Mated from the Morgue Part 4

'Pardon,' said the brunette, colouring a deep red; 'I see I have made a mistake. At least, gentlemen'--with an emphasis on the latter word--'you will step up to our apartment until grandfather returns you thanks in person.'

The four mounted by broad stairs to the third story, and entered a small, lightsome chamber, neatly furnished. The scent of violets was in the air. The window was draped with white curtains, the walls were hung with engravings of military subjects, a cottage pianoforte lay open at one side of the window, a comfortable armchair was set at the other, while high in a wicker-cage a throstle fluttered in the rosy light between. Plaster busts of the first and third Napoleons were set on brackets, and flanked a large print of the Imperial House, from its founder and Josephine, Marie Louise, the King of Rome, and Hortense Beauharnais, down to the youthful Prince Imperial, in his uniform as corporal of Grenadiers of the Guard.

After motioning them to seats, the girls disappeared into an inner room, and almost immediately a tall, old man, with head held erect, white hair and moustaches lending him a venerable appearance, the chocolate-coloured ribbon of the St. Helena medal in his b.u.t.ton-hole, stood in its doorway.

'Messieurs,' said the old man, advancing stiffly, 'you have been kind to my grand-daughter, and I, Victor Chauvin, officer of the First Empire, thank you. I am at your service for any duty you can ask me in return;'

and the rigid body was bent with soldierly angularity in what was intended to be a very ceremonious bow.

'And we--that is, the men of our country--are always at the service of distressed females without expecting or asking any return,' said Friezecoat as formally.

'What countryman are you, sir?'

'We are Irish.'

O'Hara regarded Friezecoat with surprise. How had this bizarre personage discovered his nationality? He forgot that he had heard him speak.

'Ah! l.u.s.ty comrades as ever I met at a.s.sault on battery or bottle. I knew some of them in the Legion in the Man's time,' said the old soldier.

'The man--who was he?'

'Who was he? There was only one man in this century, and his name was Napoleon. Sir, I'm afraid you've learned history from Pere Loriquet;'

and the old soldier smiled.

'Yes, he was a man.'

'Sir, shake hands with me for that,' said Victor Chauvin, evidently flattered. 'But you must let the old soldier show his grat.i.tude for your kindness to his child. I insist on it.'

'Well, if you will have it so, tell us why your grand-daughter is called the Song-bird, and we're repaid?'

'Because she sings like the nightingale; no, that's too sad. Like a canary; but that's a prisoner. I have it--like the morning-lark, for its song, fresh and pure, goes up to G.o.d's gates! Berthe, enter.'

At the call, our young acquaintance, the traces of her recent infirmities entirely removed, came radiantly into the room, smiling with an arch smile.

'Berthe, my Song-bird, treat those gentlemen, who, you have told me, have been so good to you, to a sample of your voice.'

'What shall I sing?' asked Berthe, approaching the piano.

'Sing the romance that friend Benic wrote for you--_le Vieil Irlandais_--for these gentlemen are from that brave and faithful land; ay, brave and faithful, for it has known how to carry the sword without taking the cross from its hilt.'

The girl skilfully pa.s.sed her fingers over the instrument, executing a tremulous prelude, and in a soft, sweet voice, trilled, to a pathetic air, the following touching verses, the old soldier joining in at the refrain which ended each:

Mon fils, ecoute un vieillard centenaire.

Tu nais a peine et moi je vais mourir, Fuis, sans retour, par l'exil volontaire, Le sol ingrat qui ne peut te nourrir.

Sur ce navire, ou la foule s'elance, Tu vas vogeur vers les etats-Unis; Dans ces climats, au sein de l'abondance, Vivent heureux vingt peuples reunis.

Des flots de l'Atlantique Ne crains pas le courroux; emigre en Amerique, Ton sort sera plus doux.

Au jour naissant tu commencais l'ouvrage, Sous un ciel gris, pendant un rude hiver; J'ai vu faiblir ta force et ton courage A defricher les champs d'un duc et pair.

Jamais ses pas n'ont foule son domaine, Loin de l'Irlande il voyage en seigneur.

Infortune, la disette est prochaine, Quitte a jamais ce sejour du malheur.

Des flots, etc.

En cultivant des savanes fertiles, Garde ta foi, si tu veux prosperer; Fais tes adieux a nos sillons steriles; Sans esperance il faut nous separer.

Prends cet argent, fruit de longs sacrifices, Au centenaire un peu de pain suffit, La mer est belle, et les vents sont propices; Pars, mon enfant, ton aieul te benit.

Des flots, etc.[11]

There were tears in the woman's soft voice, and when she finished there were tears in the eyes of at least one of her listeners.

'Thanks, mademoiselle,' cried O'Hara, with emotion; 'thanks for that little tribute to the sorrows and affection of poor Ireland. He who wrote it knew the land, at least, in spirit.'

'He has never been there, sir, has not my friend, Laurent Benic; he is but a humble carpenter, but he has learned to love the green Erin, the younger sister of our France, as I have.'

'Is that the Benic who wrote "Robert Surcouf," a rattling corsair ballad?' demanded Friezecoat.

'The same, sir.'

'Will you ask Mademoiselle Berthe to make me a copy of it, words and music, and will you allow me to send her a present of some of our Irish music in return?'

'Certainly; shall we not, Berthe?' Berthe smiled happily. 'And I'll ask you, sir, to come to hear her play your country's music. He who has been kind to the old soldier's grand-daughter is welcome to the old soldier's hearth.'

Shortly afterwards the two Irishmen, who had made such a rare rencontre, bade their farewells to the Frenchman and his grand-daughter, and left.

'He's a regular old brick, that Chauvin,' said Friezecoat on the doorstep, 'and I'll remember that song to his grand-daughter. If she wasn't my sister to-day, she may be something nearer some day.

Good-night.'

'You're going, and you've not told me----'

'Not to-night. Search the side-pocket of that coat, and you'll find fifty francs in it. _Au revoir._'

And this strangest of strange characters jumped into the hackney-carriage and disappeared by a street leading to the Pantheon, leaving O'Hara in a brown study in the brown shadows of the Rue de la Vieille Estrapade.

He was roused from his reverie by an affectionate whine, now become familiar. It was the dog, forgotten when they entered the house, and who had been lying patiently by its threshold. He returned the creature's welcome with a caress, and determined, as he had fallen in with him so curiously, and as he had shown so lively a sense of grat.i.tude and fidelity--much more than humanity usually permits itself to be betrayed into--to take Pat back to his lodgings and adopt him. He did not fear the Caudine forks now, for he had the grand pa.s.sport, the jingling gold, in his pocket, and the old pride returned to his port and the jovial defiance to his eye. Gaily he strode down by the Rue Soufflot to the Boulevard St. Michel--we believe he might even have been heard whistling 'Rory O'More,' to the huge delight of the dog, who capered at his heels--until he reached the cafe of _la Jeune France_, where he came to a dead stop on the pavement, as if debating something in his mind.

'No,' he said at last, 'I shan't go in; I'll see, for once, if I can keep a good resolution when I have the means of breaking it. Egad, this is a day of adventures for me. If half these things were written down in a story, the world would say the author was a lunatic, or imagined he was writing for fools!'

Not the least grateful surprise awaited him at his hotel in the Rue du Four when he re-entered. It was a letter of credit for twenty pounds from a debtor in Ireland, which the _concierge_, who knew the handwriting, smilingly slipped into his fingers.

CHAPTER V.

NAPOLEONIC IDEAS.

Few who saw the miserable despairing lodger in the Hotel de Suez, who looked out sadly from his thin blankets on the prospect of hope vanishing with the last vapour of his pipe, would have recognised the same ent.i.ty a week afterwards in the gay, buoyant, flushed youth seated, choice Havana idly turned between his lips, deep in an armchair, soft dressing-gown falling around in showy folds, and his feet cased in embroidered slippers, resting, American-wise, on the marble top of a stove wherein the live logs cheerily hissed and blazed. The man was the same; that is the form, the cubic extent of flesh and blood and bone--but money had effected the grand transformation; money had made out of the wretch, fearful of the shadow of a sharp-tongued _concierge_, a very cavalier in lightsome spirit, airy courage, and happy way of looking at life in general. Twenty pounds had done this; gold had done it--the true philosopher's stone, whereat we be tempted to moralize much, to ask was not this human being as much ent.i.tled to human respect and more to human sympathy when he was forlorn? and all that sort of thing, and to put on our grave censor's cap and reproach the world. But we resist the temptation. For, indeed, is not money truly great? is it not the outward and visible representation of intrinsic worth always, and is not the man who has made it by trafficking in cloth or herrings, or some other articles for the good of society over a counter, infinitely to be preferred to him who thinks, and feels, and dreams much, and does not make money? Is he not of vastly more value to his kind than the mere scholar or martyr, the doer of high deeds or utterer of high thoughts? Is not the alderman--the Lord Mayor, perhaps, of next year--riding in his gilt chariot, more worthy much than Samuel Johnson in the attic vegetating on fourpence-halfpenny a day? For what is the worth of anything but its money value in the market?

But let us cease this teasing worn-out cynicism, which all will applaud in theory, and in practice all will repudiate, and return to our friend, O'Hara.