CHAPTER XI

Oscar's last blunder

Some years after the affair at Makta, an old lady, dressed in black,

leaning on the arm of a man about thirty-four years of age, in whom

observers would recognize a retired officer, from the loss of an arm

and the rosette of the Legion of honor in his button-hole, was

standing, at eight o'clock, one morning in the month of May, under the

porte-cochere of the Lion d'Argent, rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis,

waiting, apparently, for the departure of a diligence. Undoubtedly

Pierrotin, the master of the line of coaches running through the

valley of the Oise (despatching one through Saint-Leu-Taverny and

Isle-Adam to Beaumont), would scarcely have recognized in this bronzed

and maimed officer the little Oscar Husson he had formerly taken to

Presles. Madame Husson, at last a widow, was as little recognizable as

her son. Clapart, a victim of Fieschi's machine, had served his wife

better by death than by all his previous life. The idle lounger was

hanging about, as usual, on the boulevard du Temple, gazing at the

show, when the explosion came. The poor widow was put upon the pension

list, made expressly for the families of the victim, at fifteen

hundred francs a year.

The coach, to which were harnessed four iron-gray horses that would

have done honor to the Messageries-royales, was divided into three

compartments, coupe, interieur, and rotonde, with an imperiale above.

It resembled those diligences called "Gondoles," which now ply, in

rivalry with the railroad, between Paris and Versailles. Both solid

and light, well-painted and well-kept, lined with fine blue cloth, and

furnished with blinds of a Moorish pattern and cushions of red

morocco, the "Swallow of the Oise" could carry, comfortably, nineteen

passengers. Pierrotin, now about fifty-six years old, was little

changed. Still dressed in a blue blouse, beneath which he wore a black

suit, he smoked his pipe, and superintended the two porters in livery,

who were stowing away the luggage in the great imperiale.

"Are your places taken?" he said to Madame Clapart and Oscar, eyeing

them like a man who is trying to recall a likeness to his memory.

"Yes, two places for the interieur in the name of my servant,

Bellejambe," replied Oscar; "he must have taken them last evening."

"Ah! monsieur is the new collector of Beaumont," said Pierrotin. "You

take the place of Monsieur Margueron's nephew?"

"Yes," replied Oscar, pressing the arm of his mother, who was about to

speak.

The officer wished to remain unknown for a time.

Just then Oscar thrilled at hearing the well-remembered voice of

Georges Marest calling out from the street: "Pierrotin, have you one

seat left?"

"It seems to me you could say 'monsieur' without cracking your

throat," replied the master of the line of coaches of the Valley of

the Oise, sharply.

Unless by the sound of the voice, Oscar could never have recognized

the individual whose jokes had been so fatal to him. Georges, almost

bald, retained only three or four tufts of hair above his ears; but

these were elaborately frizzed out to conceal, as best they could, the

nakedness of the skull. A fleshiness ill-placed, in other words, a

pear-shaped stomach, altered the once elegant proportions of the ex-

young man. Now almost ignoble in appearance and bearing, Georges

exhibited the traces of disasters in love and a life of debauchery in

his blotched skin and bloated, vinous features. The eyes had lost the

brilliancy, the vivacity of youth which chaste or studious habits have

the virtue to retain. Dressed like a man who is careless of his

clothes, Georges wore a pair of shabby trousers, with straps intended

for varnished boots; but his were of leather, thick-soled, ill-

blacked, and of many months' wear. A faded waistcoat, a cravat,

pretentiously tied, although the material was a worn-out foulard,

bespoke the secret distress to which a former dandy sometimes falls a

prey. Moreover, Georges appeared at this hour of the morning in an

evening coat, instead of a surtout; a sure diagnostic of actual

poverty. This coat, which had seen long service at balls, had now,

like its master, passed from the opulent ease of former times to daily

work. The seams of the black cloth showed whitening lines; the collar

was greasy; long usage had frayed the edges of the sleeves into

fringes.

And yet, Georges ventured to attract attention by yellow kid gloves,

rather dirty, it is true, on the outside of which a signet ring

defined a large dark spot. Round his cravat, which was slipped into a

pretentious gold ring, was a chain of silk, representing hair, which,

no doubt, held a watch. His hat, though worn rather jauntily,

revealed, more than any of the above symptoms, the poverty of a man

who was totally unable to pay sixteen francs to a hat-maker, being

forced to live from hand to mouth. The former admirer of Florentine

twirled a cane with a chased gold knob, which was horribly battered.

