Part 8

And so the old lady had countenanced the trick his ward had played upon him! But he still held on to the three hundred thousand francs, and there would be no question of Julie and Louis marrying without it. It seemed to Monsieur de Latour that he had Louis in quite as much of a hole as Louis had him.

The visit of the semi-royal duke made a great impression upon Monsieur de Latour, and he began to consider seriously how he might contrive to marry Madame de Beauregard. He concluded that the best and only way was to enter upon a series of larks of the wildest description, and began to turn over in his mind plans to that effect.

As a preliminary Monsieur de Latour invited the whole party, including Monsieur Bertoux, to remain for the rest of the month at the chateau, and in this Louis cordially concurred, and they all accepted. Madame de Beauregard knew everybody worth knowing at Dinard, and the old lady, in spite of her peculiarities, was much sought after as a person of great consequence. The terrace of the chateau was gay with guests every afternoon at tea time. Mademoiselle Cheri and Mélanie were very well pleased at the opportunity of seeing a phase of society hitherto unknown in their secluded and provincial lives, but Mademoiselle Cheri, unlike Monsieur de Latour, was not in the least overawed by it.

Duchesses, princesses, and countesses, with the gentlemen in their train, came every afternoon, on Madame de Beauregard’s invitation, to the terrace, for the old lady’s idea of life was one long, unintermittent frolic. But Monsieur de Latour was so dazzled by the names of the people, to say nothing of their equipages and servants, that his head was completely turned. To be the head of the house of De Latour had seemed to him, the month before, the acme of distinction, but now he longed to be the Comte de Beauregard, a title which he would acquire if he succeeded in marrying Madame de Beauregard.

The only serious rival he had was General Granier, with his extremely interesting leg and his repertoire of escapades, and his large assortment of delightfully scandalous stories. Monsieur de Latour could in no way pretend to rival him in these particulars. How tame and correct seemed his life at Brionville! He grew positively ashamed of its tameness and correctness, and longed to prove that he had in him the making of a dreadfully dissipated character.

Moreover, he was checked at every turn by Louis, who, with the coolest assumption and most ineffable impudence, undertook to treat him like a schoolboy. It was in vain that he threatened Louis with the loss of the prospective three hundred thousand francs and the promise of withholding consent from Louis’s marriage to Julie. Louis snapped his fingers at the three hundred thousand francs, which he declared to be a mere trifle compared with Julie’s love. And as for the question of Monsieur de Latour’s consent--ah, there was a complication indeed! Louis had studied carefully the legal aspects of his adoption of Monsieur de Latour instead of Monsieur de Latour’s adoption of him, and the threat of attempting to enforce them and compelling Monsieur de Latour to appear in court as his adopted nephew made the old gentleman extremely uncomfortable. Louis absolutely undertook to cut down Monsieur de Latour’s allowance of champagne at dinner and cigars afterward, tried to force him to go to bed at ten o’clock, and urged him to lead as correct a life as that of Eugène de Contiac.

Monsieur de Latour, turning these things over in his mind, determined to make a break for liberty, not only for his own satisfaction but as a means of recommending himself to Madame de Beauregard, and he thought:

“If I can get that milksop of a nephew of hers to come with me and make a man of him, the Comtesse de Beauregard will be sure to look upon me with an eye of favour, and perhaps, as he and Mélanie are determined to be married some time or other, I can secure for him the half-million francs which Madame de Beauregard promises to give him, provided he turns from good to gay. And after all, what Eugène said in that unlucky letter about being as pious as he pleased after Madame de Beauregard is dead and gone is perfectly true, and Mélanie can have that happiness to which every woman aspires--that of reforming a man.”

Filled with these notions Monsieur de Latour, one morning about a fortnight after the arrival of his guests at the chateau, carried off to his bedroom Eugène de Contiac, and, after double-locking the door, seated himself for a confidential interview. Eugène himself had drooped somewhat in spirits, as a man will who has just lost half a million francs. He had begun to consider if there were not some means by which he could get his legacy, have his allowance restored, and still keep on terms with Mélanie, having a fixed determination to become pious again as soon as he dared to be. Monsieur de Latour, surmising what was passing in Eugène’s mind, unfolded a plan to him.

