CHAPTER V

FERMINARD

When he awoke, with the full daylight staring into the room, the first remembrance that came to him was that of Mademoiselle Fontrailles. The whole of the past night seemed like some page torn from a romance; only this girl from the South seemed real. He was in love, for the first time in his life, and he did not recognize the fact that his passion had bound him openly to the Dubarrys, cast him head over heels into politics, to sink or swim with that exceedingly dubious family.

Rochefort had a big stake to lose; he had estates in Auvergne, his youth and his position in society. He had no political ambitions, but he had an ambition, ever living and always being gratified, to shine in his own peculiar way. He set the fashion in coats and morals, his sayings were repeated, even though many of them were scarcely worth repetition; his eccentricities, which were genuine and not assumed, were a feature of Paris life. Paris was his true home, and though he was seen frequently at Versailles, he was seen more often at the Café de Régence. He was the first of the dandies, the predecessor of the _boulevardier_ of the Boulevard de Gand and the Café de Paris, the prefiguration in flesh of Tortoni’s and the Second Empire.

Our present utilitarian age could no more produce a Rochefort than one of our engineers could produce a butterfly; only the full summer of social life which fell on Athens four hundred years before Christ, which fell on France in the time of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., and which brushed England with its wing in the time of the Regency, can produce these rare and useless human flowers. Useless, that is to say, as fine pictures, Ming figures, and live dragon-flies are useless.

He had, then, a big stake to lose by venturing into the stormy arena of politics, for the hand of de Choiseul was a heavy hand, and with the famous diamond-rimmed snuff-box held many things, including confiscation, exile, and even imprisonment. But Rochefort never thought of this, and, if he had thought of it, he would have pursued his present course absolutely unchecked. This dandy and trifler with life had no thought at all for danger, and the prudence that arises from self-interest was not one of his possessions. Leaving all that aside, he was in love, and the object of his love was in the path of his present progress.

He rang for Lermina, his valet, and bathed and dressed himself with most scrupulous care. It was now half-past eleven. He ordered _déjeuner_ to be served a quarter of an hour earlier than its usual time, and was seated at the meal when Lavenne was announced. He told the servant to show the visitor up, and when Lavenne entered rose from the table to greet him.

Lavenne formed a striking contrast to the elegant Rochefort. Lavenne was a man who, at first sight, seemed a young man, and at second sight, a man of middle age, soberly dressed, of middle height, and remarkable only for eyes wonderfully bright and luminous. Rochefort, who did not possess de Sartines’ power of reading men, had still the gift of deciding at once whether a person pleased him or not. He liked this man’s manner and appearance and face, and received him in a manner that at once made the newcomer at home.

Rochefort had not two manners, one for the rich and one for the poor. Whilst always rigidly keeping his own place, he would talk familiarly with anyone, from the king to the beggar at the corner of the street. But it would go hard with the man who presumed on this fact. Lavenne knew Rochefort quite well by name and appearance, had ranked him among the titled larvæ of the Court who were always passing under his eyes, and was surprised to find, after a few minutes’ talk, what a pleasant person he was.

“I have left the hat and cloak, monsieur, with your servant,” said Lavenne. “My master, the Comte de Sartines, gave me instructions to bring them with me.

“Ah, the hat and cloak!” said Rochefort. “I had forgotten them. Thanks. Will you not be seated? I have just finished _déjeuner_, and shall be quite at your disposal when the carriage arrives. I ordered it for twelve, as I suppose we had better drive to this place, which is in the Porcheron district. Will you not have a glass of wine?” He poured out a glass of Beaune, and whilst Lavenne drank it, finished his breakfast, chatting all the time, but saying nothing at all on the object of their journey till they were in the carriage and driving to their destination.

“You expect to find him in, this Monsieur Ferminard?” asked Rochefort.

“Yes, monsieur. He is very poor just now, and when in that state he avoids the streets and cafés.”

