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Robinson Crusoe, discovering the human footprint on his island, was not more astonished and delighted than our hero on hearing that cry of "Fougas!" To open the door, jump out into the road, run to the carriage, which had been stopped, fling himself into it at a single bound, without the help of the step, and fall into the arms of the portly gentleman with the gray moustache, was all the work of a second. The barouche had long disappeared, when the detective at a gallop, followed by his hack at a trot, traversed the line of the Boulevards, asking all the policemen if they had not seen a crazy man pass that way.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MEMORABLE INTERVIEW BETWEEN COLONEL FOUGAS AND HIS MAJESTY THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH
In falling upon the neck of the big man with the gray moustache, Fougas supposed he was embracing Massena. He naturally intimated as much to him, whereupon the owner of the barouche burst into a great peal of laughter.
"Ah, my poor old boy," said he, "it's a long time since we buried the 'Child of Victory!' Look me square in the face: I am Leblanc, of the Russian campaign."
"Impossible! You little Leblanc?"
"Lieutenant in the 3d Artillery, who shared with you a million of dangers and that famous piece of roast horse which you salted with your tears."
"Well, upon my soul! It is you! You cut me out a pair of boots from the skin of the unfortunate Zephyr! And we needn't speak of the number of times you saved my life! Oh, my brave and faithful friend, thank God that I embrace you once more! Yes, I recognize you now; but I needn't say that you are changed!"
"Gad! I haven't been preserved in a jug of spirits of wine. I've lived, for my part!"
"You know my history, then?"
"I heard it told last night at the Minister's of Public Instruction. He had there the savant who set you on your legs again. I even wrote to you, on getting back home, to offer you a bunk and a place at mess; but my letter is on the way to Fontainebleau."
"Thanks! You're a sound one! Ah, my poor old boy, what things have happened since Beresina! You know all the misfortunes that have come?"
"I've seen them, and that's sadder still. I was a major after Waterloo; the Bourbons put me aside on half-pay. My friends got me back into service again in 1822, but I had bad luck, and lazed around in garrisons at Lille, Grenoble, and Strasburg, without getting ahead any. My second epaulette did not reach me till 1830; then I took a little turn in Africa. I was made brigadier-general at Isly, got home again, and banged about from pillar to post until 1848. During that year we had a June campaign in Paris itself. My heart still bleeds every time I think of it, and, upon my soul, you're blest in not having seen it. I got three balls in my body and a commission as general of division. After all, I've no right to complain for the campaign in Italy brought me good luck. Here I am, Marshal of France, with a hundred thousand francs income, and Duke of Solferino in the bargain. Yes, the Emperor has put a handle to my name. The fact is, that short 'Leblanc' was a little too short."
"Thunderation!" cried Fougas, "that's splendid! I swear, Leblanc, that I'm not jealous of your good fortune! It's seldom enough that one soldier rejoices over the promotion of another; but indeed, from the bottom of my heart, I assure you that I do now. It's all the better, since you deserved your honors, and the blind goddess must have had a glimpse of your heart and talents, over the bandage that covers her eyes!"
"You're very kind! But let's talk about yourself now: where were you going when I met you?"
"To see the Emperor."
"So was I; but where the devil were you looking for him?"
"I don't know; somebody was showing me the way."
"But he is at the Tuilleries!"
"No!"
"Yes! There's something under all this; tell me about it."
Fougas did not wait to be urged. The Marshal soon understood from what sort of danger he had extricated his friend.
"The concierge is mistaken," said he; "the Emperor is at the Palace; and, as we've reached there now, come with me; perhaps I can present you after my audience."
"The very thing! Leblanc, my heart beats at the idea of seeing this young man. Is he a good one? Can he be counted upon? Is he anything like the other?"
"You can see for yourself. Wait here."
The friendship of these two men dated from the winter of 1812. During the retreat of the French army, chance flung the lieutenant of artillery and the colonel of the 23d together. One was eighteen years old, the other not quite twenty-four. The distance between their ranks was easily bridged over by common danger. All men are equal before hunger, cold, and fatigue. One morning, Leblanc, at the head of ten men, rescued Fougas from the hands of the Cossacks; then Fougas sabred a half dozen stragglers who were trying to steal Leblanc's cloak. Eight days later, Leblanc pulled his friend out of a hut which the peasants had set on fire; and Fougas, in turn, fished Leblanc out of the Beresina. The list of their dangers and their mutual services is too long for me to give entire. To finish off, the Colonel, at Koenigsberg, passed three weeks at the bedside of the lieutenant, who was attacked with fever and ague. There is no doubt that this tender care saved his life. This reciprocal devotion had formed between them bonds so strong that a separation of forty-six years could not break them.
Fougas, alone in a great saloon, was buried in the recollections of that good old time, when an usher asked him to remove his gloves, and go into the cabinet of the Emperor.
Respect for the powers that be, which is the very foundation of my character, does not permit me to bring august personages upon the scene. But Fougas' correspondence belongs to contemporaneous history, and here is the letter which he wrote to Clementine on returning to his hotel:
"Paris (what am I saying?)—Heaven, Aug. 21, 1859.
"My sweet Angel: I am intoxicated with joy, gratitude, and admiration. I have seen him, I have spoken to him; he gave me his hand, he made me be seated. He is a great prince; he will be the master of the world. He gave me the medal of St. Helena, and the Cross of an Officer. Little Leblanc, an old friend and a true heart, conducted me into his presence; he is Marshal of France, too, and a Duke of the new empire! As for promotion, there's no more need of speculation on that head. A prisoner of war in Prussia and in a triple coffin, I return with my rank; so says the military law. But in less than three months I shall be a brigadier-general—that's certain; he deigned to promise it to me himself. What a man! A god on earth! No more conceited than he of Wagram and Moscow, and, like him, the father of the soldier. He wanted to give me money from his private purse to replace my equipments. I answered, 'No, sire; I have a claim to recover at Dantzic; if it is paid, I shall be rich; if the debt is denied, my pay will suffice for me.' Thereupon (O Beneficence of Princes, thou art not, then, but an empty name!) he smiled slightly, and said, twisting his moustache, 'You remained in Prussia from 1813 to 1859?'—'Yes, sire.'—'Prisoner of war under exceptional conditions?'—'Yes, sire.'—'The treaties of 1814 and 1815 stipulated for the release of prisoners?'—'Yes, sire.'—'They have been violated, then, in your case?'—'Yes, sire.'—'Well, then, Prussia owes you an indemnity. I will see that it is recovered by diplomatic proceedings.'—'Yes sire. What goodness!' Now, there's an idea which would never have occurred to me! To squeeze money out of Prussia—Prussia, who showed herself so greedy for our treasures in 1814 and 1815! Vive l'Empereur! My well-beloved Clementine! Oh, may our glorious and magnanimous sovereign live forever! Vivent l'Imperatrice et le Prince Imperial! I saw them! The Emperor presented me to his family! The Prince is an admirable little soldier! He condescended to beat the drum on my new hat. I wept with emotion. Her Majesty the Empress said, with an angelic smile, that she had heard my misfortunes spoken of. 'Oh, Madame!' I replied, 'such a moment as this compensates them a hundred fold.'—'You must come and dance at the Tuilleries next winter.'—'Alas, Madame, I have never danced but to the music of cannon; but I shall spare no effort to please you! I will study the art of Vestris."—'I've managed to learn the quadrille very nicely,' joined in Leblanc.
"The Emperor deigned to express his happiness at getting back an officer like me, who had yesterday, so to speak, taken part in the finest campaigns of the century, and retained all the traditions of the great war. This encouraged me. I no longer feared to remind him of the famous principle of the good old time—to treat for peace only in capitals! 'Take care!' said he; 'it was on the strength of that principle that the allied armies twice came to settle the basis of peace at Paris.'—'They'll not come here again,' cried I, 'without passing over my body!' I dwelt upon the troubles apt to come from too much intimacy with England. I expressed a hope of at once proceeding to the conquest of the world. First, to get back our frontiers for ourselves; next, the natural frontiers of Europe: for Europe is but the suburb of France, and cannot he annexed too soon. The Emperor shook his head as if he was not of my opinion. Does he entertain peaceful designs? I do not wish to dwell upon this idea; it would kill me!
"He asked me what impressions I had formed regarding the appearance of the changes which had been made in Paris. I answered, with the sincerity of a lofty soul, 'Sire, the new Paris is the great work of a great reign; but I entertain the hope that your improvements have not yet had the finishing touch.'—'What is left to be done, now, in your opinion?'—'First of all, to remedy the course of the Seine, whose irregular curve is positively shocking. The straight line is the shortest distance between two points, for rivers as well as boulevards. In the second place, to level the ground and suppress all inequalites of surface which seem to say to the Government, 'Thou art less powerful than Nature!' Having accomplished this preparatory work, I would trace a circle three leagues in diameter, whose circumference, marked by an elegant railing, should be the boundary of Paris. At the centre I would build a palace for your Majesty and the princes of the imperial family—a vast and splendid edifice, including in its arrangements all the public offices—the staff offices, courts, museums, cabinet offices, archives, police, the Institute, embassies, prisons, bank of France, lecture-rooms, theatres, the Moniteur, imperial printing office, manufactory of Sèvres porcelain and Gobelin tapestry, and commissary arrangements. At this palace, circular in form and of magnificent architecture, should centre twelve boulevards, a hundred and twenty yards wide, terminated by twelve railroads, and called by the names of twelve marshals of France. Each boulevard is built up with uniform houses, four stories high, having in front an iron railing and a little garden three yards wide, all to be planted with the same kind of flowers. A hundred streets, sixty yards wide, should connect the boulevards; these streets communicate with each other by lanes thirty-five yards wide, the whole built up uniformly according to official plans, with railings, gardens, and specified flowers. Householders should be prohibited from allowing any business to be conducted in their establishments, for the aspect of shops debases the intellect and degrades the heart. Merchants could be permitted to establish themselves in the suburbs under the regulation of the laws. The ground floors of all the houses to be occupied with stables and kitchens; the first floors let to persons worth an income of a hundred thousand francs and over; the second, to those worth from eighty to a hundred thousand francs; the third, to those worth from sixty to eighty thousand; the fourth, from fifty to sixty thousand. No one with an income of less than fifty thousand francs should be permitted to live in Paris. Workmen are to be lodged ten miles outside of the boundary in workmen's barracks. We will exempt them from taxes to make them love us; and we'll plant cannon around them to make them fear us. That's my Paris!' The Emperor listened to me patiently, and twisted his moustache. 'Your plan,' said he, 'would cost a trifle.'—'Not much more than the one already adopted,' answered I. At this remark, an unreserved hilarity, the cause of which I am unable to explain, lit up his serious countenance. 'Don't you think,' said he, 'that your project would ruin a great many people?'—'Eh! What difference does it make to me?' I cried, 'since it will ruin none but the rich?' He began laughing again, and bid me farewell, saying, 'Colonel, you will have to remain colonel only until we make you brigadier-general!' He permitted me to press his hand a second time. I waved an adieu to brave Leblanc, who has invited me to dine with him this evening, and I returned to my hotel to pour my joy into your sweet soul. Oh, Clementine! hope on! You shall be happy, and I shall be great! To-morrow morning I leave for Dantzic. Gold is a deception, but I want you to be rich.
"A sweet kiss upon your pure brow!"V. Fougas."
The subscribers to La Patrie, who keep files of their paper, are hereby requested to hunt up the number for the 23d of August, 1859. In it they will find two paragraphs of local intelligence, which I have taken the liberty of copying here:
"His Excellency, the Marshal, the Duke of Solferino, yesterday had the honor of presenting to his Majesty the Emperor a hero of the first Empire, Colonel Fougas, whom an almost miraculous event, already mentioned in a report to the Academy of Sciences, has restored to his country."
Such was the first paragraph; here is the second
"A madman, the fourth this week, but the most dangerous of all, presented himself yesterday at one of the entrances of the Tuilleries. Decked out in a grotesque costume, his eyes flashing, his hat cocked over his ear, and addressing the most respectable people with unheard-of rudeness, he attempted to force his way past the sentry, and thrust himself, for what purpose God only knows, into the presence of the Sovereign. During his incoherent ejaculations, the following words were distinguished: 'bravery, Vendôme column, fidelity, the dial-plate of time, the tablets of history.' When he was arrested by one of the detective watch, and taken before the police commissioner of the Tuilleries section, he was recognized as the same individual who, the evening before, at the opera, had interrupted the performance of Charles VI. with most unseemly cries. After the customary medical and legal proceedings, he was ordered to be sent to the Charenton Hospital. But opposite the porte Saint-Martin, taking advantage of a lock among the vehicles, and of the Herculean strength with which he is endowed, he wrested his hands from his keeper, threw him down, beat him, leaped at a bound into the street, and disappeared in the crowd. The most active search was immediately set on foot, and we have it from the best authority that the police are already on the track of the fugitive."
CHAPTER XVII.
WHEREIN HERR NICHOLAS MEISER, ONE OF THE SOLID MEN OF DANTZIC, RECEIVES AN UNWELCOME VISIT
The wisdom of mankind declares that ill-gotten gains never do any good. I maintain that they do the robbers more good than the robbed, and the good fortune of Herr Nicholas Meiser is an argument in support of my proposition.
The nephew of the illustrious physiologist, after brewing a great deal of beer from a very little hops, and prematurely appropriating the legacy intended for Fougas, had amassed, by various operations, a fortune of from eight to ten millions. "In what kind of operations?" No one ever told me, but I know that he called all operations that would make money, good ones. To lend small sums at a big interest, to accumulate great stores of grain in order to relieve a scarcity after producing it himself, to foreclose on unfortunate debtors, to fit out a vessel or two for trade in black flesh on the African coast—such are specimens of the speculations which the good man did not despise. He never boasted of them, for he was modest; but he never blushed for them, for he had expanded his conscience simultaneously with his capital. As for the rest, he was a man of honor, in the commercial sense of the word, and capable of strangling the whole human race rather than of letting his signature be protested. The banks of Dantzic, Berlin, Vienna, and Paris, held him in high esteem; his money passed through all of them.
He was fat, unctuous, and florid, and lived well. His wife's nose was much too long, and her bones much too prominent, but she loved him with all her heart, and made him little sweetmeats. A perfect congeniality of sentiment united this charming couple. They talked with each other with open hearts, and never thought of keeping back any of their evil thoughts. Every year, at Saint Martin's day, when rents became due, they turned out of doors the families of five or six workmen who could not pay for their terms; but they dined none the worse after it, and their good-night kiss was none the less sweet.
The husband was sixty-six years old, the wife sixty-four. Their physiognomies were such as inspire benevolence and command respect. To complete their outward resemblance to the patriarchs, nothing was needed but children and grandchildren. Nature had given them one son—an only one, because they had not solicited Nature for more. They would have thought it criminal improvidence to divide their fortune among several. Unhappily, this only child, the heir-presumptive to so many millions, died at the University of Heidelberg from eating too many sausages. He set out, when he was twenty, for that Valhalla of German students, where they eat infinite sausages, and drink inexhaustible beer; where they sing songs of eight hundred million verses, and gash the tips of each other's noses with huge swords. Envious Death snatched him from his parents when they were no longer of an age to improvise a successor. The unfortunate old millionnaires tenderly collected his effects, to sell them. During this operation, so trying to their souls (for there was a great deal of brand-new linen that could not be found), Nicholas Meiser said to his wife, "My heart bleeds at the idea that our buildings and dollars, our goods above ground and under, should go to strangers. Parents ought always to have an extra son, just as they have a vice-umpire in the Chamber of Commerce."
But Time, who is a great teacher in Germany and several other countries, led them to see that there is consolation for all things except the loss of money. Five years afterwards, Frau Meiser said to her husband, with a tender and philosophic, smile: "Who can fathom the decrees of Providence? Perhaps your son would have brought us to a crust. Look at Theobald Scheffler, his old comrade. He wasted twenty thousand francs at Paris on a woman who kicked up her legs in the middle of a quadrille. We ourselves spent more than two thousand thalers a year for our wicked scapegrace. His death is a great saving, and therefore a good thing!"
As long as the three coffins of Fougas were in the house, the good dame scolded at the visions and restlessness of her husband. "What in the name of sense are you thinking about? You've been kicking me all night again. Let's throw this ragamuffin of a Frenchman into the fire; then he'll no longer disturb the repose of a peaceable family. We can sell the leaden box; it must weigh at least two hundred pounds. The white silk will make me a good lining for a dress; and the wool in the stuffing, will easily make us a mattress." But a tinge of superstition prevented Meiser from following his wife's advice; he preferred to rid himself of the Colonel by selling him.
The house of this worthy couple was the handsomest and most substantial on the street of Public Wells, in the aristocratic part of the city. Strong railings, in iron open work, decorated all the windows magnificently, and the door was sheathed in iron, like a knight of the olden time. A system of little mirrors, ingeniously arranged in the entrance, enabled a visitor to be seen before he had even knocked. A single servant, a regular horse for work and camel for temperance, ministered under this roof blessed by the gods.
The old servant slept away from the house, both because he preferred to and because while he did so he could not be tempted to wring the venerable necks of his employers. A few books on Commerce and Religion constituted the library of the two old people. They never cared to have a garden at the back of their house, because the shrubbery might conceal thieves. They fastened their door with bolts every evening at eight o'clock, and never went out without being obliged to, for fear of meeting dangerous people.
And nevertheless, on the 29th of April, 1859, at eleven o'clock in the morning, Nicholas Meiser was far away from his beloved home. Gracious! how very far away for him—this honest burgher of Dantzic! He was traversing, with heavy tread, the promenade in Berlin, which bears the name of one of Alphonse Karrs' romances: Sous les tilleuls. In German: Unter den Linden.
What mighty agency had thrown out of his bon-bon box, this big red bon-bon on two legs? The same that led Alexander to Babylon, Scipio to Carthage, Godfrey de Bouillon to Jerusalem, and Napoleon to Moscow—Ambition! Meiser did not expect to be presented with the keys of the city on a cushion of red velvet, but he knew a great lord, a clerk in a government office, and a chambermaid who were working to get a patent of nobility for him. To call himself Von Meiser instead of plain Meiser! What a glorious dream!
This good man had in his character that compound of meanness and vanity which places lacqueys so far apart from the rest of mankind. Full of respect for power, and admiration for conventional greatness, he never pronounced the name of king, prince, or even baron, without emphasis and unction. He mouthed every aristocratic syllable, and the single word "Monseigneur" seemed to him like a mouthful of well-spiced soup. Examples of this disposition are not rare in Germany, and are even occasionally found elsewhere. If they could be transported to a country where all men are equal, homesickness for boot-licking would kill them.
The claims brought to bear in favor of Nicholas Meiser, were not of the kind which at once spring the balance, but of the kind which make it turn little by little. Nephew of an illustrious man of science, powerfully rich, a man of sound judgment, a subscriber to the New Gazette of the Cross, full of hatred for the opposition, author of a toast against the influence of demagogues, once a member of the City Council, once an umpire in the Chamber of Commerce, once a corporal in the militia, and an open enemy of Poland and all nations but the strong ones. His most brilliant action dated back ten years. He had denounced, by an anonymous letter, a member of the French Parliament who had taken refuge in Dantzic. While Meiser was walking under the lindens, his cause was progressing swimmingly. He had received that sweet assurance from the very lips of its promoters. And so he tripped lightly toward the depot of the North-Eastern Railroad, without any other baggage than a revolver in his pocket. His black leather trunk had gone before; and was waiting for him at the station. On the way, he was glancing into the shop windows, when he stopped short before a stationer's, and rubbed his eyes—a sovereign remedy, people say, for impaired vision. Between the portraits of Mme. Sand and M. Mérimée, the two greatest writers of France, he had noticed, examined, recognized a well-known countenance.
"Surely," said he, "I've seen that man before, but he was paler. Can our old lodger have come to life? Impossible! I burned up my uncle's directions, so the world has lost—thanks to me—the secret of resuscitating people. Nevertheless, the resemblance is striking. Is it a portrait of Colonel Fougas, taken from life in 1813? No; for photography was not then invented. But possibly it's a photograph copied from an engraving? Here are Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette reproduced in the same way: that doesn't prove that Robespierre had them resuscitated. Anyhow, I've had an unfortunate encounter."
He took a step toward the door of the shop to reassure himself, but a peculiar reluctance held him back. People might wonder at him, ask him questions, try to learn the reason of his trouble. He resumed his walk at a brisk pace, trying to reassure himself.
"Bah! It's an hallucination—the result of dwelling too much on one idea. Moreover, the portrait was dressed in the style of 1813; that settles the question."
He reached the station, had his black leather trunk checked, and flung himself down at full length in a first-class compartment. First he smoked his porcelain pipe, but his two neighbors being asleep, he soon followed their example, and began snoring. Now this big man's snores had something awe-inspiring about them; you could have fancied yourself listening to the trumpets of the judgment day. What shade visited him in this hour of sleep, no other soul has ever known; for he kept his dreams to himself, as he did everything that was his.
But between two stations, while the train was running at full speed, he distinctly felt two powerful hands pulling at his feet—a sensation, alas! too well known, and one which called up the ugliest recollections of his life. He opened his eyes in terror, and saw the man of the photograph, in the costume of the photograph. His hair stood on end, his eyes grew as big as saucers, he uttered a loud cry, and flung himself headlong between the seats among the legs of his neighbors.
A few vigorous kicks brought him to himself. He got up as well as he could, and looked about him. No one was there but the two gentlemen opposite, who were mechanically lanching their last kicks into the empty space, and rubbing their eyes with their arms. He succeeded in awakening them, and asked them about the visitation he had had; but the gentlemen declared they had seen nothing.
Meiser sadly returned to his own thoughts; he noticed that the visions appeared terribly real. This idea prevented his going to sleep again.
"If this goes on much longer," thought he, "the Colonel's ghost will break my nose with a blow of his fist, or give me a pair of black eyes!"
A little later, it occurred to him that he had breakfasted very hastily that morning, and he reflected that the nightmare had perhaps been brought about by such dieting.
He got off at the next five-minute stopping-place and called for soup. Some very hot vermicelli was brought him, and he blew into his bowl like a dolphin into the Bosphorus.
A man passed before him, without jostling him, without saying anything to him, without even seeing him. And nevertheless, the bowl dropped from the hands of the rich Nicholas Meiser, the vermicelli poured over his waistcoat and shirt-bosom, where it formed an elegant fretwork suggestive of the architecture of the porte Saint Martin. Some yellowish threads, detached from the mass, hung in stalactites from the buttons of his coat. The vermicelli stopped on the outside, but the soup penetrated much further. It was rather warm for pleasure; an egg left in it ten minutes would have been boiled hard. Fatal soup, which not only distributed itself among the pockets, but into the most secret sinuosities of the man himself! The starting bell rang, the waiter collected his two sous, and Meiser got into the cars, preceded by a plaster of vermicelli, and followed by a little thread of soup which was running down the calves of his legs.
And all of this, because he had seen, or thought he had seen, the terrible figure of Colonel Fougas eating sandwiches.
Oh! how long the trip seemed! What a terrible time it appeared to be before he could be at home, between his wife Catharine and his servant Berbel, with all the doors safely closed! His two companions laughed till the buttons flew; people laughed in the compartment to the right of him, and in the compartment to the left of him. As fast as he picked off the vermicelli, little spots of soup saucily congealed and seemed quietly laughing. How hard it comes to a great millionnaire to amuse people who do not possess a cent! He did not get off again until they reached Dantzic; he did not even put his nose to the window; he sucked solitary consolation from his porcelain pipe, on which Leda caressed her swan and smiled not.
Wearisome, wearisome journey! But he did reach home nevertheless. It was eight o'clock in the evening; the old domestic was waiting with ropes to sling his master's trunk on his back. No more alarming figures, no more mocking laughs! The history of the soup was fallen into the great forgotten, like one of M. Heller's speeches. In the baggage room, Meiser had already seized the handle of a black leather trunk, when, at the other end, he saw the spectre of Fougas, which was pulling in the opposite direction, and seemed inclined to dispute possession. He bristled up, pulled stronger, and even plunged his left hand into the pocket where the revolver was lying. But the luminous glance of the Colonel fascinated him, his legs trembled, he fell, and fancied that he saw Fougas and the black trunk rolling over each other. When he came to, his old servant was chafing his hands, the trunk already had the slings around it, and the Colonel had disappeared. The domestic swore that he had not seen anybody, and that he had himself received the trunk from the baggage agent's own hand.
Twenty minutes later, the millionnaire was in his own house, joyfully rubbing his face against the sharp angles of his wife. He did not dare to tell her about his visions, for Frau Meiser was a skeptic, in her own way. It was she who spoke to him about Fougas.
