Part 3

"Don't," I returned.

"But what shall we do? You are pretty poor company to-night. There is the Closerie des Lilas, and Mabille, and the Cafe des Droles."

I would none of them. I sat with my head in my hands, staring into the embers of the fading fire. I was crying a man's tears, thinking of the home fireside at evening, three thousand miles away. And if you think a man cannot cry without the shedding of material tears, life has taught you little of physiology; for this is the chief difference between man and woman.

At last Pierce rose up and said French and English profanities, and thought it no colder out of doors than within; therefore I put on my overcoat and a fez cap--such as we wore in those days--and followed him down-stairs, across the courtyard, and under its gray escutcheon and armorial bearings, and so into the outer air. A band of noisy students was passing out of the narrow Rue des Grands Augustins, singing. How often I have heard it, and how it rings in my head after these many long years!

Par derrier' chez ma tante I'ya-t-un bois joli; Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. Gai lon la, gai le rosier Du joli mois de mai.

Across the way two little maids in caps were filling their tins from the steaming heap of fried potatoes in the tiny shop of my old acquaintance Madame Beaumain.

We left the gayer streets and soon were walking through the maze of narrow avenues and lanes long since destroyed to make way for the wide boulevards of the Second Empire. We went along aimlessly, as it seemed to me, until presently Pierce stopped, exclaiming, "Yes, it is here," and turned from the Rue de l'Universite into the short _impasse_ at its further end. Here he paused.

"Well," I said, "where next?"

"My dear M----," he said, "I can't stand you alone any longer. I 'm going to take you to call on M. Des Illes."

Now, M. Des Illes was an acquaintance of a minute (to be accurate, of five minutes), and was nothing to me on earth but a quaint remembrance. I said I would go anywhere, call on devil or angel, do as he liked. As I made clear to him the amiability of my indifferent mood, he paused at the doorway of No. 37.

"Is this the place?"

"Yes, 37 _bis_." Upon this he rang, and the door opening in the usual mysterious Paris fashion, a concierge put out her head at the side of the passage, which seemed long and narrow.

"Is M. Des Illes at home?"

"Oui; tout en face, tout au fond; Porte a gauche."

"That 's droll," I said as we walked on. The passage was dimly lighted by a lantern hung on the wall. We went on quite three hundred feet, and came out into a courtyard some thirty feet by twice that length. The walls were high around it, but before us was a small hotel with a rather elaborate front, not easily made out by the feeble glimmer of a lantern over the door and another on the wall. The main entrance was a little to the left of the middle of the house, which seemed to be but one story high, and over this a Mansard roof.

"Interesting, is n't it?" said Pierce.

"Very," said I, as I rang. The door was opened at once, and we were in a hall some twenty feet square, beautifully lit with wax candles in the most charming of silver sconces. There were a few arms on the walls, and a portrait of a girl in a red gown and hoops. The servant who admitted us was in black from head to foot--a very tall man with an immense--an unusual nose, very red cheeks, and enormous ears.

I said, "M. Des Illes is at home?" and he, "Monsieur would oblige with the names, and this way, please." We gave him our cards and went after him. He warned us of a step, and of another, and we came into a little antechamber, where we were pleasantly bid to be seated. He came back at once, followed by the strangest little old gentleman imaginable. I said, "M. Des Illes, I believe?"

"Ah," he cried. "It cannot be that I am deceived. It is Monsieur, my preserver. What a happiness to see you here!" and upon this, to my great embarrassment, he kissed me upon both cheeks, while Pierce grinned at me maliciously over his shoulders.

"It was a small matter," I said.

"To you, no doubt; but not to me. Life is never a small possession to him that owns it. I have friends with me to-night who will feel it to be more than an honor to welcome you. M. Michel and M. Pierce, you said, I think. This is a most fortunate hour."

I said all the effusively pleasant things I could think of, while his servant relieved me of my overcoat. As Pierce was being aided in like manner I had a good look at my host, and made up my mind that he was probably dressed for a fancy ball. He was clearly a quite old man, curiously slight in person, and having almost the delicacy of features of a woman. Also he was clean shaven, wore his hair in a cue tied with black ribbon, and was clad in black silk or satin, with jet buttons, a long waistcoat, a full lace jabot, knee-breeches, black silk stockings, court shoes, and black jet buckles. With some puzzle of mind I concluded it to be a mourning suit of the last century, queer to see at this time and in this place.

As we crossed the antechamber M. Des Illes fluttered about us, gesticulating and talking with vehemence of his great debt to me, who thought it small and embarrassingly made too much of. I have laid away somewhere among my mental negatives a picture of the room into which we went, following our host. There were many candles in sconces, tables and chairs of Louis XV.'s time, and one cabinet of wonderful inlaid work filled with silver.

Two persons rose as we entered. To my surprise, I saw that they also were dressed in black of the same fashion as that worn by my host. All had cues, and, like M. Des Illes, wore swords with black sheaths. One of these gentlemen might have been forty years old, but the other, like my host, was a man far on in life and certainly not much under seventy years. As I stood a moment in the doorway, the two, who were playing piquet, rose, and M. Des Illes, going in before us, turned and said as we entered:

"I have great pleasure to present to you M. Michel, my preserver, of whom I have already told. It is he who has with heroism dragged me from before a swift-coming horse. He with modesty refused me his address. His name I shall forever cherish. Permit me, Duke, to present M. Michel."

I named my friend, who was introduced. Then we were let to know that the older man, who was stout and well built, and who seemed of M. Des Illes's years, was the Duke de St. Maur. He in turn presented to us the youngest of these quaintly clad people, his son, M. de St. Maur. When these gentlemen bowed, for neither did more, they took up much of the room, and in the space left to us--such courtesy being contagious--Pierce and I achieved quite as remarkable salutes.

This ceremony over, we were seated, and the tale of M. Des Illes's rescue having been told once more at too great length, the Duke rose, and, taking my hand, desired me to understand that I had conferred upon him a favor which I must have known M. Des Illes as long as he to understand. When his son had stated that none could better what his father had said, he added, "May it please God, Monsieur, that you never need a friend; and may his providence never leave you without one as good as you yourself have proved to be." I replied in fluent but unequal French, and began to have the keenest desire to know what the mischief all this masquerade might mean.

I soon observed that the politics of the day were out of the talk. When, indeed, we were speaking of pictures, and Pierce mentioned a portrait of the Prince President in the Salon, a manner of chill seemed to fall upon the party, while the Duke said with a certain gentle decisiveness, "You, who are our guests this evening, and will share it with us--may I say for my friend and myself that the person mentioned should never get so far into good society as to be talked of by gentlemen--at least not to-night--not to-night?"

"No," said St. Maur; "not to-night."

Pierce spoke quickly, "You will pardon us, Duke."

The Duke lifted a remonstrating hand. "It is not needed," he said. "And have you seen the great landscape by Diaz? I have the pendant; but now his prices have gone up, and we poor gentlefolk, alas!" Here he took snuff, and M. de St. Maur remarked with a smile, "My good father is never so near extravagance as when he talks of his poverty."

"He is shrewd, the young man, and of distressing economy--a quite modern economy. I bought it to-day." Our laughter set the chat on a less formal footing, and we fell to talking of theaters, actresses, the latest play, and the like, until at last M. Des Illes said. "Pardon, my dear Duke, but the hour is near when we must go down to the cellar."

Meanwhile no one had explained the costumes which appeared to have power to recall into active life the forms of manners with which they seemed to consist so well, the grave courtesies of an hour more patient than that in which we live. "We are at your service," said the Duke, rising. "Our friends must feel by this time as if they were calling on actors behind the scenes at the Odeon. Is it not so?" he added.

"Perhaps," I returned. "But the wise who are well entertained do not ask the name of the inn; at least so they say in Spain."

"Monsieur has found for us a delightful apology," said M. de St. Maur. "Let us leave him to guess our sad riddle; and now, the lanterns."

As he spoke, M. Des Illes came from a closet with lanterns and straw wine-baskets, of which he gave one to each of us. Then the candles in the lanterns were lighted, while Pierce and I, profoundly curious, said nothing.

"A pity," exclaimed the younger St. Maur, "that our friends' modern dress should interpolate a note of to-day."

"We can only regret," said I.

"It is but a wicked little remark, that," returned the Duke. "My son is of to-day, Monsieur. For him this is a masquerade, interesting, droll. But for us, _mon Dieu_! It is----."

"Yes, it is," returned Des Illes gravely.

"Pardon, Duke," said the son, smiling. "Once all these things lived for you and for our friend; but as to me--I have only the memory of another's memory."

"Neatly put!" cried Des Illes. "Almost a _mot_; as near as men get to it in these degenerate days. Well, well, if wit be dead, wine is not. Let us go now among the old memories of which your son speaks. Come, gentlemen."

With these words we went with him through a back room, and thence by a window into a garden. In the uncertain moonlight I saw that it was large, with great walls about it, and the appearance beyond these of tall, leafless trees. We passed a frozen basin and the figure of a dryad, and went after our host into a house for plants, now to appearance disused. At a far corner he lifted a trap-door and went before us down a stone stair to a wine-cellar such as is common in good French houses. Here were bottles and barrels of _vin ordinaire_ for common use. I began to feel an increase of interest when, near the far end of this cellar, M. Des Illes set down his lantern, unlocked a padlock, and, aided by St. Maur, lifted a larger trap-door. With a word of care as to the steps, he showed us the way down a broad stone stairway, and in a minute we were all standing on the rock floor of a great room underground.

As we saw the Duke and his companions hang their lanterns on hooks set in the wall, we did as they had done, and, placing our wine-baskets on casks, began to get used to the cross lights of the lanterns and to look around us. The space seemed to be some thirty feet long and perhaps as much as fifteen feet wide. It was cut out of the soft lime-rock which underlies Paris. Perhaps a dozen casks of wine, on racks, were set along one side of the cave, and over them, on stone shelves excavated in the walls, were hundreds of bottles.

"Be careful of the cobwebs," said Des Illes, and there was need to be. They hung from above in black curtains and in coarse openwork of tangled ropes. They lay over the bottles and across the casks, wonderful for amount and for their dark hue. The spinners of this funereal broidery I could nowhere see. It was the work of generations of arachnidean artists long dead; or else those who lived were hiding, scared, amidst these great pendent festoons. I wondered how the net-makers had lived, for flies there were none, and no other insect life so far as I could see. After this brief survey I observed that the air was cool, and so dry that it was hardly felt to be uncomfortable. The three gentlemen were moving to and fro, exchanging phrases apparently about the wine, and as I joined their little group it became clear that a selection was being made.

"There will be one bottle of the year," said the Duke.

"Yes, of the year," repeated our host.

"Might I ask of what year?" said Pierce.

"Of 1793," replied St. Maur; "the fatal year. Permit me"; and he held the basket wine-cradle while the Duke put on his glasses, and, turning the lantern-light on to a shelf, said: "There are but twelve left."

"Enough for us, friend," said Des Illes, lifting a bottle. "It has the black ribbon on the neck, but the spiders have so covered everything as with a pall, that it was hard to be sure." With this, he turned to me. "It has a black ribbon, you perceive."

"It has," I said, rather puzzled.

"And now, my friends, choose as you will, you cannot go far wrong. The sun of many summers is locked up in these bottles."

"I wall take Chambertin," said the Duke.

"And I, Pomard," said his son.

"And I," said Des Illes, "Romanee Conti. But all here are in the peerage of wines."

Then, when each of this curious company had made his choice, our host said to us:

"It will be best that I choose for you. There is already enough of Burgundy to trouble some toes to-morrow. Shall we say Bordeaux? Here are two of long descent, and one is a comet-wine--of a name long lost--and one is Laffitte, and both are in good order; neither is less than thirty years old. In this changeless atmosphere our great wines are long-lived. Have a care not to disturb the wines as we go up the stairs."

"We shall carry them with care," I replied, laughing, "until we have swallowed them."

"And then without care, I trust," cried the younger St. Maur. "Let us go; it is chilly here."

"A moment," said the Duke. "M. Michel will desire to know why all this costuming, and the bottles in mourning, and this ancient cellar."

"True," I returned. "I was about to ask."

"Well, well," said Des Illes. "A few words here, where they will have the more interest, and then let us mount, and end the tale with such memories as these good wines may suggest."

"This way," said the Duke to me. "Let me show you something." I followed him to the end of the cellar, where, to my surprise, I saw by the light of his lantern a door heavily built and guarded by a bar of wood. This he lifted, and as he opened the door, and we gazed into the deep darkness beyond, he said: "I show you a passageway into the catacombs of Paris, of which this cave must have been a part until built off to be made a cellar somewhere in the reign of Louis XV. And stay. Look at this"; and, turning aside, he showed me, as it lay on a cask, a cobwebbed bit of something.

"What is it?" I said.

"A woman's glove--and it has been here since 1794."

"The rest were better told in a less somber place," said St. Maur. "Let us go." Upon this we went up the stairs and out into the air. As we crossed through the barren shrubbery, each with his lantern and a little basket of wine, I thought that probably Paris could show no stranger sight than this sunken garden-space dark with box, the gentlemen in their dress of another time, and we two Yankees wondering what it all meant.

When at length we reentered M. Des Illes's drawing-room a brighter fire was on the hearth than is common in France. About it M. Des Illes set with care, in their cradles, the half-dozen bottles we had fetched from the cellar. I ventured to say that it would be long before they were warm enough to drink; but the Duke said that was quite a modern notion, and that he liked to warm his wine on the tongue. It seemed to me odd; but I am told it was once thought the thing to have red wines of the temperature of the cellar. When the wine was set at a correct distance from the fire, and the blaze heartened a little with added fuel, M. Des Illes excused himself, and, returning after some twenty minutes, explained that he had been arranging a dressing for the salad, but that it would be an hour before supper could be made ready.

"That," I said, "will give us full leisure to ask some questions."

"_Pardie!_" said St. Maur. "Had I been you, by this time I should have asked fifty."

"No doubt," laughed his father; and then, turning to us, "Usually when we dress as you see, we are alone--Des Illes and I at least--men of a forgotten past. But to-night friendly chance has sent you here, and it were but courteous that we explain what may seem absurd. M. Des Illes will tell you the story."

"It is many years since I heard it," said St. Maur. "I shall be well pleased to hear it once more."

"But it is long."

"_Fi donc_, my friend. The wine will be the better for waiting," said the Duke; "and, after all, some one must tell these gentlemen. As for me, I should spoil a good story."

Then Pierce and I said how delighted we should be to listen, but indeed we little knew how strange a tale we were to hear.

"It shall be as the Duke likes," said M. Des Illes. "Let us move nearer to the fireside. It is chilly, I think." Upon this we drew to the fire. Our host added a small fagot of tender twigs, so that a brief blaze went up and lit the dark velvets and jet buttons of the company.

"You will all have heard it," said Des Illes; "but it is as you desire. It will be new to our friends."

"And surely strange," said the Duke's son.

"My memory may prove short, Duke. If I fail, you will kindly aid me."

"Ah, my friend, neither your wine nor your memory has failed. But make haste, or your supper will be spoiled while we await a tale which is slow in coming."

"The things I shall speak of took place in the month of July, 1794. Alas! this being now 1853, I was in those days close to eleven years of age. My good Duke, here, was himself some two years younger. My father had been purveyor of wines to the Court, as his father had been, and I may say, too, that we were broken-down nobles who liked better this way of earning a meal than by clinging to the skirts of more lucky men of no better blood than we.

"There had been in the far past some kindly relation between my Duke's people and my own, and how it came about I know not, but my grandmother, when the old Duchess died, would have it she must nurse the little Duke, and hence between him, as he grew up, and my father was the resemblance often seen between brothers of one milk. We were all of us, my mother and father and I, living in this house when my story begins, and although in secret we were good servants of the King, we were quietly protected by certain Jacobins who loved good wine. In fact, we did very well and kept our heads from Madame Guillotine, and from suspicion of being enemies of the country, until the sad thing chanced of which I am made to tell the history.

"In the spring of 1793 the Duke, my father's foster-brother, came one day from the country in disguise, and with him this same Duke Henri you see here to-day. I do not now know precisely what had taken place, but I believe the Duke was deep in some vain plots to save the Queen, and wished to be free for a time from the care of his boy. At all events, Duke Henri, a very little fellow, was left with us and became our cousin from Provence. He had a great opinion of his dignity, this dear Duke, in those days, and was like enough to get us all into trouble.

"Early in July 1794 my father was much disturbed in mind. I often saw him at night carrying things into the plant-house, where my mother nursed a few pots of flowers. There was cause, indeed, to trouble any one, what with the merciless guillotine and the massacres. As for us, too, we knew pretty well that at last we were becoming "suspects."

"One evening--it was the 19th of July--my father was away nearly all day, a thing for him quite out of the common. About dusk he came home, and after a few words in haste to my mother called us to help him. On this we were set to work carrying bottles of milk, cheese, bread, and cold meats in baskets to the plant-house, where my father took them from us. Then we went back and forth with blankets, pillows, and more things than I can now recall. After this, it being night, we were told to wait in the house, but no explanation was given us as to what these unusual preparations meant."

"It was this house, this same house," said Duke Henri; "when we had done all that was required of us we sat within doors, wondering what it was for."

"The next day, being July 20th about noon, we boys were playing in the garden when I saw my mother come through the window, and heard her cry out: 'It is ruin, it is ruin; my God, it is ruin!' A moment after came my father with the Duke de St. Maur--Duke Philip, of course. The Duke was speaking vehemently as we boys ran to hear. 'I came to say that I am going to England. I have not a moment. I fear I may have been followed. I grieve to have fetched this trouble upon you.'

"My mother was vexed indeed, and spoke angrily; but my father said, 'No; trouble has been close for days, and the house is watched. For me, there need be no real fear. I have friends, and should be set free quickly, but the Duke!--'

"In the end they would not let Duke Philip go, and urged that now it would bring about a greater peril for all of us if he were caught going out or were seen to come forth.

"'There is a better way,' cried my father. 'Quick! Let us all go down to the lower cave.' The Duke remonstrated, but was cut short, for my father said, 'If you have compromised us, I must judge now what is best.' And so the Duke gave in, and we were all hurried into the plant-house and down the stairs to the first cellar, where were many of the things so long made ready. My father opened the larger trap, and began with great haste to carry down, with our help, all he had left in the cellar above. Every one aided, and it was no sooner done than we heard a noise in the house, or beyond it. 'The officers!' said my father. 'Now you are all safe, and I shall soon come for you.'

"He stood a moment, seeming to hesitate, while my mother and the Duke prayed him to come down and close the trap; but at last he said, 'No; it were better my way,' and shut down the door.

"I heard a great clatter of barrel-staves falling on the trap. I think he had seen the need to take this precaution, and it was this made him run for us and for his friend a perilous risk; his fear, I mean, that unless hidden, the trap would easily be seen by any one who chanced to enter the upper cellar. I should have said that my father lifted the trap a little and cried, 'The good God help thee, Claire!' Then we were at once in darkness, and again the staves were replaced, as one could easily hear. I heard my mother sob, but the one-year-old baby she carried screamed loudly, and this, I think, took up her attention for a time. I was on the stone staircase when my father went by me saying, 'Be good to thy mother.' I sat still awhile, and, the baby ceasing to cry, we remained thus for a time silent in this appalling darkness, like hunted things, with the terror of the time upon us.

"It is a sad story, dear Duke. I wonder how you can wish to hear it again. And will my young friend draw the corks of these bottles, and be careful not to shake the wine?"

St. Maur, saying, "With pleasure, yes," went on to draw the corks.