facetious vein. "We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes down the path to the road."
"They'll never come," said Clara obstinately.
And yet they came.
On the second of August, about two o'clock in the morning I was awakened out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:
"George, here's a burglar!"
I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.
"But, George dear, he's here—in the room!"
There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed.
"Put up your hands—quick!" said a staccato voice.
It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.
"Put 'em up!"
My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.
"Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help," continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this for you's!"
The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white pajamas I wore—but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of feet and an occasional metallic ring.
"Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful—wonderful for words!" said Clara, hysterical with joy.
"I can't believe it," I cried.
"Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern.
"My dear friend," I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest need of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful."
"Huh!"
"The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one or two articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed."
The bull's-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
"We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would never come. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I'm sorry. I apologize. In a way I don't deserve this—I really don't."
"Bughouse!" came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. "Out and out bughouse!"
"Quite wrong," I said cheerily. "I never was in better health. You are surprised, you don't understand. It's not necessary you should. It would rob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is to take everything, don't make a slip, get it all."
"Oh, do, please, please do!" said Clara earnestly.
The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation.
"Above all," I continued anxiously, "don't forget the pots. They stand on either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter. They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth—they are worth—"
"Two hundred apiece," said Clara instantly.
"And don't overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and the candlesticks. We should be very much obliged—very grateful if you could find room for them."
Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been his sensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Never have I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded our burglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lantern steadily on my face.
"And one favor more," I added, "there are several flocks of individual silver almond dishes roosting downstairs—"
"Forty-two," said Clara, "twenty-four in the dining-room and eighteen in the parlor."
"Forty-two is the number; as a last favor please find room for them; if you don't want them drop them in a river or bury them somewhere. We really would appreciate it. It's our last chance."
"All right," said the burglar in an altered tone. "Don't you worry now, we'll attend to that."
"Remember there are forty-two—if you would count them."
"That's all right—just you rest easy," said the burglar soothingly. "I'll see they all get in."
"Really, if I could be of any assistance downstairs," I said anxiously, "I might really help."
"Oh, don't you worry, Bub, my pals are real careful muts," said the burglar nervously. "Now just keep calm. We'll get 'em all."
It suddenly burst upon me that he took me for a lunatic. I buried my head in the covers and rocked back and forth between tears and laughter.
"Hi! what the ——'s going on up there?" cried a voice from downstairs.
"It's all right—all right, Bill," said our burglar hoarsely, "very affable party up here. Say, hurry it up a bit down there, will you?"
All at once it struck me that if I really frightened him too much they might decamp without making a clean sweep. I sobered at once.
"I'm not crazy," I said.
"Sure you're not," said the burglar conciliatingly.
"But I assure you—"
"That's all right."
"I'm perfectly sane."
"Sane as a house!"
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
"Course there isn't. Hi, Bill, won't you hurry up there!"
"I'll explain—"
"Don't you mind that."
"This is the way it is—"
"That's all right, we know all about it."
"You do—"
"Sure, we got your letter."
"What letter?"
"Your telegram then."
"See here, I'm not crazy—"
"You bet you're not," said the burglar, edging towards the door and changing the key.
"Hold up!" I cried in alarm, "don't be a fool. What I want is for you to get everything—everything, do you hear?"
"All right, I'll just go down and speak to him."
"Hold up—"
"I'll tell him."
"Wait," I cried, jumping out of bed in my desire to retain him.
At that moment a whistle came from below and with an exclamation of relief our burglar slammed the door and locked it. We heard him go down three steps at a time and rush out of the house.
"Now you've scared them away," said Clara, "with your idiotic humor."
I felt contrite and alarmed.
"How could I help it?" I said angrily, preparing to climb out on the roof of the porch. "I tried to tell him."
With which I scrambled out on the roof, made my way to the next room and entering, released Clara. At the top of the steps we stood clinging together.
"Suppose they left it all behind," said Clara.
"Or even some!"
"Oh, George, I know it—I know it!"
"Don't be unreasonable—let's go down." Holding a candle aloft we descended. The lower floor was stripped of silver—not even an individual almond dish or a muffineer remained. We fell wildly, hilariously into each other's arms and began to dance. I don't know exactly what it was, but it wasn't a minute.
Suddenly Clara stopped.
"George!"
"Oh, Lord, what is it?"
"Supposin'."
"Well—well?"
"Supposin' they've dropped some of it in the path."
We rushed out and searched the path, nothing there. We searched the road—one individual almond dish had fallen. I took it and hammered it beyond recognition and flung it into the pond. It was criminal, but I did it.
And then we went into the house and danced some more. We were happy.
Of course we raised an alarm—after sufficient time to carefully dress, and fill the lantern with oil. Other houses too had been robbed before we had been visited, but as they were occupied by old inhabitants, the occupants had nonchalantly gone to sleep again after surrendering their small change. Our exploit was quite the sensation. With great difficulty we assumed the proper public attitude of shock and despair. The following day I wrote full particulars to the Insurance Company, with a demand for the indemnity.
