"The mouse that always trusts to one poor holeCan never be a mouse of any soul."
"Prepare my bath!" Did ever such simple words have so dire a sound? Now was all hope of escape cut off; for was not the Consul's bath in the very room into which the closet where I was hiding opened, and through which I had expected to make my exit as I had made my entrance? Now did I curse the folly that had led me into such a trap for the sake of a mere adventure.
Whereas a moment ago I had been congratulating myself on the spirit of enterprise and daring that had led me to be the witness of such great and stirring events, I now despised it all as a silly boyishness which had brought me into what seemed like to prove something more than a foolish scrape. Nor could I help reflecting that whether death or disgrace (which seemed to me far worse than death) awaited me, it would not affect me alone. My uncle's reputation, and honor also, might easily be involved in his nephew's downfall. And, most intolerable of all, what would the Comtesse de Baloit think when she shouldcome to hear (as it was inevitable that she would) that I had been caught spying like any common eavesdropper?—found hid in the Consul's private closet, taken and done to death, as I had not the least doubt in the world I should be!
Yet it was not in me to wait idly for the worst to happen; I began at once to plan other means of escape than those I had been relying upon. If I could not make my exit through the dressing-room, why not through the other apartment, from which my closet was separated only by a curtain?
As far as I could judge, the apartment had three entrance-doors. One which was not within my range of vision was the one by which the ministers had withdrawn and through which my uncle had returned. This, no doubt, was the main entrance, and led into some public corridor, where detection by passers-by would be certain, to say nothing of the fact that the door was no doubt strongly guarded, and by a soldier who would not be so complacent as Gaston had been (having neither handled my gold nor tasted a maiden's kisses as reward for his complacency).
The second door led into the dressing-room, where even now I could hear the splashing of water and the vigorous preparations of the valet for the Consul's bath. That, of course, was not to be considered. The third one was the one through which I had seen Rustan glide; and at the thought of entering that room, and falling into the tender mercies of the mysterious Mameluke, I shuddered. A stealthy stiletto with poisoned point I had no doubt would make short workwith me. And even could it be possible to seize a moment when Rustan was out of the room in attendance on his master, it was more than likely the room would prove acul-de-sacand I would be more securely trapped than ever.
In the midst of these perplexing meditations I heard a heavy splash, followed by a vigorous sputtering, that assured me the First Consul was already in his bath. A moment later I heard a scratching at the door through which my uncle had departed. ('Tis the fashion, I have heard, at the Tuileries and St. Cloud, to scratch instead of knock.) Rustan answered it immediately, and led the gentleman who entered directly through the outer apartment to the dressing-room. This seemed a novel procedure to me, but I remembered that the French often received callers at the toilet, and perhaps it was nothing unusual for the First Consul to receive his friends in the bath.
I could hear all that went on in the dressing-room; even the slightest sound was as audible in my closet as if no door intervened. I was surprised at this until I discovered that just higher than my head a small panel, not more than three inches square, had been removed from the door of the closet, admitting a little light and a little air. It was through this opening that sounds were conveyed, and it was through it that I heard the Consul's voice a moment after the visitor was conducted through the outer apartment.
"Ah, my dear Lucien! Where were you last night, and where was my brother Joseph? Did you not intend to join me at the Théâtre Français? I expectedyou, and Talma showed great power in 'Hamlet.' I was surprised and disappointed not to see you both there."
I do not remember what answer his brother made, but Bonaparte replied with the greatest good humor:
"You might have seen, too, that the Parisians always like to see me. In fact, I scarcely flattered myself they would ever become so sympathetic when I had to shoot them down that October day in 1795."
I could scarcely believe it was the First Consul speaking, so unlike were his tones to any I had heard from him before,—playful, affectionate, almost tender,—and I said to myself, "Ah, this despot has a heart! He loves his brother."
I did not hear anything more that was said for a while, for I was revolving in my mind all possible modes of escape. I had just come to the conclusion that the only safe way was to remain quietly where I was until Bonaparte should have finished his bath and left his dressing-room (which I felt sure could not be long, since he had already been in the water for more than a quarter of an hour), when I heard again that peculiar little scratching sound on the dressing-room door, and Rustan entered, announcing to the Consul his brother Joseph.
"Let him come in," said the Consul; "I shall stay in the bath a quarter of an hour longer."
Black despair seized me. A quarter of an hour seemed to me interminable when I knew not at what moment the valet would fling open the closet door in his search for some article of dress, and discover me.There was nothing to do, however, but to make the best of it, hoping against hope that the great Bonaparte, who seemed inordinately fond of his bath, would some time be through with it and leave his dressing-room free for me to traverse it in safety. For I had made up my mind that I would wait no longer for Félice; the first minute that I could be quite sure that the dressing-room was vacant, I would open my closet door and escape, trusting to find Gaston still on guard at the outer dressing-room door.
It occurred to me that if I were only a little taller, and could look through that open panel just above my head, it would be well, for then I could assure myself that the room was empty before attempting my escape, and not stumble upon some lurking valet or Mameluke. Then I remembered what I had noticed on entering the closet, but had not thought of since, a low three-legged taboret, not more than five inches high, but quite high enough, were I once upon it, to enable me to look through the open panel. I stooped carefully down and felt around the floor of the closet in the dark. My hand struck against it. I picked it up and set it noiselessly directly under the small opening, and slowly and carefully, and absolutely without making a sound, I mounted upon it.