“Ah, ah!” said Rochefort, wondering how this very poor man, who avoided even the streets, could be of help to the powerful Comtesse Dubarry at one of the most critical moments of her life. But he said nothing more; he did not like to appear as though he were trying to draw Lavenne out.

The Porcheron quarter lay between the Faubourg Montmartre and La Ville l’Évêque. It was sparsely populated, and here, at a tavern whose sign represented a hound running down a hare amidst long grass, the carriage drew up.

This was the Maison Gambrinus, a house of considerable repute for the excellence of its wine. Founded in the year 1614 by William Gambrinus, a Dutchman from Dordrecht, it was famous for three things—the excellence of its cookery, the goodness of its wine, and the modesty of its charges. Turgis, who now owned the place, possessed a wife who had been kitchenmaid at the Hôtel Noailles under the famous Coquellard; being a pretty girl, she had obtained from him, as a mark of his favour and as a wedding gift, a recipe for stewing veal, that he reckoned as one of his chief possessions. This same recipe brought people to the Maison Gambrinus from all over Paris, so that Turgis did a fair enough business.

As the carriage drew up, a big man appeared at the door of the inn; he was so broad that he nearly filled the doorway, which was by no means narrow. One might have fancied that the mould for his face had been cast on that great and jovial day when Nature, tired of making ordinary folk, took thought and said to herself: “Now let us make an innkeeper.”

It was an ideal face of its kind—fat, material, smiling—and promising everything in the way of good cheer and comfort. Yet to-day, to Lavenne’s surprise, this face, ordinarily so jovial, wore an expression that sat ill upon it, or rather, one might say, it had lost somewhat the natural expression that sat so well upon it.

“Turgis,” said Lavenne, as they followed him into the big room with a sanded floor, which formed the _salle-à-manger_ and bar combined, “we have come to see Monsieur Ferminard. Is he in?”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_!” cried Turgis, “is he in? Why, Monsieur Lavenne, he has not been out for a fortnight; he has driven half my customers away, and his bill is still owing. Three hams, six dozen eggs, thirty-seven bottles of wine of Anjou, bread, salt, olives; a bill for sixty-five francs, to say nothing of the money I have lost through him. Before I take another poet as a guest, I will set light with my own hand to the Máison Gambrinus. Listen to him!”

From an adjoining room came the sound of a loud and high-pitched voice, laughing, talking, bursting out now and then into snatches of song, and now low-pitched and seemingly engaged in argument. Then, all at once, came a furious stamping, a cry, and the sound of a table being overset.

“_Pardieu_!” cried Rochefort, “he seems busy. What on earth is he doing?”

“Doing, monsieur!” replied the host. “Nothing. He is writing a play.”

“Does he write with his feet, then, this Monsieur Ferminard?”

“Aye, does he,” replied Turgis, bending to lift a bottle from the floor and placing it on one of the tables, “and with his tongue and fists and head. Gascon that he is, he acts all his tragedies as he writes them. He has been writing a duel since noon, and has smashed, God knows how much of my furniture. Sixty-five francs he owes me, which will not be paid till his tragedy is finished; by which time, Heaven help me! I fear he will have devoured and drunk the contents of my cellar and destroyed my inn. And, were it not that he is the best fellow going and once did me a service, I would bundle him out of my place neck and crop, poems, plays and all.”

The noise from the adjoining room suddenly ceased, as if the poet had become aware of the voices of the innkeeper and the new-comers. The door burst open, and a man in his shirt-sleeves—a short, rather stout, clean-shaved individual, with a mobile face and bright, piercing eyes—appeared. He held a pen in his hand.

“_Morbleu_!” cried this apparition, in a testy voice, speaking to the landlord without even a glance at the others. “Have you no thought for the comfort of your guests? With your chatter, chatter, chatter, you have spoilt one of the finest of my passages.”

“And what about my tables?” burst out Turgis, suddenly flying into a rage, “and my glasses? Four broken this day, and my wainscoting pierced with the point of your rapier, and my room half wrecked—and you talk to me of your passages! What about my custom driven away? For one may not sneeze, it appears to me, without your poems being upset and your passages spoilt. What about my sixty-five francs?”

“They shall be paid,” said the poet, taking a minor key. “Ah, Monsieur Lavenne!” His eye had just fallen on Lavenne.

“Pardon me,” said Lavenne to Rochefort. He went towards the tragedian, took him by the arm and drew him into the adjoining room. Then he shut the door.

Turgis wiped his forehead. “His passages! I wish he would find a passage to take him to the devil. What may I get for monsieur?”

“Get me a bottle of that wine for which you are so famous,” said Rochefort, taking a seat at a table, “and two glasses—that is right. He seems a strange customer, this Monsieur Ferminard.”

“Oh, monsieur,” replied Turgis, opening the wine and filling the glasses, “he would be right enough were he only to stick to his trade.”

“And what is his trade?”

“An actor, monsieur; he is a great actor. He belonged to the Théâtre Molière; but he quarrelled with the director, and the quarrel came to blows, and Ferminard wounded the director. Yes, monsieur, he would now be in prison only for Monsieur de Sartines, who took an interest in him, having seen him act. Ah, monsieur, he was a great actor. But he was not content to be an actor. Oh, no! What does he do but write a comedy himself, to beat Molière? And what does he do but get the ear of the Duc de la Vrillière and his permission to produce this precious comedy at Versailles, with Court ladies and gentlemen to act in it. If he had acted himself in it, the thing would have been saved, but belonging to the Théâtre Molière, he was bound by agreement not to act elsewhere.

“Well, monsieur, the thing went so badly that he abused the actors and actresses when they came off the stage, and, as a result, he was caned by Monsieur de Coigny.”

“Ah!” said Rochefort, “I heard something of that; but I was away from Paris, and I did not hear the details. He abused them. _Mordieu_! that’s good.”

“Yes, monsieur. I had the story from his own mouth. He told Madame de Duras, who was acting as one of his precious shepherdesses, that her head was as wooden as her legs. As for me, I would have been a mouse among all that company; but he—he does not care for the King himself; and so outraged does he feel even still, that could he burn Versailles down and all it contains he would be happy. He is not the man to forgive the strokes of Monsieur de Coigny’s cane. Your health, monsieur! Still the pity is that the fault was not with the actors, but with the play. It is common sense, besides. I, for instance, am a very good man at selling that wine you are drinking. But if I were to go to Anjou and try to make that wine, I would not be good at the business. Just so! A man may be a very good actor, and yet may not be able to write a play that another man could act well in.”

A sudden burst of laughter from the adjoining room cut Turgis short.

“What is up now, I wonder?” said he.

“He seems laughing at something that Monsieur Lavenne is telling him,” said Rochefort, whose interest in the whole affair had suddenly taken on an extra keenness, and who was deeply puzzled by a business of which he could find no possible explanation. “Come, refill your glass! You deserve to drink such good wine since you choose to sell it.”

The landlord did as he was told without the slightest trace of unwillingness, and they sat talking on indifferent matters till the door of the next room suddenly opened and Lavenne appeared.

He took Rochefort outside the inn to the roadway, where the carriage was still in waiting.

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I have arranged everything with Ferminard. But it is absolutely necessary that he should go to the Rue de Valois in such a fashion that no one can recognize him. Will you, therefore, take your seat in the carriage, and he will join you in a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” said Rochefort, who had drunk enough wine and on whom the conversation of the innkeeper had begun to pall. “And here is a louis to pay the score. He can keep the change.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Lavenne. “You will see me no more, for my part in this business is now over.”

“Well, then, good-day to you,” said the Comte, “and thank you for your pleasant company.”

Lavenne bowed and returned to the inn, and Rochefort, telling his coachman to wait, got into the carriage. Five minutes passed, and then ten. He was becoming impatient, when from the inn door emerged an old man of miserable appearance who blinked at the sun, blinked at the carriage, and then came towards it and placed his hand on the door-handle.

Rochefort, who did not care for the appearance of this person, was on the point of asking him what the devil he wanted, when he caught a glimpse of Lavenne at the inn door, nodding to him to indicate that all was right. Then he grasped the fact that this incredible mass of decrepitude was Ferminard. He helped the old fellow in, and the driver, who already had his instructions, turned his horses, whipped them up, and started off in the direction of the Faubourg St. Honoré.

“Well, Monsieur Ferminard,” said Rochefort, laughing, “if I had not had the honour of seeing you when comparatively young, I would not have known you in your old age.”

“Oh, that is nothing, monsieur,” said Ferminard; “to turn oneself into an old man is an easy matter. The great difficulty is for an actor to turn himself into a youth. Has Monsieur ever seen me act?”

“Often,” said Rochefort, who, in fact, had little care for the theatre, and had never seen him act, “and I was charmed.”

“Monsieur is very good to say so. As for me, I have never been charmed by my own acting, though ’twas passable enough; but the fact is, monsieur, I was not born an actor. I was born a dramatist.”

“Oh, ho!”

“Yes, monsieur, that is how fate treats one. My head is full of my creations; they seize me, and make me write. Ah! whilst I am writing, then I can act; if I were impersonating one of my own characters on the stage, then I could act. But when I have to play the part of some other man’s creation in character, then I feel a stick.”

“You have written many plays?”

“Numerous, monsieur,” said the greatest actor and worst dramatist in France.

“I hear you had one staged in Versailles.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_!” said Ferminard. “All France knows that tale. Ah, _dame_, when I think of it, I could kick this coach to pieces—I could eat the world. Well, they shall be rewarded. Ferminard will have his revenge.”

He laughed and slapped his thigh.

They had entered the Rue de Pontoise, which led into the Rue de Valois.

“And now, monsieur,” said Ferminard, “I will forget, if you please, that I am an actor, and remember that I am an old man.”

He did, with strange effect. As the carriage turned into the courtyard of the Hôtel Dubarry, had any spy been watching the antique face of Ferminard at the window of the coach, he would have sent a report absolutely confusing to the Choiseul faction. He alighted, leaning on Rochefort’s arm. In the hall, when they were admitted, Jean Dubarry, who was waiting and who evidently had been advised by de Sartines of what to expect, seized upon Ferminard as though he had been a long-lost treasure, and spirited him away down a corridor, apologizing to Rochefort, and calling back to him over his shoulder to wait for a moment until he returned.

Rochefort, left alone, was turning to look at a stand of arms, supposed to contain the pikes and swords and spears of vanished Dubarrys slain in warfare, when a step drew his attention, and turning, he found himself face to face with Javotte. He had completely forgotten Javotte. But she had not forgotten him. She had a tray of glasses in her hand, and as their eyes met she blushed, looked down, and then glanced up again with a charming smile.

He had kissed her the night before; but she was only one of the thousand girls that the light-hearted Rochefort had kissed in passing, so to speak, and without ulterior intent. The pleasantest thing in the world is to kiss a pretty girl, just as one of the pleasantest things in the world is to draw a rose towards one, inhale its perfume, and release it unharmed; but very few men have the art of doing the thing successfully. Rochefort had. Just as some old gentlemen, by sheer power of personality, can say the most _risqué_ and terrible things without giving offence, so could Rochefort with women do things and say things that another man would not have dared. It was the touch of irresponsibility in his nature that gave him, perhaps, this power.

It was not the kiss lightly given the night before that made Javotte blush; it was the presence of Rochefort. Since his rescue of her, he completely filled her mind.

“Ah! little one,” said he, “good-morning!”

“Good-morning, monsieur.”

“And where are you going?”

“To the room of Madame la Comtesse, though I am no longer in her service.”

“No longer in her service?”

“No, monsieur.”

“And in whose service are you now, _petite_?”

“I belong to Mademoiselle Fontrailles, monsieur. I was only temporarily with Madame la Comtesse; and as her maid, Jacqueline, has returned to her this morning, and as I seemed to please Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who is staying here till after the presentation, I entered her service.”

“Ah, ha!” said Rochefort. “And where does mademoiselle live?”

“She has apartments in the Rue St. Dominic, monsieur, where she lives with her nurse.”

“Her nurse!”

“Yes, monsieur, an old Indian woman, who is as black as my shoe.”

The lively Javotte was proceeding to a vivacious description of her black sister from Martinique when a step on the stairs checked her; she vanished with the glasses, and Rochefort, turning, found himself face to face with Mademoiselle Fontrailles, who had just entered the hall.

They bowed to one another ceremoniously. It seemed to Rochefort that, beautiful as she had appeared on the night before, she was even more beautiful by daylight, here in the deserted hall of the Hôtel Dubarry.

“Well, mademoiselle,” said he, “and how are things progressing?”

“Marvellously, monsieur; but do not let us talk here of state secrets.” She led the way into the little room where they had parted but a few hours before.

“The carriage has been arranged for, your coiffeur will, I am sure, prove a success; he has arrived, and the Vicomte Jean has put him under lock and key, with a pocketful of louis to play with, and the promise of an equal amount when his work is done; my poor dress is now being altered and promises a perfect fit. We are saved, in fact, and thanks to you.”

“No, mademoiselle, thanks to luck; for if I had not gone to Choiseul’s ball I would not have met you.”

“You mean, you would not have discovered the plot to steal the carriage and the dress.”

“But for you the plot would have lain in my mind unrevealed. I have a horror of Court intrigue. As it is, I have set myself against Choiseul, and killed one of his agents, and thwarted his best hopes; but I count all that nothing in your service.”

Mademoiselle Fontrailles gazed at him steadily as he stood there with this patent declaration of homage on his lips, and all the laughter and lightness gone from his happy-go-lucky and defiant face.

She guessed now from his face and manner what was in his mind, and that the slightest weakening on her part would bring him down on his knee before her.

“I thank you, monsieur,” said she. “And now to the question of the Comtesse de Béarn.”

“Ah!” said Rochefort, inwardly cursing the Comtesse de Béarn, “I had forgotten the Comtesse. And how is she this morning?”

“She is still very bad.”

“And to-night?”

“She will be quite unable to attend at Versailles.”

Rochefort was about to make a remark when the door leading to the adjoining room opened, and Madame Dubarry herself appeared, young, fresh, triumphant and laughing.

“Did I hear you speaking of the Comtesse de Béarn?” asked she, as she extended her hand to Rochefort.

“Yes, madame, and I am grieved to hear that she is still indisposed.”

“Then, monsieur, you have heard false news. Madame la Comtesse has nearly recovered, and will be quite well enough to act for me to-night.”

Mademoiselle Fontrailles smiled, and Rochefort, not knowing what to make of these contradictory statements, stood glancing from one to the other of his informers.

“Not only that,” continued Madame Dubarry, “but you may tell everyone the news. That Madame la Comtesse has had a slight accident and has now perfectly recovered. And now I must dismiss you, dear Monsieur Rochefort, for I have a world of business before me; but only till to-night, when we will meet at Versailles. You will be there, will you not?”

“Yes,” said Rochefort, “I shall be there to see your triumph—and Mademoiselle Fontrailles?”

“I shall not be there,” said the girl, “or only in spirit; but my dress will be there.”

“Ah!” said Rochefort, “even that is something.”

Then off he went. Light-hearted now and laughing, for it seemed to him that, though his affair had seemingly not made an inch of progress, all was well between him and Camille Fontrailles.