"You'll never get the full amount," said Clara.
"Why not?"
"You never do. They'll send a man to ask disagreeable questions and to beat us down."
"Let him come."
"You'll see."
Just one week after the event, I opened an official envelope, extracted a check, gazed at it with a superior smile and tendered it to Clara by the tips of my fingers.
"Three thousand dollars!" cried Clara, without contrition, "three thousand dollars—oh, George!"
There it was—three thousand dollars, without a shred of doubt. Womanlike, all Clara had to say was:
"Well, was I right about the wedding presents?"
Which remark I had not foreseen.
We shut up house and went to town next day and began the rounds of the jewelers. In four days we had expended four-fifths of our money—but with what results! Everything we had longed for, planned for, dreamed of was ours and everything harmonized.
Two weeks later as, ensconced in our city house, we moved enraptured about our new-found home, gazing at the reincarnation of our silver, a telegram was put in my hand.
"What is it?" said Clara from the dining-room, where she was fondling our chaste Queen Anne teaset.
"It's a telegram," I said, puzzled.
"Open it, then!"
I tore the envelope, it was from the Insurance Company.
"Our detectives have arrested the burglars. You will be overjoyed to hear that we have recovered your silver in toto!"
The Comte de Bonzag, on the ruined esplanade of his Château de Keragouil, frowned into the distant crepuscle of haystack and multiplied hedge, crumpling in his nervous hands two annoying slips of paper. The rugged body had not one more pound of flesh than was absolutely necessary to hold together the long, pointed bones. The bronzed, haphazard face was dominated by a stiff comb of orange-tawny hair, which faithfully reproduced the gaunt unloveliness of generations of Bonzags. But there lurked in the rapid advance of the nose and the abrupt, obstinate eyes a certain staring defiance which effectively limited the field of comment.
At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roof reflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of its owner. It was a Gascon château, arrogant and threadbare, which had never cried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch. About it and through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossed and recrossed in their vacillating flight.
Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into the near woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh.
The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a black spaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp of indignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurrying from every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited with hungry tongues the intentions of their master.
The Comte, listening attentively, perceived near the stable his entire domestic staff reclining happily on the arm of Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the hero of a dozen fires.
"No, there are no longer any servants!" he exclaimed, with a bitterness that caused a stir in the pack; then angrily he shouted with all his forces: "Francine! Hey, there, Francine! Come here at once!"
The indisputable fact was that Francine had asked for her wages. Such a demand, indelicate in its simplest form, had been further aggravated by a respectful but clear ultimatum. It was pay, or do the cooking, and if the first was impossible, the second was both impossible and distasteful.
The enemy duly arrived, dimpled and plump, an honest thirty-five, a solid widow, who stopped at the top of the stairs with the distant respect which the Comte de Bonzag inspired even in his creditors.
"Francine, I have thought much," said the Comte, with a conciliatory look. "You were a little exaggerated, but you were in your rights."
"Ah, Monsieur le Comte, six months is long when one has a child who must be—"
"We will not refer again to our disagreement," the Comte said, interrupting her sternly. "I have simply called you to hear what action I have decided on."
"Oh, yes, M'sieur; thank you, M'sieur le Comte."
"Unluckily," said Bonzag, frowning, "I am forced to make a great sacrifice. In a month I could probably have paid all—I have a great uncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill. But—however, we will hold that for the future. I owe you, my good Francine, wages for six months—sixty francs, representing your service with me. I am going to give you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather something immeasurably more valuable than that sum." He drew out the two slips of paper, and regarded them with affection and regret. "Here are two tickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month, ten francs a ticket. I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number 77,707 and number 200,013. Take them—they are yours."
"But, M'sieur le Comte," said Francine, looking stupidly at the tickets she had passively received. "It's—it's good round pieces of silver I need."
"Francine," cried de Bonzag, in amazed indignation, "do you realize that I probably have given you a fortune—and that I am absolving you of all division of it with me!"
"But, M'sieur—"
"That there are one hundred and forty-five numbers that will draw prizes."
"Yes, M'sieur le Comte; but—"
"That there is a prize of one quarter of a million, one third of a million—"
"All the same—"
"That the second prize is for one-half a million, and the first prize for one round million francs."
"M'sieur says?" said Francine, whose eyes began to open.
"One hundred and forty-five chances, and the lowest is for a hundred francs. You think that isn't a sacrifice, eh?"
"Well, Monsieur le Comte," Francine said at last with a sigh, "I'll take them for twenty francs. It's not good round silver, and there's my little girl—"
"Enough!" exclaimed de Bonzag, dismissing her with an angry gesture. "I am making you an heiress, and you have no gratitude! Leave me—and send hither Andoche."
He watched the bulky figure waddle off, sunk back in his chair, and repeated with profound dejection; "No gratitude! There, it's done: this time certainly I have thrown away a quarter of a million at the lowest!"
Presently Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the brass helmet under his arm, appeared at the top of the steps, smiling and thirsty, with covetous eyes fastened on the broken table, at the carafe containing curaçoa that was white and "Triple-Sec."
