The Strollers

Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.

“Let’s get the cards, or the dice, Mauville,” he said, “or I’ll fall into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!”

Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing bezique, but in spite of the latter’s drowsiness, he won steadily from his inattentive companion, and, although the noble visitor had some difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm. His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon the count thrust every piece of gold carefully away in his pocket, absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and departed in a brown study.

The count’s company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville’s temper, and he bore his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable. Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed. Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to a spacious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored maid who answered the door.

If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor stood spoke eloquently of the marquis’ taste. Eschewing the stiff, affected classicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best work of André Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after Fragonard, in the looms of Beauvais–couches that were made for conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition of lines and masses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and shut at the touch. The marquis’ character was stamped by these details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.

Soon the marquis’ servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.

“Last night his temperature was very high,” said the valet. “My master is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years.”

“You have served the marquis so long?” said the visitor, pausing as he was leaving the room. “Do you remember the Saint-Prosper family?”

“Well, Monsieur. General Saint-Prosper and my master were distant kinsmen and had adjoining lands.”

“Surely the marquis did not pass his time in the country?” observed Mauville.

“He preferred it to Paris–when my lady was there!” added François, softly.

In spite of his ill-humor, the shadow of a smile gleamed in the land baron’s gaze, and, encouraged by that questioning look, the man continued: “The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were always together. My lady had her own friends.”

“So I’ve heard,” commented the listener.

François’ discreet eyes were downcast. Why did the visitor wish to learn about the Saint-Prosper family? Why, instead of going, did he linger and eye the man half-dubiously? François had sold so many of his master’s secrets he scented his opportunities with a sixth sense.

“The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were warm friends?” asked the land baron at length.

“Yes, Monsieur; the death of the latter was a severe shock to the Marquis de Ligne, but, mon Dieu!”–lifting his eyes–“it was as well he did not live to witness the disgrace of his son.”

“His son’s disgrace,” repeated the land baron, eagerly. “Oh, you mean running in debt–gaming–some such fashionable virtue?”

“If betraying his country is a fashionable virtue,” replied the valet. “He is a traitor.”

Incredulity overspread the land baron’s features; then, coincident with the assertion, came remembrance of his conversation with the marquis.

“He certainly called him that,” ruminated the visitor. Not only the words, but the expression of the old nobleman’s face recurred to him. What did it mean unless it confirmed the deliberate charge of the valet? The land baron forgot his disappointment over his inability to see the marquis, and began to look with more favor on the man.

“He surrendered a French stronghold,” continued the servant, softly. “Not through fear; oh, no; but for ambition, power, under Abd-el-Kader, the Moorish leader.”

“How do you know this?” said the patroon, sharply.

“My master has the report of the military board of inquiry,” replied the man, steadily.

“Why has the matter attracted no public attention, if a board of inquiry was appointed?”

“The board was a secret one, and the report was suppressed. Few have seen it, except the late King of France and my master.”

“And yourself, François?” said the patroon, his manner changing.

“Oh, Monsieur!” Deprecatorily.

“Since it has been inspected by such good company, I confess curiosity to look at it myself. But your master is ill; I can not speak with him; perhaps you–”

“I, Monsieur!” Indignantly.

“For five hundred francs, François?”

Like oil upon the troubled waters, this assurance wrought a swift change in the valet’s manner.

“To oblige Monsieur!” he answered, softly, but his eyes gleamed like a lynx’s. His stateliness was a sham; his perfidy and hypocrisy surprised even the land baron.

“You have no compunctions about selling a reputation, François?”

“Reputation is that!” said the man, contemptuously snapping his fingers, emboldened by his compact with the caller. “Francs and sous are everything.”

“Lord, how servants imbibe the ideas of their betters!” quoth the patroon, as he left the house and strode down the graveled walk, decapitating the begonias with his cane.

Furtively the valet watched his departing figure. “Why does he want it?” he thought.

Then he shrugged his shoulders. “What do I care!”

“François!” piped a shrill and querulous treble from above, dispelling the servant’s conjectures.

“Coming, my lord!” And the valet slowly mounted the broad stairway amid a fusillade of epithets from the sick chamber. An hour before the marquis had ordered him out of his sight as vehemently as now he summoned him, all of which François endured with infinite patience and becoming humility.

Passing into the Rue Royale, the favorite promenade of the Creole-French, the land baron went on through various thoroughfares with French-English nomenclature into St. Charles Street, reaching his apartments, which adjoined a well-known club. He was glad to stretch himself once more on his couch, feeling fatigued from his efforts, and having rather overtaxed his strength.

But if his body was now inert, his mind was active. His thoughts dwelt upon the soldier’s reticence, his disinclination to make acquaintances, and the coldness with which he had received his, Mauville’s, advances in the Shadengo Valley. Why, asked Mauville, lying there and putting the pieces of the tale together, did not Saint-Prosper remain with his new-found friends, the enemies of his country? Because, came the answer, Abd-el-Kader, the patriot of Algerian independence, had been captured and the subjection of the country had followed. Since Algeria had become a French colony, where could Saint-Prosper have found a safer asylum than in America? Where more secure from “that chosen curse” for the man who owes his weal to his country’s woe?

In his impatience to possess the promised proof, the day passed all too slowly. He even hoped the count would call, although that worthy brought with him all the “flattering devils, sweet poison and deadly sins” of inebriation. But the count, like a poor friend, was absent when wanted, and it was a distinct relief to the land baron when François appeared at his apartments in the evening with a buff-colored envelope, which he handed to him.

“The suppressed report?” asked the latter, weighing it in his hand.

“No, Monsieur; I could not find that. My master must have destroyed it.”

The land baron made a gesture of disappointment and irritation.

“But this,” François hastened to add, “is a letter from the Duc d’Aumale, governor of Algeria, to the Marquis de Ligne, describing the affair. Monsieur will find it equally as satisfactory, I am sure.”

“How did you get it?” said the patroon, thoughtfully.

“My master left the keys on the dresser.”

“And if he misses this letter–”

“Oh, Monsieur, I grieve my master is so ill he could not miss anything but his ailments! Those he would willingly dispense with. My poor master!”