Just below me was the most remarkable group I had ever looked upon, or, I have no doubt, ever shall look upon. Respectfully standing near the bath were the two brothers Lucien and Joseph, and it was easy for me to decide at a glance which was Joseph and which Lucien, for I had heard much of both and knew theircharacteristics, though I knew not their faces. Joseph was the handsomer of the two, and looked more like his august brother, with the same fiery eye and mobile mouth, showing the same excitable temperament. Lucien had the calmer face that belongs to a scholar, though in some respects I thought it a stronger one than his brother Joseph's. In the marble bath lay Bonaparte, only his head and a little of his shoulders visible, for the water was frothy and opaque from quantities of cologne, whose sweet, pungent odor rose to my nostrils refreshingly. Bonaparte was in the act of speaking to Joseph:
"Well, brother, have you spoken to Lucien?"
"What about!" said Joseph.
"Of our plan as to Louisiana—don't you know?"
"Ofyourplan, you mean, my dear brother; you cannot have forgotten that—far from being mine—"
Bonaparte interrupted him with good-natured scorn.
"Well, well, preacher, I don't need to discuss that with you; you are so obstinate. I like better to talk about serious things with Lucien; for, although he sometimes takes it into his head to go against me, he knows how to give up to my idea when I think fit to change his."
Joseph's color rose quickly, and he spoke with some spirit:
"You are unjust enough to attribute to obstinacy what is the effect of wise reflection."
Lucien was evidently afraid of an outbreak, and he interposed quickly and laughingly:
"Then that means, brother Joseph, that I hold my ideas so lightly I can easily be reasoned out of them."
"Ah, my dear boy," said Bonaparte, with affectionate raillery, "fear not that any one will accuse thee of lightness. Thou art more likely to be named 'Iron-head.'"
For a few minutes the two brothers playfully called each other nicknames, going back to the days of their boyhood in Corsica, while Joseph stood by, looking bored and every moment growing more impatient. Finally he broke in quite brusquely:
"Well, you say nothing more about your famous plan!"
Bonaparte turned at once to Lucien.
"Well, Lucien, I have made up my mind to sell Louisiana to the Americans."
"Indeed!" said Lucien, in a tone of curiosity, but with so much coolness I suspected he was not hearing the announcement for the first time.
Bonaparte turned to Joseph with an air of triumph.
"Well, Joseph, you see Lucien does not utter loud cries about this thing. Yet he almost has a right to, seeing that Louisiana is, so to speak, his own conquest."
I knew what the Consul meant by that, for it was Lucien who had negotiated the San Ildefonso treaty which gave Louisiana to France. This speech of his brother's seemed to irritate Joseph still more, and he replied quite sharply:
"I assure you, if Lucien says nothing, he thinks none the less."
"Indeed!" said Bonaparte, his eyes beginning toflash and his lip to curl. "And why should he be diplomatic with me?"
It was evident that Lucien thought it time to come forward to support Joseph, but that he also wished to placate the rising wrath of the Consul. So he spoke very gently:
"I really think as my brother Joseph does on this matter, and I undertake to say that the Chambers will never assent."
Bonaparte's head shot up above the rim of the bath-tub, and he leveled a fiery glance at Lucien.
"Youundertake to say! A pretty piece of business!" with an air and tone of withering contempt.
"Yes; andIundertake to say," cried Joseph, in a tone of triumph, "that it will be so. And that is what I told the First Consul before."
"And what did I say?" said the Consul, his tone rising with his wrath, and with his head still above the rim of the bath-tub, looking by turns quickly from one brother to the other, as if not to lose any change in the countenance of either.
"You declared," said Joseph, his voice also rising, "you would get along without the assent of the Chambers; did you not?"
"Exactly," said Bonaparte, concentrated irony in his tone. "That is what I took the liberty to say to Monsieur Joseph, and what I repeat here to Citizen Lucien, begging him to give me his opinion about it, derived from his paternal tenderness for that mighty diplomatic conquest of his, the treaty of San Ildefonso."
Now I thought this a very unkind thrust at Lucien,for I had heard his part in the treaty had been most creditable and that the First Consul had been much pleased with it. I could see that Lucien found it hard to brook, but he struggled for mastery with himself, and spoke still gently:
"My brother, my devotion is deep enough to sacrifice everything for you, except my duty. If I believed, for example, this sale of Louisiana would be fatal to me alone, I would consent to it to prove to you my devotion. But it is too unconstitutional."
Bonaparte broke into his sentence with a fit of rasping, sarcastic laughter, sinking back into the bath-tub almost in a convulsion of demoniacal mirth.
"Ha, ha, ha! You are drawing it fine. 'For example'!" His words struggled out in the intervals of his spasms of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! 'For example'!"—catching his breath. "'Unconstitutional'! That's droll from you; a good joke—ha, ha!" As his laughter ceased an expression of ironical and contemptuous rage passed over his face.
"How have I touched your constitution?" he cried. "Answer!"
"I know well," said Lucien, still trying to control himself, "you have not done so; but you know well that to alienate any possession of the republic without the consent of the Chambers is unconstitutional."
That last word seemed to drive the Consul beside himself. Once more his head shot above the top of the bath-tub, and with blazing eyes he shook his fist at Lucien.
"Clear out!" he shouted. "'Constitution'!'Unconstitutional'! 'Republic'! Great words—fine phrases! Do you think you are still at the Club of St. Maximin? We are past that, you had better believe! Parbleu! You phrase it nobly. 'Unconstitutional'! It becomes you well, Sir Knight of the Constitution, to talk that way to me. You hadn't the same respect for the Chambers on the eighteenth Brumaire."
