[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the file for those who may wish to sample the author’s ideas before making an entire meal of them. D.W.]
THE CONFESSIONS OF HARRY LORREQUER, v5
[By Charles James Lever (1806-1872)]
Dublin
MDCCCXXXIX.
Volume 5. (Chapter XXIX-XLI)
Contents:
CHAPTER XXIX Captain Trevanion’s Adventure
CHAPTER XXX Difficulties
CHAPTER XXXI Explanation
CHAPTER XXXII Mr O’Leary’s First Love
CHAPTER XXXIII Mr O’Leary’s Second Love
CHAPTER XXXIV The Duel
CHAPTER XXXV Early Recollections–A First Love
CHAPTER XXXVI Wise Resolves
CHAPTER XXXVII The Proposal
CHAPTER XXXVIII Thoughts upon Matrimony in general, and in the Army in particular–The Knight of Kerry and Billy M’Cabe
CHAPTER XXXIX A Reminiscence
CHAPTER XL The Two Letters
CHAPTER XLI Mr O’Leary’s Capture
CHAPTER XXIX.
CAPTAIN TREVANION’S ADVENTURE.
As the day was now waning apace, and I was still unprovided with any one who could act as my second, I set out upon a search through the various large hotels in the neighbourhood, trusting that amid my numerous acquaintance I should be fortunate enough to find some of them at Paris. With a most anxious eye I scanned the lists of arrivals at the usual haunts of my countrymen, in the Rue Rivoli, and the Place Vendome, but without success; there were long catalogues of “Milors,” with their “couriers,” &c. but not one name known to me in the number.
I repaired to Galignani’s library, which, though crowded as ever with English, did not present to me one familiar face. From thence I turned into the Palais Royale, and at last, completely jaded by walking, and sick from disappointment, I sat down upon a bench in the Tuilleries Garden.
I had scarcely been there many minutes when a gentleman accosted me in English, saying, “May I ask if this be your property?” showing, at the same time, a pocket-book which I had inadvertently dropped in pulling out my handkerchief. As I thanked him for his attention, and was about to turn away, I perceived that he continued to look very steadily at me. At length he said,
“I think I am not mistaken; I have the pleasure to see Mr. Lorrequer, who may perhaps recollect my name, Trevanion of the 43rd. The last time we met was at Malta.”
“Oh, I remember perfectly. Indeed I should be very ungrateful if I did not; for to your kind offices there I am indebted for my life. You must surely recollect the street row at the ‘Caserne?'”
“Yes; that was a rather brisk affair while it lasted; but, pray, how long are you here?”
“Merely a few days; and most anxious am I to leave as soon as possible; for, independently of pressing reasons to wish myself elsewhere, I have had nothing but trouble and worry since my arrival, and at this instant am involved in a duel, without the slightest cause that I can discover, and, what is still worse, without the aid of a single friend to undertake the requisite negociation for me.”
“If my services can in any way assist–“
“Oh, my dear captain, this is really so great a favour that I cannot say how much I thank you.”
“Say nothing whatever, but rest quite assured that I am completely at your disposal; for although we are not very old friends, yet I have heard so much of you from some of ours, that I feel as if we had been long acquainted.”
This was an immense piece of good fortune to me; for, of all the persons I knew, he was the most suited to aid me at this moment. In addition to a thorough knowledge of the continent and its habits, he spoke French fluently, and had been the most renomme authority in the duello to a large military acquaintance; joining to a consummate tact and cleverness in his diplomacy, a temper that never permitted itself to be ruffled, and a most unexceptionable reputation for courage. In a word, to have had Trevanion for your second, was not only to have secured odds in your favour, but, still better, to have obtained the certainty that, let the affair take what turn it might, you were sure of coming out of it with credit. He was the only man I have ever met, who had much mixed himself in transactions of this nature, and yet never, by any chance, had degenerated into the fire-eater; more quiet, unassuming manners it was impossible to meet with, and, in the various anecdotes I have heard of him, I have always traced a degree of forbearance, that men of less known bravery might not venture to practise. At the same time, when once roused by any thing like premeditated insult–or pre-determined affront– he became almost ungovernable, and it would be safer to beard the lion in his den than cross his path. Among the many stories, and there were a great many current in his regiment concerning him, there was one so singularly characteristic of the man, that, as I have passingly mentioned his name here, I may as well relate it; at the same time premising that, as it is well known, I may only be repeating an often-heard tale to many of my readers.
When the regiment to which Trevanion belonged became part of the army of occupation in Paris, he was left at Versailles seriously ill from the effects of a sabre-wound he received at Waterloo, and from which his recovery at first was exceedingly doubtful. At the end of several weeks, however, he became out of danger, and was able to receive the visits of his brother officers, whenever they were fortunate enough to obtain a day’s leave of absence, to run down and see him. From them he learned that one of his oldest friends in the regiment had fallen in a duel, during the time of his illness, and that two other officers were dangerously wounded–one of whom was not expected to survive. When he inquired as to the reasons of these many disasters, he was informed that since the entrance of the allies into Paris, the French officers, boiling with rage and indignation at their recent defeat, and smarting under the hourly disgrace which the presence of their conquerors suggested, sought out, by every means in their power, opportunities of insult; but always so artfully contrived as to render the opposite party the challenger, thus reserving to themselves the choice of weapons. When therefore it is borne in mind that the French are the most expert swordsmen in Europe, little doubt can exist as to the issue of these combats; and, in fact, scarcely a morning passed without three or four English or Prussian officers being carried through the Barriere de l’Etoile, if not dead, at least seriously wounded, and condemned to carry with them through life the inflictions of a sanguinary and savage spirit of revenge.
While Trevanion listened to this sad recital, and scarcely did a day come without adding to the long catalogue of disasters, he at once perceived that the quiet deportment and unassuming demeanour which so strongly characterise the English officer, were construed by their French opponents into evidences of want of courage, and saw that to so systematic a plan for slaughter no common remedy could be applied, and that some “coup d’etat” was absolutely necessary, to put it down once and for ever.
In the history of these sanguinary rencontres, one name was continually recurring, generally as the principal, sometimes the instigator of the quarrel. This was an officer of a chasseur regiment, who had the reputation of being the best swordsman in the whole French army, and was no less distinguished for his “skill at fence,” than his uncompromising hatred of the British, with whom alone, of all the allied forces, he was ever known to come in contact. So celebrated was the “Capitaine Augustin Gendemar” for his pursuits, that it was well known at that time in Paris that he was the president of a duelling club, associated for the express and avowed object of provoking to insult, and as certainly dooming to death every English officer upon whom they could fasten a quarrel.
The Cafe Philidor, at that period in the Rue Vivienne, was the rendezvous of this reputable faction, and here “le Capitaine” reigned supreme, receiving accounts of the various “affairs” which were transacting– counselling and plotting for the future. His ascendancy among his countrymen was perfectly undisputed, and being possessed of great muscular strength, with that peculiarly “farouche” exterior, without which courage is nothing in France, he was in every way calculated for the infamous leadership he assumed.
It was, unfortunately, to this same cafe, being situated in what was called the English quarter, that the officers of the 43rd regiment were in the habit of resorting, totally unaware of the plots by which they were surrounded, and quite unsuspecting the tangled web of deliberate and cold-blooded assassination in which they were involved, and here took place the quarrel, the result of which was the death of Trevanion’s friend, a young officer of great promise, and universally beloved in his regiment.
As Trevanion listened to these accounts, his impatience became daily greater, that his weak state should prevent his being among his brother officers, when his advice and assistance were so imperatively required, and where, amid all the solicitude for his perfect recovery, he could not but perceive they ardently wished for him.
The day at last arrived, and restored to something like his former self, Trevanion once more appeared in the mess-room of his regiment. Amid the many sincere and hearty congratulations on his recovered looks, were not a few half-expressed hints that he might not go much out into the world for some little time to come. To these friendly admonitions Trevanion replied by a good-humoured laugh, and a ready assurance that he understood the intended kindness, and felt in no wise disposed to be invalided again. “In fact,” said he, “I have come up here to enjoy life a little, not to risque it; but, among the sights of your gay capital, I must certainly have a peep at your famed captain, of whom I have heard too much not to feel an interest in him.”
Notwithstanding the many objections to this, made with a view to delay his visit to the Philidor to a later period, it was at length agreed, that they should all repair to the cafe that evening, but upon the express understanding that every cause of quarrel should be strictly avoided, and that their stay should be merely sufficient to satisfy Trevanion’s curiosity as to the personnel of the renomme captain.
It was rather before the usual hour of the cafe’s filling, that a number of English officers, among whom was Trevanion, entered the “salon” of the “Philidor;” having determined not to attract any unusual attention, they broke into little knots and parties of threes and fours, and dispersed through the room, where they either sipped their coffee or played at dominoes, then, as now, the staple resource of a French cafe.
The clock over the “comptoir” struck eight, and, at the same instant, a waiter made his appearance, carrying a small table, which he placed beside the fire, and, having trimmed a lamp, and placed a large fauteuil before it, was about to withdraw, when Trevanion, whose curiosity was roused by the singularity of these arrangements, determined upon asking for whose comfort they were intended. The waiter stared for a moment at the question, with an air as if doubting the seriousness of him who put it, and at last replied–“Pour Monsieur le Capitaine, je crois,” with a certain tone of significance upon the latter words.
“Le Capitaine! but what captain?” said he, carelessly; “for I am a captain, and that gentleman there–and there, too, is another,” at the same instant throwing himself listlessly into the well-cushioned chair, and stretching out his legs at full length upon the hearth.
The look of horror which this quiet proceeding on his part, elicited from the poor waiter, so astonished him that he could not help saying–“is there any thing the matter with you, my friend; are you ill?”
“No, monsieur, not ill; nothing the matter with me; but you, sir; oh, you, sir, pray come away.”
“Me,” said Trevanion; “me! why, my good man, I was never better in my life; so now just bring me my coffee and the Moniteur, if you have it; there, don’t stare that way, but do as I bid you.”
There was something in the assured tone of these few words that either overawed or repressed every rising feeling of the waiter, for his interrogator; for, silently handing his coffee and the newspaper, he left the room; not, however, without bestowing a parting glance so full of terror and dismay that our friend was obliged to smile at it. All this was the work of a few minutes, and not until the noise of new arrivals had attracted the attention of his brother officers, did they perceive where he had installed himself, and to what danger he was thus, as they supposed, unwittingly exposed.
It was now, however, too late for remonstrance; for already several French officers had noticed the circumstance, and by their interchange of looks and signs, openly evinced their satisfaction at it, and their delight at the catastrophe which seemed inevitable to the luckless Englishman.
In perfect misery at what they conceived their own fault, in not apprising him of the sacred character of that place, they stood silently looking at him as he continued to sip his coffee, apparently unconscious of every thing and person about him.
There was now a more than ordinary silence in the cafe, which at all times was remarkable for the quiet and noiseless demeanour of its frequenters, when the door was flung open by the ready waiter, and the Capitaine Augustin Gendemar entered. He was a large, squarely-built man, with a most savage expression of countenance, which a bushy beard and shaggy overhanging moustache served successfully to assist; his eyes were shaded by deep, projecting brows, and long eyebrows slanting over them, and increasing their look of piercing sharpness; there was in his whole air and demeanour that certain French air of swaggering bullyism, which ever remained in those who, having risen from the ranks, maintained the look of ruffianly defiance which gave their early character for courage peculiar merit.
To the friendly salutations of his countrymen he returned the slightest and coldest acknowledgments, throwing a glance of disdain around him as he wended his way to his accustomed place beside the fire; this he did with as much of noise and swagger as he could well contrive; his sabre and sabretasch clanking behind, his spurs jangling, and his heavy step, made purposely heavier to draw upon him the notice and attention he sought for. Trevanion alone testified no consciousness of his entrance, and appeared totally engrossed by the columns of his newspaper, from which he never lifted his eyes for an instant. Le Capitaine at length reached the fire-place, when, no sooner did he behold his accustomed seat in the possession of another, than he absolutely started back with surprise and anger.
What might have been his first impulse it is hard to say, for, as the blood rushed to his face and forehead, he clenched his hands firmly, and seemed for an instant, as he eyed the stranger, like a tiger about to spring upon its victim; this was but for a second, for turning rapidly round towards his party, he gave them a look of peculiar meaning, showing two rows of white teeth, with a grin which seemed to say, “I have taken my line;” and he had done so. He now ordered the waiter, in a voice of thunder, to bring him a chair, this he took roughly from him, and placed, with a crash, upon the floor, exactly opposite that of Trevanion, and still so near as scarcely to permit of his sitting down upon it. The noisy vehemence of this action at last appeared to have roused Trevanion’s attention, for he now, for the first time, looked up from his paper, and quietly regarded his vis-a-vis. There could not in the world be a stronger contrast to the bland look and courteous expression of Trevanion’s handsome features, than the savage scowl of the enraged Frenchman, in whose features the strong and ill-repressed workings of passion were twitching and distorting every lineament and line; indeed no words could ever convey one half so forcibly as did that look, insult– open, palpable, deep, determined insult.
Trevanion, whose eyes had been merely for a moment lifted from his paper, again fell, and he appeared to take no notice whatever of the extraordinary proximity of the Frenchman, still less of the savage and insulting character of his looks.
Le Capitaine, having thus failed to bring on the eclaircissement he sought for, proceeded to accomplish it by other means; for, taking the lamp, by the light of which Trevanion was still reading, he placed it at his side of the table, and at the same instant stretching across his arm, he plucked the newspaper from his hand, giving at the same moment a glance of triumph towards the bystanders, as though he would say, “you see what he must submit to.” Words cannot describe the astonishment of the British officers, as they beheld Trevanion, under this gross and open insult, content himself by a slight smile and half bow, as if returning a courtesy, and then throw his eyes downward, as if engaged in deep thought, while the triumphant sneer of the French, at this unaccountable conduct, was absolutely maddening to them to endure.
But their patience was destined to submit to stronger proof, for at this instant le Capitaine stretched forth one enormous leg, cased in his massive jack-boot, and with a crash deposited the heel upon the foot of their friend Trevanion. At length he is roused, thought they, for a slight flush of crimson flitted across his cheek, and his upper lip trembled with a quick spasmodic twitching; but both these signs were over in a second, and his features were as calm and unmoved as before, and his only appearance of consciousness of the affront, was given by his drawing back his chair and placing his legs beneath it, as for protection.
This last insult, and the tame forbearance with which it was submitted to, produced all their opposite effects upon the by-standers, and looks of ungovernable rage and derisive contempt were every moment interchanging; indeed, were it not for the all-absorbing interest which the two great actors in the scene had concentrated upon themselves, the two parties must have come at once into open conflict.
The clock of the cafe struck nine, the hour at which Gendemar always retired, so calling to the waiter for his petit verre of brandy, he placed his newspaper upon the table, and putting both his elbows upon it, and his chin upon his hands, he stared full in Trevanion’s face, with a look of the most derisive triumph, meant to crown the achievement of the evening. To this, as to all his former insults, Trevanion appeared still insensible, and merely regarded him with his never–changing half smile; the petite verre arrived; le Capitaine took it in his hand, and, with a nod of most insulting familiarity, saluted Trevanion, adding with a loud voice, so as to be heard on every side–“a votre courage, Anglais.” He had scarcely swallowed the liqueur when Trevanion rose slowly from his chair, displaying to the astonished gaze of the Frenchman the immense proportions and gigantic frame of a man well known as the largest officer in the British army; with one stride he was beside the chair of the Frenchman, and with the speed of lightening he seized his nose by one hand, while with the other he grasped his lower jaw, and, wrenching open his mouth with the strength of an ogre, he spat down his throat.
So sudden was the movement, that before ten seconds had elapsed, all was over, and the Frenchman rushed from the room, holding the fragments of his jaw-bone, (for it was fractured!) And followed by his countrymen, who, from that hour, deserted the Cafe Philidor, nor was there ever any mention of the famous captain during the stay of the regiment in Paris.
CHAPTER XXX.
DIFFICULTIES.
While we walked together towards Meurice, I explained to Trevanion the position in which I stood; and having detailed, at full length, the fracas at the Salon, and the imprisonment of O’Leary, entreated his assistance in behalf of him, as well as to free me from some of my many embarrassments.
It was strange enough–though at first so pre-occupied was I with other thoughts, that I paid but little attention to it–that no part of my eventful evening seemed to make so strong an impression on him as my mention of having seen my cousin Guy, and heard from him of the death of my uncle. At this portion of my story he smiled, with so much significance of meaning, that I could not help asking his reason.
“It is always an unpleasant task, Mr. Lorrequer, to speak in any way, however delicately, in a tone of disparagement of a man’s relatives; and, therefore, as we are not long enough acquainted–“
“But pray,” said I, “waive that consideration, and only remember the position in which I now am. If you know any thing of this business, I entreat you to tell me–I promise to take whatever you may be disposed to communicate, in the same good part it is intended.”
“Well, then, I believe you are right; but, first, let me ask you, how do you know of your uncle’s death; for I have reason to doubt it?”
“From Guy; he told me himself.”
“When did you see him, and where?”
“Why, I have just told you; I saw him last night at the Salon.”
“And you could not be mistaken?”
“Impossible! Besides, he wrote to me a note which I received this morning–here it is.”
“Hem–ha. Well, are you satisfied that this is his handwriting?” said Trevanion, as he perused the note slowly twice over.
“Why, of course–but stop–you are right; it is not his hand, nor do I know the wiriting, now that you direct my attention to it. But what can that mean? You, surely, do not suppose that I have mistaken any one for him; for, independent of all else, his knowledge of my family, and my uncle’s affairs, would quite disprove that.”
“This is really a complex affair,” said Trevanion, musingly. “How long may it be since you saw your cousin–before last night, I mean?”
“Several years; above six, certainly.”
“Oh, it is quite possible, then,” said Trevanion, musingly; “do you know, Mr. Lorrequer, this affair seems much more puzzling to me than to you, and for this plain reason–I am disposed to think you never saw your cousin last night.”
“Why, confound it, there is one circumstance that I think may satisfy you on that head. You will not deny that I saw some one, who very much resembled him; and certainly, as he lent me above three thousand franks to play with at the table, it looks rather more like his act than that of a perfect stranger.”
“Have you got the money?” asked Trevanion dryly.
“Yes,” said I; “but certainly you are the most unbelieving of mortals, and I am quite happy that I have yet in my possession two of the billets de banque, for, I suppose, without them, you would scarcely credit me.” I here opened my pocket-book, and produced the notes.
He took them, examined them attentively for an instant, held them between him and the light, refolded them, and, having placed them in my pocket- book, said–“I thought as much–they are forgeries.”
“Hold!” said I, “my cousin Guy, whatever wildness he may have committed, is yet totally incapable of–“
“I never said the contrary, replied Trevanion, in the same dry tone as before.
“Then what can you mean, for I see no alternative between that and totally discrediting the evidence of my senses?”
“Perhaps I can suggest a middle course,” said Trevanion; “lend me, therefore, a patient hearing for a few moments, and I may be able to throw some light upon this difficult matter. You may never have heard that there is, in this same city of Paris, a person so extremely like your cousin Guy, that his most intimate friends have daily mistaken one for the other, and this mistake has the more often been made, from the circumstances of their both being in the habit of frequenting the same class in society, where, knowing and walking with the same people, the difficulty of discriminating has been greatly increased. This individual, who has too many aliases for one to know which to particularise him by, is one of that numerous order of beings whom a high state of civilization is always engendering and throwing up on the surface of society; he is a man of low birth and mean connexions, but gifted with most taking manners and an unexceptionable address and appearance; these advantages, and the possession of apparently independent means, have opened to him the access to a certain set of people, who are well known and well received in society, and obtained for him, what he prizes much more, the admission into several clubs where high play is carried on. In this mixed assemblage, which sporting habits and gambling, (that grand leveller of all distinctions,) have brought together, this man and your cousin Guy met frequently, and, from the constant allusion to the wonderful resemblance between them, your eccentric cousin, who, I must say, was never too select in his acquaintances, frequently amused himself by practical jokes upon their friends, which served still more to nurture the intimacy between them; and from this habit, Mr. Dudley Morewood, for such is his latest patronymic, must have enjoyed frequent opportunities of hearing much of your family and relations, a species of information he never neglected, though at the moment it might appear not so immediately applicable to his purposes. Now, this man, who knows of every new English arrival in Paris, with as much certainty as the police itself, would at once be aware of your being here, and having learned from Guy how little intercourse there had been of late years between you, would not let slip an opportunity of availing himself of the likeness, if any thing could thereby turn to his profit.”
“Stop,” cried I; “you have opened my eyes completely, for now I remember that, as I continued to win last night, this man, who was playing hazard at another table, constantly borrowed from me, but always in gold, invariably refusing the billets de banque as too high for his game.”
“There his object was clear enough; for besides obtaining your gold, he made you the means of disseminating his false billets de banque.”
“So that I have been actually playing and winning upon this fellow’s forgeries,” said I; “and am perhaps at this very instant inscribed in the ‘Livre noir’ of the police, as a most accomplished swindler; but what could be the intention of his note of this morning?”
“As to that,” said Trevanion, “it is hard to say; one thing you may assuredly rely upon–it is not an unnecessary epistle, whatever be its object; he never wastes his powder when the game flies too high; so we must only wait patiently for the unravelment of his plans, satisfied that we, at least, know something. What most surprises me is, his venturing, at present, to appear in public; for it is not above two months since an escapade of his attracted so much attention of the play world here, that he was obliged to leave, and it was supposed that he would never return to Paris.”
“One piece of good fortune there is at least,” said I, “which, I can safely say repays me for any and all the annoyance this unhappy affair may cause me; it is, that my poor old uncle is still alive and well. Not all my anticipated pleasures, in newly acquired wealth, could have afforded me the same gratification that this fact does, for, although never so much his favourite as my cousin, yet the sense of protection– the feeling of confidence, which is inseparable from the degree of relationship between us–standing, as he has ever done, in the light of a father to me, is infinitely more pleasurable than the possession of riches, which must ever suggest to me, the recollection of a kind friend lost to me for ever. But so many thoughts press on me–so many effects of this affair are staring me in the face–I really know not which way to turn, nor can I even collect my ideas sufficiently, to determine what is first to be done.”
“Leave all that to me,” said Trevanion; “it is a tangled web, but I think I can unravel it; meanwhile, where does the Militaire reside? for, among all your pressing engagements, this affair with the Frenchman must come off first; and for this reason, although you are not really obliged to give him satisfaction, by his merely producing your card, and insisting that you are to be responsible for the misdeeds of any one who might show it as his own address, yet I look upon it as a most fortunate thing, while charges so heavy may be at this moment hanging over your head, as the proceedings of last night involve, that you have a public opportunity of meeting an antagonist in the field–thereby evincing no fear of publicity, nor any intention of absconding; for be assured, that the police are at this moment in possession of what has occurred, and from the fracas which followed, are well disposed to regard the whole as a concerted scheme to seize upon the property of the banque, a not uncommon wind-up here after luck fails. My advice is therefore, meet the man at once; I shall take care that the prefect is informed that you have been imposed upon by a person passing himself off as your relative, and enter bail for your appearance, whenever you are called upon; that being done, we shall have time for a moment’s respite to look around us, and consider the other bearings of this difficult business.”
“Here, then, is the card of address,” said I; “Eugene Dejoncourt Capitaine de Cavalerie, No. 8, Chausse D’Antin.”
“Dejoncourt! why, confound it, this is not so pleasant; he is about the best shot in Paris, and a very steady swordsman besides, I don’t like this.”
“But you forget he is the friend, not the principal here.”
“The more good fortune yours,” said Trevanion, drily; “for I acknowledge I should not give much for your chance at twenty paces opposite his pistol; then who is the other?”
“Le Baron d’Haulpenne,” said I, “and his name is all that I know of him; his very appearance is unknown to me.”
“I believe I am acquainted with him,” said Trevanion; “but here we are at Meurice. Now I shall just write a few lines to a legal friend, who will manage to liberate Mr. O’Leary, whose services we shall need, two persons are usual on each side in this country, and then, ‘a l’ouvrage.'”
The note written and despatched; Trevanion jumped into a cab, and set out for the Chausse D’Antin; leaving me to think over, as well as I could, the mass of trouble and confusion that twenty-four hours of life in Paris had involved me in.
CHAPTER XXXI.
EXPLANATION.
It was past seven o’clock when Trevanion made his appearance, accompanied by O’Leary; and having in few words informed me that a meeting was fixed for the following morning, near St. Cloud, proposed that we should go to dinner at Verey’s, after which we should have plenty of time to discuss the various steps to be taken. As we were leaving the hotel for this purpose, a waiter requested of me to permit Mr. Meurice to speak a few words to me; which, having agreed to, I entered the little bureau where this Czar of hotels sits enthroned, and what was my surprise to learn the request he had to prefer, was nothing less than that I would so far oblige him as to vacate the room I possessed in the hotel, adding that my compliance would confer upon him the power to accommodate a “milor” who had written for apartments, and was coming with a large suite of servants. Suspecting that some rumour of the late affair at Frescati might have influenced my friend Meurice in this unusual demand, I abruptly refused, and was about to turn away, when he, perhaps guessing that I had not believed his statements, handed me an open letter, saying, “You see, sir, this is the letter; and, as I am so pressed for spare room, I must now refuse the writer.”
As my eye glanced at the writing, I started back with amazement to perceive it was in my cousin Guy’s hand, requesting that apartments might be retained for Sir Guy Lorrequer, my uncle, who was to arrive in Paris by the end of the week. If any doubt had remained on my mind as to the deception I had been duped by, this would completely have dispelled it, but I had long before been convinced of the trick, and only wondered how the false Guy–Mr. Dudley Morewood–had contrived to present himself to me so opportunely, and by what means, in so short a space of time, he had become acquainted with my personal appearance.
As I mentioned this circumstance of the letter to Trevanion, he could not conceal his satisfaction at his sagacity in unravelling the mystery, while this new intelligence confirmed the justness and accuracy of all his explanations.
While we walked along towards the Palais Royale, Trevanion endeavoured not very successfully, to explain to my friend O’Leary, the nature of the trick which had been practised, promising, at another time, some revelations concerning the accomplished individual who had planned it, which, in boldness and daring, eclipsed even this.
Any one who in waking has had the confused memory of a dream in which events have been so mingled and mixed as to present no uniform narrative, but only a mass of strange and incongruous occurrences, without object or connexion, may form some notion of the state of restless excitement my brain suffered from, as the many and conflicting ideas my late adventures suggested, presented themselves to my mind in rapid succession.
The glare, the noise, and the clatter of a French cafe are certainly not the agents most in request for restoring a man to the enjoyment of his erring faculties; and, if I felt addled and confused before, I had scarcely passed the threshold of Verey’s when I became absolutely like one in a trance. The large salon was more than usually crowded, and it was with difficulty that we obtained a place at a table where some other English were seated, among whom I recognised by lately made acquaintance, Mr. Edward Bingham.
Excepting a cup of coffee I had taken nothing the entire day, and so completely did my anxieties of different kinds subdue all appetite, that the most recherche viands of this well-known restaurant did not in the least tempt me. The champagne alone had any attraction for me; and, seduced by the icy coldness of the wine, I drank copiously. This was all that was wanting to complete the maddening confusion of my brain, and the effect was instantaneous; the lights danced before my eyes; the lustres whirled round; and, as the scattered fragments of conversations, on either side met my ear, I was able to form some not very inaccurate conception of what insanity may be. Politics and literature, Mexican bonds and Noblet’s legs, Pates de perdreaux and the quarantine laws, the extreme gauche and the “Bains Chinois,” Victor Hugo and rouge et noir, had formed a species of grand ballet d’action in my fevered brain, and I was perfectly beside myself; occasionally, too, I would revert to my own concerns, although I was scarcely able to follow up any train of thought for more than a few seconds together, and totally inadequate to distinguish the false from the true. I continued to confound the counterfeit with my cousin, and wonder how my poor uncle, for whom I was about to put on the deepest mourning, could possibly think of driving me out of my lodgings. Of my duel for the morning, I had the most shadowy recollection, and could not perfectly comprehend whether it was O’Leary or I was the principal, and indeed cared but little. In this happy state of independent existence I must have passed a considerable time, and as my total silence when spoken to, or my irrelevant answers, appeared to have tired out my companions, they left me to the uninterrupted enjoyment of my own pleasant imaginings.
“Do you hear, Lorrequer,” at last said Trevanion; “are you asleep, my dear friend? This gentleman has been good enough to invite us to breakfast to-morrow at St. Cloud.”
I looked up, and was just able to recognise the well-trimmed moustache of Mr. Edward Bingham, as he stood mumbling something before me. “St Cloud- –what of St. Cloud?” said I.
“We have something in that quarter to-morrow.”
“What is it, O’Leary? Can we go?”
“Oh! certainly–our engagement’s an early one.”
“We shall accept your polite invitation with pleasure”–
Here he stooped over, and whispered something in my ear; what, I cannot say, but I know that my reply, now equally lost to me, produced a hearty fit of laughing to my two friends.
My next recollection is, finding myself in a crowded loge at the theatre. It seems that O’Leary had acceded to a proposal from some of the other party to accompany them to the Porte St. Martin, where Mrs. Bingham and her daughter had engaged a box. Amid all the confusion which troubled thoughts and wine produced in me, I could not help perceiving a studied politeness and attention on the part of Mr. Edward Bingham towards me; and my first sobering reflection came, on finding that a place was reserved for me beside Miss Bingham, into which, by some contrivance I can in no wise explain, I found myself almost immediately installed. To all the excitements of champagne and punch, let the attractions of a French ballet be added, and, with a singularly pretty companion at your side, to whom you have already made sufficient advances to be aware that you are no longer indifferent to her, and I venture to predict, that it is much more likely your conversation will incline to flirting than political economy; and, moreover, that you make more progress during the performance of one single pas de deux upon the stage, than you have hitherto done in ten morning calls, with an unexceptionable whisker and the best fitting gloves in Paris. Alas! alas! it is only the rich man that ever wins at rouge et noir. The well-insured Indiaman, with her cargo of millions, comes safe into port; while the whole venture of some hardy veteran of the wave, founders within sight of his native shore. So is it ever; where success would be all and every thing, it never comes– but only be indifferent or regardless, and fortune is at your feet, suing and imploring your acceptance of her favours. What would I not have given for one half of that solicitude now so kindly expressed in my favour by Miss Bingham, if syllabled by the lips of Lady Jane Callonby– how would my heart have throbbed for one light smile from one, while I ungratefully basked in the openly avowed preference of the other. These were my first thoughts–what were the succeeding ones?
“Comment elle est belle,” said a Frenchwoman, turning round in the box next to us, and directing at the same moment the eyes of a moustached hero upon my fair companion.
What a turn to my thoughts did this unexpected ejaculation give rise to! I now began to consider her more attentively, and certainly concurred fully in the Frenchwoman’s verdict. I had never see her look half so well before. The great fault in her features, which were most classically regular, lay in the monotony and uniform character of their expression. Now this was quite changed. Her cheek was slightly flushed, and her eyes more brilliant than ever; while her slightly parted lips gave a degree of speaking earnestness to her expression, that made her perfectly beautiful.
Whether it was from this cause I cannot say, but I certainly never felt so suddenly decided in my life from one course to its very opposite, as I now did to make l’aimable to my lovely companion. And here, I fear, I must acknowledge, in the honesty of these confessional details, that vanity had also its share in the decision. To be the admitted and preferred suitor of the prettiest woman in company, is generally a strong inducement to fall desperately in love with her, independently of other temptations for so doing.
How far my successes tallied with my good intentions in this respect, I cannot now say. I only remember, that more than once O’Leary whispered to me something like a caution of some sort or other; but Emily’s encouraging smiles and still more encouraging speeches had far more effect upon me than all the eloquence of the united service, had it been engaged in my behalf, would have effected. Mrs. Bingham, too–who, to do her justice, seemed but little cognisant of our proceedings–from time to time evinced that species of motherly satisfaction which very young men rejoice much in, and older ones are considerably alarmed at.
The play over O’Leary charged himself with the protection of madam, while I enveloped Emily in her cachmere, and drew her arm within my own. What my hand had to do with her’s I know not; it remains one of the unexplained difficulties of that eventful evening. I have, it is true, a hazy recollection of pressing some very taper and delicately formed finger–and remember, too, the pain I felt next morning on awaking, by the pressure of a too tight ring, which had, by some strange accident, found its way to my finger, for which its size was but ill adapted.
“You will join us at supper, I hope,” said Mrs. Bingham, as Trevanion handed her to her carriage. “Mr. Lorrequer, Mr. O’Leary, we shall expect you.”
I was about to promise to do so, when Trevanion, suddenly interrupted me, saying that he had already accepted an invitation, which would, unfortunately, prevent us; and having hastily wished the ladies good night, hurried me away so abruptly, that I had not a moment given for even one parting look at the fair Emily.
“Why, Trevanion,” said I, “what invitation are you dreaming of? I, for one, should have been delighted to have gone home with the Binghams.”
“So I perceived,” said Trevanion, gravely; “and it was for that precise reason I so firmly refused what, individually, I should have been most happy to accept.”
“Then, pray, have the goodness to explain.”
“It is easily done. You have already, in recounting your manifold embarrassments, told me enough of these people, to let me see that they intend you should marry among them; and, indeed, you have gone quite far enough to encourage such an expectation. Your present excited state has led you sufficiently far this evening, and I could not answer for your not proposing in all form before the supper was over; therefore, I had no other course open to me than positively to refuse Mrs. Bingham’s invitation. But here we are now at the ‘Cadran rouge;’ we shall have our lobster and a glass of Moselle, and then to bed, for we must not forget that we are to be at St. Cloud by seven.”
“Ah! that is a good thought of yours about the lobster,” said O’Leary; “and now, as you understand these matters, just order supper, and let us enjoy ourselves.”
With all the accustomed despatch of a restaurant, a most appetizing petit souper made its speedy appearance; and although now perfectly divested of the high excitement which had hitherto possessed me, my spirits were excellent, and I never more relished our good fare and good fellowship.
After a full bumper to the health of the fair Emily had been proposed and drained by all three, Trevanion again explained how much more serious difficulty would result from any false step in that quarter than from all my other scrapes collectively.
This he represented so strongly, that for the first time I began to perceive the train of ill consequences that must inevitably result, and promised most faithfully to be guided by any counsel he might feel disposed to give me.
“Ah! what a pity,” said O’Leary, “it is not my case. It’s very little trouble it would cost any one to break off a match for me. I had always a most peculiar talent for those things.
“Indeed!” said Trevanion. “Pray, may we know your secret? for, perhaps, ere long we may have occasion for its employment.”
“Tell it, by all means,” said I.
“If I do,” said O’Leary, “it will cost you a patient hearing; for my experiences are connected with two episodes in my early life, which, although not very amusing, are certainly instructive.”
“Oh! by all means, let us hear them,” said Trevanion; “for we have yet two bottles of chambertin left, and must finish them ere we part.”
“Well, agreed,” said O’Leary; “only, once for all, as what I am about to confide is strictly confidential, you must promise never even to allude to it hereafter in even the most remote manner, much less indulge in any unseemly mirth at what I shall relate.”
Having pledged ourselves to secrecy and a becoming seriousness, O’Leary began his story as follows:–
CHAPTER XXXII.
MR. O’LEARY’S FIRST LOVE.
“It was during the vice-royalty of the late Duke of Richmond that the incidents I am about to mention took place. That was a few years since, and I was rather younger, and a little more particular about my dress than at present.” Here the little man cast an eye of stoical satisfaction upon his uncouth habiliments, that nearly made us forget our compact, and laugh outright. “Well, in those wild and headstrong days of youthful ardour, I fell in love–desperately in love–and as always is, I believe, the case with our early experiments in that unfortunate passion, the object of my affection was in every way unsuited to me. She was a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed maiden, with a romantic imagination, and a kind of a half-crazed poetic fervour, that often made me fear for her intellect. I’m a short, rather fat–I was always given this way”–here he patted a waistcoat that would fit Dame Lambert–“happy-minded little fellow, that liked my supper of oysters at the Pigeon-house, and my other creature-comforts, and hated every thing that excited or put one out of one’s way, just as I would have hated a blister. Then, the devil would have it–for as certainly as marriages are made in heaven, flirtations have something to say to the other place–that I should fall most irretrievably in love with Lady Agnes Moreton. Bless my soul, it absolutely puts me in a perspiration this hot day, just to think over all I went through on her account; for, strange to say, the more I appeared to prosper in her good graces, the more did she exact on my part; the pursuit was like Jacob’s ladder–if it did lead to heaven it was certainly an awfully long journey, and very hard on one’s legs. There was not an amusement she could think of, no matter how unsuited to my tastes or my abilities, that she did not immediately take a violent fancy to; and then there was no escaping, and I was at once obliged to go with the tide, and heaven knows if it would not have carried me to my grave if it were not for the fortunate (I now call it) accident that broke off the affair for ever. One time she took a fancy for yachting, and all the danglers about her–and she always had a cordon of them–young aides-de- camp of her father the general, and idle hussars, in clanking sabertasches and most absurd mustachios–all approved of the taste, and so kept filling her mind with anecdotes of corsairs and smugglers, that at last nothing would satisfy her till I–I who always would rather have waited for low water, and waded the Liffey in all its black mud, than cross over in the ferry-boat, for fear of sickness–I was obliged to put an advertisement in the newspaper for a pleasure-boat, and, before three weeks, saw myself owner of a clinker-built schooner, of forty-eight tons, that by some mockery of fortune was called ‘The Delight.’ I wish you saw me, as you might have done every morning for about a month, as I stood on the Custom-house quay, giving orders for the outfit of the little craft. At first, as she bobbed and pitched with the flood-tide, I used to be a little giddy and rather qualmish, but at last I learned to look on without my head reeling. I began to fancy myself very much of a sailor, a delusion considerably encouraged by a huge P. jacket and a sou’-wester, both of which, though it was in the dog-days, Agnes insisted upon my wearing, saying I looked more like Dirk Hatteraick, who, I understood, was one of her favourite heroes in Walter Scott. In fact, after she suggested this, she and all her friends called me nothing but Dirk.
“Well, at last, after heaven knows how many excuses on my part, and entreaties for delay, a day was appointed for our first excursion. I shall never forget that day–the entire night before it I did not close my eyes; the skipper had told me in his confounded sea-jargon, that if the wind was in one quarter we should have a short tossing sea; and if in another a long rolling swell; and if in a third, a happy union of both– in fact, he made it out that it could not possibly blow right, an opinion I most heartily coincided in, and most devoutly did I pray for a calm, that would not permit of our stirring from our moorings, and thus mar our projected party of pleasure. My prayer was unheard, but my hopes rose on the other hand, for it blew tremendously during the entire night, and although there was a lull towards morning, the sea, even in the river, was considerable.
“I had just come to the conclusion that I was safe for this time, when the steward poked his head into the room and said,
“‘Mr. Brail wishes to know, sir, if he’ll bend the new mainsail to-day, as it’s blowing rather fresh, and he thinks the spars light.’
“‘Why the devil take him, he would not have us go out in a hurricane; surely, Pipes, we could not take out ladies to-day?’
“‘O, bless your heart, yes, sir; it blows a bit to be sure, but she’s a good sea-boat, and we can run for Arklow or the Hook, if it comes fresher.’
“‘Oh, nonsense, there’s no pleasure in that; besides I’m sure they won’t like it–the ladies won’t venture, you’ll see.’
“‘Ay sir, but they’re all on board already: there’s eight ladies in the cabin, and six on deck, and as many hampers of victuals and as much crockery as if we were a-goin’ to Madeira. Captain Grantham, sir, the soldier officer, with the big beard, is a mixing punch in the grog-tub.’
“‘From the consequences of this day I proclaim myself innocent,’ said I with a solemn voice, as I drew on my duck trowsers, and prepared to set out.
“‘And the mainsail, sir,’ said the steward, not understanding what I said.
“‘I care not which,’ said I, doggedly; ‘act or part in this wilful proceeding I’ll not take.’
“‘Ay, ay, sir,’ said the stupid wretch, ‘then I’ll say you’re coming, and he may stretch the large canvas; for the skipper says he likes a wet jacket when he has gentlemen out.’
“Never did a victim put on a flame-coloured garment, the emblem of fate, and set out on the march of death, with a heavier heart, than did I put on my pilot-coat that morning to join my friends.
“My last hope deserted me as I saw the little vessel lying beside the quay; for I continued to trust that in getting out from the dock some accident or mischance might occur to spoil our sport. But no; there she lay, rolling and pitching in such a way that, even at anchor, they could not stand on the deck without holding. Amid the torrent of compliments for the perfection of all my arrangements, and innumerable sweet things on my taste in the decoration and fitting up of my cabin, I scarcely felt myself afloat for some minutes, and we got under weigh amid a noise and uproar that absolutely prevented the possibility of thought.
“Hitherto our destination had not been mentioned, and as all the party appealed to Lady Agnes, I could not be less gallant, and joined them in their request.
“‘Well then, what do you think of Lambay?’ said she, looking at the same moment towards the skipper.
“‘We can make it, my lady,’ said the man, ‘but we’ll have a roughish sea of it, for there’s a strong point of westward in the wind.’
“‘Then don’t think of it,’ said I. ‘We have come out for pleasure, not to make our friends sick, or terrify them. It does very well for us men.’
“‘There you are, Dirk, with your insolent sneers about women’s nerves and female cowardice. Now, nothing but Lambay will content me–what say you, ladies?’
“A general reply of approval met this speech, and it was carried by acclamation.
“‘Lambay then be it,’ said I, with the voice of a man, who, entreating to be shot, is informed that he cannot be afforded that pleasure, as his sentence is to be hanged. But I must hasten over these painful recollections. We dropped down the river, and soon left the light-house and its long pier behind us, the mast bending like a whip, and the sea boiling like barm over the lee gunwale. Still the spirit of our party only rose the lighter, and nothing but eulogies upon the men and sailing of the craft resounded on all sides; the din and buz of the conversation went on only more loudly and less restrictedly than if the party had been on shore, and all, even myself, seemed happy, for up to this moment I had not been sea-sick, yet certain pleasant sensations, that alternately evinced themselves in my stomach and my head, warned me of what was in store for me. The word was now given to tack; I was in the act of essaying a soft speech to Lady Agnes, when the confounded cry of ‘ready about, starboard there, let go sheets and tacks, stand by, hawl.’ The vessel plunged head-foremost into the boiling sea, which hissed on either bow; the heavy boom swung over, carrying my hat along with it–and almost my head too. The rest of the party, possibly better informed than myself, speedily changed their places to the opposite side of the boat, while I remained holding off fast by the gunwale, till the sea rushing over, what was now becoming the lee-side, carried me head over heels into the shingle ballast in the waist. Lord, how they did laugh! Agnes, too, who never before could get beyond a very faint smile, grew almost hysterical at my performance. As for me, I only wanted this to complete my long threatened misfortune; sea sickness in all its most miserable forms, set in upon me, and, ere half an hour, I lay upon that heap of small stones, as indifferent to all round and about me as though I were dead. Oh, the long, dreary hours of that melancholy day; it seemed like a year. They tacked and tacked, they were beat and tacked again, the sea washing over me, and the ruffianly sailors trampling upon me without the slightest remorse, whenever they had any occasion to pass back or forward. From my long trance of suffering I was partly roused by the steward shaking my shoulder, saying,
“‘The gentlemen wish to know, sir, if you’d like summat to eat, as they’re a goin’ to have a morsel; we are getting into slack water now.’
“‘Where are we?’ I replied, in a sepulchral voice.
“‘Off the Hook, sir; we have had a most splendid run, but I fear we’ll catch it soon; there’s some dirty weather to the westward.’
“‘God grant it,’ said I, piously and in a low tone.
“‘Did you say you’d have a bit to eat. Sir?’
“‘No!–eat!–am I a cannibal?–eat–go away–mark me, my good fellow, I’ll pay you your wages, if ever we get ashore; you’ll never set another foot aboard with me.’
“The man looked perfectly astounded as he moved away, and my thoughts were soon engrossed by the proceedings near me. The rattle of knives, and the jingling of plates and glasses went on very briskly for some time, accompanied by various pleasant observations of my guests, for such I judged them, from the mirth which ever followed them. At last I thought I heard my name, or at least what they pleased to use as its substitute, mentioned; I strained my ears to listen, and learnt that they were planning to talk over the pretended intention to run for Cowes, and see the regatta. This they discussed then, for about twenty minutes, in a very loud voice, purposely to see its effects upon me; but as I was now aware of the trick, I gave no sign of any intelligence.
“‘Poor Dirk,’ said Grantham; ‘I believe by this time he cares very little which way her head lies; but here comes something better than all our discussions. Lady Agnes, sit here–Miss Pelham, here’s a dry cushion for you–did you say a wing, Lady Mary?’
“Now began the crash and clatter of dinner; champagne corks popping, glasses ringing, and all that peculiar admixture of fracas and fun, which accompanies a scrambled meal. How they did laugh, and eat, ay, and drink too. G’s punch seemed to have its success, for sick as I was, I could perceive the voices of the men grow gradually louder, and discovered that two gentlemen who had been remarkably timid in the morning, and scarcely opened their lips, were now rather uproariously given, and one even proposed to sing.
“If any man, thought I, were to look for an instant at the little scene now enacting here, what a moral might he reap from it; talk of the base ingratitude of the world, you cannot say too much of it. Who would suppose that it was my boat these people were assembled in; that it was my champagne these people were drinking; that my venison and my pheasants were feeding those lips, which rarely spoke, except to raise a jest at my expense. My chagrin increased my sickness and my sickness redoubled my chagrin.
“‘Mr. Brail,’ said I, in a low whisper, ‘Mr. Brail.’
“‘Did you speak, sir?’ said he, with about as much surprise in his manner, as though he had been addressed by a corpse.
“‘Mr. Brail,’ said I, ‘is there any danger here?’
“‘Lord love you, no, sir, she’s walking Spanish, and the sea going down; we shall have lovely weather, and they’re all enjoying it, sir,–the ladies.’
“‘So I perceive,’ said I, with a groan; ‘so I perceive; but Mr. Brail, could you do nothing–just to–to startle them a little, I mean for fun only? Just ship a heavy sea or two, I don’t care for a little damage, Mr. Brail, and if it were to wash over the dinner-service, and all the wine, I should not like it worse.’
“‘Why, sir, you are getting quite funny, the sickness is going.’
“‘No, Mr. Brail, worse than ever; my head is in two pieces, and my stomach in the back of my mouth; but I should like you to do this–so just manage it, will you, and there’s twenty pounds in my pocket-book, you can have it; there now, won’t you oblige me, and hark ye, Mr. Brail– if Captain Grantham were to be washed over by mere accident it cannot be helped; accidents are always occurring in boating parties. Go now, you know what I mean.’
“‘But sir,’ began he.
“‘Well, then, Mr. Brail, you won’t–very well: now all I have to say is this: that the moment I can find strength to do it, I’ll stave out a plank; I’ll scuttle the vessel, that’s all; I have made up my mind, and look to yourselves now.’
“Saying these words, I again threw myself upon the ballast, and, as the gay chorus of a drinking song was wafted across me, prayed devoutly that we might all go down to the bottom. The song over, I heard a harsh, gruff voice mixing with the more civilized tones of the party, and soon perceived that Mr. Brail was recounting my proposal amid the most uproarious shouts of laughter I ever listened to. Then followed a number of pleasant suggestions for my future management; one proposing to have me tried for mutiny, and sentenced to a ducking over the side, another that I should be tarred on my back, to which latter most humane notion, the fair Agnes subscribed, averring that she was resolved upon my deserving my sobriquet of Dirk Hatteraick. My wrath was now the master even of deadly sickness. I got upon my knees, and having in vain tried to reach my legs, I struggled aft. In this posture did I reach the quarter-deck. What my intention precisely was in this excursion, I have no notion of now, but I have some very vague idea, that I meant to re- enact the curse of Kehama upon the whole party. At last I mustered strength to rise; but alas! I had scarcely reached the standing position, when a tremendous heel of the boat to one side, threw me in the gunwale, and before I was able to recover my balance, a second lurch pitched me headlong into the sea. I have, thank God, no further recollection of my misfortunes. When I again became conscious, I found myself wrapped up in a pilot-coat, while my clothes were drying: the vessel was at anchor in Wexford. My attached friends had started for town with post-horses, leaving me no less cured of love than aquatics.
“‘The Delight’ passed over in a few days, to some more favoured son of Neptune, and I hid my shame and my misfortunes by a year’s tour on the continent.”
“Although I acknowledge,” said Trevanion, “that hitherto I have reaped no aid from Mr. O’Leary’s narrative, yet I think it is not without a moral.”
“Well, but,” said I, “he has got another adventure to tell us; we have quite time for it, so pray pass the wine and let us have it.”
“I have just finished the burgundy,” said O’Leary, “and if you will ring for another flask, I have no objection to let you hear the story of my second love.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MR. O’LEARY’S SECOND LOVE.
“You may easily suppose,” began Mr. O’Leary, “that the unhappy termination of my first passion served as a shield to me for a long time against my unfortunate tendencies towards the fair; and such was really the case. I never spoke to a young lady for three years after, without a reeling in my head, so associated in my mind was love and sea-sickness. However, at last what will not time do. It was about four years from the date of this adventure, when I became so, from oblivion of my former failure, as again to tempt my fortune. My present choice, in every way unlike the last, was a gay, lively girl, of great animal spirits, and a considerable turn for raillery, that spared no one; the members of her own family were not even sacred in her eyes; and her father, a reverend dean, as frequently figured among the ludicrous as his neighbours.
“The Evershams had been very old friends of a rich aunt of mine, who never, by the by, had condescended to notice me till I made their acquaintance; but no sooner had I done so, than she sent for me, and gave me to understand that in the event of my succeeding to the hand of Fanny Eversham, I should be her heir, and the possessor of about sixty thousand pounds. She did not stop here; but by canvassing the dean in my favour, speedily put the matter on a most favourable footing, and in less than two months I was received as the accepted suitor of the fair Fanny, then one of the reigning belles of Dublin.
“They lived at this time about three miles from town, in a very pretty country, where I used to pass all my mornings, and many of my evenings too, in a state of happiness that I should have considered perfect, if it were not for two unhappy blots–one, the taste of my betrothed for laughing at her friends; another the diabolical propensity to talk politics of my intended father-in-law–to the former I could submit; but with the latter, submission only made bad worse; for he invariably drew up as I receded, drily observing that with men who had no avowed opinions, it was ill agreeing; or that, with persons who kept their politics as a school-boy does his pocket-money, never to spend, and always ready to change, it was unpleasant to dispute. Such taunts as these I submitted to as well as I might; secretly resolving, that as I now knew the meaning of whig and tory, I’d contrive to spend my life, after marriage, out of the worthy dean’s diocese.
“Time wore on, and at length, to my most pressing solicitations, it was conceded that a day for our marriage should be appointed. Not even the unlucky termination of this my second love affair can deprive me of the happy souvenir of the few weeks which were to intervene before our destined union.
“The mornings were passed in ransacking all the shops where wedding finery could be procured–laces, blondes, velvets, and satins, littered every corner of the deanery–and there was scarcely a carriage in a coach-maker’s yard in the city that I had not sat and jumped in, to try the springs, by the special directions of Mrs. Eversham; who never ceased to impress me with the awful responsibility I was about to take upon me, in marrying so great a prize as her daughter–a feeling I found very general among many of my friends at the Kildare-street club.
“Among the many indispensable purchases which I was to make, and about which Fanny expressed herself more than commonly anxious, was a saddle- horse for me. She was a great horsewoman, and hated riding with only a servant; and had given me to understand as much about half-a-dozen times each day for the last five weeks. How shall I acknowledge it– equestrianism was never my forte. I had all my life considerable respect for the horse as an animal, pretty much as I dreaded a lion or a tiger; but as to my intention of mounting upon the back of one, and taking a ride, I should as soon have dreamed of taking an airing upon a giraffe; and as to the thought of buying, feeding, and maintaining such a beast at my own proper cost, I should just as soon have determined to purchase a pillory or a ducking-stool, by way of amusing my leisure hours.
“However, Fanny was obstinate–whether she suspected any thing or not I cannot say–but nothing seemed to turn her from her purpose; and although I pleaded a thousand things in delay, yet she each day grew more impatient, and at last I saw that there was nothing for it but to submit.
“When I arrived at this last and bold resolve, I could not help feeling that to possess a horse and not be able to mount him, was only deferring the ridicule; and as I had so often expressed the difficulty I felt in suiting myself as a cause of my delay, I could not possibly come forward with any thing very objectionable, or I should be only the more laughed at. There was then but one course to take; a fortnight still intervened before the day which was to make me happy, and I accordingly resolved to take lessons in riding during the intervals, and by every endeavour in my power become, if possible, able to pass muster on the saddle before my bride.
“Poor old Lalouette understood but little of the urgency of the case, when I requested his leave to take my lessons each morning at six o’clock, for I dared not absent myself during the day without exciting suspicion; and never, I will venture to assert, did knight-errant of old strive harder for the hand of his lady-love than did I during that weary fortnight, if a hippogriff had been the animal I bestrode, instead of being, as it was, an old wall-eyed grey, I could not have felt more misgivings at my temerity, or more proud of my achievement. In the first three days the unaccustomed exercise proved so severe, that when I reached the deanery I could hardly move, and crossed the floor, pretty much as a pair of compasses might be supposed to do if performing that exploit. Nothing, however, could equal the kindness of my poor dear mother-in-law in embryo, and even the dean too. Fanny, indeed, said nothing; but I rather think she was disposed to giggle a little; but my rheumatism, as it was called, was daily inquired after, and I was compelled to take some infernal stuff in my port wine at dinner that nearly made me sick at table.
“‘I am sure you walk too much,’ said Fanny, with one of her knowing looks. ‘Papa, don’t you think he ought to ride; it would be much better for him.’
“‘I do, my dear,’ said the dean. ‘But then you see he is so hard to be pleased in a horse. Your old hunting days have spoiled you; but you must forget Melton and Grantham, and condescend to keep a hack.’
“I must have looked confoundedly foolish here, for Fanny never took her eyes off me, and continued to laugh in her own wicked way.
“It was now about the ninth or tenth day of my purgatorial performances; and certainly if there be any merit in fleshly mortifications, these religious exercises of mine should stand my part hereafter. A review had been announced in the Phoenix-park, which Fanny had expressed herself most desirous to witness; and as the dean would not permit her to go without a chaperon, I had no means of escape, and promised to escort her. No sooner had I made this rash pledge, than I hastened to my confidential friend, Lalouette, and having imparted to him my entire secret, asked him in a solemn and imposing manner, ‘Can I do it?’ The old man shook his head dubiously, looked grave, and muttered at length, ‘Mosch depend on de horse.’ ‘I know it–I know it–I feel it,’ said I eagerly–‘then where are we to find an animal that will carry me peaceably through this awful day–I care not for his price?’
“‘Votre affaire ne sera pas trop chere,’ said he.
“‘Why. How do you mean?’ said I.
“He then proceeded to inform me, that by a singularly fortunate chance, there took place that day an auction of ‘cast horses,’ as they are termed, which had been used in the horse police force; and that from long riding, and training to stand fire, nothing could be more suitable than one of these; being both easy to ride, and not given to start at noise.
“I could have almost hugged the old fellow for his happy suggestion, and waited with impatience for three o’clock to come, when we repaired together to Essex-bridge, at that time the place selected for these sales.
“I was at first a little shocked at the look of the animals drawn up; they were most miserably thin–most of them swelled in the legs–few without sore backs–and not one eye, on an average, in every three; but still they were all high steppers, and carried a great tail. ‘There’s your affaire,’ said the old Frenchman, as a long-legged fiddle-headed beast was led out; turning out his forelegs so as to endanger the man who walked beside him.
“‘Yes, there’s blood for you, said Charley Dycer, seeing my eye fixed on the wretched beast; ‘equal to fifteen stone with any foxhounds; safe in all his paces, and warranted sound; except,’ added he, in a whisper, ‘a slight spavin in both hind legs, ring gone, and a little touched in the wind.’ Here the animal gave an approving cough. ‘Will any gentleman say fifty pounds to begin?’ But no gentleman did. A hackney coachman, however, said five, and the sale was opened; the beast trotting up and down nearly over the bidders at every moment, and plunging on so that it was impossible to know what was doing.
“‘Five, ten–fifteen–six pounds–thank you, sir,–guineas’–‘seven pounds,’ said I, bidding against myself, not perceiving that I had spoken last. ‘Thank you, Mr. Moriarty,’ said Dycer, turning towards an invisible purchaser supposed to be in the crowd. ‘Thank you, sir, you’ll not let a good one go that way.’ Every one here turned to find out the very knowing gentleman; but he could no where be seen.
“Dycer resumed, ‘Seven ten for Mr. Moriarty. Going for seven ten–a cruel sacrifice–there’s action for you–playful beast.’ Here the devil had stumbled and nearly killed a basket-woman with two children.
“‘Eight,’ said I, with a loud voice.
“‘Eight pounds, quite absurd,’ said Dycer, almost rudely; ‘a charger like that for eight pounds–going for eight pounds–going–nothing above eight pounds–no reserve, gentlemen, you are aware of that. They are all as it were, his majesty’s stud–no reserve whatever–last time, eight pounds– gone.’
“Amid a very hearty cheer from the mob–God knows why–but a Dublin mob always cheer–I returned, accompanied by a ragged fellow, leading my new purchase after me with a bay halter. ‘What is the meaning of those letters,’ said I, pointing to a very conspicuous G.R. with sundry other enigmatical signs, burned upon the animal’s hind quarter.
“‘That’s to show he was a po-lice,’ said the fellow with a grin; ‘and whin ye ride with ladies, ye must turn the decoy side.’
“The auspicious morning at last arrived; and strange to say that the first waking thought was of the unlucky day that ushered in my yachting excursion, four years before. Why this was so, I cannot pretend to guess; there was but little analogy in the circumstances, at least so far as any thing had then gone. ‘How is Marius?’ said I to my servant, as he opened my shutters. Here let me mention that a friend of the Kildare- street club had suggested this name from the remarkably classic character of my steed’s countenance; his nose, he assured me, was perfectly Roman.
“‘Marius is doing finely, sir, barring his cough, and the thrifle that ails his hind legs.’
“‘He’ll carry me quietly, Simon, eh?’
“‘Quietly. I’ll warrant he’ll carry you quietly, if that’s all.’
“Here was comfort. Certainly Simon had lived forty years as pantry boy with my mother, and knew a great deal about horses. I dressed myself, therefore, in high spirits; and if my pilot jacket and oil-skin cap in former days had half persuaded me that I was born for marine achievements, certainly my cords and tops, that morning, went far to convince me that I must have once been a very keen sportsman somewhere, without knowing it. It was a delightful July day that I set out to join my friends, who having recruited a large party, were to rendezvous at the corner of Stephen’s-green; thither I proceeded in a certain ambling trot, which I have often observed is a very favourite pace with timid horsemen, and gentlemen of the medical profession. I was hailed with a most hearty welcome by a large party as I turned out of Grafton-street, among whom I perceived several friends of Miss Eversham, and some young dragoon officers, not of my acquaintance, but who appeared to know Fanny intimately, and were laughing heartily with her as I rode up.
“I don’t know if other men have experienced what I am about to mention or not; but certainly to me there is no more painful sensation than to find yourself among a number of well-mounted, well-equipped people, while the animal you yourself bestride seems only fit for the kennel. Every look that is cast at your unlucky steed–every whispered observation about you are so many thorns in your flesh, till at last you begin to feel that your appearance is for very little else than the amusement and mirth of the assembly; and every time you rise in your stirrups you excite a laugh.
“‘Where for mercy’s sake did you find that creature?’ said Fanny, surveying Marius through her glass.
“‘Oh, him, eh? Why he is a handsome horse, if in condition–a charger your know–that’s his style.’
“‘Indeed,’ lisped a young lancer, ‘I should be devilish sorry to charge or be charged with him.’ And here they all chuckled at this puppy’s silly joke, and I drew up to repress further liberties.
“‘Is he anything of a fencer?’ said a young country gentleman.
“‘To judge from his near eye, I should say much more of a boxer,’ said another.
“Here commenced a running fire of pleasantry at the expense of my poor steed; which, not content with attacking his physical, extended to his moral qualities. An old gentleman near me observing, ‘that I ought not to have mounted him at all, seeing he was so damned groggy;’ to which I replied, by insinuating, that if others present were as free from the influence of ardent spirits, society would not be a sufferer; an observation that I flatter myself turned the mirth against the old fellow, for they all laughed for a quarter of an hour after.
“Well, at last we set out in a brisk trot, and, placed near Fanny, I speedily forgot all my annoyances in the prospect of figuring to advantage before her. When we reached College-green the leaders of the cortege suddenly drew up, and we soon found that the entire street opposite the Bank was filled with a dense mob of people, who appeared to be swayed hither and thither, like some mighty beast, as the individuals composing it were engaged in close conflict. It was nothing more nor less than one of those almost weekly rows, which then took place between the students of the University and the town’s-people, and which rarely ended without serious consequences. The numbers of people pressing on to the scene of action soon blocked up our retreat, and we found ourselves most unwilling spectators of the conflict. Political watch-words were loudly shouted by each party; and at last the students, who appeared to be yielding to superior numbers, called out for the intervention of the police. The aid was nearer than they expected; for at the same instant a body of mounted policemen, whose high helmets rendered them sufficiently conspicuous, were seen trotting at a sharp pace down Dame-street. On they came with drawn sabres, led by a well-looking gentlemanlike personage in plain clothes, who dashed at once into the midst of the fray, issuing his orders, and pointing out to his followers to secure the ringleaders. Up to this moment I had been a most patient, and rather amused spectator, of what was doing. Now, however, my part was to commence, for at the word ‘charge,’ given in a harsh, deep voice by the sergeant of the party, Marius, remembering his ancient instinct, pricked up his ears, cocked his tail, flung up both his hind legs till they nearly broke the Provost’s windows, and plunged into the thickest of the fray like a devil incarnate.
“Self-preservation must be a strong instinct, for I well remember how little pain it cost me to see the people tumbling and rolling before and beneath me, while I continued to keep my seat. It was only the moment before and that immense mass were in man to man encounter; now all the indignation of both parties seemed turned upon me; brick-bats were loudly implored, and paving stones begged to throw at my devoted head; the wild huntsman of the German romance never created half the terror, nor one- tenth of the mischief that I did in less than fifteen minutes, for the ill-starred beast continued twining and twisting like a serpent, plunging and kicking the entire time, and occasionally biting too; all which accomplishments I afterwards learned, however little in request in civil life, are highly prized in the horse police.
“Every new order of the sergeant was followed in his own fashion by Marius; who very soon contrived to concentrate in my unhappy person, all the interest of about fifteen hundred people.
“‘Secure that scoundrel,’ said the magistrate, pointing with his finger towards me, as I rode over a respectable looking old lady, with a grey muff. ‘Secure him. Cut him down.’
“‘Ah, devil’s luck to him, if ye do,’ said a newsmonger with a broken shin.
“On I went, however, and now, as the Fates would have it, instead of bearing me out of further danger, the confounded brute dashed onwards to where the magistrate was standing, surrounded by policemen. I thought I saw him change colour as I came on. I suppose my own looks were none of the pleasantest, for the worthy man liked them not. Into the midst of them we plunged, upsetting a corporal, horse and all, and appearing as if bent upon reaching the alderman.
“‘Cut him down for heaven’s sake. Will nobody shoot him’ said he, with a voice trembling with fear and anger.
“At these words a wretch lifted up his sabre, and made a cut at my head. I stooped suddenly, and throwing myself from the saddle, seized the poor alderman round the neck, and we both came rolling to the ground together. So completely was he possessed with the notion that I meant to assassinate him, that while I was endeavouring to extricate myself from his grasp, he continued to beg his life in the most heartrending manner.
“My story is now soon told. So effectually did they rescue the alderman from his danger, that they left me insensible; and I only came to myself some days after by finding myself in the dock in Green-street, charged with an indictment of nineteen counts; the only word of truth is what lay in the preamble, for the ‘devil inciting’ me only, would ever have made me the owner of that infernal beast, the cause of all my misfortunes. I was so stupified from my hearing, that I know little of the course of the proceedings. My friends told me afterwards that I had a narrow escape from transportation; but for the greatest influence exerted in my behalf, I should certainly have passed the autumn in the agreeable recreation of pounding oyster shells or carding wool; and it certainly must have gone hard with me, for stupified as I was, I remember the sensation in court, when the alderman made his appearance with a patch over his eye. The affecting admonition of the little judge–who, when passing sentence upon me, adverted to the former respectability of my life, and the rank of my relatives–actually made the galleries weep.
“Four months in Newgate, and a fine to the king, then rewarded my taste for horse-exercise; and it’s no wonder if I prefer going on foot.
“As to Miss Eversham, the following short note from the dean concluded my hopes in that quarter.
“‘Deanery, Wednesday morning.
“‘Sir,–After the very distressing publicity to which your late conduct has exposed you–the so open avowal of political opinion, at variance with those (I will say) of every gentleman–and the recorded sentence of a judge on the verdict of twelve of your countrymen–I should hope that you will not feel my present admonition necessary to inform you, that your visits at my house shall cease.
“‘The presents you made my daughter, when under our unfortunate ignorance of your real character, have been addressed to your hotel, and I am your most obedient, humble servant,
“‘Oliver Eversham.’
“Here ended my second affair ‘par amours;’ and I freely confess to you that if I can only obtain a wife in a sea voyage, or a steeple chase, I am likely to fulfill one great condition in modern advertising–‘as having no incumbrance, or any objection to travel.'”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE DUEL.
Mr. O’Leary had scarcely concluded the narrative of his second adventure, when the grey light of the breaking day was seen faintly struggling through the half-closed curtains, and apprising us of the lateness of the hour.
“I think we shall just have time for one finishing flask of Chambertin,” said O’Leary, as he emptied the bottle into his glass.
“I forbid the bans, for one,” cried Trevanion. “We have all had wine enough, considering what we have before us this morning; and besides you are not aware it is now past four o’clock. So garcon–garcon, there–how soundly the poor fellow sleeps–let us have some coffee, and then inquire if a carriage is in waiting at the corner of the Rue Vivienne.”
The coffee made its appearance, very much, as it seemed, to Mr. O’Leary’s chagrin, who, however, solaced himself by sundry petits verres, to correct the coldness of the wine he had drank, and at length recovered his good humour.
“Do you know, now,” said he, after a short pause, in which we had all kept silence, “I think what we are about to do, is the very ugliest way of finishing a pleasant evening. For my own part I like the wind up we used to have in ‘Old Trinity’ formerly; when, after wringing off half a dozen knockers, breaking the lamps at the post-office, and getting out the fire engines of Werburgh’s parish, we beat a few watchmen, and went peaceably to bed.”
“Well, not being an Irishman,” said Trevanion, “I’m half disposed to think that even our present purpose is nearly as favourable to life and limb; but here comes my servant. Well, John, is all arranged, and the carriage ready?”
Having ascertained that the carriage was in waiting, and that the small box–brass bound and Bramah-locked–reposed within, we paid our bill and departed. A cold, raw, misty-looking morning, with masses of dark louring clouds overhead, and channels of dark and murky water beneath, were the pleasant prospects which met us as we issued forth from the Cafe. The lamps, which hung suspended midway across the street, (we speak of some years since,) creaked, with a low and plaintive sound, as they swung backwards and forwards in the wind. Not a footstep was heard in the street–nothing but the heavy patter of the rain as it fell ceaselessly upon the broad pavement. It was, indeed, a most depressing and dispiriting accompaniment to our intended excursion: and even O’Leary, who seemed to have but slight sympathy with external influences, felt it, for he spoke but little, and was scarcely ten minutes in the carriage till he was sound asleep. This was, I confess, a great relief to me; for, however impressed I was, and to this hour am, with the many sterling qualitites of my poor friend, yet, I acknowledge, that this was not precisely the time I should have cared for their exercise, and would have much preferred the companionship of a different order of person, even though less long acquainted with him. Trevanion was, of all others, the most suitable for this purpose; and I felt no embarrassment in opening my mind freely to him upon subjects which, but twenty-four hours previous, I could not have imparted to a brother.
There is no such unlocker of the secrets of the heart as the possibly near approach of death. Indeed, I question if a great deal of the bitterness the thought of it inspires, does not depend upon that very circumstance. The reflection that the long-treasured mystery of our lives (and who is there without some such?) is about to become known, and the secret of our inmost heart laid bare, is in itself depressing. Not one kind word, nor one remembrancing adieu, to those we are to leave for ever, can be spoken or written, without calling up its own story of half- forgotten griefs or, still worse, at such a moment, of happiness never again to be partaken of.
“I cannot explain why,” said I to Trevanion, “but although it has unfortunately been pretty often my lot to have gone out on occasions like this, both as principal and friend, yet never before did I feel so completely depressed and low-spirited–and never, in fact, did so many thoughts of regret arise before me for much of the past, and sorrow for the chance of abandoning the future”–
“I can understand,” said Trevanion, interrupting–“I have heard of your prospect in the Callonby family, and certainly, with such hopes, I can well conceive how little one would be disposed to brook the slightest incident which could interfere with their accomplishment; but, now that your cousin Guy’s pretensions in that quarter are at an end, I suppose, from all I have heard, that there can be no great obstacle to yours.”
“Guy’s pretensions at an end! For heaven’s sake, tell me all you know of this affair–for up to this moment I am in utter ignorance of every thing regarding his position among the Callonby family.”
“Unfortunately,” replied Trevanion, “I know but little, but still that little is authentic–Guy himself having imparted the secret to a very intimate friend of mine. It appears, then, that your cousin, having heard that the Callonbys had been very civil to you in Ireland, and made all manner of advances to you–had done so under the impression that you were the other nephew of Sir Guy, and consequently the heir of a large fortune–that is, Guy himself–and that they had never discovered the mistake during the time they resided in Ireland, when they not only permitted, but even encouraged the closest intimacy between you and Lady Jane. Is so far true?”
“I have long suspected it. Indeed in no other way can I account for the reception I met with from the Callonbys. But is it possible that Lady Jane could have lent herself to any thing so unworthy.”–
“Pray, hear me out,” said Trevanion, who was evidently struck by the despondency of my voice and manner. “Guy having heard of their mistake, and auguring well to himself from this evidence of their disposition, no sooner heard of their arrival in Paris, than he came over here and got introduced to them. From that time he scarcely ever left their house, except to accompany them into society, or to the theatres. It is said that with Lady Jane he made no progress. Her manner, at the beginning cold and formal, became daily more so; until, at last, he was half disposed to abandon the pursuit–in which, by the by, he has since confessed, monied views entered more than any affection for the lady– when the thought struck him to benefit by what he supposed at first to be the great bar to his success. He suddenly pretended to be only desirous of intimacy with Lady Jane, from having heard so much of her from you– affected to be greatly in your confidence–and, in fact, assumed the character of a friend cognizant of all your feelings and hopes, and ardently desiring, by every means in his power, to advance your views–“
“And was it thus he succeeded,” I broke in.
“‘Twas thus he endeavoured to succeed,” said Trevanion.
“Ah, with what success I but too well know” said I. “My uncle himself showed me a letter from Guy, in which he absolutely speaks of the affair as settled, and talks of Lady Jane as about to be his wife.”
“That may be all quite true; but a little consideration of Guy’s tactics will show what he intended; for I find that he induced your uncle, by some representations of his, to make the most handsome proposals, with regard to the marriage, to the Callonbys; and that, to make the story short, nothing but the decided refusal of Lady Jane, who at length saw through his entire game prevented the match.”
“And then she did refuse him,” said I, with ill-repressed exultation.
“Of that there can be no doubt; for independently of all the gossip and quizzing upon the subject, to which Guy was exposed in the coteries, he made little secret of it himself–openly avowing that he did not consider a repulse a defeat, and that he resolved to sustain the siege as vigorously as ever.”
However interested I felt in all Trevanion was telling me, I could not help falling into a train of thinking on my first acquaintance with the Callonbys. There are, perhaps, but few things more humiliating than the knowledge that any attention or consideration we have met with, has been paid us in mistake for another; and in the very proportion that they were prized before, are they detested when the truth is known to us.
To all the depressing influences these thoughts suggested, came the healing balm that Lady Jane was true to me–that she, at least, however others might be biassed by worldly considerations–that she cared for me –for myself alone. My reader (alas! for my character for judgment) knows upon how little I founded the conviction; but I have often, in these Confessions, avowed my failing, par excellence, to be a great taste for self-deception; and here was a capital occasion for its indulgence.
“We shall have abundant time to discuss this later on,” said Trevanion, laying his hand upon my shoulder to rouse my wandering attention–“for now, I perceive, we have only eight minutes to spare.”
As he spoke, a dragoon officer, in an undress, rode up to the window of the carriage, and looking steadily at our party for a few seconds, asked if we were “Messieurs les Anglais;” and, almost without waiting for reply, added, “You had better not go any farther in your carriage, for the next turn of the road will bring you in sight of the village.”
We accordingly stopped the driver, and having (with) some difficulty aroused O’Leary, got out upon the road. The militaire here gave his horse to a groom, and proceeded to guide us through a corn-field by a narrow path, with whose windings and crossings he appeared quite conversant. We at length reached the brow of a little hill, from which an extended view of the country lay before us, showing the Seine winding its tranquil course between the richly tilled fields, dotted with many a pretty cottage. Turning abruptly from this point, our guide led us, by a narrow and steep path, into a little glen, planted with poplar and willows. A small stream ran through this, and by the noise we soon detected that a mill was not far distant, which another turning brought us at once in front of.
And here I cannot help dwelling upon the “tableau” which met our view. In the porch of the little rural mill sat two gentlemen, one of whom I immediately recognised as the person who had waited upon me, and the other I rightly conjectured to be my adversary. Before them stood a small table, covered with a spotless napkin, upon which a breakfast equipage was spread–a most inviting melon and a long, slender-necked bottle, reposing in a little ice-pail, forming part of the “materiel.” My opponent was cooly enjoying his cigar–a half-finished cup of coffee lay beside him–his friend was occupied in examining the caps of the duelling pistols, which were placed upon a chair. No sooner had we turned the angle which brought us in view, than they both rose, and, taking off their hats with much courtesy, bade us good morning.
“May I offer you a cup of coffee,” said Monsieur Derigny to me, as I came up, at the same time filling it out, and pushing over a little flask of Cogniac towards me.
A look from Trevanion decided my acceptance of the proferred civility, and I seated myself in the chair beside the baron. Trevanion meanwhile had engaged my adversary in conversation along with the stranger, who had been our guide, leaving O’Leary alone unoccupied, which, however, he did not long remain; for, although uninvited by the others, he seized a knife and fork, and commenced a vigorous attack upon a partridge pie near him; and, with equal absence of ceremony, uncorked the champaign and filled out a foaming goblet, nearly one-third of the whole bottle, adding–
“I think, Mr. Lorrequer, there’s nothing like showing them that we are just as cool and unconcerned as themselves.”
If I might judge from the looks of the party, a happier mode of convincing them of our “free-and-easy” feelings could not possibly have been discovered. From any mortification this proceeding might have caused me, I was speedily relieved by Trevanion calling O’Leary to one side, while he explained to him that he must nominally act as second on the ground, as Trevanion, being a resident in Paris, might become liable to a prosecution, should any thing serious arise, while O’Leary, as a mere passer through, could cross the frontier into Germany, and avoid all trouble.
O’Leary at once acceded–perhaps the more readily because he expected to be allowed to return to his breakfast–but in this he soon found himself mistaken, for the whole party now rose, and preceded by the baron, followed the course of the little stream.
After about five minutes’ walking, we found ourselves at the outlet of the glen, which was formed by a large stone quarry, making a species of amphitheatre, with lofty walls of rugged granite, rising thirty or forty feet on either side of us. The ground was smooth and level as a boarded floor, and certainly to amateurs in these sort of matters, presented a most perfect spot for a “meeting.”
The stranger who had just joined us, could not help remarking our looks of satisfaction at the choice of ground, and observed to me–
“This is not the first affair that this little spot has witnessed; and the moulinet of St. Cloud is, I think, the very best ‘meet’ about Paris.”
Trevanion who, during these few minutes, had been engaged with Derigny, now drew me aside.
“Well, Lorrequer, have you any recollection now of having seen your opponent before? or can you make a guess at the source of all this?”
“Never till this instant,” said I, “have I beheld him,” as I looked towards the tall, stoutly-built figure of my adversary, who was very leisurely detaching a cordon from his tightly fitting frock, doubtless to prevent its attracting my aim.
“Well, never mind, I shall manage every thing properly. What can you do with the small sword, for they have rapiers at the mill?”
“Nothing whatever; I have not fenced since I was a boy.”
“N’importe–then we’ll fight at a barriere. I know they’re not prepared for that from Englishmen; so just step on one side now, and leave me to talk it over.”
As the limited nature of the ground did not permit me to retire to a distance, I became involuntarily aware of a dialogue, which even the seriousness of the moment could scarcely keep me from laughing at outright.
It was necessary, for the sake of avoiding any possible legal difficulty in the result, that O’Leary should give his assent to every step of the arrangement; and being totally ignorant of French, Trevanion had not only to translate for him, but also to render in reply O’Leary’s own comments or objections to the propositions of the others.
“Then it is agreed–we fight at a barriere,” said the Captain Derigny.
“What’s that, Trevanion?”
“We have agreed to place them at a barriere,” replied Trevanion.
“That’s strange,” muttered O’Leary to himself, who, knowing that the word meant a “turnpike,” never supposed it had any other signification.
“Vingt quatre pas, n’est pas,” said Derigny.
“Too far,” interposed Trevanion.
“What does he say now?” asked O’Leary.
“Twenty-four paces for the distance.”
“Twenty-four of my teeth he means,” said O’Leary, snapping his fingers. “What does he think of the length of Sackville-street? Ask him that, will ye?”
“What says Monsieur?” said the Frenchman.
“He thinks the distance much too great.”
“He may be mistaken,” said the Captain, half sneeringly. “My friend is ‘de la premiere force.'”
“That must be something impudent, from your looks, Mr. Trevanion. Isn’t it a thousand pities I can’t speak French?”
“What say you, then, to twelve paces? Fire together, and two shots each, if the first fire be inconclusive,” said Trevanion.
“And if necessary,” added the Frenchman, carelessly, “conclude with these”–touching the swords with his foot as he spoke.
“The choice of the weapon lies with us, I opine, “replied Trevanion. “We have already named pistols, and by them we shall decide this matter.”
It was at length, after innumerable objections, agreed upon that we should be placed back to back, and at a word given each walk forward to a certain distance marked out by a stone, where we were to halt, and at the signal, “une,” “deux,” turn round and fire.
This, which is essentially a French invention in duelling, was perfectly new to me, but by no means to Trevanion, who was fully aware of the immense consequence of not giving even a momentary opportunity for aim to my antagonist; and in this mode of firing the most practised and deadly shot is liable to err–particularly if the signal be given quickly.
While Trevanion and the Captain were measuring out the ground, a little circumstance which was enacted near me was certainly not over calculated to strengthen my nerve. The stranger who had led us to the ground had begun to examine the pistols, and finding that one of them was loaded, turned towards my adversary, saying, “De Haultpenne, you have forgotten to draw the charge. Come let us see what vein you are in.” At the same time, drawing off his large cavalry glove, he handed the pistol to his friend.
“A double Napoleon you don’t hit the thumb.”
“Done,” said the other, adjusting the weapon in his hand.
The action was scarcely performed, when the bettor flung the glove into the air with all his force. My opponent raised his pistol, waited for an instant, till the glove, having attained its greatest height, turned to fall again. Then click went the trigger–the glove turned round and round half-a-dozen times, and fell about twenty yards off, and the thumb was found cut clearly off at the juncture with the hand.
This–which did not occupy half as long as I have spent in recounting it –was certainly a pleasant introduction to standing at fifteen yards from the principal actor; and I should doubtless have felt it in all its force, had not my attention been drawn off by the ludicrous expression of grief in O’Leary’s countenance, who evidently regarded me as already defunct.
“Now, Lorrequer, we are ready,” said Trevanion, coming forward; and then, lowering his voice, added, “All is in your favour; I have won the ‘word,’ which I shall give the moment you halt. So turn and fire at once: be sure not to go too far round in the turn–that is the invariable error in this mode of firing; only no hurry–be calm.”
“Now, Messieurs,” said Derigny, as he approached with his friend leaning upon his arm, and placed him in the spot allotted to him. Trevanion then took my arm, and placed me back to back to my antagonist. As I took up my ground, it so chanced that my adversary’s spur slightly grazed me, upon which he immediately turned round, and, with the most engaging smile, begged a “thousand pardons,” and hoped I was not hurt.
O’Leary, who saw the incident, and guessed the action aright, called out:
“Oh, the cold-blooded villain; the devil a chance for you, Mr. Lorrequer.”
“Messieurs, your pistols,” said Le Capitaine la Garde, who, as he handed the weapons, and repeated once more the conditions of the combat, gave the word to march.
I now walked slowly forward to the place marked out by the stone; but it seemed that I must have been in advance of my opponent, for I remember some seconds elapsed before Trevanion coughed slightly, and then with a clear full voice called out “Une,” “Deux.” I had scarcely turned myself half round, when my right arm was suddenly lifted up, as if by a galvanic shock. My pistol jerked upwards, and exploded the same moment, and then dropped powerlessly from my hand, which I now felt was covered with warm blood from a wound near the elbow. From the acute but momentary pang this gave me, my attention was soon called off; for scarcely had my arm been struck, when a loud clattering noise to my left induced me to turn, and then, to my astonishment, I saw my friend O’Leary about twelve feet from the ground, hanging on by some ash twigs that grew from the clefts of the granite. Fragments of broken rock were falling around him, and his own position momentarily threatened a downfall. He was screaming with all his might; but what he said was entirely lost in the shouts of laughter of Trevanion and the Frenchmen, who could scarcely stand with the immoderate exuberance of their mirth.
I had not time to run to his aid–which, although wounded, I should have done–when the branch he clung to, slowly yielded with his weight, and the round, plump figure of my poor friend rolled over the little cleft of rock, and, after a few faint struggles, came tumbling heavily down, and at last lay peaceably in the deep heather at the bottom–his cries the whole time being loud enough to rise even above the vociferous laughter of the others.
I now ran forward, as did Trevanion, when O’Leary, turning his eyes towards me, said, in the most piteous manner–
“Mr. Lorrequer, I forgive you–here is my hand–bad luck to their French way of fighting, that’s all–it’s only good for killing one’s friend. I thought I was safe up there, come what might.”
“My dear O’Leary,” said I, in an agony, which prevented my minding the laughing faces around me, “surely you don’t mean to say that I have wounded you?”
“No, dear, not wounded, only killed me outright–through the brain it must be, from the torture I’m suffering.”
The shout with which this speech was received, sufficiently aroused me; while Trevanion, with a voice nearly choked with laughter, said–
“Why, Lorrequer, did you not see that your pistol, on being struck, threw your ball high up on the quarry; fortunately, however, about a foot and a half above Mr. O’Leary’s head, whose most serious wounds are his scratched hands and bruised bones from his tumble.”
This explanation, which was perfectly satisfactory to me, was by no means so consoling to poor O’Leary, who lay quite unconscious to all around, moaning in the most melancholy manner. Some of the blood, which continued to flow fast from my wound, having dropped upon his face, roused him a little–but only to increase his lamentation for his own destiny, which he believed was fast accomplishing.
“Through the skull–clean through the skull–and preserving my senses to the last! Mr. Lorrequer, stoop down–it is a dying man asks you–don’t refuse me a last request. There’s neither luck nor grace, honor nor glory in such a way of fighting–so just promise me you’ll shoot that grinning baboon there, when he’s going off the ground, since it’s the fashion to fire at a man with his back to you. Bring him down, and I’ll die easy.”
And with these words he closed his eyes, and straightened out his legs– stretched his arm at either side, and arranged himself as much corpse fashion as the circumstances of the ground would permit–while I now freely participated in the mirth of the others, which, loud and boisterous as it was, never reached the ears of O’Leary.
My arm had now become so painful, that I was obliged to ask Trevanion to assist me in getting off my coat. The surprise of the Frenchmen on learning that I was wounded was very considerable–O’Leary’s catastrophe having exclusively engaged all attention. My arm was now examined, when it was discovered that the ball had passed through from one side to the other, without apparently touching the bone; the bullet and the portion of my coat carried in by it both lay in my sleeve. The only serious consequence to be apprehended was the wound of the blood-vessel, which continued to pour forth blood unceasingly, and I was just surgeon enough to guess that an artery had been cut.
Trevanion bound his handkerchief tightly across the wound, and assisted me to the high road, which, so sudden was the loss of blood, I reached with difficulty. During all these proceedings, nothing could be possibly more kind and considerate than the conduct of our opponents. All the farouche and swaggering air which they had deemed the “rigueur” before, at once fled, and in its place we found the most gentlemanlike attention and true politeness.