“My dear fellow,” said he, confidentially, “I think you made a mistake in throwing away that half-million francs. It doesn’t seem impossible that you should have your legacy and your allowance restored and marry my niece, for she certainly fancies you--God knows why! Now, Madame de Beauregard can’t live forever.”

“Oh, yes, she will!” groaned Eugène. “She is good for forty years yet. She will live to bury all of us and be skipping around here until she meets the fate of the old lady who died at the age of one hundred and ten of a fall from a cherry-tree.”

“Well,” said Monsieur de Latour, going closer and dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper, “perhaps--ahem!--there are certain secrets of the heart--it’s rather embarrassing to speak of these things--but--it is possible that I may become a candidate for Madame de Beauregard’s hand.”

“Marry her, do you mean?” cried Eugène, falling back in his chair. “Good Heavens! If I were in your place I would rather marry a whole circus than my aunt. Yet she is not a bad woman; but for pure friskiness there never was anything like her.”

“I agree with you perfectly, but I am a little frisky myself. Now, I have a proposition to make to you. Suppose you and I go to Paris for a week with the express purpose of having a little lark of the sort Madame de Beauregard would like. I believe it would certainly end in her restoring your legacy and allowance, and might--ahem!--incline her favourably to listen to the proposition which I am contemplating making her. If only General Granier, with that infernal leg of his, were out of the way! But she seems never tired of listening to stories of what he can do with that leg--shoot rabbits, play cards, and actually play the piano with it. And he eighty years of age if he is a day! That man and Madame de Beauregard have found the fountain of eternal youth and friskiness.”

“But Mélanie?” asked Eugène anxiously. “She is devoted to me now; but if I should spend such a week in Paris as you desire I am sure she would never speak to me.”

“Oh, yes, she would! She would have the pleasure of reforming you again, and that is a joy which a woman cannot repeat too often. No, my dear fellow, don’t think that for a moment. Go down on your knees to Mélanie, tell her you are sorry for what you have done, then--get up and do it again. That’s what women all like.”

There was something enticing to Eugène in all this, and after an hour’s urgent representation he finally consented to make the visit to Paris with Monsieur de Latour. That night at dinner Monsieur de Latour announced their intended excursion.

“And I promise you,” he said significantly to Madame de Beauregard, who sat at his right, “that when we come back we shall have some tales to tell!”

“I do hope so,” piously ejaculated Madame de Beauregard.

VII

A MERRY WEEK IN PARIS

One week from the day that Monsieur de Latour and Eugène left for Paris they were sitting in Monsieur de Latour’s study in the Chateau of Montplaisir, absolute wrecks of their former selves. Monsieur de Latour was the colour of a mustard plaster, his eyes were bloodshot, his hand trembled, and as he lay back in an arm-chair he seemed scarcely able to raise his head. Eugène, sitting at the other end of the room, leaned forward, supporting his aching head upon his shaking hands. At intervals a long, shuddering sigh burst from him, which was answered by a loud groan from Monsieur de Latour. Presently Eugène spoke in a scarcely audible voice:

“I wouldn’t spend such another week as the last for half a million francs.”

“And I,” groaned Monsieur de Latour from the other end of the room, “would give half a million francs for another head and a new stomach.”

There was a silence after this, broken by Eugène saying in a sepulchral voice, “Oh, my head!”

To which Monsieur de Latour responded in tones of agony, “Oh, my head!”

Then there was a longer silence still.

“Do you know how much it cost?” asked Eugène.

“No,” replied Monsieur de Latour. “All I know is I used up all the cheques in my cheque-book, and when I got to the station here I didn’t have enough money to pay the cabman to bring us to the chateau.” And he groaned dismally.

While they sat in gloom and miserable silence the door suddenly flew open and in bounced Madame de Beauregard, carrying a newspaper in her hand.

“Oh, you two darlings!” she cried, blowing a kiss to Monsieur de Latour and throwing her arm around Eugène’s aching head, “how delightfully you have been behaving! It has been in the newspapers for three days past. I was so pleased that I made Monsieur Bertoux not only make me a new will, but directed him to pay to my nephew’s credit in bank one-half of his legacy, that is, two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in cash.”

Eugène felt feebly in his pocket.

“Yes, I believe I did get a letter or something from Monsieur Bertoux, but I was not in a state to understand it exactly. Here it is.”

He took the letter out and read it--a brief communication saying that Monsieur Bertoux had, by the direction of Madame de Beauregard, placed two hundred and fifty thousand francs to Eugène’s credit at his Paris banker’s.

“And now,” cried Madame de Beauregard, shaking him, “aren’t you perfectly delighted?”

Eugène shook his head dolefully.

“If you had my head!” he replied.

Madame de Beauregard shrieked with laughter at this.

“And how about your head, monsieur?” she asked of Monsieur de Latour.

“It feels about the size of the Eiffel Tower,” gasped Monsieur de Latour.

This delighted the old lady still more.

“Now,” she cried, “I will tell you what the newspapers say. It is all about your visit to the races. They say that the two of you went out, escorting nineteen ballet-girls, and before you left you had paid for one hundred and twenty-seven bottles of champagne, and that two of the young ladies--he! he!--gave you, monsieur, a footbath in champagne--ha! ha!”

“They took off my shoes and stockings, and before they got through I was wet to my shirt with champagne.”

“Why, that almost makes me fall in love with you! And then the police came along----”

“I wish they had come before,” murmured Eugène sadly.

“--and tried to arrest you, and the ballet-girls smuggled you and Eugène out of the way, and you jumped into a twenty-thousand-franc racing machine----”

“It cost me thirty thousand francs before I got through with it,” interjected Monsieur de Latour.

“--and ran it into a ditch, and smashed the machine all to bits, and you fought the police----”

“Look at the back of my neck!” said Monsieur de Latour, displaying a number of bumps and bruises.

“--and got yourselves arrested, and by some sort of hocus-pocus----”

“It was ten thousand francs’ worth of hocus-pocus,” said Eugène in a tired voice.

“--managed to go free. And you sat up all the next night playing cards and losing money----”

“We did that for six nights,” replied Monsieur de Latour, “and we weren’t playing cards all the time. I lost twelve thousand francs on a bet that more flies would alight on my lump of sugar than on another man’s. But we played cards, too.”

“In short,” cackled the old lady, “you must have had a most delightful week.”

This remark was received in melancholy silence. After a pause Monsieur de Latour said wearily:

“It seems to me about ten weeks since we left this place for Paris.”

“And remember,” cried Madame de Beauregard, chucking Monsieur de Latour under the chin, “that’s the kind of a life you will be expected to lead all the time if I conclude to marry you.”

At which Monsieur de Latour shook his head in a manner which did not indicate unmitigated joy at the prospect.

“And,” continued Madame de Beauregard merrily, “you have succeeded in making General Granier insanely jealous. He hasn’t money to go the pace as you do--in fact, he never had. He makes no secret of his determination to run you out of the field, because Granier, poor angel, really wants to marry me.”

Monsieur de Latour at that moment would have run out of the field without any assistance whatever from General Granier.

Madame de Beauregard remained half an hour longer in the company of her host and her nephew, getting the particulars of what she called their charming week in Paris out of the two unfortunates. Every detail of agony they gave delighted her more and more. Their encounters with the police, their sleepless nights and exciting days, their expeditions, their falls into gutters and being dragged out again, their encounters with cabmen and chauffeurs, ballet-dancers and the like, gave her exquisite pleasure, and when she skipped out it was with the assurance to Monsieur de Latour that she really felt herself falling in love with him, and was afraid to stay longer for fear she should kiss him against his will.

As she left the room a servant appeared with a message from Louis, which was delivered with much hesitation. It was a request that Monsieur de Latour should wait upon him in the saloon.

“Go to the devil!” was Monsieur de Latour’s response.

In a few minutes Louis appeared, and going up to the great chair where Monsieur de Latour, as limp as a rag, lay, said to him in a voice of stern reproof:

“My dear Victor, your conduct in Paris is known to me, and I have not language strong enough to condemn it. What do you suppose my feelings are, as your uncle, when I hear of these outrageous performances, dragging the name of De Latour into the newspapers, and misconducting yourself in general?”

Monsieur de Latour felt very ill and disinclined to exert himself, but the tone of admonition on Louis’s part roused the old gentleman to a pitch of great anger.

“Come, now, young man,” he bawled, “you may stop this tomfoolery. Whatever I have done, I don’t choose to be corrected by a youngster like yourself.”

“Remember,” replied Louis in a voice of awful warning, “I am your uncle.”

“The devil you are! Well, uncle or no uncle, I propose to do as I like, and if I please to have a little lark in Paris----”

“A little lark!” Louis threw his hands up.

“--in conjunction with my young friend, De Contiac, here, who, I must say, incited me to most of the gaieties in which we indulged, I shall do it without any reference to you or anybody else.”

At this poor Eugène raised his pallid face from his hands, in which it had sunk, and said in a sepulchral voice:

“_I_ incited you to gaieties?”

“Well, well,” answered Monsieur de Latour testily, “it doesn’t make any difference--we incited each other.”

“I wish I could believe you,” said Louis, “but I am sure that you were chiefly responsible. As a result of your improper conduct, your niece, Mademoiselle Mélanie, is in the very deepest distress, chiefly on account of Monsieur de Contiac’s share in your performances, and she demands an interview, a final one, with Monsieur de Contiac. She awaits you,” continued Louis, turning to Eugène, “in the saloon with Mademoiselle Cheri.”

Eugène tried to rise from his chair, but sank back exhausted.

“I can’t move,” he said. “I thought I would never reach the chateau alive. I believe three days more of the racket would have killed me.”

“Then,” promptly said Louis, “Mademoiselle Mélanie and Mademoiselle Cheri will no doubt come to you here when they know the circumstances.”

At this poor Eugène absolutely burst into tears, while Louis, ringing the bell, directed the servant to request Mademoiselle Cheri and Mademoiselle Mélanie to do him the favour of coming to Monsieur de Latour’s study. While awaiting them Louis improved the occasion by lecturing Monsieur de Latour on the impropriety of his conduct, a proceeding which lashed Monsieur de Latour to fury.

In a few minutes Mademoiselle Cheri appeared with Mélanie. The poor girl was dissolved in tears, and it was a pitiable sight as she sank into a chair near Eugène, both of them weeping bitterly. Between her sobs Mélanie could only say, “All is over between us--all is over between us.”

“But he has two hundred and fifty thousand francs, mademoiselle,” put in Louis, whose goodness of heart made him wish to befriend the unhappy lovers. “Monsieur Bertoux, who secretly sympathises with you, induced Madame de Beauregard to let him deposit the money to your credit in bank. The old lady was so pleased with your indiscretions, monsieur, and so confident you would never reform, that she directed Monsieur Bertoux to do it, so you may reform and have the two hundred and fifty thousand francs as well.”

“He will never reform,” wailed Mélanie, “and we must part. O Eugène, how could you be guilty of such wickedness?”

For answer Eugène could only sob and point his finger at Monsieur de Latour. The presence of Mademoiselle Cheri was peculiarly unpleasant to Monsieur de Latour at that moment. She was entirely too outspoken, and she proceeded on the spot to treat Monsieur de Latour to what ladies call giving a man a piece of their minds.

“Monsieur,” she said severely, “no one can approve of your conduct in Paris. I thought I knew the extent to which folly would lead you, but I never dreamed of anything like your preposterous behaviour during the past week. You have brought great distress upon your niece and mortification upon all your friends.”

This was too much for Monsieur de Latour. It was bad enough to be hectored over by Louis, but by Séline Cheri, a soap-boiler’s daughter! He struggled to his feet.

“Mademoiselle,” he replied in a tone of equal severity, “I think I understand the animus from which you speak. You have perhaps observed that the Comtesse de Beauregard looks upon me with an eye of favour, and you probably disapprove of it.”

“Quite so,” answered Mademoiselle Cheri frankly.

“Ah! Perhaps you recall the time, mademoiselle, when I was an aspirant for your own hand.”

“Yes,” replied Mademoiselle Cheri, “and I will say to you, now that we are both old enough to speak frankly, that but for the obligation I felt to take care of my father in his declining years, I might have married you, Victor de Latour. You were then a worthy and estimable citizen, a good man and an excellent soap-boiler. If you had continued as such the time might have come when both of us, remembering our early association and feeling the need of friendship and companionship in our old age, would have married; but it is impossible now.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” replied Monsieur de Latour in a rage. “The pain of my rejection is very much mitigated by the fact that I have not made you an offer.”

“I know it,” calmly answered Mademoiselle Cheri. “We are speaking plainly, as plain people like ourselves do speak, and your fine-gentleman airs sit ridiculously on you, Victor.”

This further enraged Monsieur de Latour so much that he whirled around and plumped himself down into a chair, almost turning his back upon Mademoiselle Cheri, who remained placid though disapproving.

A long and painful silence ensued, which became so intolerable to Monsieur de Latour that he suddenly jumped up and rushed out of the room and into the saloon. As he opened the door General Granier arose. Instead of his usual gay and cordial greeting, General Granier bowed stiffly and said:

“I am calling upon Madame de Beauregard.”

Monsieur de Latour was in no state to remember the amenities of social life. He fell, rather than sank, into a chair, and stretching his legs out, ran his hands through his already rumpled hair, and then, forgetting General Granier’s presence, said to himself:

“My head is very bad, and my stomach is worse, but those ballet-girls were pretty.”

“You appear to plume yourself,” said General Granier stiffly, “upon your performances in Paris last week. Let me tell you, my dear sir, they were not a patch upon what I used to do in the year ’60.”

“Oh, nonsense!” answered Monsieur de Latour. “You never had such a week in your life as I have had.”

“Do you mean to impugn my word, monsieur?” asked General Granier, advancing and putting his right hand into his trousers pocket, and at the same time lifting up his right leg, which was a habit of his.

“Come, now,” said Monsieur de Latour, shying off, “I don’t like you to lift that leg up that way at me. It’s a gun, and I know it, and it might be loaded.”

“I always keep it loaded,” snapped General Granier, “and if you wish to know just how effective it is, observe that flower-pot across the room.”

He whirled around on his left leg, and lifting his right one at an angle of forty-five degrees, clicked the trigger in his pocket. The next instant the flower-pot tumbled over, smashed into bits.

“There, now,” cried Monsieur de Latour, edging away, “I knew you were going to do something of the kind. I think you ought to be reported to the police for carrying that thing loaded all the time, and I am not sure it is not my duty to report you.”

General Granier, twirling his mustache, backed out of the door.

“Monsieur de Latour,” he said, “I don’t understand at all your language to me this morning. I shall write you and ask a categorical explanation. Good morning!” And he disappeared.

Monsieur de Latour, lying back in his chair in much agitation, turned over in his mind the meaning of General Granier’s remarks. But while meditating a drowsiness overcame him. He had not slept for a week, and in a few minutes his loud snores, which resembled the trumpeting of an elephant, resounded through the great room.

Monsieur de Latour slept peacefully. The morning grew to high noon, high noon to afternoon, and Monsieur de Latour had just begun to make up the arrears of sleep he had lost in Paris. He was roused by a knock at the door, and a footman entered with a note. Monsieur de Latour, more asleep than awake, drowsily opened it, but at the first word he sat bolt upright and became thoroughly alert. It was from General Granier, and ran thus:

“MONSIEUR VICTOR LOUIS DE LATOUR:

“I demand an explanation of your language to me this morning, and if the explanation is not forthcoming I shall insist upon that satisfaction which one gentleman accords another. I am, sir, etc.,

“AUGUSTE GRANIER.”

“Now, what the devil does that mean?” said Monsieur de Latour, reading the note over.

“It means,” cried Julie’s voice from behind his shoulder, “that General Granier wants you to fight him.”

Monsieur de Latour glanced up. Julie had entered noiselessly, and holding up her dainty skirts, was peering over his shoulder and reading the note in his hand.

“He will be very much disappointed, then,” replied Monsieur de Latour promptly. “I haven’t the slightest notion of fighting him or anybody else. I am a peaceable, law-abiding citizen, and I don’t propose to shed the blood of a fellow-citizen, or let anybody shed mine, if I can help it. So I shall immediately write General Granier.”

“Won’t you let me write it for you?” asked Julie artlessly, apparently in entire unconsciousness of the awful consequences which the note might involve.