Lucien, roused at last, broke in, in a tone as high as Bonaparte's:
"You well know, my dear brother, that your entry into the Five Hundred had no warmer opponent than I. No! I was not your accomplice, but the repairer of the evil which you had done to yourself!—and that at my own peril, and with some generosity on my part, because we did not then agree. Not to boast, I may add that no one in Europe, more than I, has disapproved the sacrilege against the national representation."
Bonaparte's eyes blazed like diamonds.
"Go on—go on!" he thundered. "That's quite too fine a thing to cut short, Sir Orator of the Clubs! But at the same time take note of this: that I shall do just as I please; that I detest, without fearing, your friends the Jacobins!—not one of whom shall remain in France if, as I hope, things continue to remain in my hands; and that, in fine, I snap my fingers at you and your 'national representation.'"
"On my side," shouted Lucien, "I do not snap my fingers at you, Citizen Consul, but I well know what I think about you."
"What do you think about me, Citizen Lucien? Parbleu! I am curious to know. Out with it!"
"I think, Citizen Consul, that, having sworn to the constitution of the eighteenth Brumaire, as President of the Council of the Five Hundred, and seeing you despise it thus, if I were not your brother I would be your enemy!"
"My enemy!" screamed Bonaparte. "Try it once! That's rather strong!" And, shaking his fist at Lucien, as he had done once before, "Thou my enemy!" he screamed again, and then sank back in the water up to his neck, as if exhausted. In a moment he spoke again in a somewhat quieter tone:
"Cease this miserable caviling which you and Joseph are at work on night and day—ridiculous for him, and still less appropriate for you. It is not from you that I expect lessons in government. Enough! Forget all you have said about it! I shall contrive to dispense with you. A precious, well-disposed pair of brothers you are! Please call back the valet; I must get out of the bath-tub at once."
The valet had come in; Joseph and Lucien, thinking the matter was dropped, were turning toward the door; the valet was spreading open the sheet to wrap up his master, when the Consul suddenly returned to the charge, and thundered in a tone that made Lucien and Joseph start and turn back quickly, and the valet drop the sheet from his trembling hands:
"Well, sirs, think what you please about the sale of Louisiana! but you may both of you put on mourning over this thing—you, Lucien, over the sale of yourprovince; you, Joseph, because I propose to dispense with the consent of all persons whatsoever. Do you hear?"
I fairly shivered in my hiding-place at such an outbreak on such a topic in the presence of a servant. Lucien shrank farther toward the door, but Joseph, who had held his peace through the quarrel of the two brothers, stung by the scornful words and manner, and especially by the contemptuous "Do you hear?" which was like a cutting snapper to the Consul's lashing wrath, rushed back, exclaiming:
"You will do well, my dear brother, not to lay your plan before the Chambers, for I swear to you I will put myself, if necessary, at the head of the opposition which will certainly be made."
There was no reply from Bonaparte but an outburst of loud and sardonic laughter.
Joseph flushed dark red, and, almost beside himself with rage, stooping over the figure that lay immersed in the bath, screamed out:
"Laugh! laugh! laugh, then! All the same, I shall do what I say, and, though I do not like to mount the tribune, this time you'll see me there!"
At these words, Bonaparte rose in the bath-tub so as to show half his body out of the water, opaque and frothy with cologne, and pale as his brother was red, he cried sternly:
"You will not need to play the orator, for I repeat to you that this debate will not take place, because the plan so unlucky as to be disapproved by you, conceived by me, negotiated by me, will be ratified andexecuted by me—by me alone; do you understand?—by me!" Then he sank back once more to his neck in the water. Joseph, whose self-control was all gone, his face aflame, roared:
"Well, general, on my side, I tell you that you and I and all the family, if you do what you say you will, may get ready to join shortly those poor innocent devils whom you so legally, so humanely,—above all, with so much justice,—have had transported to Cayenne!"
This was a terrible home thrust, and I could see Lucien draw hastily still farther back toward the door, and the valet literally cowered.
"You insolent fellow!" thundered Bonaparte. "I ought—" But I did not hear the rest of the sentence, for as he spoke he rose quickly from the water and plunged heavily back, so that the water dashed out in a flood on the floor. Lucien, who was back by the door, escaped a wetting; but Joseph received the splash full in his face, and his clothes were drenched. The valet ran to Joseph's assistance, but had no more than begun to sponge him off than he fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The quarrel was calmed at once, and the Bonapartes good-heartedly ran to the rescue. Joseph hurried to pick him up from the wet floor; Lucien rang the bell so hard that Rustan and another servant came running in, frightened; and the First Consul, his eyes and lips just visible above the rim of the bath-tub, called out sympathetically:
"Carry off the poor fellow, and take good care of him."
As for me, the excitement was too much for me also. I did not faint, but my stool, which was none of the steadiest on its three legs, suddenly tipped from the excess of my emotion, and, though I caught myself from falling entirely, I yet made what sounded to my horrified ears a deafening racket. In reality I suppose it was only a slight scuffling noise, but it was enough to catch the quick ears of the First Consul and Rustan.
"What was that?" I heard the First Consul say in a startled tone.
"I think, sir, it was some noise in the closet," I heard Rustan reply. "If Monsieur Joseph will assist in supporting your valet, I will investigate."
