XI

We had had time to think over the incident of the past night, and were

both equally surprised at the lack of address shown by Marcas in the

minor difficulties of life--he, a man who never saw any difficulties

in the solution of the hardest problems of abstract or practical

politics. But these elevated characters can all be tripped up on a

grain of sand, and will, like the grandest enterprise, miss fire for

want of a thousand francs. It is the old story of Napoleon, who, for

lack of a pair of boots, did not set out for India.

"Well, what have you hit upon?" asked Juste.

"I have thought of a way to get him a complete outfit."

"Where?"

"From Humann."

"How?"

"Humann, my boy, never goes to his customers--his customers go to him;

so that he does not know whether I am rich or poor. He only knows that

I dress well and look decent in the clothes he makes for me. I shall

tell him that an uncle of mine has dropped in from the country, and

that his indifference in matters of dress is quite a discredit to me

in the upper circles where I am trying to find a wife.--It will not be

Humann if he sends in his bill before three months."

The Doctor thought this a capital idea for a vaudeville, but poor

enough in real life, and doubted my success. But I give you my word of

honor, Humann dressed Marcas, and, being an artist, turned him out as

a political personage ought to be dressed.

Juste lent Marcas two hundred francs in gold, the product of two

watches bought on credit, and pawned at the Mont-de-Piete. For my

part, I had said nothing of the six shirts and all necessary linen,

which cost me no more than the pleasure of asking for them from a

forewoman in a shop whom I had treated to Musard's during the

carnival.

Marcas accepted everything, thanking us no more than he ought. He only

inquired as to the means by which we had got possession of such

riches, and we made him laugh for the last time. We looked on our

Marcas as shipowners, when they have exhausted their credit and every

resource at their command it fit out a vessel, must look on it as it

puts out to sea.

Here Charles was silent; he seemed crushed by his memories.

"Well," cried the audience, "and what happened?"

"I will tell you in a few words--for this is not romance--it is

history."

We saw no more of Marcas. The administration lasted for three months;

it fell at the end of the session. Then Marcas came back to us, worked

to death. He had sounded the crater of power; he came away from it

with the beginnings of brain fever. The disease made rapid progress;

we nursed him. Juste at once called in the chief physician of the

hospital where he was working as house-surgeon. I was then living

alone in our room, and I was the most attentive attendant; but care

and science alike were in vain. By the month of January, 1838, Marcas

himself felt that he had but a few days to live.

The man whose soul and brain he had been for six months never even

sent to inquire after him. Marcas expressed the greatest contempt for

the Government; he seemed to doubt what the fate of France might be,

and it was this doubt that had made him ill. He had, he thought,

detected treason in the heart of power, not tangible, seizable

treason, the result of facts, but the treason of a system, the

subordination of national interests to selfish ends. His belief in the

degradation of the country was enough to aggravate his complaint.

I myself was witness to the proposals made to him by one of the

leaders of the antagonistic party which he had fought against. His

hatred of the men he had tried to serve was so virulent, that he would

gladly have joined the coalition that was about to be formed among

certain ambitious spirits who, at least, had one idea in common--that

of shaking off the yoke of the Court. But Marcas could only reply to

the envoy in the words of the Hotel de Ville:

"It is too late!"

Marcas did not leave money enough to pay for his funeral. Juste and I

had great difficulty in saving him from the ignominy of a pauper's

bier, and we alone followed the coffin of Z. Marcas, which was dropped

into the common grave of the cemetery of Mont-Parnasse.

We looked sadly at each other as we listened to this tale, the last we

heard from the lips of Charles Rabourdin the day before he embarked at

le Havre on a brig that was to convey him to the islands of Malay. We

all knew more than one Marcas, more than one victim of his devotion to

a party, repaid by betrayal or neglect.

LES JARDIES, May 1840.