Colonel Rollon, the lieutenant-colonel, the major-in-chief, the three majors of battalions, the surgeon-major, and ten or a dozen officers were outside, awaiting the arrival of the illustrious guest from the other world. The flag was placed in the middle of the court, under guard of the ensign and a squad of non-commissioned officers selected for the honor. The band of the regiment, at the entrance of the garden, filled up the background of the picture. Eight panoplies of arms, which had been improvised the same morning by the armorers of the corps, embellished the walls and railings. A company of grenadiers, with their arms at rest, were in attendance.

At the entrance of Fougas, the band played the famous "Partant pour la Syrie;" the grenadiers presented arms; the drums beat a salute; the non-commissioned officers and soldiers cried, "Vive le Colonel Fougas!" the officers, in a body, approached the patriarch of their regiment. All this was neither regular nor according to discipline, but we can well allow a little latitude to these brave soldiers on finding their ancestor. For them it seemed a little debauch in glory.

The hero of the fete grasped the hands of the colonel and officers with as much emotion as if he had found his old comrades again. He cordially saluted the non-commissioned officers and soldiers, approached the flag, bent one knee to the earth, raised himself loftily, grasped the staff, turned toward the attentive crowd, and said,

"My friends, under the shadow of the flag, a soldier of France, after forty-six years of exile, finds his family again to-day. All honor to thee, symbol of our fatherland, old partner in our victories, and heroic support in our misfortunes! Thy radiant eagle has hovered over prostrate and trembling Europe. Thy bruised eagle has again dashed obstinately against misfortune, and terrified the sons of Power. Honor to thee, thou who hast led us to glory, and fortified us against the clamor of despair! I have seen thee ever foremost in the fiercest dangers, proud flag of my native land! Men have fallen around thee like grain before the reaper; while thou alone hast shown to the enemy thy front unbending and superb. Bullets and cannon-shot have torn thee with wounds, but never upon thee has the audacious stranger placed his hand. May the future deck thy front with new laurels! Mayst thou conquer new and far-extending realms, which no fatality shall rob thee of! The day of great deeds is being born again; believe a warrior, who has risen from the tomb to tell thee so. 'Forward!' Yes, I swear it by the spirit of him who led us at Wagram. There shall be great days for France when thou shalt shelter with thy glorious folds the fortunes of the brave 23d!"

Eloquence so martial and patriotic stirred all hearts. Fougas was applauded, feted, embraced, and almost carried in triumph into the banquet hall.

Seated at table opposite M. Rollon, as if he were a second master of the house, he breakfasted heartily, talked a great deal, and drank more yet. You may occasionally meet, in the world, people who get drunk without drinking. Fougas was far from being one of them. He never felt his equanimity seriously disturbed short of three bottles. Often, in fact, he went much further without yielding.

The toasts presented at dessert were distinguished for pith and cordiality. I would like to recount them in order, but am forced to admit that they would take up too much room, and that the last, which were the most touching, were not of a lucidity absolutely Voltairian.

They arose from the table at two o'clock, and betook themselves in a body to the Cafe Militaire, where the officers of the 23d placed a punch before the two colonels. They had invited, with a feeling of eminent propriety, the superior officers of the regiment of cuirassiers.

Fougas, who was drunker, in his own proper person, than a whole battalion of Suisses, distributed a great many hand-shakings. But across the storm which disturbed his spirit, he recognized the person and name of M. du Marnet, and made a grimace. Between officers, and, above all, between officers of different arms of the service, politeness is a little excessive, etiquette rather severe, amour-propre somewhat susceptible. M. du Marnet, who was preeminently a man of the world, understood at once, from the attitude of M. Fougas, that he was not in the presence of a friend.

The punch appeared, blazing, went out with its strength unimpaired, and was dispensed, with a big ladle, into threescore glasses. Fougas drank with everybody, except M. du Marnet. The conversation, which was erratic and noisy, imprudently raised a question of comparative merits. An officer of cuirassiers asked Fougas if he had seen Bordesoulle's splendid charge, which flung the Austrians into the valley of Plauen. Fougas had known General Bordesoulle personally, and had seen with his own eyes the beautiful heavy cavalry manoeuvre which decided the victory of Dresden. But he chose to be disagreeable to M. du Marnet, by affecting an air of ignorance or indifference.

"In our time," said he, "the cavalry was always brought into action after the battle; we employed it to bring in the enemy after we had routed them."

Here a great outcry arose, and the glorious name of Murat was thrown into the balance.

"Oh, doubtless—doubtless!" said he, shaking his head. "Murat was a good general in his limited sphere; he answered perfectly for all that was wanted of him. But if the cavalry had Murat, the infantry had Napoleon."

M. du Marnet observed, judiciously, that Napoleon, if he must be seized upon for the credit of any single arm of the service, would belong to the artillery.

"With all my heart, monsieur," replied Fougas; "the artillery and the infantry. Artillery at a distance, infantry at close quarters—cavalry off at one side."

"Once more I beg your pardon," answered M. du Marnet; "you mean to say, at the sides, which is a very different matter."

"At the sides, or at one side, I don't care! As for me, if I were commander-in-chief, I would set the cavalry aside."

Several cavalry officers had already flung themselves into the discussion. M. du Marnet held them back, and made a sign that he wanted to answer Fougas alone.

"And why, then, if you please, would you set the cavalry aside?"

"Because the dragoon is an incomplete soldier."

"Incomplete?"

"Yes, sir; and the proof is, that the Government has to buy four or five hundred francs' worth of horse in order to complete him. And when the horse receives a ball or a bayonet thrust, the dragoon is no longer good for anything. Have you ever seen a cavalryman on foot? It would be a pretty sight!"

"I see myself on foot every day, and I don't see anything particularly ridiculous about it."

"I'm too polite to contradict you."

"And for me, sir, I am too just to combat one paradox with another. What would you think of my logic, if I were to say to you (the idea is not mine—I found it in a book), if I were to say to you, 'I entertain a high regard for infantry, but, after all, the foot soldier is an incomplete soldier, deprived of his birthright, an inefficient body deprived of that natural complement of the soldier, called a horse! I admire his courage, I perceive that he makes himself useful in battle; but, after all, the poor devil has only two feet at his command, while we have four!' You see fit to consider a dragoon on foot ridiculous; but does the foot-soldier always make a very brilliant appearance when one sticks a horse between his legs? I have seen excellent infantry captains cruelly embarrassed when the minister of war made them majors. They said, scratching their heads, 'It's not over when we've mounted a grade; we've got to mount a horse in the bargain!'"

This crude pleasantry amused the audience for a moment. They laughed, and the mustard mounted higher and higher in Fougas' nose.