Now was my last hour come. But I was not going to die like a rat in a trap. I would rush out the door into the public corridor, and, if necessary, slay the guard and make one bold dash for safety. I drew my sword from its scabbard to have it in readiness in my hand for whatever might befall, pulled back the curtain, and came near running through the body my pretty Félice! She was coming to keep her promise to me and show me the way out. She did not seem to see my sword, but the moment she saw me she spoke in great excitement:
"Make haste, Monsieur; there is not a moment to lose. You can escape through the main corridor. But you must be quick, for the Consul may finish his bath at any minute, and his brothers retire here to await him while he dresses."
We were hurrying toward the door as she spoke,but I, feeling as if the Mameluke were close behind me, seized her hand and dragged her roughly into the corridor as I whispered:
"Yes, we must be quick, for Rustan is after us!"
With a half-suppressed scream she let go my hand, turned to Gaston, who was standing at the door motionless as a statue and, to all appearance, deaf and blind as one also, uttered the one word, "Rustan!" and fled swiftly down the dark side corridor, leaving me utterly bewildered. The western sun was flooding the cabinet of the First Consul when I went into my hiding-place, but the sun had set and twilight had fallen and the candles had been long lit when I stepped out into the corridor. The wax tapers set in sconces along the corridor lighted it but poorly, and I knew not which way to go.
"Run, Monsieur!" cried Gaston, in a terrified whisper, "straight down the corridor till you come to the grand staircase. And run as if the devil was after you, for he is!"
That was all I needed,—a word of direction,—and I was off. But scarcely had I gone a few feet when I heard a great noise and shouting behind me, and Gaston crying, "Stop thief!" I thought at first he was turning traitor, now that he had my gold piece with no chance of gaining another from me. But as I ran the faster, and the noise behind me did not seem to gain on me, as I feared it might, I concluded he was making a great outcry to cover his own part in my escape, and perhaps was hindering the pursuit more than helping it.
Yet when I came to the turn of the grand staircase I thought for a moment I had also come to the end of my days; for just as I felt sure I was distancing those behind me, there came running swiftly toward me from the other end of the dim corridor an officer with sword drawn, and I saw he would meet me exactly at the head of the grand staircase. The light from a tall taper fell on his face as he neared the staircase. It was the Chevalier Le Moyne!
I had but a moment to think. Should I stop to engage with him, I had no doubt I could unsword him as easily as he had unsworded me in the dance by Chouteau's Pond; but the delay would bring a score to his help, and I would be quickly overpowered, if not done to death at once. Neither did I like to turn my back on that drawn sword as I fled down the steps, feeling sure it would spit me through the shoulders, much as Narcisse spitted the wild fowl for roasting at Émigré's Retreat. But above all I did not wish the chevalier to see my face; for, even should I make good my escape, Paris would be no safe place for me should he recognize in the flying "thief" his hated St. Louis rival.
I pulled my hat low over my eyes, lifted my left arm before my face as if to shield it from his sword, rushed straight toward him, met him, as I thought I should, at the top of the staircase, and, with a quick twist of my foot (a school-boy's trick), sent him sprawling down the stairs. In three great bounds I had cleared the staircase and his prostrate body, and like a whirlwind I threw myself upon the sentry at itsfoot, who—half dazed by this sudden descent of the chevalier and myself, one rolling and bumping from step to step, the other leaping through the air like some great winged creature—was nevertheless in the act of raising his gun to fire at me. As I hurled my great weight full upon him, the gun flew from his hands, and his little dancing-master figure went pirouetting across the terrace into the darkness beyond, in a vain struggle to recover his balance. I sprang down the terrace after him, and disappeared in the friendly darkness.
It was time. Starting from the gloom in every direction, armed figures seemed to spring from the ground, while down the great staircase behind me clattered, shrieking and shouting in every key, a throng of officers and soldiers, led by a dark figure gliding swiftly and silently far in advance, and holding in his upraised hand something that glittered as it caught the rays from wax tapers. In the very act of springing down the first terrace, I saw the glittering dagger leave Rustan's hand, hurled straight at my head, and heard it fall far below me on the stone parapet of the last terrace.
It was but the work of a moment to run swiftly to the pines and find Fatima, and lead her out of the thicket. I had not found my seat upon her back when she bounded away into the dark, straight down the broad green allée that led toward the Bois de Boulogne and Paris. Then was there hurrying to horse, and the pounding of many hoofs behind me on the soft turf, and the wild clamor of confused orders shoutedback and forth, and a fusillade of bullets firing into the dark, if by chance one might find its mark.
But I no longer felt any fear. Fatima was stretching away beneath me with the swift and easy motion of a bird, and I did not believe there was a horse in all France could overtake her. The night was my friend, too, and a dark night it was; for the clouds had gathered and shut out even the faint light of stars, and I could not so much as see my hand before my face. But I could trust Fatima to find her way, and I felt nothing but a wild exhilaration as we went swinging along in great strides through the cool, damp night breeze, and I could tell, from the clamor of voices and pounding of hoofs growing more distant, that we were gaining on our pursuers.
Out from the soft turf of the park we clattered on to the stony streets of the little village. Here there were lights, and people passing to and fro, who stopped and stared at the wild flight of horse and rider. But none molested until the hallooes and the clatter of hoofs of those following reached their ears. Then men rushed out from low taverns, from hut and hovel and respectable houses, brandishing arms and shouting "Stop thief!" and adding much to the noise and excitement, but availing nothing to stop the fugitive. Only one young fellow, an officer by his dress, snatched a gun from a bystander, and fired with so true an aim that had I not ducked my head I would have had no head to duck.
But in a few moments we had left the village behind us and were once more on the unlighted country roads.Faster and faster we flew, by hedge and stone wall and orchard, whence the night breeze wafted the scent of blossoming fruit-trees, with ever the sound of hallooes and hoofs growing fainter in the distance.
Yet not until I had long ceased to catch even the slightest sound of pursuit, and we were well on our way through the gloomy depths of the Bois,—night haunt of robbers, suicides, and assassins,—did I draw rein and give Fatima a chance to breathe. As we ambled along, my pulses growing quieter as Fatima's breath no longer came in deep-drawn sobs, but regularly in warm puffs from her wide nostrils, I fell to thinking over the events of the afternoon.
Now that it was all safely over, and no ill had befallen me, and I had brought no disgrace upon my uncle, I was elated beyond measure that my adventure had exceeded my wildest hopes of its success. I had seen the great Bonaparte, and would henceforth know him as no man outside the circle of his intimate friends could possibly know him. He would no longer be, in my eyes, the impossible hero of romance, faultless and beyond criticism, but a man with more than the ordinary man's meed of shortcomings as to temper, yet with also a thousand times more than any ordinary man's power to control men and mold circumstance. Dictatorial, harsh, intolerant of all opinions that did not coincide with his own, brooking no interference with his methods or suggestions as to his duty, he could yet be playful and affectionate with the brother he loved, sympathetic with a servant whom his own harsh temper had frightened into fainting, andtouched with a soft feeling of regret for the colony he ruthlessly alienated from the fatherland.
My mind pictured him vividly in every aspect in which I had seen him, but strongest and most persistent of all was the vision of the figure in the deep-armed chair, bowed in mournful thought, or with arm outstretched to my uncle, and voice trembling with suppressed emotion, saying:
"Let the Louisianians know that we separate ourselves from them with regret. Let them retain for us sentiments of affection. And may our common origin, descent, language, and customs perpetuate the friendship!"
"No sun upon an Easter dayIs 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 omeletau 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 tome than I ever remembered anything to have tasted before.Le petit souperwas 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 Ileft 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 supernaturalswiftness,—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 toexplain 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 kindlyaffection 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 everymoment; 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!
"'Tis an old maxim in the schools,That flattery's the food of fools;Yet now and then your man of witWill condescend to take a bit."
"I wonder what her cousin will say about it? He is her next of kin, and I suppose will have some authority."
"You mean the young Duc d'Enghien? He is in Baden, you know, and not in a position to say anything. He is still émigré, and likely to remain so; for the First Consul distrusts all Bourbon princes."
"Yes; but he might use his authority with his royal cousin, even at a distance. I had always thought he and the Comte d'Artois had other plans for the comtesse—that she was to strengthen their house by an alliance with one of the royal houses of Europe."
"Without doubt that was their plan, but the other side of the house got ahead of them. It is to prevent just such an alliance, I believe, that the wily old duchesse is planning this marriage with the chevalier. He is too far down in the royal ranks to be a dangerousparti."
"Have her estates been restored, do you know?"
"I am not sure, but I think not. I have heard that Bonaparte is making this marriage a condition. He, too, wants to prevent anything that will strengthen the power of the Bourbons."
"Oh, then the marriage is assured, and the duchesse has accomplished her purpose. I am sorry. I wish the comtesse had remained a little longer in America."
"I am not quite so sure about it. It seems the comtesse herself is making difficulties. Perhaps, now that she has discovered her true rank, she does not consider the chevalier sufficiently noble."
"It will make no difference what she thinks or feels, poor child; with the duchesse and the First Consul both against her, she is as helpless as a bird in the snares of the fowler."
I was one of the group where this conversation took place, and so, though I had no part in it, I could not be considered an eavesdropper (for I had sworn that, rather than listen again to what was not intended for my hearing, I would go about with my ears stuffed with wax and be deaf to the whole world). No name had been mentioned, yet I knew well it was of the Comtesse de Baloit they were speaking, and every word pierced my soul like a knife.
A stir at the upper end of the grand salon put a stop to the conversation. Every voice was hushed, and all eyes were turned to where Madame Bonaparte and the First Consul were making a grand entry. They were followed by a throng of ladies and gentlemen in attendance, and the scene could not have been moremagnificent had they been king and queen holding royal court, with lords and ladies in waiting.
I had eyes at first for no one but Madame Bonaparte (since coming to live at the Tuileries she was no longer called Citizeness Bonaparte), whom I had not yet seen, this being my first levee, and of whom I had heard almost as much as of the First Consul. I had heard that she was not faultlessly beautiful, but of great charm, and I could see at once that this was true. I do not know why she was not perfectly beautiful—perhaps her features were a little heavy, her nose a little long, her cheek-bones a little high, which just prevented her face from being faultless; but her eyes were large and lustrous and beaming with kindness, and her hair was soft and dark and abundant and gathered under a Grecianfiletin rich waves and curls, and her skin was of that creamy whiteness so often seen in creoles, and which sets off so well dark hair and eyes. I have never seen more beautiful neck and shoulders and arms; they looked to me more like some of those beautiful figures in marble in the Louvre Museum, that Bonaparte brought back with him from Italy, than like real flesh and blood.
She was dressed all in white, and my aunt whispered to me that the First Consul liked her best in white, and that it was said when Madame Bonaparte (who was herself fond of more gorgeous costumes) appeared in white, it was a sign either that she was jealous of her husband and was trying to win back his straying affections, or that she wanted some special favor granted. Very likely this was only idle courtgossip, but it might easily be true, for I could hardly think her so nearly beautiful in any other dress as in that softly falling white, with high girdle of gold, richly jeweled, and her dark waves of hair caught in a golden net under the Grecian filet.
The First Consul was very magnificent also; I think he likes dress as well as his wife. When I had looked well at these two, I had leisure to look at their retinue; and I looked first at the gentlemen, many of whom were wearing the brilliant uniforms of army officers. To my chagrin, my eyes fell almost instantly upon the Chevalier Le Moyne, wearing the very gorgeous uniform of aide to General Bonaparte. As I looked at him his eye caught mine, and I saw him start, turn pale, and then color violently. In a moment he forced a quick smile to his lips (to his teeth, I had almost said, for there was always something wolfish to me in his smile), and then he bowed. I returned his bow very coldly, and his presence there suggesting to me that I might possibly find Pelagie among the court ladies (for so 'tis the fashion to call them in jest), I turned to look for her. Yes, she was there, and, like Madame Bonaparte, all in white. Only Pelagie's white was filmy and lacy, and fuller and more flowing than madame's, with jewels shining in its folds and in her waving hair. And whereas Madame Bonaparte made me think of a Greek goddess, Pelagie reminded me of one of Mr. Shakspere's fairies, sparkling, graceful, exquisite.
She did not seem to see me, and I could gaze at her no longer, for the First Consul was already movingabout from group to group of the assembled guests, saying a few words to each, and he was just approaching our party. He greeted my aunt and uncle and those standing with us, whom he knew, very affably; then he turned his quick glance on me, and my uncle presented me.
"Ah," he said, "I was not mistaken. I thought you were from America when I saw you in church on Easter morning"; and, turning to my uncle, he added:
"We do not grow such great fair men in France, Citizen Minister."
"No," said my uncle, quickly; "we have small dark great men in France, Citizen First Consul."
Bonaparte laughed, pleased both with the play on words and my uncle's compliment, and turned quickly to the next group before I had time to stammer out how flattered I felt at his remembering me.
The next group happened to be the English ambassador, Lord Whitworth, and his friends. The Consul had been very affable with us, and I had discovered that his smile was of rare sweetness and gave great beauty to his face. But as he turned to Lord Whitworth the smile vanished and his brows were drawn together in a dark frown. Without the slightest word of greeting, he spoke to him abruptly and harshly:
"I find your nation wants war again."
Lord Whitworth bowed low, and a dull red slowly spread over his face as he answered:
"No, sir; we are very desirous of peace."
"You have just finished a war of fifteen years," said Bonaparte again, in the most offensive of tones, almost a sneer.
The ambassador bit his lip in his effort at self-control, but he answered with great suavity:
"It is true, sir; and that was fifteen years too long."
"But you want another war of fifteen years," insisted Bonaparte, his tones every moment harsher and louder, so that every one in that part of the salon could not help but hear. All conversation ceased, and every one listened with strained and painful attention. Lord Whitworth quietly reiterated:
"Pardon me, sir; we are very desirous of peace."
Then, in a tone that rang out like the harsh clang of crossing swords, Bonaparte cried:
"I must either have Malta or war!"
A shock ran through the whole assembly. No man dared look at his neighbor. This was nothing less than a declaration of war, and in the most insulting manner. Whether the proud representative of the haughtiest nation on the globe would receive such a rude insult to himself and his country calmly was very doubtful, and we all awaited Lord Whitworth's reply in trembling silence. With compressed lips and eyes that flashed in spite of himself, but with a calmness in marked contrast to Bonaparte's petulance, he replied:
"I am not prepared, sir, to speak on that subject; and I can only assure you, Citizen First Consul, that we wish for peace."
Bonaparte's frown grew darker, but he said no more; and with a curt nod, and almost a sneer on his lips, he withdrew at once into a small cabinet opening into the salon, leaving the rest of his guests without addressing a word to them, which I was told afterwardwas very unusual with him, and showed that his irritation must be very great.
An embarrassed silence followed the First Consul's exit. I had been looking forward to this levee for weeks, but it promised to be a very uncomfortable occasion for me as well as for others. I had a great desire to speak to the British ambassador and assure him of my sympathy, for none of the Frenchmen so much as dared to look at him, now that he was in disgrace, lest it be reported to the Consul, and they themselves fall under suspicion. But I feared it would be presumption in one so young and unknown, and I dreaded meeting the haughty British stare with which an Englishman petrifies one he considers unduly forward. Much to my relief, and indeed to the relief of the whole company, my uncle turned to him and began at once to talk in a most animated manner of the doings in the American Congress. That the relief was general was evident, for conversation was at once resumed, and with a gaiety that was somewhat feverish, I thought.
It was our turn now to pay our respects to Madame Bonaparte. I had been eager to meet her until I discovered the presence of Pelagie; but now it had suddenly become a trying ordeal to walk forward and salute madame, and perhaps stand talking to her a few moments, conscious that Pelagie's eyes, if they cared to, might be watching every movement. Should I be awkward (as I feared I would under such a scrutiny), I was sure there would be the old mocking light in them I had so often seen, and dreaded to see, in St.Louis. I resolved not to glance at her once while I was going through my ordeal, lest she should prove my undoing; and I tried to think only of the charming woman who smiled bewitchingly when I made gallant speeches, and who tapped me with her fan in much the same playful fashion as Mistress Madison had tapped me with her jeweled snuff-box. Indeed, she reminded me much of the lovely Washington lady. Both had the same kind way of putting an awkward lad at his ease, and seeming to like him and be pleased with his speeches, especially if they savored a little of audacity. But Madame Bonaparte had not the dash and sparkle of Mistress Madison; instead, she had a lazy Southern fashion of speech and a wonderfully winning gentleness that I am not sure was not more charming than the gay brilliancy of the other.
She kept me talking to her longer than I had expected (or hoped for), and I began to see significant glances exchanged, while my color was steadily rising; and I was sure mademoiselle (if she looked at me at all), noting my shining curls, as yellow as the gold lace on my white satin court-dress, and my cheeks flaming like any girl's, was saying to herself with infinite scorn, "Pretty boy!"
I think Madame Bonaparte saw the significant glances also, for she said presently:
"You must meet the Comtesse de Baloit. She has just returned from your America, and you will have much in common to talk about."
And so I found myself bowing low over Pelagie's hand, and a moment later looking straight down intoher lovely dark eyes, which looked straight up at mine with no hint of scorn in their shadowy depths, but only a great wonder, and a little of something else that set my pulses to beating like trip-hammers.
"I cannot understand, Monsieur," she said. "I shall have to ask you, as you asked me in Washington—how did you get here?"
"It was a lodestar drew me," I murmured.
But the warm light in her eyes changed quickly to proud disdain.
"I like not idle gallantries between old friends. Keep those for Madame Bonaparte. I saw they pleased her greatly, and that you were much flattered by their reception."
Could the Comtesse de Baloit be jealous? or was it the haughty Faubourg St. Germain scorning the parvenue of the Tuileries? I hoped it was the first, but in either case it behooved me to make quickamende.
"Forgive me, Comtesse," I said, as coldly as she had spoken, but in English, and so low that I hoped no listener could understand even if he knew the tongue. "It was true, but you could not know how true, and I have no right to tell you. I know well how great a distance lies between the proud Lady of France and a simple American gentleman. Permit me to inform you, Comtesse, that I have been in Paris for more than a month with my uncle, Monsieur Barbé Marbois. And permit me to add, as a simple fact in which you may be interested or not, that this is the moment for which I have lived through thatmonth—the moment when I should meet again the Comtesse de Baloit."
It had ever been the way with the little Pelagie in America to meet her hauteur with hauteur, but I was not sure it would work here, and I trembled inwardly while I spoke so calmly. But it did. Her lids dropped for a moment, and a soft color stole up to her temples. When she lifted her eyes again, there was a sweet, shy light in them.
"Monsieur," she said softly, in her pretty English, "why do you call me Comtesse? Have you forgotten?"
"Is it still to be Mademoiselle?" I cried eagerly, and had hard work not to pick her up in my arms and run away with her, so adorable was she in her sweet friendliness.
"Mademoiselle always, unless it is—" But then she broke off suddenly and turned a rosy red, and added quickly, with something of her old sauciness: "Never Comtesse, unless I am very,verynaughty."
My heart told me what she had meant to say, and I whispered proudly:
"Unless it is some day—Pelagie"; and I know my eyes told her all the rest I did not dare to say, for she looked away from me quickly, and I, glancing up, met a black scowl on the face of the chevalier, who, I knew, must have been watching this little by-play, though he could not have heard a word, such was the buzz and clatter of conversation about us. His face cleared instantly, and he stepped quickly forward with a forced smile and an extended hand.
"Permit me to greet an old friend," he said gaily. "When did you arrive in Paris?"
It would have been well for me if I could have swallowed my pride sufficiently to take his proffered hand; but it seemed to me the hand of a scoundrel and a dastard, and I could not bring myself to touch it. I pretended not to see it, and I hoped the chevalier and those who were looking on might be deceived into thinking I did not, as I answered politely enough:
"The Chevalier Le Moyne is very kind to welcome me so cordially to Paris."
And then, with a sudden recollection of our last encounter, and hoping to throw him off the track, I added:
"I have been in Paris but a short time; this is my first visit to the Tuileries."
But I had not deceived him. The black scowl returned quickly at my rejection of his proffered hand, and stretching himself to his full height, so as to be as near my ear as possible, he said between his teeth:
"It may be your first visit to the Tuileries, Monsieur; but, if I mistake not, you have been at St. Cloud before. If I had known you were in Paris I would have been at no loss to account for the mysterious horse and his rider. I suppose you have brought that accursed mare with you?"
I may have turned pale, for I saw black ruin yawn before me, but I answered steadily:
"I do not understand you, Monsieur. I beg you will explain."
"Diable! You understand well enough, Monsieur,"he sneered, and turned and walked away with an exaggerated limp—it had been scarcely perceptible when he came to greet me.
I had little time to worry over this new peril that threatened, for my uncle came up to present me to more of the "court ladies," and I did my best to talk and be merry, while in the background of my thoughts I was trying to plan some way of escape from the meshes of the net I saw closing around me. Paris was no longer any place for me. I must tell my uncle at the first opportunity, and ask his help in getting away as quietly as possible to America; and at that thought, and that I was cutting myself off from ever seeing again the Comtesse de Baloit, I groaned inwardly, and could have cursed the reckless folly that had brought me to such a pass.