"Ah, it's you, Andoche," said the Comte, finally, drawn from his abstraction by a succession of rapid bows. He took two full-hearted sighs, pushed the carafe slightly in the direction of the Sapeur-Pompier, and added: "Sit down, my good Andoche. I have need to be a little gay. Suppose we talk of Paris."
It was the cue for Andoche to slip gratefully into a chair, possess the carafe and prepare to listen.
At the proper age of thirty-one, the Comte de Bonzag fell heir to the enormous sum of fifteen thousand francs from an uncle who had made the fortune in trade. With no more delay than it took the great Emperor to fling an army across the Alps, he descended on Paris, resolved to repulse all advances which Louis Napoleon might make, and to lend the splendor of his name and the weight of his fortune only to the Cercle Royale. Two weeks devoted to this loyal end strengthened the Bourbon lines perceptibly, but resulted in a shrinkage of four thousand francs in his own. Next remembering that the aristocracy had always been the patron of the arts, he determined to make a rapid examination of thecoulissesof the opera and the regions of the ballet. A six-days' reconnaissance discovered not the slightest signs of disaffection; but the thoroughness of his inquiries was such that the completion of his mission found him with just one thousand francs in pocket. Being not only a Loyalist and a patron of the arts, but a statesman and a philosopher, he turned his efforts toward the Quartier Latin, to the great minds who would one day take up the guidance of a more enlightened France. There he made the discovery that one amused himself more than at the Cercle Royale, and spent considerably less than in the arts, and that at one hundred francs a week he aroused an enthusiasm for the Bourbons which almost attained the proportions of a riot.
The three months over, he retired to his estate at Keragouil, having profoundly stirred all classes of society, given new life to the cause of His Majesty, and regretting only, as a true gentleman, the frightful devastation he had left in the hearts of the ladies.
Unfortunately, these brilliant services to Parisian society and his king had left him without any society of his own, forced to the consideration of the difficult problem of how to keep his pipe lighted, his cellar full, and his maid-of-all-work in a state of hopeful expectation, on nothing a year.
Nothing daunted, he attacked this problem of the family bankruptcy with the vigor and the daring of a D'Artagnan. Each year he collected laboriously twenty francs, and invested them in two tickets for the Great Lottery, valiantly resolved, like a Gascon, to carry off both first and second prizes, but satisfied as a philosopher if he could figure among the honorable mentions. Despite the fact that one hundred and forty-five prizes were advertised each year, in nineteen attempts he had not even had the pleasure of seeing his name in print. This result, far from discouraging him, only inflamed his confidence. For he had dipped into mathematics, and consoled himself by the reflection that, according to the law of probabilities, each year he became the more irresistible.
Lately, however, one obstacle had arisen to the successful carrying out of this system of finance. He employed one servant, a maid-of-all-work, who was engaged for the day, with permission to take from the garden what she needed, to adorn herself from the rose-bushes, to share the output of La Belle Etoile, the cow, and to receive a salary of ten francs a month. The difficulty invariably arose over the interpretation of this last clause. For the Comte was not regular in his payments, unless it could be said that he was regular in not paying at all.
So it invariably occurred that the maid-of-all-work from a state of unrest gradually passed into open rebellion, especially when the garden was not productive and the roses ceased to bloom. When the ultimatum was served, the Comte consulted his resources and found them invariably to consist of two tickets of the Lottery of France, cash value twenty francs, but, according to the laws of probability, increasingly capable of returning one million, five hundred thousand francs. On one side was the glory of the ancient name, and the possibility of another descent on Paris; opposed was the brutal question of soup and ragout. The man prevailed, and the maid-of-all-work grudgingly accepted the conditions of truce. Then the news of the drawing arrived and the domestic staff departed.
This comedy, annually repeated, was annually played on the same lines. Only each year the period intervening between the surrender of the tickets and the announcement of the lottery brought an increasing agony. Each time as the Comte saw the precious slips finally depart in the hands of the maid-of-all-work, he was convinced that at last the laws of probability must fructify. Each year he found a new meaning in the cabalistic mysteries of numbers. The eighteenth attempt, multiplied by three, gave fifty-four, his age. Success was inevitable: nineteen, a number indivisible and chaste above all others, seemed specially designated. In a word, the Comte suffered during these periods as only a gambler of the fourth generation is able to suffer.
At present the number twenty appeared to him to have properties no other number had possessed, especially in the reappearance of the zero, a figure which peculiarly attracted him by its symmetry. His despair was consequently unlimited.
Ordinarily the news of the lottery arrived by an inspector of roads, who passed through Keragouil a week or so after the announcement in the press; for the Comte, having surrendered his ticket, was only troubled lest he had won.
This time, to the upsetting of all history, an Englishman on a bicycle trip brought him a newspaper, an article almost unknown to Keragouil, where the shriek of the locomotive had yet to penetrate.
The Comte de Bonzag, opening the paper with the accustomed sinking of the heart, was startled by the staring headlines: