The Deputy of Arcis

X

THE REVELATIONS OF AN OPERA-GLASS

Antonin Goulard left the little group of young ladies, in which, besides Cecile and Ernestine, were Mademoiselle Berton, daughter of the tax-collector,—­an insignificant young person who played the part of satellite to Cecile,—­and Mademoiselle Herbelot, sister of the second notary of Arcis, an old maid of thirty, soured, affected, and dressed like all old maids; for she wore, over a bombazine gown, an embroidered fichu, the corners of which, gathered to the front of the bodice, were knotted together after the well-known fashion under the Terror.

“Julien,” said the sub-prefect to his valet, who was waiting in the antechamber, “you who served six years at Gondreville ought to know how a count’s coronet is made.”

“Yes, monsieur; it has pearls on its nine points.”

“Very good.  Go to the Mulet, and try to clap your eye on the tilbury of the gentleman who is stopping there, and then come and tell me what is painted on it.  Do your business thoroughly, and bring me all the gossip of the inn.  If you see the little groom, ask him at what hour to-morrow his master can receive the sub-prefect—­in case you find the nine pearls.  Don’t drink, don’t gossip yourself, and come back quickly; and as soon as you get back let me know it by coming to the door of the salon.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

The Mulet inn, as we have already said, stands on the square, at the opposite corner to the garden wall of the Marion estate on the other side of the road leading to Brienne.  Therefore the solution of the problem could be rapid.  Antonin Goulard returned to his place by Cecile to await results.

“We talked so much about the stranger yesterday that I dreamed of him all night,” said Madame Mollot.

“Ha! ha! do you still dream of unknown heroes, fair lady?” said Vinet.

“You are very impertinent; if I chose I could make you dream of me,” she retorted.  “So this morning when I rose—­”

It may not be useless to say that Madame Mollot was considered a clever woman in Arcis; that is, she expressed herself fluently and abused that advantage.  A Parisian, wandering by chance into these regions, like the Unknown, would have thought her excessively garrulous.

“—­I was, naturally, making my toilet, and as I looked mechanically about me—­”

“Through the window?” asked Antonin.

“Certainly; my dressing-room opens on the street.  Now you know, of course, that Poupart has put the stranger into one of the rooms exactly opposite to mine—­”

“One room, mamma!” interrupted Ernestine.  “The count occupies three rooms!  The little groom, dressed all in black, is in the first.  They have made a salon of the next, and the Unknown sleeps in the third.”

“Then he has half the rooms in the inn,” remarked Mademoiselle Herbelot.

“Well, young ladies, and what has that to do with his person?” said Madame Mollot, sharply, not pleased at the interruption.  “I am talking of the man himself—­”

“Don’t interrupt the orator,” put in Vinet.

“As I was stooping—­”

“Seated?” asked Antonin.

“Madame was of course as she naturally would be,—­making her toilet and looking at the Mulet,” said Vinet.

In the provinces such jokes are prized, for people have so long said everything to each other that they have recourse at last to the sort of nonsense our fathers indulged in before the introduction of English hypocrisy,—­one of those products against which custom-houses are powerless.

“Don’t interrupt the orator,” repeated Cecile Beauvisage to Vinet, with whom she exchanged a smile.

“My eyes involuntarily fell on the window of the room in which the stranger had slept the night before.  I don’t know what time he went to bed, although I was awake till past midnight; but I have the misfortune to be married to a man who snores fit to crack the planks and the rafters.  If I fall asleep first, oh!  I sleep so sound nothing can wake me; but if Mollot drops off first my night is ruined—­”

“Don’t you ever go off together?” said Achille Pigoult, joining the group.  “I see you are talking of sleep.”

“Hush, naughty boy!” replied Madame Mollot, graciously.

“Do you know what they mean?” whispered Cecile to Ernestine.

“At any rate, he was not in at one o’clock in the morning,” continued Madame Mollot.

“Then he defrauded you!—­came home without your knowing it!” said Achille Pigoult.  “Ha! that man is sly indeed; he’ll put us all in his pouch and sell us in the market-place.”

“To whom?” asked Vinet.

“Oh! to a project! to an idea! to a system!” replied the notary, to whom Olivier smiled with a knowing air.

“Imagine my surprise,” continued Madame Mollot, “when I saw a stuff, a material, of splendid magnificence, most beautiful! dazzling!  I said to myself, ’That must be a dressing-gown of the spun-glass material I have sometimes seen in exhibitions of industrial products.’  So I fetched my opera-glass to examine it.  But, good gracious! what do you think I saw?  Above the dressing-gown, where the head ought to have been, I saw an enormous mass, something like a knee—­I can’t tell you how my curiosity was excited.”

“I can conceive it,” said Antonin.

“No, you can not conceive it,” said Madame Mollot; “for this knee—­”

“Ah!  I understand,” cried Olivier Vinet, laughing; “the Unknown was also making his toilet, and you saw his two knees.”

“No, no!” cried Madame Mollot; “you are putting incongruities into my mouth.  The stranger was standing up; he held a sponge in his hand above an immense basin, and—­none of your jokes, Monsieur Olivier!—­it wasn’t his knee, it was his head!  He was washing his bald head; he hasn’t a spear of hair upon it.”

“Impudent man!” said Antonin.  “He certainly can’t have come with ideas of marriage in that head.  Here we must have hair in order to be married.  That’s essential.”

“I am therefore right in saying that our Unknown visitor must be fifty years old.  Nobody ever takes to a wig before that time of life.  After a time, when his toilet was finished, he opened his window and looked out; and then he wore a splendid head of black hair.  He turned his eyeglass full on me,—­for by that time, I was in my balcony.  Therefore, my dear Cecile, you see for yourself that you can’t take that man for the hero of your romance.”

“Why not?  Men of fifty are not to be despised, if they are counts,” said Ernestine.

“Heavens! what has age to do with it?” said Mademoiselle Herbelot.

“Provided one gets a husband,” added Vinet, whose cold maliciousness made him feared.

“Yes,” replied the old maid, feeling the cut, “I should prefer a man of fifty, indulgent, kind, and considerate, to a young man without a heart, whose wit would bite every one, even his wife.”

“This is all very well for conversation,” retorted Vinet, “but in order to love the man of fifty and reject the other, it is necessary to have the opportunity to choose.”

“Oh!” said Madame Mollot, in order to stop this passage at arms between the old maid and Vinet, who always went to far, “when a woman has had experience of life she knows that a husband of fifty or one of twenty-five is absolutely the same thing if she merely respects him.  The important things in marriage are the benefits to be derived from it.  If Mademoiselle Beauvisage wants to go to Paris and shine there —­and in her place I should certainly feel so—­she ought not to take a husband in Arcis.  If I had the fortune she will have, I should give my hand to a count, to a man who would put me in a high social position, and I shouldn’t ask to see the certificate of his birth.”

“It would satisfy you to see his toilet,” whispered Vinet in her ear.

“But the king makes counts,” said Madame Marion, who had now joined the group and was surveying the bevy of young ladies.

“Ah! madame,” remarked Vinet, “but some young girls prefer their counts already made.”

“Well, Monsieur Antonin,” said Cecile, laughing at Vinet’s sarcasm.  “Your ten minutes have expired, and you haven’t told us whether the Unknown is a count or not.”

“I shall keep my promise,” replied the sub-prefect, perceiving at that moment the head of his valet in the doorway; and again he left his place beside Cecile.

“You are talking of the stranger,” said Madame Marion.  “Is anything really known about him?”

“No, madame,” replied Achille Pigoult; “but he is, without knowing it, like the clown of a circus, the centre of the eyes of the two thousand inhabitants of this town.  I know one thing about him,” added the little notary.

“Oh, tell us, Monsieur Achille!” cried Ernestine, eagerly.

“His tiger’s name is Paradise!”

“Paradise!” echoed every one included in the little circle.

“Can a man be called Paradise?” asked Madame Herbelot, who had joined her sister-in-law.

“It tends to prove,” continued the notary, “that the master is an angel; for when his tiger follows him—­you understand.”

“It is the road of Paradise! very good, that,” said Madame Marion, anxious to flatter Achille Pigoult in the interests of her nephew.

“Monsieur,” said Antonin’s valet in the dining-room, “the tilbury has a coat of arms—­”

“Coat of arms!”

“Yes, and droll enough they are!  There’s a coronet with nine points and pearls—­”

“Then he’s a count!”

“And a monster with wings, flying like a postilion who has dropped something.  And here is what is written on the belt,” added the man, taking a paper from his pocket.  “Mademoiselle Anicette, the Princesse de Cadignan’s lady’s maid, who came in a carriage” (the Cinq-Cygne carriage before the door of the Mulet!) “to bring a letter to the gentleman, wrote it down for me.”

“Give it to me.”

The sub-prefect read the words:  Quo me trahit fortuna.

Though he was not strong enough in French blazon to know the house that bore that device, Antonin felt sure that the Cinq-Cygnes would not send their chariot, nor the Princess de Cadignan a missive by her maid, except to a person of the highest nobility.

“Ha! so you know the maid of the Princess de Cadignan! happy man!” said Antonin.

Julien, a young countryman, after serving six months in the household of the Comte de Gondreville, had entered the service of the sub-prefect, who wanted a servant of the right style.

“But, monsieur, Anicette is my father’s god-daughter.  Papa, who wanted to do well by the girl, whose father was dead, sent her to a dressmaker in Paris because my mother could not endure her.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Rather; the proof is that she got into trouble in Paris; but finally, as she has talent and can make gowns and dress hair, she got a place with the princess.”

“What did she tell you about Cinq-Cygne?  Is there much company?”

“A great deal, monsieur.  There’s the princess and Monsieur d’Arthez, the Duc de Maufrigneuse and the duchess and the young marquis.  In fact the chateau is full.  They expect Monseigneur the Bishop of Troyes to-night.”

“Monsieur Troubert!  I should like to know how long he is going to stay.”

“Anicette thinks for some time; and she believes he is coming to meet the gentleman who is now at the Mulet.  They expect more company.  The coachman told me they were talking a great deal about the election.  Monsieur le president Michu is expected in a few days.”

“Try to bring that lady’s maid into town on pretence of shopping.  Have you any designs upon her?”

“If she has any savings I don’t know but what I might.  She is a sly one, though.”

“Tell her to come and see you at the sub-prefecture.”

“Yes, monsieur.  I’ll go and tell her now.”

“Don’t say anything about me, or she might not come.”

“Ah! monsieur; haven’t I served at Gondreville?”

“You don’t know why they sent that message from Cinq-Cygne at this hour, do you?  It is half-past nine o’clock.”

“It must have been something pressing.  The gentleman had only just returned from Gondreville.”

“Gondreville!—­has he been to Gondreville?”

“He dined there, monsieur.  If you went to the Mulet you’d laugh!  The little tiger is, saving your presence, as drunk as a fiddler.  He drank such a lot of champagne in the servants’ hall that he can’t stand on his legs; they have been filling him for fun.”

“And the count?”

“The count had gone to bed; but as soon as he received the letter he got up.  He is now dressing himself; and they are putting the horse in the tilbury.  The count is to spend the night at Cinq-Cygne.”

“He must be some great personage.”

“Oh, yes, monsieur; for Gothard, the steward of Cinq-Cygne, came this morning to see his brother-in-law Poupart, and warned him to be very discreet about the gentleman and to serve him like a king.”

“Vinet must be right,” thought the sub-prefect.  “Can there be some cabal on foot?”

“It was Duc Georges de Maufrigneuse who sent Gothard to the Mulet.  Poupart came to the meeting here this morning only because the gentleman wished him to do so; if he had sent him to Paris, he’d go.  Gothard told Poupart to keep silent about the gentleman, and to fool all inquisitive people.”

“If you can get Anicette here, don’t fail to let me know,” said Antonin.

“But I could see her at Cinq-Cygne if monsieur would send me to his house at Val-Preux.”

“That’s an idea.  You might profit by the chariot to get there.  But what reason could you give to the little groom?”

“He’s a madcap, that boy, monsieur.  Would you believe it, drunk as he is, he has just mounted his master’s thoroughbred, a horse that can do twenty miles an hour, and started for Troyes with a letter in order that it may reach Paris to-morrow!  And only nine years and a half old!  What will he be at twenty?”

The sub-prefect listened mechanically to these remarks.  Julien gossiped on, his master listening, absorbed in thought about the stranger.

“Wait here,” he said to the man as he turned with slow steps to re-enter the salon.  “What a mess!” he thought to himself,—­“a man who dines at Gondreville and spends the night at Cinq-Cygnes!  Mysteries indeed!”

“Well?” cried the circle around Mademoiselle Beauvisage as soon as he reappeared.

“He is a count, and vieille roche, I answer for it.”

“Oh! how I should like to see him!” cried Cecile.

“Mademoiselle,” said Antonin, smiling and looking maliciously at Madame Mollot, “he is tall and well-made and does not wear a wig.  His little groom was as drunk as the twenty-four cantons; they filled him with champagne at Gondreville and that little scamp, only nine years old, answered my man Julien, who asked him about his master’s wig, with all the assumption of an old valet:  ’My master! wear a wig!—­if he did I’d leave him.  He dyes his hair and that’s bad enough.’”

“Your opera-glass magnifies,” said Achille Pigoult to Madame Mollot, who laughed.

“Well, the tiger of the handsome count, drunk as he is, is now riding to Troyes to post a letter, and he’ll get there, as they say, in five-quarters of an hour.”

“I’d like to have that tiger,” said Vinet.

“If the count dined at Gondreville we shall soon know all about him,” remarked Cecile; “for my grandpapa is going there to-morrow morning.”

“What will strike you as very strange,” said Antonin Goulard, “is that the party at Cinq-Cygne have just sent Mademoiselle Anicette, the maid of the Princesse de Cadignan, in the Cinq-Cygne carriage, with a note to the stranger, and he is going now to pass the night there.”

“Ah ca!” said Olivier Vinet, “then he is not a man; he’s a devil, a phoenix, he will poculate—­”

“Ah, fie! monsieur,” said Madame Mollot, “you use words that are really—­”

“‘Poculate’ is a word of the highest latinity, madame,” replied Vinet, gravely.  “So, as I said, he will poculate with Louis Philippe in the morning, and banquet at the Holy-Rood with Charles the Tenth at night.  There is but one reason that allows a decent man to go to both camps —­from Montague to Capulet!  Ha, ha!  I know who that stranger is.  He’s—­”

“The president of a railway from Paris to Lyons, or Paris to Dijon, or from Montereau to Troyes.”

“That’s true,” said Antonin.  “You have it.  There’s nothing but speculation that is welcomed everywhere.”

“Yes, just see how great names, great families, the old and the new peerage are rushing hot-foot into enterprises and partnerships,” said Achille Pigoult.

“Francs attract the Franks,” remarked Olivier Vinet, without a smile.

“You are not an olive-branch of peace,” said Madame Mollot, laughing.

“But is it not demoralizing to see such names as Verneuil, Maufrigneuse, and Herouville side by side with those of du Tillet and Nucingen in the Bourse speculations?”

“Our great Unknown is undoubtedly an embryo railway,” said Olivier Vinet.

“Well, to-morrow all Arcis will be upside-down about it,” said Achille Pigoult.  “I shall call upon the Unknown and ask him to make me notary of the affair.  There’ll be two thousand deeds to draw, at the least.”

“Our romance is turning into a locomotive,” said Ernestine to Cecile.

“A count with a railway is all the more marriageable,” remarked Achille Pigoult.  “But who knows whether he is a bachelor?”

“Oh!  I shall know that to-morrow from grandpapa,” cried Cecile, with pretended enthusiasm.

“What a jest!” said Madame Mollot.  “You can’t really mean, my little Cecile, that you are thinking of that stranger?”

“But the husband is always the stranger,” interposed Olivier Vinet, making a sign to Mademoiselle Beauvisage which she fully understood.

“Why shouldn’t I think of him?” asked Cecile; “that isn’t compromising.  Besides, he is, so these gentlemen say, either some great speculator, or some great seigneur, and either would suit me.  I love Paris; and I want a house, a carriage, an opera-box, etc., in Paris.”

“That’s right,” said Vinet.  “When people dream, they needn’t refuse themselves anything.  If I had the pleasure of being your brother I should marry you to the young Marquis de Cinq-Cygne, who seems to me a lively young scamp who will make the money dance, and will laugh at his mother’s prejudices against the actors in the famous Simeuse melodrama.”

“It would be easier for you to make yourself prime-minister,” said Madame Marion.  “There will never be any alliance between the granddaughter of Grevin and the Cinq-Cygnes.”

“Romeo came within an ace of marrying Juliet,” remarked Achille Pigoult, “and Mademoiselle is more beautiful than—­”

“Oh! if you are going to quote operas and opera beauties!” said Herbelot the notary, naively, having finished his game of whist.

“My legal brother,” said Achille Pigoult, “is not very strong on the history of the middle ages.”

“Come, Malvina!” said the stout notary to his wife, making no reply to his young associate.

“Tell me, Monsieur Antonin,” said Cecile to the sub-prefect, “you spoke of Anicette, the maid of the Princesse de Cadignan; do you know her?”

“No, but Julien does; she is the goddaughter of his father, and they are good friends together.”

“Then try, through Julien, to get her to live with us.  Mamma wouldn’t consider wages.”

“Mademoiselle, to hear is to obey, as they say to despots in Asia,” replied the sub-prefect.  “Just see to what lengths I will go in order to serve you.”

And he left the room to give Julien orders to go with Anicette in the chariot and coax her away from the princess at any price.