"In my time," said he, "a foot soldier became a dragoon in twenty-four hours; and if any one would like to make a match with me on horseback, sabre in hand, I'll show him what infantry is!"

"Monsieur," coolly replied M. du Marnet, "I hope that opportunities will not be lacking to you in the field of battle. It is there that a true soldier displays his talents and bravery. Infantry and cavalry, we alike belong to France. I drink to her, Monsieur, and I hope you will not refuse to touch glasses with me.—To France!"

This was certainly well spoken and well settled. The clicking of glasses applauded M. du Marnet. Fougas himself approached his adversary and drank with him without reserve. But he whispered in his ear, speaking very thickly:

"I hope, for my part, that you will not refuse the sabre-match which I had the honor to propose to you?"

"As you please," said the colonel of cuirassiers.

The gentleman from the other world, drunker than ever, went out of the crowd with two officers whom he had picked up haphazard. He declared to them that he considered himself insulted by M. du Marnet, that a challenge had been given and accepted, and that the affair was going on swimmingly.

"Especially," added he in confidence, "since there is a lady in the case! These are my conditions—they are all in accordance with the honor of the infantry, the army, and France: we will fight on horseback, stripped to the waist, mounted bareback on two stallions. The weapon—the cavalry sabre. First blood. I want to chastise a puppy. I am far from wishing to rob France of a soldier."

These conditions were pronounced absurd by M. du Marnet's seconds. They accepted them, nevertheless, for the military code requires one to face all dangers, however absurd.

Fougas devoted the rest of the day to worrying the poor Renaults. Proud of the control he exercised over Clementine, he declared his wishes; swore he would take her for his wife as soon as he had recovered his rank, family, and fortune, and prohibited her to dispose of herself before that time. He broke openly with Leon and his parents, refused to accept their good offices any longer, and quitted their house after a serious passage of high words. Leon concluded by saying that he would only give up his betrothed with life itself. The Colonel shrugged his shoulders and turned his back, carrying off, without stopping to consider what he was doing, the father's clothes and the son's hat. He asked M. Rollon for five hundred francs, engaged a room at the Hotel du Cadron-bleu, went to bed without any supper, and slept straight through until the arrival of his seconds.

There was no necessity for giving him an account of what had passed the previous day. The fogs of punch and sleep dissipated themselves in an instant. He plunged his head and hands into a basin of fresh water, and said:

"So much for my toilet! Now, Vive l'Empereur! Let's go and get into line!"

The field selected by common consent was the parade-ground—a sandy plain enclosed in the forest, at a good distance from the town. All the officers of the garrison betook themselves there of their own accord; there would have been no need of inviting them. More than one soldier went secretly and billeted himself in a tree. The gendarmerie itself ornamented the little family fete, with its presence. People went to see an encounter in chivalric tourney, not merely between the infantry and the cavalry, but between the old army and the young. The exhibition fully satisfied public expectation. No one was tempted to hiss the piece, and everybody had his money's worth.

Precisely at nine o'clock, the combatants entered the lists, attended by their four seconds and the umpire of the field. Fougas, naked to the waist, was as handsome as a young god. His lithe and agile figure, his proud and radiant features, the manly grace of his movements, assured him a flattering reception. He made his English horse caper, and saluted the lookers-on with the point of his sword.

M. du Marnet, a man rather of the German type, hardy, quite hairy, moulded like the Indian Bacchus, and not like Achilles, showed in his countenance a slight shade of disgust. It was not necessary to be a magician to understand that this duel in naturalibus, under the eyes of his own officers, appeared to him useless and even ridiculous. His horse was a half-blood from Perche, a vigorous beast and full of fire.

Fougas' seconds rode badly enough. They divided their attention between the combat and their stirrups. M. du Marnet had chosen the best two horsemen in his regiment, a major and captain. The umpire of the field was Colonel Rollon, an excellent rider.

At a signal given by Colonel Rollon, Fougas rode directly at his adversary, presenting the point of his sabre in the position of "prime," like a cavalry soldier charging infantry in a hollow square. But he reined up about three lengths from M. du Marnet, and described around him seven or eight rapid circles, like an Arab in a play. M. du Marnet, being forced to turn in the same spot and defend himself on all sides, clapped both spurs to his horse, broke the circle, took to the field, and threatened to commence the same manoeuvre about Fougas. But the gentleman from the other world did not wait for him. He rushed off at a full gallop, and made a round of the hippodrome, always followed by M. du Marnet. The cuirassier, being heavier, and mounted on a slower horse, was distanced. He revenged himself by calling out to Fougas:

"Oh, Monsieur! I must say that this looks more like a race than a battle. I ought to have brought a riding-whip instead of a sword!"

But Fougas, panting and furious, had already turned upon him.

"Hold on there!" cried he; "I have shown you the horseman; now I will show you the soldier!"

He lanched a thrust at him, which would have gone through him like a hoop if M. du Marnet had not been as prompt as at parade. He retorted by a fine cut en quarte, powerful enough to cut the invincible Fougas in two. But the other was nimbler than a monkey. He wholly shielded his body by letting himself slide to the ground, and then remounted his horse in the same second.

"My compliments!" said M. du Marnet. "They don't do any better than that in the circus."

"No more do they in war," rejoined the other. "Ah, scoundrel! so you revile the old army? Here's at you! A miss! Thanks for the retort, but it's not good enough yet. I'll not die from any such thrust as that! How do you like that?—and that?-and that? Ah, you claim that the foot-soldier is an incomplete man! Now we're going to make your assortment of limbs a little incomplete. Look out for your boot! He's parried it! Perhaps he expects to indulge in a little promenade under Clementine's windows this evening. Take care! Here's for Clementine! And here's for the infantry! Will you parry that? So, traitor! And that? So he does! Perhaps you'll parry them all, then, by Heavens! Victory! Ah, Monsieur! Your blood is flowing! What have I done? Devil take the sword, the horse, and all! Major! major! come quickly! Monsieur, let yourself rest in my arms. Beast that I am! As if all soldiers were not brothers! Oh, forgive me, my friend! Would that I could redeem each drop of your blood with all of mine! Miserable Fougas, incapable of mastering his fierce passions! Ah, you Esculapian Mars, I beg you tell me that the thread of his days is not to be clipped! I will not survive him, for he is a brave!"

M. du Marnet had received a magnificent cut which traversed the left arm and breast, and the blood was streaming from it at a rate to make one shudder. The surgeon, who had provided himself with hemostatic preparations, hastened to arrest the hemorrhage. The wound was long rather than deep, and could be cured in a few days. Fougas himself carried his adversary to the carriage, but that did not satisfy him. He firmly insisted on joining the two officers who took M. du Marnet home; he overwhelmed the wounded man with his protestations, and was occupied during most of the ride in swearing eternal friendship to him. On reaching the house, he put him to bed, embraced him, bathed him with tears, and did not leave him for a moment until he heard him snoring.

When six o'clock struck, he went to dine at the hotel, in company with his seconds and the referee, all of whom he had invited after the fight. He treated them magnificently, and got drunk himself, as usual.



CHAPTER XV.

IN WHICH THE READER WILL SEE THAT IT IS NOT FAR FROM THE CAPITAL TO THE TARPEIAN ROCK.

The next day, after a visit to M. du Marnet, he wrote thus to Clementine:

"Light of my life, I am about to quit these scenes, the witnesses of my fatal courage and the repositories of my love. To the bosom of the capital, to the foot of the throne, I will first betake my steps. If the successor of the God of Combats is not deaf to the voice of the blood that courses in his veins, he will restore me my sword and epaulettes, so that I may lay them at thy feet. Be faithful to me—wait, hope! May these lines be to thee a talisman against the dangers threatening thy independence. Oh, my Clementine, tenderly guard thyself for thy

"VICTOR FOUGAS!"

Clementine sent him no answer, but, just as he was getting on the train, he was accosted by a messenger, who handed him a pretty red leather pocket-book, and ran away with all his might. The pocket-book was entirely new, solid, and carefully fastened. It contained twelve hundred francs in bank notes—all the young girl's savings. Fougas had no time to deliberate on this delicate circumstance. He was pushed into a car, the locomotive puffed, and the train started.

The Colonel began to review in his memory the various events which had succeeded each other in his life during less than a week. His arrest among the frosts of the Vistula, his sentence to death, his imprisonment in the fortress of Liebenfeld, his reawakening at Fontainebleau, the invasion of 1814, the return from the island of Elba, the hundred days, the death of the emperor and the king of Rome, the restoration of the Bonapartes in 1852, his meeting with a young girl who was the counterpart of Clementine Pichon in all respects, the flag of the 23d, the duel with the colonel of cuirassiers—all this, for Fougas, had not taken up more than four days. The night reaching from the 11th of November, 1813, to the 17th of August, 1859, seemed to him even a little shorter than any of the others; for it was the only time that he had had a full sleep, without any dreaming.

A less active spirit, and a heart less warm, would, perhaps, have lapsed into a sort of melancholy. For, in fact, one who has been asleep for forty-six years would naturally become somewhat alien to mankind in general, even in his own country. Not a relation, not a friend, not a familiar face, on the whole face of the earth! Add to this a multitude of new words, ideas, customs, and inventions, which make him feel the need of a cicerone, and prove to him that he is a stranger. But Fougas, on reopening his eyes, following the precept of Horace, was thrown into the very midst of action. He had improvised for him friends, enemies, a sweetheart, and a rival. Fontainebleau, his second native place, was, provisionally, the central point of his existence. There he felt himself loved, hated, feared, admired—in a word, well known. He knew that in that sub-prefecture his name could not be spoken without awakening an echo. But what attached him more than all to modern times, was his well-established relationship with the great family of the army. Wherever a French flag floats, the soldier, young or old, is at home. Around that church-spire of the fatherland, though dear and sacred in a way different from the village spire, language, ideas, and institutions change but little. The death of individuals has little effect; they are replaced by others who look like them, and think, talk, and act in the same way; who do not stop on assuming the uniform of their predecessors, but inherit their souvenirs also—the glory they have acquired, their traditions, their jests, and even certain intonations of their voices. This accounts for Fougas' sudden friendship, after a first feeling of jealousy, for the new colonel of the 23d; and the sudden sympathy which he evinced for M. du Marnet as soon as he saw the blood running from his wound. Quarrels between soldiers are family quarrels, which never blot out the relationship.

Calmly satisfied that he was not alone in the world, M. Fougas derived pleasure from all the new objects which civilization placed before his eyes. The speed of the rail-cars fairly intoxicated him. He was inspired with a positive enthusiasm for this force of steam, whose theory was a closed book to him, but on whose results he meditated much.

"With a thousand machines like this, two thousand rifled cannon, and two hundred thousand such chaps as I am, Napoleon would have conquered the world in six weeks. Why doesn't this young fellow on the throne make some use of the resources he has under his control? Perhaps he hasn't thought of it. Very well, I'll go to see him. If he looks like a man of capacity, I'll give him my idea; he'll make me minister of war, and then—Forward, march!"

He had explained to him the use of the great iron wires running on poles all along the road.

"The very thing!" said he. "Here are aides-de-camp both fleet and judicious. Get them all into the hands of a chief-of-staff like Berthier, and the universe would be held in a thread by the mere will of a man!"

His meditations were interrupted, a couple of miles from Melun, by the sounds of a foreign language. He pricked up his ears, and then bounded from his corner as if he had sat on a pile of thorns. Horror! it was English! One of those monsters who had assassinated Napoleon at St. Helena for the sake of insuring to themselves the cotton monopoly, had entered the compartment with a very pretty woman and two lovely children.

"Conductor, stop!" cried Fougas, thrusting his body halfway out of the window.

"Monsieur," said the Englishman in good French, "I advise you to have patience until we get to the next station. The conductor doesn't hear you, and you're in danger of falling out on the track. If I can be of any service to you, I have a flask of brandy with me, and a medicine chest."

"No, sir," replied Fougas in a most supercilious tone, "I'm in want of nothing, and I'd rather die than accept anything from an Englishman! If I'm calling the conductor, it's only because I want to get into a different car, and cleanse my eyes from the sight of an enemy of the Emperor."

"I assure you, monsieur," responded the Englishman, "that I am not an enemy of the Emperor. I had the honor of being received by him while he was in London. He even deigned to pass a few days at my little country-seat in Lancashire."

"So much the better for you, if this young man is good enough to forget what you have done against his family; but Fougas will never forgive your crimes against his country."

As soon as they arrived at the station at Melun, he opened the door and rushed into another saloon. There he found himself alone in the presence of two young gentlemen, whose physiognomies were far from English, and who spoke French with the purest accent of Touraine. Both had coats of arms on their seal-rings, so that no one might be ignorant of their rank as nobles. Fougas was too plebeian to fancy the nobility much; but as he had left a compartment full of Britons, he was happy to meet a couple of Frenchmen.

"Friends," said he, inclining toward them with a cordial smile, "we are children of the same mother. Long life to you! Your appearance revives me."

The two young gentlemen opened their eyes very wide, half bowed, and resumed their conversation, without making any other response to Fougas' advance.

"Well, then, my dear Astophe," said one, "you saw the king at Froshdorf?"

"Yes, my good Americ; and he received me with the most affecting condescension. 'Vicomte,' said he to me, 'you come of a house well known for its fidelity. We will remember you when God replaces us on the throne of our ancestors. Tell our brave nobility of Touraine that we hope to be remembered in their prayers, and that we never forget them in ours.'"

"Pitt and Coburg!" said Fougas between his teeth. "Here are two little rascals conspiring with the army of Conde! But, patience!"

He clenched his fists and opened his ears.

"Didn't he say anything about politics?"

"A few vague words. Between us, I don't think he bothers with them much; he is waiting upon events."

"He'll not wait much longer."

"Who can tell?"

"What! Who can tell? The empire is not good for six months longer. Monseigneur de Montereau said so again last Monday to my aunt the canoness."

"For my part, I give them a year, for their campaign in Italy has strengthened them with the lower orders. I didn't put myself out to tell the king so, though!"

"Damnation! gentlemen, this is going it a little too strongly!" interrupted Fougas. "Is it here in France that Frenchmen speak thus of French institutions? Go back to your master; tell him that the empire is eternal, because it is founded on the granite of popular support, and cemented by the blood of heroes. And if the king asks you who told you this, tell him it was Colonel Fougas, who was decorated at Wagram by the Emperor's own hand!"

The two young gentlemen looked at each other, exchanged a smile, and the Viscount said to the Marquis:

"What is that?"

"A madman."

"No, dear; a mad dog."

"Nothing else."[6]

"Very well, gentlemen," cried the Colonel. "Speak English; you're fit for it!"

He changed his compartment at the next station, and fell in with a lot of young painters. He called them disciples of Zeuxis, and asked them about Gerard, Gros, and David. These gentlemen found the sport novel, and recommended him to go and see Talma in the new tragedy of Arnault.

The fortifications of Paris dazzled him very much, and scandalized him a little.

"I don't like this," said he to his companions. "The true rampart of a capital is the courage of a great people. This piling bastions around Paris, is saying to the enemy that it is possible to conquer France."

The train at last stopped at the Mazas station. The Colonel, who had no baggage, marched out pompously, with his hands in his pockets, to look for the hotel de Nantes. As he had spent three months in Paris about the year 1810, he considered himself acquainted with the city, and for that reason he did not fail to lose himself as soon as he got there. But in the various quarters which he traversed at hazard, he admired the great changes which had been wrought during his absence. Fougas' taste was for having streets very long, very wide, and bordered with very large houses all alike; he could not fail to notice that the Parisian style was rapidly approaching his ideal. It was not yet absolute perfection, but progress was manifest.

By a very natural illusion, he paused twenty times to salute people of familiar appearance; but no one recognized him.

After a walk of five hours he reached the Place du Carrousel. The hotel de Nantes was no longer there; but the Louvre had been erected instead. Fougas employed a quarter of an hour in regarding this monument of architecture, and half an hour in contemplating two Zouaves of the guard who were playing piquet. He inquired if the Emperor was in Paris; whereupon his attention was called to the flag floating over the Tuilleries.

"Good!" said he. "But first I must get some new clothes."

He took a room in a hotel on the Rue Saint Honore, and asked a waiter which was the most celebrated tailor in Paris. The waiter handed him a Business Directory. Fougas hunted out the Emperor's bootmaker, shirtmaker, hatter, tailor, barber, and glovemaker. He took down their names and addresses in Clementine's pocket-book, after which he took a carriage and set out.

As he had a small and shapely foot, he found boots ready-made without any difficulty. He was promised, too, that all the linen he required should be sent home in the evening. But when he came to explain to the hatter what sort of an apparatus he intended to plant on his head, he encountered great difficulties. His ideal was an enormous hat, large at the crown, small below, broad in the brim, and curved far down behind and before; in a word, the historic heirloom to which the founder of Bolivia gave his name long ago. The shop had to be turned upside down, and all its recesses searched, to find what he wanted.

"At last," cried the hatter, "here's your article. If it's for a stage dress, you ought to be satisfied; the comic effect can be depended upon."

Fougas answered dryly, that the hat was much less ridiculous than all those which were then circulating around the streets of Paris.

At the celebrated tailor's, in the Rue de la Paix, there was almost a battle.

"No, monsieur," said Alfred, "I'll never make you a frogged surtout and a pair of trousers a la Cosaque! Go to Babin, or Morean, if you want a carnival dress; but it shall never be said that a man of as good figure as yours left our establishment caricatured."

"Thunder and guns!" retorted Fougas. "You're a head taller than I am, Mister Giant, but I'm a colonel of the Grand Empire, and it won't do for drum-majors to give orders to colonels!"

Of course, the devil of a fellow had the last word. His measure was taken, a book of costumes consulted, and a promise made that in twenty-four hours he should be dressed in the height of the fashion of 1813. Cloths were presented for his selection, among them some English fabrics. These he threw aside with disgust.

"The blue cloth of France," cried he, "and made in France! And cut it in such a style that any one seeing me in Pekin would say, 'That's a soldier!'"

The officers of our day have precisely the opposite fancy. They make an effort to resemble all other "gentlemen"[7] when they assume the civilian's dress.

Fougas ordered, in the Rue Richelieu, a black satin scarf, which hid his shirt, and reached up to his ears. Then he went toward the Palais Royal, entered a celebrated restaurant, and ordered his dinner. For breakfast he had only taken a bite at a pastry-cook's in the Boulevard, so his appetite, which had been sharpened by the excursion, did wonders. He ate and drank as he did at Fontainebleau. But the bill seemed to him hard to digest: it was for a hundred and ten francs and a few centimes. "The devil!" said he; "living has become dear in Paris!" Brandy entered into the sum total for an item of nine francs. They had given him a bottle, and a glass about the size of a thimble; this gimcrack had amused Fougas, and he diverted himself by filling and emptying it a dozen times. But on leaving the table he was not drunk; an amiable gayety inspired him, but nothing more. It occurred to him to get back some of his money by buying some lottery tickets at Number 113. But a bottle-seller located in that building apprised him that France had not gambled for thirty years. He pushed on to the Theatre Francais, to see if the Emperor's actors might not be giving some fine tragedy, but the poster disgusted him. Modern comedies played by new actors! Neither Talma, nor Fleury, nor Thenard, nor the Baptistes, nor Mlle. Mars, nor Mlle. Raucourt! He then went to the opera, where Charles VI. was being given. The music astounded him at once. He was not accustomed to hear so much noise anywhere but on the battle-field. Nevertheless, his ears soon inured themselves to the clangor of the instruments; and the fatigue of the day, the pleasure of being comfortably seated, and the labor of digestion, plunged him into a doze. He woke up with a start at this famous patriotic song:

"Guerre aux tyrans! jamais, jamais en France, Jamais l'Anglais ne regnera!"[8]

"No!" cried he, stretching out his arms toward the stage. "Never! Let us swear it together on the sacred altar of our native land! Perish, perfidious Albion! Vive l'Empereur!"

The pit and orchestra arose at once, less to express accord with Fougas' sentiments, than to silence him. During the following entr'acte, a commissioner of police said in his ear, that when one had dined as he had, one ought to go quietly to bed, instead of interrupting the performance of the opera.

He replied that he had dined as usual, and that this explosion of patriotic sentiment had not proceeded from the stomach.

"But," said he, "when, in this palace of misused magnificence, hatred of the enemy is stigmatized as a crime, I must go and breathe a freer air, and bow before the temple of Glory before I go to bed."

"You'll do well to do so," said the policeman.

He went out, haughtier and more erect than ever, reached the Boulevard, and ran with great strides as far as the Corinthian temple at the end. While on his way, he greatly admired the lighting of the city. M. Martout had explained to him the manufacture of gas; he had not understood anything about it, but the glowing and ruddy flame was an actual treat to his eyes.

As soon as he had reached the monument commanding the entrance to the Rue Royale, he stopped on the pavement, collected his thoughts for an instant, and exclaimed:

"Oh, Glory! Inspirer of great deeds, widow of the mighty conqueror of Europe! receive the homage of thy devoted Victor Fougas! For thee I have endured hunger, sweat, and frost, and eaten the most faithful of horses. For thee I am ready to brave further perils, and again to face death on every battle-field. I seek thee rather than happiness, riches, or power. Reject not the offering of my heart and the sacrifice of my blood! As the price of such devotion, I ask nothing but a smile from thy eyes and a laurel from thy hand!"

This prayer went all glowing to the ears of Saint Marie Madeleine, the patroness of the ex-temple of Glory. Thus the purchaser of a chateau sometimes receives a letter addressed to the original proprietor.

Fougas returned by the Rue de la Paix and the Place Vendome, and saluted, in passing, the only familiar figure he had yet found in Paris. The new costume of Napoleon on the column did not displease him in any way. He preferred the cocked hat to a crown, and the gray surtout to a theatrical cloak.

The night was restless. In the Colonel's brain a thousand diverse projects crossed each other in all directions. He prepared the little speech which he should make to the Emperor, going to sleep in the middle of a phrase, and waking up with a start in the attempt to lay hold on the idea which had so suddenly vanished. He put out and relit his candle twenty times. The recollection of Clementine was occasionally intermingled with dreams of war and political utopias. But I must confess that the young girl's figure seldom got any higher than the second place.

But if the night appeared too long, the morning seemed short in proportion. The idea of meeting the new master of the empire face to face, inspired and chilled him in turn. For an instant he hoped that something would be lacking in his toilet—that some shopkeeper would furnish him an honorable pretext for postponing his visit until the next day. But everybody displayed the most desperate punctuality. Precisely at noon, the trousers a la Cosaque and the frogged surtout were on the foot of the bed opposite the famous Bolivar hat.

"I may as well be dressing," said Fougas. "Possibly this young man may not be at home. In that case I'll leave my name, and wait until he sends for me."

He got himself up gorgeously in his own way, and, although it may appear impossible to my readers, Fougas, in a black satin scarf and frogged surtout, was not homely nor even ridiculous. His tall figure, lithe build, lofty and impressive carriage, and brusque movements, were all in a certain harmony with the costume of the olden time. He appeared strange, and that was all. To keep his courage up, he dropped into a restaurant, ate four cutlets, a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese, and washed it all down with two bottles of wine. The coffee and supplements brought him up to two o'clock, and that was the time he had set for himself.

He tipped his hat slightly over one ear, buttoned his buckskin gloves, coughed energetically two or three times before the sentinel at the Rue de Rivoli, and marched bravely into the gate.

"Monsieur," cried the porter, "what do you want?"

"The Emperor!"

"Have you an audience letter?"

"Colonel Fougas does not need one. Go and ask references of him who towers over the Place Vendome. He'll tell you that the name of Fougas has always been a synonym for bravery and fidelity."

"You knew the first Emperor?"

"Yes, my little joker; and I have talked with him just as I am talking with you."

"Indeed! But how old are you then?"

"Seventy years on the dial-plate of time; twenty-four years on the tablets of History!"

The porter raised his eyes to Heaven, and murmured:

"Still another! This makes the fourth for this week!"

He made a sign to a little gentleman in black, who was smoking his pipe in the court of the Tuilleries. Then he said to Fougas, putting his hand on his arm:

"So, my good friend, you want to see the Emperor?"

"I've already told you so, familiar individual!"

"Very well; you shall see him to-day. That gentleman going along there with the pipe in his mouth, is the one who introduces visitors; he will take care of you. But the Emperor is not in the Palace; he is in the country. It's all the same to you, isn't it, if you do have to go into the country?"

"What the devil do you suppose I care?"

"Only I don't suppose you care to go on foot. A carriage has already been ordered for you. Come, my good fellow, get in, and be reasonable!"

Two minutes later, Fougas, accompanied by a detective, was riding to a police station.

His business was soon disposed of. The commissary who received him was the same one who had spoken to him the previous evening at the opera. A doctor was called, and gave the best verdict of monomania that ever sent a man to Charenton. All this was done politely and pleasantly, without a word which could put the Colonel on his guard or give him a suspicion of the fate held in reserve for him. He merely found the ceremonial rather long and peculiar, and prepared on the spot several well-sounding sentences, which he promised himself the honor of repeating to the Emperor.

At last he was permitted to resume his route. The hack had been kept waiting; the gentleman-usher relit his pipe, said three words to the driver, and seated himself at the left of the Colonel. The carriage set off at a trot, reached the Boulevards, and took the direction of the Bastille. It had gotten opposite the Porte Saint-Martin, and Fougas, with his head at the window, was continuing the composition of his impromptu speech, when an open carriage drawn by a pair of superb chestnuts passed, so to speak, under his very nose. A portly man with a gray moustache turned his head, and cried, "Fougas!"

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 Sevres 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, Vendome 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. Merimee, 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.

"A whole history has happened to me," said she. "Would you believe that the police have written to us from Berlin, to find out whether our uncle left us a mummy, and when, and how long we kept him, and what we have done with him? I answered, telling the truth, and adding that Colonel Fougas was in such a bad condition, and so damaged by mites, that we sold him for rags. What object can the police have in troubling themselves about our affairs?"

Meiser heaved a heavy sigh.

"Let's talk about money!" said the lady. "The president of the bank has been to see me. The million you asked him for, for to-morrow, is ready; it will be delivered upon your signature. It seems that they've had a deal of trouble to get the amount in specie. If you had but wanted drafts on Vienna or Paris, you would have put them at their ease. But at last they've done what you wanted. There's no other news, except that Schmidt, the merchant, has killed himself. He had to pay a note for ten thousand thalers, and didn't have half the amount on hand. He came to ask me for the money; I offered him ten thousand thalers, at twenty-five per cent., payable in ninety days, with a first mortgage on all his real estate. The fool preferred to hang himself in his shop. Everyone to his taste!"

"Did he hang himself very high?"

"I don't know anything about that. Why?"

"Because one might get a piece of rope cheap, and we're greatly in want of some, my poor Catharine! That Colonel Fougas has given me a shiver."

"Some more of your notions! Come to supper, my love."

"Come on!"

The angular Baucis conducted her Philemon into a large and beautiful dining-room, where Berbel served a repast worthy of the gods. Soup with little balls of aniseeded bread, fish-balls with black sauce, mutton-balls stuffed, game balls, sour-krout cooked in lard and garnished with fried potatoes, roast hare with currant jelly, deviled crabs, salmon from the Vistula, jellies, and fruit tarts. Six bottles of Rhine-wine selected from the best vintages were awaiting, in their silver caps, the master's kiss. But the lord of all these good things was neither hungry nor thirsty. He ate by nibbles and drank by sips, all the time expecting a grand consummation, which he did not have to expect along. A formidable rap of the knocker soon resounded through the house.

Nicholas Meiser trembled. His wife tried to reassure him. "It's nothing," said she. "The president of the bank told me that he was coming to see you. He offers to pay us the exchange, if we'll take paper instead of specie."

"It is about money, sure as Fate!" cried the good man. "Hell itself is coming to see us!"

At the same instant, the servant rushed into the room, crying, "Oh, Sir! Oh, Madame! It's the Frenchman of the three coffins! Jesus! Mary, Mother of God!"

Fougas saluted them, and said, "Don't disturb yourselves, good people, I beg of you. We've a little matter to discuss together, and I'm ready to explain it to you in two words. You're in a hurry, so am I; you've not had supper, neither have I!"

Frau Meiser, more rigid and more emaciated than a thirteenth-century statue, opened wide her toothless mouth. Terror paralyzed her. The man, better prepared for the visit of the phantom, cocked his revolver under the table and took aim at the Colonel, crying "Vade retro, Satanas!" The exorcism and the pistol missed fire together.

Meiser was not at all discouraged: he snapped the six barrels one after the other at the demon, who stood watching him do it. Not one went off.

"What devilish game is that you're playing?" said the Colonel, seating himself astride a chair. "People are not in the habit of receiving an honest man's visit with that ceremony!"

Meiser flung down his revolver, and grovelled like a beast at Fougas' feet. His wife, who was not one whit more tranquil, followed him. They joined hands, and the fat man exclaimed:

"Spirit! I confess my misdeeds, and I am ready to make reparation for them. I have sinned against you; I have violated my uncle's commands. What do you wish? What do you command? A tomb? A magnificent monument? Prayers? Endless prayers?"

"Idiot!" said Fougas, spurning him with his foot; "I am no spirit, and I want nothing but the money you've robbed me of!"

Meiser kept rolling on the floor; but his scrawny wife was already on her feet, her fists on her hips, and facing Fougas.

"Money!" cried she, "But we don't owe you any! Have you any documents? Just show us our signature! Where would one be, Just God! if we had to give money to all the adventurers who present themselves? And in the first place, by what right did you thrust yourself into our dwelling, if you're not a spirit? Ah! you're a man just the same as other people! Ha! ha! So you're not a ghost! Very well, sir; there are judges in Berlin; there are some in the country, too, and we'll soon see whether you're going to finger our money! Get up there, you great booby; it's only a man! And do you, Mister Ghost, get out of here! Off with you!"

The Colonel did not budge more than a rock.

"The devil's in women's tongues! Sit down, old lady, and take your hands away from my eyes—they bother me. And as for you, swell-head, get on to your chair, and listen to me. There will be time enough to go to law if we can't come to an understanding. But stamped paper stinks in my nostrils; and therefore I'd rather settle peaceably."

Herr and Frau Meiser repressed their first emotion. They distrusted magistrates, as do all people without clean consciences. If the Colonel was a poor devil who could be put off with a few thalers, it would be better to avoid legal proceedings.

Fougas stated the case to them with entire military bluntness. He proved the existence of his right, said that he had had his identity substantiated at Fontainebleau, Paris, and Berlin; cited from memory two or three passages of the will, and finished by declaring that the Prussian Government, in conjunction with that of France, would support his just claims if necessary.

"You understand clearly," said he, taking Meiser by the button of his coat, "that I am no fox, depending on cunning. If you had a wrist vigorous enough to swing a good sabre, we'd take the field against each other, and I'd play you for the amount, first two cuts out of three, as surely as that's soup before you!"

"Fortunately, monsieur," said Meiser, "my age shields me from all brutality. You would not wish to trample under foot the corpse of an old man!"

"Venerable scoundrel! But you would have killed me like a dog, if your pistol had not missed fire!"

"It was not loaded, Monsieur Colonel! It was not——anywhere near loaded! But I am an accommodating man, and we can come to terms very easily. I don't owe you anything, and, moreover, there's prescription; but after all——how much do you want?"

"He has had his say: now it's my turn!"

The old rascal's mate softened the tone of her voice. Imagine to yourself a saw licking a tree before biting in.

"Listen, Claus, my dear—listen to what Monsieur Colonel Fougas has to say. You'll see that he is reasonable! It's not in him to think of ruining poor people like us. Oh, Heavens! he is not capable of it. He has such a noble heart! Such a disinterested man! An officer worthy of the great Napoleon (God receive his soul!)."

"That's enough, old lady!" said Fougas, with a curt gesture which cut the speech off in the middle. "I had an estimate made at Berlin of what is due me—principal and interest."

"Interest!" cried Meiser. "But in what country, in what latitude, do people pay interest on money? Perhaps it may sometimes happen in business, but between friends—never, no never, my good Monsieur Colonel! What would my good uncle, who is now gazing upon us from heaven, say, if he knew that you were claiming interest on his bequest?"

"Now shut up, Nickle!" interrupted his wife. "Monsieur Colonel is just about telling you, himself, that he did not intend to be understood as speaking of the interest."

"Why in the name of great guns don't you both shut up, you confounded magpies? Here I am dying of hunger, and I didn't bring my nightcap to go to bed here, either!—— Now here's the upshot of the matter: You owe me a great deal; but it's not an even sum—there are fractions in it, and I go in for clean transactions. Moreover, my tastes are modest. I've enough for my wife and myself; nothing more is needed than to provide for my son!"

"Very well," cried Meiser; "I'll charge myself with the education of the little fellow!"

"Now, during the dozen days since I again became a citizen of the world, there is one word that I've heard spoken everywhere. At Paris, as well as at Berlin, people no longer speak of anything but millions; there is no longer any talk of anything else, and everybody's mouth is full of millions. From hearing so much said about it, I've acquired a curiosity to know what it is. Go, fetch me out a million, and I'll give you quittance!"

If you want to reach an approximate idea of the piercing cries which answered him, go to the Jardin des Plantes at the breakfast hour of the birds of prey, and try to pull the meat out of their beaks. Fougas stopped his ears and remained inexorable. Prayers, arguments, misrepresentations, flatteries, cringings, glanced off from him like rain from a zinc roof. But at ten o'clock at night, when he had concluded that all concurrence was impossible, he took his hat:

"Good evening!" said he. "It's no longer a million that I must have, but two millions, and all over. We'll go to law. I'm going to supper."

He was on the staircase, when Frau Meiser said to her husband:

"Call him back, and give him his million!"

"Are you a fool?"

"Don't be afraid."

"I can never do it!"

"Father in heaven! what blockheads men are! Monsieur! Monsieur Fougas! Monsieur Colonel Fougas! Come up again, I pray you! We consent to all that you require!"

"Damnation!" said he, on reentering; "you ought to have made up your minds sooner. But after all, let's see the money!"

Frau Meiser explained to him with her tenderest voice, that poor capitalists like themselves, were not in the habit of keeping millions under their own lock and key.

"But you shall lose nothing by waiting, my sweet sir! To-morrow you shall handle the amount in nice white silver; my husband will sign you a check on the Royal Bank of Dantzic."

"But——," said the unfortunate Meiser. He signed, nevertheless, for he had boundless confidence in the practical ingenuity of Catharine. The old lady begged Fougas to sit down at the end of the table, and dictated to him a receipt for two millions, in payment of all demands. You may depend that she did not forgot a word of the legal formulas, and that she arranged the affair in due form according to the Prussian code. The receipt, written throughout in the Colonel's hand, filled three large pages.

He signed the instrument with a flourish, and received in exchange the signature of Nicholas, which he knew well.

"Well," said he to the old gentleman, "you're certainly not such an Arab as they said you were at Berlin. Shake hands, old scamp! I don't usually shake hands with any but honest people; but on an occasion like this, one can do a little something extra."

"Do it double, Monsieur Fougas," said Frau Meiser, humbly. "Will you not join us in this modest supper?"

"Gad! old lady, it's not a thing to be refused. My supper must be cold at the inn of the 'Clock'; and your viands, smoking on their chafing dishes, have already caused me more than one fit of distraction. Besides, here are some yellow glass flutes, on which Fougas will not be at all reluctant to play an air."

The respectable Catharine had an extra plate laid, and ordered Berbel to go to bed. The Colonel folded up Father Meiser's million, rolled it carefully among a pile of bank-bills, and put the whole into the little pocket-book which his dear Clementine had sent him.

The clock struck eleven.

At half-past eleven Fougas began to see everything in a rosy cloud. He praised the Rhine wine highly, and thanked the Meisers for their hospitality. At midnight, he assured them of his highest esteem. At quarter past twelve, he embraced them. At half-past twelve, he delivered a eulogy on the illustrious John Meiser, his friend and benefactor. When he learned that John Meiser had died in that house, he poured forth a torrent of tears. At quarter to one, he assumed a confidential tone, and spoke of his son, whom he was going to make happy, and of the betrothed who was waiting for him. About one o'clock, he tasted a celebrated port wine which Frau Meiser had herself gone to bring from the cellar. About half-past one, his tongue thickened and his eyes grew dim; he struggled some time against drunkenness and sleepiness, announced that he was going to describe the Russian campaign, muttered the name of the Emperor, and slid under the table.

"You may believe me, if you will," said Frau Meiser to her husband, "this is not a man who has come into our house; it's the devil!"

"The devil!"

"If not, would I have advised you to give him a million? I heard a voice saying to me, 'If you do not obey the messenger of the Infernal powers, you will both die this very night.' It was on account of that, that I called him up stairs. Ah! if we had been doing business with a man, I would have told you to contest it in law to our last cent."

"As you please! So you're still making sport of my visions?"

"Forgive me, Claus dear; I was a fool!"

"And I've concluded I was, too."

"Poor innocent! Perhaps you too thought this was Colonel Fougas?"

"Certainly!"

"As if it were possible to resuscitate a man! It is a demon, I tell you, who assumed the shape of the Colonel, to rob us of our money!"

"What can demons do with money?"

"Build cathedrals, to be sure!"

"But how is the devil to be recognized when he is disguised?"

"First by his cloven-foot—but this one has boots on; next by his clipped ear."

"Bah! And why?"

"Because the devil's ears are pointed, and, in order to make them round, he has to cut them."

Meiser stuck his head under the table and uttered a cry of horror.

"It's certainly the devil!" said he. "But how did he happen to let himself go to sleep?"

"Perhaps you did not know that when I came back from the cellar, I dropped into my chamber? I put a drop of holy water into the Port; charm against charm, and he is fallen."

"That's splendid! But what shall we do with him, now that we have him in our power?"

"What is done with demons in Scripture? The Saviour throws them into the sea."

"The sea is a long way from here."

"But, you big baby, the public wells are just by!"

"And what will be said to-morrow, when the body is found?"

"Nothing at all will be found; and even the check that we signed, will be turned into tinder."

Ten minutes later, Herr and Frau Meiser were lugging something toward the public wells, and soon dame Catharine murmured, sotto voce, the following incantation:

"Demon, child of hell, be thou accursed!

"Demon, child of hell, be thou dashed headlong down!

"Demon, child of hell, return to hell!"

A dull sound—the sound of a body falling into water, terminated the ceremony, and the two spouses returned to their domicil, with the satisfaction that always follows the performance of a duty.

Nicholas said to himself:

"I didn't think she was so credulous!"

"I didn't think he was so simple!" thought the worthy Kettle, wedded wife of Claus.

They slept the sleep of innocence. Oh, how much less soft their pillows would have seemed, if Fougas had gone home with his million!

At ten o'clock the next morning, while they were taking their coffee and buttered rolls, the president of the bank called in, and said to them:

"I am greatly obliged to you for having accepted a draft on Paris instead of a million in specie, and without premium, too. That young Frenchman you sent to us is a little brusque, but very lively, and a good fellow."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE COLONEL TRIES TO RELIEVE HIMSELF OF A MILLION WHICH INCUMBERS HIM.

Fougas had left Paris for Berlin the day after his audience. He took three days to make the trip, because he stopped some time at Nancy. The Marshal had given him a letter of introduction to the Prefect of Meurthe, who received him very politely, and promised to aid him in his investigations. Unfortunately, the house where he had loved Clementine Pichon was no longer standing. The authorities had demolished it in 1827, in cutting a street through. It is certain that the commissioners had not demolished the family with the house, but a new difficulty all at once presented itself: the name of Pichon abounded in the city, the suburbs, and the department. Among this multitude of Pichons, Fougas did not know which one to hug. Tired of hunting, and eager to hasten forward on, the road to fortune, he left this note for the commissioner of police:

"Search, on the registers of personal statistics and elsewhere, for a young girl named Clementine Pichon. She was eighteen years old in 1813; her parents kept an officers' boarding-house. If she is alive, get her address; if she is dead, look up her heirs. A father's happiness depends upon it!"

On reaching Berlin, the Colonel found that his reputation had preceded him. The note from the Minister of War had been sent to the Prussian Government through the French legation; Leon Renault, despite his grief, had found time to write a word to Doctor Hirtz; the papers had begun to talk, and the scientific societies to bestir themselves. The Prince Regent, even, had not disdained to ask information on the subject from his physician. Germany is a queer country, where science interests the very princes.

Fougas, who had read Doctor Hirtz's letter annexed to Herr Meiser's will, thought that he owed some acknowledgments to that excellent gentleman. He made a call upon him, and embraced him, addressing him as the oracle of Epidaurus. The doctor at once took possession of him, had his baggage brought from the hotel and gave him the best chamber in his house. Up to the 29th day of the month, the Colonel was cared for as a friend, and exhibited as a phenomenon. Seven photographers disputed the possession of so precious a sitter. The cities of Greece did no more for our poor old Homer. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, wished to see him in propria persona, and begged Herr Hirtz to bring him to the palace. Fougas scratched his ear a little, and intimated that a soldier ought not to associate with the enemy, seeming to think himself still in 1813.

The Prince is a distinguished soldier, having commanded in person at the famous siege of Rastadt. He took pleasure in Fougas' conversation; the heroic simplicity of the young old-time soldier charmed him. He paid him huge compliments and said that the Emperor of France was very fortunate in having around him officers of so much merit.

"He has not a great many," replied the Colonel. "If there were but four or five hundred of my stamp, your Europe would have been bagged long ago!"

This answer seemed more amusing than threatening, and no addition was immediately made to the available portion of the Prussian army.

His Royal Highness directly informed Fougas that his indemnity had been fixed at two hundred and fifty thousand francs, and that he could receive the amount at the treasury whenever he should find it agreeable.

"My Lord," replied he, "it is always agreeable to pocket the money of an enemy—a foreigner. But wait! I am not a censor-bearer to Plutus: give me back the Rhine and Posen, and I'll leave you your two hundred and fifty thousand francs."

"Are you dreaming?" said the Prince, laughing. "The Rhine and Posen!"

"The Rhine belongs to France, and the Posen to Poland, much more legitimately than this money to me. But so it is with great lords: they make it a duty to pay little debts, and a point of honor to ignore big ones!"

The Prince winced a little, and all the faces of the court gave a sympathetic twitch. It was discovered that M. Fougas had evinced bad taste in letting a crumb of truth fall into a big plateful of follies.

But a pretty little Viennese baroness, who was at the presentation, was much more charmed with his appearance than scandalized at his remarks. The ladies of Vienna have made for themselves a reputation for hospitality which they always attempt to support, even when they are away from their native land.

The baroness of Marcomarcus had still another reason for getting hold of the Colonel: for two or three years she had, as a matter of course, been making a photographic collection of celebrated men. Her album was peopled with generals, statesmen, philosophers, and pianists, who had given their portraits to her, after writing on the back: "With respects of——" There were to be found there several Roman prelates, and even a celebrated cardinal; but a more direct envoy from the other world was still wanting. She wrote Fougas, then, a note full of impatience and curiosity, inviting him to supper. Fougas, who was going to start for Dantzic next day, took a sheet of paper embossed with a great eagle, and set to work to excuse himself politely. He feared—the delicate and chivalrous soul!—that an evening of conversation and enjoyment in the society of the loveliest women of Germany might be a sort of moral infidelity to the recollection of Clementine. He accordingly hunted up an eligible formula of address, and wrote:

"Too indulgent Beauty, I——" The muse dictated nothing more. He was not in the mood for writing. He felt rather more in the mood for supper. His scruples scattered like clouds driven before a brisk North East wind; he put on the frogged surtout, and carried his reply himself. It was the first time that he had been out to supper since his resuscitation. He gave evidence of a good appetite, and got moderately drunk, but not as much so as usual. The Baroness de Marcomarcus, astonished at his high spirits and inexhaustible vivacity, kept him as long as she could. And moreover she said to her friends, on showing them the Colonel's portrait, "Nothing is needed but these French officers to conquer the world!"

The next day he packed a black leather trunk which he had bought at Paris, drew his money from the treasury, and set out for Dantzic. He went to sleep in the cars because he had been out to supper the night before. A terrible snoring awoke him. He looked around for the snorer, and, not finding him near him, opened the door into the adjoining compartment (for the German cars are much larger than the French), and shook a fat gentleman, who seemed to have a whole organ playing in his person. At one of the stations he drank a bottle of Marsala and ate a couple of dozen sandwiches, for last night's supper seemed to have hollowed out his stomach. At Dantzic, he rescued his black trunk from the hands of an enormous baggage-snatcher who was trying to take possession of it.

He went to the best hotel in the place, ordered his supper, and hastened to Meiser's house. His friends at Berlin had given him accounts of that charming family. He knew that he would have to deal with the richest and most avaricious of sharpers: that was why he assumed the cavalier tone that may have seemed strange to more than one reader in the preceding chapter.

Unhappily, he let himself become a little too human as soon as he had his million in his pocket. A curiosity to investigate the long yellow bottles all the way to the bottom, came near doing him an ugly turn. His reason wandered, about one o'clock in the morning, if I am to believe the account he himself gave. He said that, after saying "good night" to the excellent people who had treated him so well, he tumbled into a large and deep well, whose rim was hardly raised above the level of the street, and ought at least to have had a lamp by it. "I came to" (it is still he speaking) "in water, very fresh and of a pleasant taste. After swimming around a minute or two, looking for a firm place to take hold of, I seized a big rope, and climbed without any trouble to the surface of the earth, which was not more than forty feet off. It required nothing but wrists and a little gymnastic skill, and was not much of a feat, anyhow. On getting on to the pavement, I found myself in the presence of a sort of night watchman, who was bawling the hours through the street, and who asked me insolently what I was doing there. I thrashed him for his impudence, and the gentle exercise did me good, as it set my blood well in circulation again. Before getting back to the inn, I stopped under a street lamp, opened my pocket-book, and saw with pleasure that my million was not wet. The leather was thick, and the clasp firm; moreover, I had enveloped Herr Meiser's check in a half-dozen hundred-franc bills, in a roll as fat as a monk. These surroundings had preserved it."