The Strollers

“It is cold here, François.”

The servant consulted the thermometer.

“It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord,” he replied.

“Bring me the thermometer,” commanded the old man. “You should not lie, François. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world’s potentates, diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying, François, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet.”

“You can see that I speak the truth, my lord,” was the response, as calm as ever, for nothing disturbed or ruffled this ideal servant.

He held out the thermometer for the marquis’ inspection and the latter examined it carefully. The cigar fell from his fingers to the floor. The attentive valet picked it up and threw it into the grate.

“I believe, François,” stammered the marquis, “that the fault lies with me. It is I–I, who am growing cold like death.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the calm and imperturbable servant.

“‘Yes?’ you blockhead!” shrieked the master. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Well, no, then, my lord,” responded the unmoved valet.

“Yes and no!” shouted the marquis in a voice that was wildly discordant. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever my lord pleases,” was the quiet response.

“Mon Dieu! I’ll discharge you.”

The servant only smiled.

“Why did you smile?”

“Oh, my lord–”

“Was it not that you thought it a good joke for a dying man to discharge his servant?”

“My lord is quick to catch the humorous side of anything,” returned François.

“Begone, idiot! You are waiting for my death to discharge you. I can see it in your eyes. Yet stay, François, for, if you leave me, I shall be alone. You will not leave me?”

“As my lord desires,” was François’ response.

“I imagine I should feel better if I had my footbath.”

The servant removed the shoes and silken stockings from his master’s feet and propped him up in a chair, throwing a blanket over his shoulders and heaping more wood upon the fire in the grate.

“More fire, you idiot!” cried the marquis, peevishly. “Do you not see that I am freezing?”

“It is ten degrees above the temperature my lord always ordered,” retorted François, coolly.

“Ten degrees! Oh, you wish to remind me that the end is approaching? You do not dare deny it!” The valet shrugged his shoulders.

“But I am not gone yet.” He wagged his head cunningly and began to laugh to himself. His mind apparently rambled, for he started to chant a French love song in a voice that had long since lost its capacity for a sustained tone. The words were distinct, although the melody was broken, and the spectacle was gruesome enough. As he concluded he looked at the valet as if for approbation and began to mumble about his early love affairs.

“Bah, François,” he said shrilly, “I’ll be up to-morrow as gay as ever. Vive l’amour! vive la joie! It was a merry life we led, eh, François?”

“Merry indeed, my lord.”

“It kept you busy, François. There was the little peasant girl on the Rhine. What flaxen hair she had and eyes like the sky! Yet a word of praise–a little flattery–”

“My lord was irresistible,” said the valet with mild sarcasm.

“Let me see, François, what became of her?”

“She drowned herself in the river.”

“That is true. I had forgotten. Well, life is measured by pleasures, not by years, and I was the prince of coxcombs. Up at ten o’clock; no sooner on account of the complexion; then visits from the tradespeople and a drive in the park to look at the ladies. It was there I used to meet the English actress. ’Twas there, with her, I vowed the park was a garden of Eden! What a scene, when my barrister tried to settle the case! Fortunately a marriage in England was not a marriage in France. I saw her last night, François”–with an insane look–“in the flesh and blood; as life-like as the night before we took the stage for Brighton!” Suddenly he shrieked and a look of terror replaced the vain, simpering expression.

“There, François!” Glancing with awe behind him. And truly there stood a dark shadow; a gruesome presence. His face became distorted and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The valet gazed at him with indifference. Then he went to an inner room and brought a valise which he began packing carefully and methodically. After he had completed this operation he approached the dressing table and took up a magnificent jeweled watch, which he examined for a moment before thrusting it into his pocket. A snuff box, set with diamonds, and several rings followed. François with the same deliberation opened a drawer and took out a small box which he tried to open, and, failing, forced the lid with the poker. At this, my lord opened his eyes, and, in a weak voice, for his strength had nearly deserted him, demanded:

“What are you doing, François?”

“Robbing you, my lord,” was the slow and dignified response.

The marquis’ eyes gleamed with rage. He endeavored to call out, but his voice failed him and he fell back, trembling and overcome.

“Thief! Ingrate!” he hissed, hoarsely.

“I beg you not to excite yourself, my lord,” said the stately valet. “You are already very weak and it will hasten the end.”

“Is this the way you repay me?”

“My lord will not need these things soon.”

“Have you no gratitude?” stammered the marquis, whose physical and mental condition was truly pitiable.

“Gratitude for having been called ‘idiot,’ ‘dog,’ and ‘blockhead’ nearly all my life! I am somewhat lacking in that quality, I fear.”

“Is there no shame in you?”

“Shame?” repeated François, as he proceeded to ransack another drawer. “There might have been before I went into your service, my lord. Yes; once I felt shame for you. It was years ago, in London, when you deserted your beautiful wife. When I saw how she worshiped you and what a noble woman she was, I confess I felt ashamed that I served one of the greatest blackguards in Europe–”

“Oh, you scoundrel–” exclaimed the marquis, his face becoming a ghastly hue.

“Be calm, my lord. You really are in need of all your energy. For years I have submitted to your shameful service. I have been at the beck and call of one of the greatest roués and villains in France. Years of such association would somewhat soil any nature. Another thing, my lord, I must tell you, since you and I are settling our last accounts. For years I have endured your miserable King Louis Philippe. A king? Bah! He fled from the back door! A coward, who shaved his whiskers for a disguise.”

“No more, rascal!”

“Rascal yourself, you worn-out, driveling breath of corruption! It is so pleasant to exercise a gentleman’s privilege of invective! Ah, here is the purse. Au revoir, my lord. A pleasant dissolution!”