In the midst of my troubled thoughts I saw an officer approach the Comtesse de Baloit (for, no matter to whom I might be talking, the Comtesse was ever in my sight), bow low, and apparently deliver some message to her. I saw her turn to the lady who stood near her (the one with whom I had seen her driving, whose bearing was so stern and haughty, and who, I did not doubt, was the duchesse I had heard spoken of as desiring to marry her to the chevalier), and then the officer offered an arm to each of them and bore them away to the cabinet to which the First Consul had withdrawn.
I did not know why this should be cause for anxiety on my part, but none the less I felt anxious. When, a few minutes later, the same officer approached theChevalier Le Moyne and delivered to him also a message, and the chevalier deliberately turned to me with a smile of triumph, and then followed the officer to the same cabinet, I felt doubly anxious. Indeed, so great had my anxiety become that it was almost impossible for me to keep up longer the semblance of gay converse with the witty beauties about me.
The chevalier's smile of triumph meant one of two things—either terrible for me, but one impossible to think of. It meant, "You see, now I have my chance to denounce you to the First Consul, and I shall use it"—which would mean nothing less than death for me; or, it meant, "You see, the First Consul is bringing his influence to bear upon my marriage with the Comtesse de Baloit; it is all arranged"—which would mean something far worse than death for me.
I was not surprised, therefore, and I was almost relieved when ten minutes later the officer touched me on the shoulder.
"The First Consul desires your presence in his cabinet, Monsieur," he said; and I turned and followed him, conscious that I was followed in turn by all eyes. There had been no surprise when first the comtesse and then the chevalier had been summoned, for every one thought he understood—the First Consul's powerful influence was to be brought to bear upon a recalcitrant maiden; and while some pitied, none doubted that the First Consul's influence would avail. But no one knew what connection I could have with the affair, and the first moment of startled surprise was followed by a murmur of curious surmises.
Amid that murmur I walked as one who goes to his execution; for from the moment the officer touched me upon the shoulder I had known what the chevalier's smile of triumph meant, and I knew that I was on my way to be accused and condemned, and, for aught I knew, marched off to instant execution under the eyes of the Comtesse de Baloit. As I passed Monsieur Marbois, his eyes, filled with a startled alarm, met mine. I tried to reassure him with a smile, but I fear it was sorry work, for a sudden rush of remembrance of all his goodness to me overwhelmed me and came near to unmanning me.
Just inside the door of the cabinet the officer stopped, and motioned to me also to stay my steps. On whatever errand I had been sent for, it was evident that neither the First Consul nor any one else was quite ready for me. The Consul was seated, while on one side of him stood the chevalier, and on the other the duchesse and the Comtesse de Baloit; and that any man should remain seated in the presence of the comtesse filled me at once with a blind rage that ill prepared me to play my part in what was about to follow. The attitude of the three struck me at once as significant: the duchesse complacent, with almost a smile upon her haughty features, and to the best of her ability beaming upon the First Consul; the chevalier eager, obsequious, fawning; the comtesse her head held proudly up, a little frown between her brows, her eyes flashing; impatience, annoyance, disdain expressed in every feature. The First Consul was speaking as we entered, and I thought his tones weremeant to be persuasive; they were less rasping than I had often heard them.
"The estates are very great, Mademoiselle." (And again I was indignant that he should address her as Mademoiselle, a title which I felt belonged to no man to use but to me. I knew, of course, that it was but the common usage,—that titles were not permitted in republican France,—but none the less I was angry.) "Your father was almost the richest man in France," he was saying. "Should I restore these estates to you, I must have some guaranty that they will be used for the welfare of the republic, and not against it. Citizen Le Moyne is such a guaranty. His sword is already pledged to the service of the republic, and to the Citizeness Le Moyne I will restore all the estates of her father."
A bright red spot burned in each of Pelagie's cheeks. I know not what she might have said (though she looked not as if she would meekly yield assent to this powerful plea), for at that moment the First Consul discovered our entrance and turned to the chevalier.
"Citizen Le Moyne," he said, "you asked us to send for this young man. He is here. What has the nephew of Monsieur Marbois to do with this matter?"
A malicious smile played round the chevalier's lips.
"If you remember, Citizen First Consul," he said "I told you that at one time mademoiselle was not averse to my suit—that in all probability I would have won her hand in St. Louis, but that her mind was poisoned against me by malicious insinuations andfabrications, the work of a rival who desired to win her for himself?"
The chevalier waited for the Consul's reply, and he nodded curtly.
"Well?"
"Citizen First Consul, that rival is the nephew of Minister Marbois, and I have brought him here to ask him to renounce publicly all claims to the hand of the Citizeness de Baloit."
I saw a flash in the beautiful eyes, and a proud toss of the little head that I well knew meant, "He has no claim," and I hastened to speak.
"Sire," I said quickly, and then stopped in confusion. How could I have made such an egregious blunder as to address the first citizen of the republic by a royal title? Yet it was a natural enough mistake, for no Czar or Sultan or Grand Mogul was ever a more autocratic ruler than he, or made men tremble more at his nod. I thought I had no doubt ruined my cause in the very outset, for a dark frown gathered between the Consul's brows, but it quickly disappeared.
"I believe you spoke innocently, young man," he said, with a smile of rare sweetness. "Speak on!"
"Pardon, Citizen First Consul," I said—"it was indeed an innocent mistake"; and then I added with a sudden impulse of audacity, "but a very natural one."
The Consul answered me only with his flashing smile, that transfigured his face, and I hurried on: