IX
In which François tells the fortune of the Marquis de Ste. Luce and of Robespierre, and has his own fortune told, and of how Despard saw a man of whom he was afraid.
François was soon to be further amazed by Pierre Despard. To the last of his life, François remembered that day. A cool October had stripped the king’s chestnut-trees of their glory as clean as the king himself was soon to be shorn. The leaves were rustling at evening across the Place Louis XV, and covering the water of the canals. Here, of late, the tent-booth had been set up for the benefit of the better society, which still wore the white cockade of the Bourbons. A merry group of the actors of the Comédie was waiting to see François, the maker of faces. There were Chenard of the Opéra Comique; Fleury and Saint-Prix, whose gaiety no prison in after days could lessen, and no fear of death abate. “Behold, there is the great Talma,” said Pierre, peeping out; “and the aristos are many to-day. Art ready, François?”
François was delighted. The great Talma here, and actually to see him—François! He had of late been acquiring stage ambitions, and taking great pains to improve the natural advantages of a face quite matchless in Paris.
Despard peeped in again. “Yes, François; they talk of thee, and there are many in the crowd. They gather to see Talma. There are Jacobins, and thy friends the aristocrats. Make thou haste. Art ready?”
“Yes, yes,” said François. He felt it to be a great, an unusual occasion. He had a bright idea. He struck with a stick three times on the floor of the booth, the traditional signal at the Théâtre Français for the curtain to rise. A roar of applause outside rewarded his shrewd sense of what was due to this audience.
“Tiens! That is good,” said La Rive.
The slit in the curtain opened, and, framed in the black drapery, appeared a face which seemed to have come out of the canvas of Holbein. It was solemn, and yet grotesque, strong of feature, the face, beard, and hair white with powder; the eyes were shut.
“Mon Dieu,” said Talma, “what a mask! ’T is stern as fate.” The crowd stayed motionless and silent.
“Look! look!” said Fleury. “’T is a study. To smile with closed eyes! Didst thou ever see a man smile in sleep, Talma?”
It was pretty and odd. Little curves of mirthful change crawled downward from the eyes over the large, grave features; the ears moved; the eyes opened; and a storm of liberal laughter broke up the quiet lines of cheek and mouth.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried Talma and the other actors, while the crowd burst into a roar of applause and responsive mirth.
“Angels of fun!” cried Saint-Prix, “what a face! ’T is a gargoyle come down from the roof of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. Does it go back of nights? I wonder what next will he do?”
“Tiens! Wait,” said La Rive.
The white face seen above in the slit of the black curtain became suddenly serious, with moveless eyes looking past the audience as if into futurity. Below appeared two large hands, scrupulously clean, while the man’s figure remained hidden. There was something impressive in this artful pose.
“Fortunes, fortunes, messieurs et dames!” cried Pierre. “Who will have his hand read? Avancez—come!”
A shrill voice on the outskirts of the crowd cried, “Read Louis Capet’s!” The white cockades turned to look. “It were easy to read,” said a tall Jacobin. A gentleman in the black garments of the unprogressive noblesse turned: “Your card, citizen, or monsieur, as you like.” The crowd was scarcely stirred by this politely managed difference. It was the year of duels.
Two lads pushed forward their tutor, an abbé, as was plain to see, although few clerics still ventured to wear their old costume. He laughed awkwardly, and timidly laid a fat, well-fed hand on that of François’s. The grave face of the reader of palms fell forward to see the fateful lines. For a moment François was silent; then the voice which came from his stolid visage was monotonously solemn, and the words dropped from it one by one, as if they were the mechanical product of some machine without interest in the results of its own action. One long, lean forefinger traversed the abbé’s palm, and paused. “An easy life thou hast had. A woman has troubled it.” The two pupils were delighted; the crowd laughed. “The line of life is broken—broken”—François’s hands went through the pantomime of the snapping of a thread—“like that.” The abbé drew back, and could not be persuaded to hear further. Again there was a pause. A grisette advanced smiling, and was sent away charmed with the gifts a pleasant future held in store. Pierre exhorted for a time in vain. Presently the crowd made way. A slight man in breeches and silk stockings came forward; he was otherwise dressed in the extreme of the fashion still favored by the court party, but wore no cockade, and carried two watches, the heavy seals of which François greatly desired to appropriate. His uneasy eyes were covered with spectacles, and around them his sallow complexion deepened to a dusky, dull green. Altogether this was a singular and not a pleasant face, or so, at least, thought the palm-reader, a part of whose cunning was to study the expressions of those who asked his skill. The man who laid his hand on François’s looked up at the motionless visage of the ex-thief. François said: “Is it for the citizen alone to hear, or for all?”
“For me—for me.”
François’s voice fell to a low whisper.
“Let the past go,” said the listener; “what of the future?”
“It is dark. The lines are many. They are—citizen, thou wilt be a ruler, powerful, dreaded. Thou wilt have admiration, fame, and at last the hatred of man.”
“I—I—what nonsense! Then?”—and he waited,—“then? What then? What comes after!”’
“I will tell thee”; and François whispered.
“No more—no more; enough of such foolishness!” He was clearly enough disturbed by what he had heard. “Thou must think men fools.”
“Fate is always a fool, citizen; but the fools all win, soon or late.”
“That, at least, is true, Master Palmister.” Then a pair of sinister eyes, set deep behind spectacles, sought those of François. “Thou hast a strange face, Master Palm-reader. Dost thou believe what thou dost make believe to read on men’s palms?”
“Sometimes.”
“Now—now?—this time?”
“Yes; I believe.”
“I shall not forget thee.”
François felt something like a chill between his shoulders. The Jacobin stepped aside after depositing an ample fee in the basket which Toto presented.
There was a murmur in the crowd. Several persons looked with curious eyes after the retreating man, and the conjurer heard some one say: “Tiens! C’est drôle. It is Robespierre.” His was at this time not more than a well-known name. For a minute no one else came forward. François saw Pierre slip hastily into the tent; he knew not why. A gentleman came up gaily. He was dressed splendidly, with no regard for the leveling tastes of the day.
“The deuce!” he said quickly; “you are my thief!”
“De grâce, monsieur!” exclaimed François; “you will get me into trouble.”
“Not I. Happy to meet you. I am myself fond of palmistry. Come, read me my hand.”
François bent over the palm. He began aloud: “Ah, here have been many loves.” Then his voice fell. “Monsieur is a good swordsman.”
“So-so,” said the gentleman.
“Monsieur has been unfortunate in his duels.”
“Mon Dieu! Yes; I always kill people.”
“Monsieur has one remorse.”
“Sapristi! Thou art clever, and I lucky to have but one. Go on; ’t is vastly amusing. Shall I live to be old? My people do.”
“Monsieur will have troubles, but he will live to be old—very old.”
“Will he, indeed? I hardly like that. If I were you, I would tell more agreeable fortunes. To outlive the joys of life, to be left a stranded wreck, while the world goes by gay and busy—pshaw! I like not that. You do it well. Let me read your own palm. I have a taste for this art.”
François was at once interested. The gentleman’s strong left hand took that of the thief, and with a wandering forefinger he ran over the lines of the palm. He let it fall, and looked downward at his own hand. “It is strange that we shall meet again, and in an hour of danger. You will be fortunate, and I shall not. You will have—”
“Tenez, monsieur—stop!” cried François; “I will hear no more”; and he drew his hands within the tent-folds.
“Dame! and you are really a believer in it all, my good thief? Belief is out of fashion. I hope you did tell that cursed Jacobin he would go to a place he doesn’t believe in, but which is a little like France to-day. Come and see me if ever you are in trouble and this trade comes to an end. I like men who can laugh. ’T is a pretty talent, and rather gone out just now. I am the Marquis de Ste. Luce—or was. Come and laugh for me, and tell me your story.” He let fall a gold louis in Toto’s basket, and elbowed his way through the crowd, with “Pardon, monsieur,” to white cockades, and scant courtesy to the Jacobins and the demi-constitutionnels, who were readily known by their costumes.
As the marquis ceased to speak, François heard a singular noise in the tent back of him. He withdrew his head to see the cause, and a moment later, reappearing, said he must be excused, because his friend was ill. The crowd broke up. Within the tent lay Pierre on the ground, in a fit. François, greatly alarmed and utterly at a loss, threw water in his face, and waited. In a few moments it was over, and the man, flushed and breathing deeply, lay with red froth on his lips, as if in a deep sleep. He was no longer convulsed; but what further to do the partner knew not, and sat beside him, not more competent to deal with this novel situation than was Toto, who walked about, and scratched his nose, and gave it up. An hour went by with Pierre’s head resting on François’s lap.
At last Despard opened his eyes. “Take him away,” he said. The man was delirious.
“Who?”
“Take him away. Will he kill me? He killed her.” A half-hour he wandered in mind, while François bathed his flushed face. Then he drew a deep breath, and said: “What is this? Where am I?”
François replied: “Thou hast had a fit.”
“A fit? Yes; I have them—not often. I remember now. Has he gone, that devil?—that marquis?”
“Who? Ste. Luce? Was it he that troubled thee?”
“Yes; he.”
“But what then?”
By and by Pierre sat up. Seeing him to be quite himself, but staring about as if in fear, François said:
“Come, now; I must have the whole story. What the mischief has this fine gentleman done to thee? I am out of patience with thy tiresome mysteries. I know him; we have met before. Perhaps I can help thee.”
“Thou?”
Pierre lay back on the floor, and covered his face.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried, “why wilt thou force me to talk of it? Oh, to hate, and to be afraid!” He started up. “I am afraid.”
“If I hated a man,” said François, “sacré bleu! I would twist his neck.”
“If I could! if I could! I am not like thee. I am—am a coward. That’s the truth.”
“Dame! that is curious.” He regarded the fat little man with attentive eyes. “Suppose we have it all out, and get done with it.”
“Done with it?”
“Yes; done with it! Hast thou often had these fits before?”
“Yes; and then I am better for a while.”
“Tell me all about this man. I will take care of thee.”
“No; God did not: thou canst not.”
“Then we must separate. I am tired of thy nonsense, and I do not care a rap how soon this business ends, what with your cursed melancholy and that jade Quatre Pattes. Now, out with it!”
Pierre, seated on the floor of the booth, red-eyed and dejected, looked up piteously at his questioner. “If I tell thee all, thou wilt despise me.”
“Not I. Go on! If thou canst speak out like a man, I may be able to help thee; but if thou art of a mind to hold thy tongue, it were better we parted. I am tired of thy folly.”
Thus urged, Pierre told his story, reluctant, with bowed head, and at times in tears. François sat over him on a stool, now and then asking a question, or waiting patiently when Pierre, choked by overmastering emotions, was silent for a while.
“I have been unhappy and unlucky from the time I can first remember,” said Pierre. “My people belonged to the lesser noblesse, but my father was poor—oh, very poor. We had been ruined folks away there in Normandy for half a century, only a bit of farm and vineyard left to us. My mother was of the bourgeoisie, foolish and pretty. She died young, and I was left the only child. My father treated me ill. I had no courage, he said. It was true. As I grew up, I was timid like a girl, and fearful of quarrels. When I was about twenty years old I had a trouble with a brother of this marquis. He struck me with his whip because of something I said. My father learned that I had excused myself, and was wild with rage. It was my bourgeois mother, he said; we had lost all but honor, and now that too was gone. He died not long after, and I, with a few hundred francs, was driven out to care for myself. The marquis had a mortgage on the farm. I went to a village near by, and lived awhile as I could until I was down to my lust sou. I worked like a peasant in the fields; I was the servant at an inn. At last a mountebank company attracted me, and in despair I went with them to take care of the horses which served them in their performances. By and by I learned sleight of hand, and fared better. At last I married a girl who danced in our company. She was pretty,—oh, more than pretty,—and clever, too. When we came again to our town, a notary offered me a petty clerk’s place, and I was well contented to settle down. My wife was too eager for the society of the bourgeoisie, and they would have none of that of the dancing-girl. Then, unhappily, this marquis saw my wife, and how I know not, but his fine clothes and cunning were too much for one who was eager for a society she could not have. I was busy, and often absent collecting small debts. No one warned me. I was satisfied, and even put by a little money.
“There was a woman in the village, Mme. Quintette, a dressmaker, a shameless creature of bad life. She might have been then some fifty years old. ’T is now twelve years ago. At her house the marquis met my wife. One day my Renée was gone, and this Quintette with her. It is she who is this Quatre Pattes.”
“The deuce!” cried François. “Now I see.”
“More than a year went by. Thou wouldst have killed the man. I could not. I am a coward, François—a coward! God made me so; I can’t help it. One day an infant was brought to my door, with a note. Mon Dieu, such a note! The dying mother in the hospital with her last money paid a good sister to take the child to me—to me, of all men! And would I pardon her? François, it was that devil’s babe and hers. Would I forgive her, and keep it? Wouldst thou have kept it?”
“No,” said François; “not I.”
“I did! I did! It was like her, all but the eyes. I grew to love it. Then there was an accident, a fall, and the little maid is crippled for life. It seemed horrible, but now I thank God, because she is safe from the baseness of men. I wanted to die, but I must live; she has no other friend.”
François sat still, pitiful, and deep in thought. At last he said: “Why were you so terribly afraid of that woman? She could do no worse than ruin our business.”
“I—hast thou ever been afraid thou wouldst murder some one? I was. I would have done it in a minute hadst not thou come in.”
“Sac à papier! Afraid of thyself! How queer! Thou wert afraid of thyself?”
“Yes; I am—I was—I am often afraid of myself.”
“Let us forget it.”
“I cannot. What can I do?”
“Do? Nothing.”
“But that man—”
“Well, thou art helpless. I should not be. Forget. Thy chance may come.” He was at the end of his wisdom. He pitied this weak-hearted coward who so frankly avowed his defect. “We will speak of it no more, Pierre, or not now. But what brought you to Paris? Let us have it all, and get done with it.”
“My poor little humpback was hardly six years old when she came to me, crying, to know why the village children would not play with her. She was a humpback and a bastard. What was ‘bastard’? I have always fled from trouble. One day I took the child and what little I had, and was away to Paris. God knows how it hurt me to hear every evening how she had been mocked and tormented; one is so foolishly tender. In this great city I sought work, and starved. And when at last she was fading before my eyes, I stole—my God, I stole!”
“Dame! thou art particular. Must a man starve?”
“When I got money out of a full purse I took, I set up our little business, and then I found thee. And this is all. I dare say I shall feel better to have told some one. I did not want to steal. I did not steal after I began with the booth, unless I was in need—oh, sorely in need. It was so on that fortunate day when I was saved by thee. In thy place I should have kept the old fishwife’s purse.”
“And let me swing?”
“Yes—perhaps; I don’t know. I—it is well for me thou wert not a coward.”
“Sacristie! It appears that not to be a coward has its uses. Now bon jour and adieu to the whole of this business. Let the miserable past go. ’T is bad company, and not amusing. Have no fear; I will take care of thee. Come, let us go home.”
“Thou wilt look about a little before we go?”
“Toto, he is mad, this man.”
“I sometimes think I am. At night, in my dreams, I have him by the throat, and he laughs, and I cannot hold him. I wake up, and curse in the darkness because I cannot kill him. And then I know it is a debt never to be paid—never.”
François had had enough of the small man’s griefs. Contempt and pity were strangely mingled as he listened to his story.
“I shall let thee talk no more,” he said. “But mille tonnerres! I cannot help thee to go mad. Let us go and wander in the country to-morrow, thou and I and Toto. It will comfort thee. But no more of this; I will not stand it.”
The advice was wholesome, and, as usual, Pierre accepted the orders of his more sturdy-minded friend.