Part 6
It was with genuine enjoyment that Monsieur de Latour, on the tenth day after the influx of workmen in the chateau, saw the last of them depart and awaited the arrival of a house party consisting of Mademoiselle Cheri and his niece, of Julie, whom he positively declared it impossible to transact business without, and whom it was equally impossible to transact business with, of Madame de Beauregard and Eugène de Contiac. Monsieur de Latour had felt some compunction at not inviting General Granier to stay at the chateau, but although his present inclination was that Madame de Beauregard was entirely too old for him and Julie just the right age, yet he decided that General Granier, with his military air, his title as general, and his interesting wooden leg, was too dangerous a rival. As a matter of fact, General Granier had endless stories to tell of his prowess with his leg, of various kinds of game brought down, the snuffing of candles, the hitting of bull’s-eyes and all the other achievements of a crack shot. Madame de Beauregard had frankly asked, and even insisted, that General Granier should be invited, but the more she insisted the less inclined Monsieur de Latour was to bring the fascinating old general into competition with himself.
“To tell you the truth, madame,” he had said to the Comtesse de Beauregard, “I am afraid of that leg of General Granier’s. I believe it is always loaded, and is liable to go off at any time. Now, suppose we were sitting at dinner, for example, and the general should inadvertently clap his hand into his pocket and touch the trigger--what do you suppose would happen?”
“That would depend altogether upon the direction of the leg, my dear man,” replied Madame de Beauregard, who often addressed Monsieur de Latour in this familiar manner. “For my part I find General Granier’s leg far more interesting than his head, and I am not in the least afraid of either. However, I shall ask him up to tea every afternoon, and you can invite him to remain to dinner, and if you don’t I will.”
Such was the lady whom Monsieur de Latour had invited to pay him a visit. It even occurred to him that it was just as well his ward, Mademoiselle de Brésac, did not see very much of her aunt, and out of regard for her father’s memory Monsieur de Latour would have welcomed the marriage of Julie de Brésac so that he could see her in the hands of a discreet husband.
However, all these misgivings were in abeyance on the August afternoon when Monsieur de Latour, with Louis, made a final inspection of the wing of the chateau which had been made habitable. Wonders had been worked by the army of artisans. The walls and ceilings which showed age and decay most were covered, when possible, with draperies, pictures, and mirrors. The discoloured floors were concealed by costly rugs, and car-loads of furniture had been distributed among the great rooms. A large domestic staff had arrived from Brionville, and Suzette had been deposed as major-domo, cook, and house-maid. Her services, however, as valet were retained by Louis, who declared his intention of teaching her to shave him, as she already dressed him.
Suzette was delighted at the turn affairs had taken, for she had become much attached to Louis in the days of his poverty and rejoiced in his prosperity. Louis, himself, felt as if he were taking part in the adventures of Aladdin, and walked about the chateau in a dazed fashion, wondering if the gilt chairs were real or if the rugs were not an optical illusion. Daily his gratitude became more effervescent, and he implored from Monsieur de Latour the privilege of embracing him at least four instead of three times a day; this, however, Monsieur de Latour promptly refused.
“But I must embrace something,” cried Louis in the exuberance of feeling.
“Then go and try your hand on Madame de Beauregard,” replied Monsieur de Latour.
Louis misinterpreted this recommendation, and within half an hour afterward came very near being caught by Monsieur de Latour in the act of embracing Julie. For Julie was sitting in her usual place on the terrace before the writing-table, waiting for Monsieur de Latour to arrive, when Louis, stealing up to her, whispered in her ear:
“Julie, to-morrow the papers will be signed making me Monsieur de Latour’s nephew, and three hundred thousand francs will be mine, in addition to the Chateau of Montplaisir.”
Louis paused, and Julie, whose pretty eyes were downcast, raised them and giving him a bewitching glance, said:
“I care nothing for your three hundred thousand francs.”
Louis’s face grew pale, and paler still when Julie added after a moment:
“Nor for your Chateau of Montplaisir.”
And then, looking around and seeing no one in sight, she extended her hand a little toward Louis--a trifling gesture, but full of sweet meaning. Her eyes said plainly, “It is you for whom I care.” The look was illuminating.
“Mademoiselle, may I show you the orangery which has just been formed at the south end of the terrace?”
Julie rose willingly enough, and the two, walking on air, as it were, passed along the terrace to the extreme end where dozens of orange-trees in tubs made a place of sylvan beauty. When they were under the green arcade they were quite secure from observation. There was no time to think. Neither knew how it happened, but suddenly Louis’s arm was around Julie and their lips had met. And the next moment Monsieur de Latour’s jovial voice resounded at the other end of the arcade.
“Where is Mademoiselle de Courcey? I have something here very important to be copied.”
Julie scuttled back to the writing-table in less time than it takes to tell, and Louis, far less self-composed, dashed around the corner of the terrace and disappeared. Monsieur de Latour came bustling out with a telegram in his hand.
“My dear young lady,” he asked, “please answer this at once, and pray be careful. I think, so far as I know, that you have not yet written anything for me precisely as I dictated it. There is always a word or two goes wrong. But nothing must go wrong now. Here you see at the factory they are asking directions about a large quantity of soap now boiling. They want to know about adding more soda. So, write the despatch, thus.”
Monsieur de Latour gave the address and then dictated slowly and portentously:
“Whatever you do, put no more soda in the sixteen vats.”
“Now write it out for me quickly, so that I can send it off.”
Julie, who was still palpitating and blushing, and to whom the absent Louis was nearer than the present Monsieur de Latour, wrote out the despatch and handed it to Monsieur de Latour to read. He put on his spectacles and tried to make it out, but could not.
“It’s very inconvenient,” he said after a moment or two, “having a private secretary who can’t write legibly. I shall have to write this despatch myself.”
He sat down and wrote it out, and then calling a servant to Julie to send the despatch, bustled away himself to give the last orders for the entertainment of his guests. When the servant came, Julie, whose head and heart were in a whirl, absently followed her usual practice, handed him her own despatch and carefully tucked Monsieur de Latour’s away in her belt, which served her for a despatch-box, escritoire and burglar-proof safe combined, for the important papers confided to her charge.
And then Madame de Beauregard’s screeches of laughter being heard in the court-yard, Julie saw that gay old person descending from her favourite red devil, which was snorting and puffing before the main door of the chateau. She was accompanied by Eugène de Contiac, General Granier, and by an unexpected guest in the person of her lawyer, Monsieur Bertoux. He was a staid and somewhat wary-looking man, which would naturally be the case, as he lived in hot pursuit of Madame de Beauregard and was required to make almost monthly changes in the disposition of her property. Monsieur de Latour, followed by Louis, came out to greet them.
“You see, my dear man,” cried the old lady to Monsieur de Latour, who had advanced to greet her, “I have brought Monsieur Bertoux along with me. He is a very pleasant sort of person, and more interesting than he looks, as you will find out. And besides, I foresee that unless my nephew changes his course I shall be compelled not only to leave him out of my will, but to cut off his allowance. It is always the way,” continued the old lady quite angrily; “just as soon as he falls under the influence of your niece, Mélanie, Eugène forgets all the instructions I have given him to be a man, and a very larky one at that, and gets so dreadfully pious and moral there is really no standing him. And as of course he will have to see a great deal of Mélanie during this visit, I thought it just as well to have my lawyer on the spot, in case Eugène should go to extremes and insist on going to church every morning, for example. Not that I have the slightest personal objection to Mélanie--it is only her principles that I oppose, and if she will turn about and commit a few indiscretions I shall be more than willing for the match. But I don’t want any of these pious and God-fearing men in my family, and Eugène must be a man of spirit if he wants to get my money.”
And then, turning to Louis, she said laughing:
“Now, if you will engage to lead this goody-goody boy astray I will give you something handsome, because I see that you are one of the devil’s darlings, and that’s the sort I like.”
“Madame, you praise me beyond my deserts,” replied Louis, taking the old lady’s hand and kissing it gallantly. “But if you, with your fascinations and delightful example, cannot succeed in leading him astray, nobody can.”
The old lady screamed with delight at this bold declaration, which was received by Eugène in sheepish silence, and at that very moment Mélanie and Mademoiselle Cheri appeared. Madame de Beauregard had a voice like an auctioneer, and her words were plainly audible to the advancing Mélanie. Madame de Beauregard, however, with the utmost good-will greeted her and Mademoiselle Cherie.
“I dare say, my dear,” she cried to Mélanie, “you heard every word that I said, and I mean to stand by it. Either you and Eugène have got to change your principles, or you won’t get a centime of my money. While I am here I shall give you every opportunity to commit any of the delightful improprieties which you might, but won’t.”
Eugène and Mélanie presented a pitiable sight while this was going on. Both blushed and were embarrassed beyond measure. But Monsieur de Latour came to their relief by cordially welcoming Madame de Beauregard and inviting the entire party to make a tour of the renovated wing of the chateau. Marvels had certainly been accomplished, and Monsieur de Latour, anxious to justify himself for the employment of his private secretary, would say of everything, “This was the result of Mademoiselle de Courcey’s taste,” or, “I contrived to get this done through Mademoiselle de Courcey’s promptness in telegraphing my orders.”
The party at his heels listened to all of these explanations, and Madame de Beauregard cackled every time that Monsieur de Latour brought in Julie’s name, and was in a perfect ecstasy when he said, with ponderous courtesy:
“My only regret is that your niece, Mademoiselle de Brésac, is not of the party. Nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have entertained at the Chateau of Montplaisir, the ancestral seat of the De Latours, the daughter of the Vicomte de Brésac, who honoured me with his friendship.”
“Oh,” cried Mademoiselle Cheri innocently, “how pleased your father, the soap-boiler, would have been to see you in such grand company as this!”
Monsieur de Latour professed not to hear this speech, but listened rather to Madame de Beauregard, who was saying:
“It is a thousand pities, my dear man, that my niece is taking the mud baths at Carlsbad. You should know that girl.”
Monsieur de Latour listened to this in silence, but looked toward Louis with an expression which said plainly, “I told you so!”
Tea was served on the terrace, and, after the manner of such affairs, Julie and Louis found themselves sitting next each other, while Mélanie and Eugène, some distance apart, yet exchanged timid, longing glances. Madame de Beauregard held her court at the tea-table. Monsieur Bertoux was a very silent man, who rarely opened his mouth except to put something in it, and seemed to accept quietly his position of a rod held _in terrorem_ over Eugène de Contiac as a punishment for good behaviour.
The purple twilight fell and a faint young moon shimmered upon the sea in which the large, palpitating stars were reflected. The daylight of late summer had gone before eight o’clock, when dinner was announced.
The dining-saloon, which a fortnight before had been a picture of gaunt neglect, was now resplendent. Shaded lamps and candles shone everywhere; pictures, mirrors, draperies covered the walls; the alleged Salvator Rosa had been removed and cast into the ash-heap. The table glittered with glass and silver, and was charmingly decorated with deep red roses, and an exquisite dinner was served. Everybody’s spirits rose, including even those of the silent Monsieur Bertoux, who foresaw that he would make half a dozen wills for Madame de Beauregard before she left the Chateau of Montplaisir.
Toward the end of the dinner the butler handed a telegram to Monsieur de Latour. By permission of the ladies he opened it, and his countenance changed at once.
“This is outrageous!” he cried. “I telegraphed to Brionville expressly that no more soda was to be added to those sixteen vats of soap, and here they send me this answer:
“‘Your despatch received. Have added soda, as directed, to sixteen vats.’
“I sent no such despatch, and if the people in the telegraph office sent such a one I shall claim heavy damages. That means sixteen vats of soap ruined!”
Then, excusing himself, Monsieur de Latour bustled off to the telephone, where he remained in angry colloquy with the telegraph office for ten minutes. Julie, meanwhile, seated next Louis, was quite smiling and at her ease. When Monsieur de Latour returned his brow was clouded, and as the ladies were leaving for the drawing-room where coffee was served, Monsieur de Latour politely but grimly requested Julie to remain.
“Certainly,” replied Julie gaily, “but may your nephew, Monsieur Louis, remain, too? Because you look as if you would eat me up, and I am afraid to be left with you. And, besides, you are so fascinating that people may say I am trying to marry you, so I think we must have a chaperon.”
“Just as you like, mademoiselle,” replied Monsieur de Latour in the crossest tone he had ever used to a young and pretty woman.
When he was left alone in the dining-room with Julie and Louis he began in a tone of profound vexation:
“My dear young lady, when I engaged you as my private secretary I knew that you had none of the qualifications which are usually required in that capacity, but I thought you could write a simple despatch at my dictation, especially when I warned you to be very careful. Now, in everything that you have written for me you have managed to get at least one word wrong.”
“But only one word, monsieur,” answered Julie, going and sitting down in a chair and helping herself to a bunch of grapes.
“But that one word has always produced a cataclysm. Do you see the result of leaving out one word in that despatch about the soda?”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Julie, snipping off the grapes and handing some to Louis. “These are delicious grapes--I wonder if they are grown at Dinard? Yes, Monsieur de Latour, I dare say those telegraph people are right and I did leave out one word, but only one, and that such a little one.”
“It was big enough to ruin sixteen vats of soap,” tartly responded Monsieur de Latour.
He wished that Julie were not quite so pretty, and that he could keep his eyes off her pink fingers and rosy mouth as she disposed of the grapes.
“But I heard you say yourself, monsieur,” she said, snipping off some more grapes and handing them to him, “that you never used soap--you always used white sand--so what does it matter about the sixteen vats?”
Monsieur de Latour groaned. Would he ever be able to make Julie understand the first principles of business? At the same time, the thought of parting with her was not agreeable to him--he enjoyed her society too much.
“Very well, mademoiselle,” he said, trying to be stern. “All I have to say is that you must be more careful in the future. The notary will be here to-morrow, bringing the papers arranging matters between my nephew and myself, and, luckily, he will no doubt correct any blunders which you may have made in the copy which I dictated to you.”
“I haven’t made any blunders,” cried Julie, laughing. “I wrote exactly what you dictated, and if there are any blunders they will be the notary’s. Come, now, if you are through scolding me, let us go and have coffee with the rest.”
Monsieur de Latour had meant to give her a tremendous wigging, but instead of that he found himself led, ostensibly by the arm and secretly by the nose, into the drawing-room, with Julie on his arm and Louis bringing up the rear.
As they entered the drawing-room, Julie joyfully proclaimed:
“Dear people, I have made the most amusing mistake this time. I have ruined sixteen vats of soap for Monsieur de Latour, and he, poor darling, takes it like an angel. But I won’t do so any more, I promise you, monsieur.”
“No, you won’t, mademoiselle,” replied Monsieur de Latour. “I sha’n’t give you the chance.”
And then, like the hospitable host he was, he proceeded to forget all about the sixteen vats of ruined soap, and they had a merry evening together, enlivened by Julie’s songs at the piano.
VI
JULIE’S LITTLE MISTAKE
The next day at twelve o’clock was the hour fixed for the signing of the papers making legal the adoption, by Monsieur de Latour, of Louis, and transferring to Louis’s credit three hundred thousand francs in the Bank of France. All of the guests of the Chateau of Montplaisir were invited to assemble in the grand saloon to witness this important affair. The notary, with his clerk, arrived, the papers were brought out and examined, and Monsieur de Latour, with a gold pen, a pompous air, and a great flourish, signed his name. This was followed by Louis, who took the occasion to make a graceful speech of thanks to Monsieur de Latour, and to assure all present that he felt it an honour to be related to so upright and enterprising a citizen. Monsieur de Latour replied affectionately, and then, luncheon being served, hosts and guests drank to the health of the new head of the house of De Latour.
Monsieur de Latour was indeed a happy man. He had been officially made a gentleman, and he considered three hundred thousand francs a very small price to pay for the honour.
All were in high spirits, and even Mademoiselle Cheri forebore to utter some of those plain and rather unpleasing truths with which she had occasionally prodded Monsieur de Latour.
The ladies, after luncheon, retired for their siesta, the party arranging to meet on the terrace, as usual, at five o’clock for tea. Then Monsieur de Latour said to Louis:
“Now, my dear nephew, come with me into the grand saloon, and let us talk over our future arrangements, and I should be obliged to you, Mademoiselle de Courcey, if you will come, too, as I may need your services as amanuensis.”
“Certainly,” replied Julie, “but first let me go and curl my hair. This damp climate takes all the curl out.”
Monsieur de Latour was a little annoyed at this, especially in the presence of Mademoiselle Cheri, who said nothing but saw everything. However, it would be a bold man who would refuse permission to a young lady to curl her hair, and so Monsieur de Latour merely asked Julie’s presence as soon as convenient.
In the grand saloon he unlocked the escritoire in which the papers had been stowed, and taking them out began to go over them for the second time with Louis. All at once Monsieur de Latour started and turned pale.
“Why, look here,” he said, “I didn’t notice this before, but instead of me, Victor Louis de Latour, adopting you, Louis Victor de Latour, here I see--” At this point Monsieur de Latour stopped, paled, and with a shaking finger pointed to the impressive legal paper with its great seals.
And there, sure enough, as plain as print, Louis Victor de Latour had adopted Victor Louis de Latour. Louis examined the paper carefully and laid it down. Monsieur de Latour, running his hands frantically through his scanty hair, cried out:
“It is all the work of that good-for-nothing Julie, who is now upstairs curling her hair. Well, it will have to be changed--that’s all. The fact is, she has never yet written a letter or prepared a document for me that she has not got one word wrong. But she is so devilish pretty and so fascinating and such a delightful little scamp altogether that there is no being angry with her. However, I shall give her a good scolding for this, and the work will all have to be done over again.”
Louis during all this had sat calmly examining the papers spread out before him. His silence aroused Monsieur de Latour’s suspicions.
“Of course,” cried the old soap-boiler, advancing and mopping his brow, “you see the necessity for undoing this nonsensical performance. You being my uncle, indeed!”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Louis coolly. “First let me ask you one question. Are you really in love with Mademoiselle Julie?”
The query staggered Monsieur de Latour, and he sat down quickly, as if some one had hit him a blow on the forehead.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know whether I am or not, but one thing is certain--I intend to have the benefit of her society. It has occurred to me several times in the last few days that you were paying Mademoiselle de Courcey rather more attention than was necessary, and it was distinctly displeasing to me.”
“That settles it,” replied Louis gravely. “These papers stand. I cannot forego the honour of being uncle to such a nephew as yourself. I am proud of you, my dear Victor.”
Here Louis rose and patted Monsieur de Latour patronisingly on the back.
“It is not your money that I desire--that you are more than welcome to--but to say to the world that I have such a nephew as yourself gives me the highest pleasure.”
“Go to the devil!” bawled Monsieur de Latour, jumping up. “You are the most impudent, presumptuous dog I ever saw in my life. I your nephew, indeed!”
“But I thought you wanted to appear young so as to win favour, perhaps, in Mademoiselle Julie’s eyes.”
“So I do, but not so infernally and ridiculously young as you would make me appear.”
“Not at all. I might have a brother forty years older than myself, and you might be that brother’s son.”
“And I might elope with my great-grandfather’s sister-in-law,” bellowed Monsieur de Latour, “but we are not talking about such things as that. What I mean to say is that this ridiculous mistake must be rectified. I am willing to adopt you as my nephew--in fact, I am rather pleased to be related to you, because I have learned to like you in spite of your assaults upon my ribs. I am willing to be your uncle, but I am not willing to be your nephew.”
“My dear boy, the thing is done. It is signed, sealed, and delivered. You are my nephew, and you can’t help yourself. And remember that the arrangement carries with it the authority of a parent--for example, you cannot marry anybody without my consent. Our laws, you know, are very specific on that point.”
“Oh, yes, I know, but you are talking nonsense!”
“Am I? Then try to contravene my authority and see what will happen!”
Monsieur de Latour glared at Louis. And just then the door opened and Julie entered, looking, if possible, prettier than ever.