The blue trousers, the waistcoat of a material called "Scotch stuff,"

a sky-blue cravat and a pink-striped cotton shirt, expressed, in the

midst of all this ruin, such a latent desire to SHOW-OFF that the

contrast was not only a sight to see, but a lesson to be learned.

"And that is Georges!" said Oscar, in his own mind,--"a man I left in

possession of thirty thousand francs a year!"

"Has Monsieur DE Pierrotin a place in the coupe?" asked Georges,

ironically replying to Pierrotin's rebuff.

"No; my coupe is taken by a peer of France, the son-in-law of Monsieur

Moreau, Monsieur le Baron de Canalis, his wife, and his mother-in-law.

I have nothing left but one place in the interieur."

"The devil! so peers of France still travel in your coach, do they?"

said Georges, remembering his adventure with the Comte de Serizy.

"Well, I'll take that place in the interieur."

He cast a glance of examination on Oscar and his mother, but did not

recognize them.

Oscar's skin was now bronzed by the sun of Africa; his moustache was

very thick and his whiskers ample; the hollows in his cheeks and his

strongly marked features were in keeping with his military bearing.

The rosette of an officer of the Legion of honor, his missing arm, the

strict propriety of his dress, would all have diverted Georges

recollections of his former victim if he had had any. As for Madame

Clapart, whom Georges had scarcely seen, ten years devoted to the

exercise of the most severe piety had transformed her. No one would

ever have imagined that that gray sister concealed the Aspasia of

1797.

An enormous old man, very simply dressed, though his clothes were good

and substantial, in whom Oscar recognized Pere Leger, here came slowly

and heavily along. He nodded familiarly to Pierrotin, who appeared by

his manner to pay him the respect due in all lands to millionaires.

"Ha! ha! why, here's Pere Leger! more and more preponderant!" cried

Georges.

"To whom have I the honor of speaking?" asked old Leger, curtly.

"What! you don't recognize Colonel Georges, the friend of Ali pacha?

We travelled together once upon a time, in company with the Comte de

Serizy."

One of the habitual follies of those who have fallen in the world is

to recognize and desire the recognition of others.

"You are much changed," said the ex-farmer, now twice a millionaire.

"All things change," said Georges. "Look at the Lion d'Argent and

Pierrotin's coach; they are not a bit like what they were fourteen

years ago."

"Pierrotin now controls the whole service of the Valley of the Oise,"

replied Monsieur Leger, "and sends out five coaches. He is the

bourgeois of Beaumont, where he keeps a hotel, at which all the

diligences stop, and he has a wife and daughter who are not a bad help

to him."

An old man of seventy here came out of the hotel and joined the group

of travellers who were waiting to get into the coach.

"Come along, Papa Reybert," said Leger, "we are only waiting now for

your great man."

"Here he comes," said the steward of Presles, pointing to Joseph

Bridau.

Neither Georges nor Oscar recognized the illustrious artist, for his

face had the worn and haggard lines that were now famous, and his

bearing was that which is given by success. The ribbon of the Legion

of honor adorned his black coat, and the rest of his dress, which was

extremely elegant, seemed to denote an expedition to some rural fete.

At this moment a clerk, with a paper in his hand, came out of the

office (which was now in the former kitchen of the Lion d'Argent), and

stood before the empty coupe.

"Monsieur and Madame de Canalis, three places," he said. Then, moving

to the door of the interieur, he named, consecutively, "Monsieur

Bellejambe, two places; Monsieur de Reybert, three places; Monsieur--

your name, if you please?" he said to Georges.

"Georges Marest," said the fallen man, in a low voice.

The clerk then moved to the rotunde, before which were grouped a

number of nurses, country-people, and petty shopkeepers, who were

bidding each other adieu. Then, after bundling in the six passengers,

he called to four young men who mounted to the imperial; after which

he cried: "Start!" Pierrotin got up beside his driver, a young man in

a blouse, who called out: "Pull!" to his animals, and the vehicle,

drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg

Saint-Denis at a slow trot.

But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a

mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop

was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through

the valley of Montmorency.

It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which

the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.

"We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere

Leger?" he said, pulling out a silver watch.

"Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger," said the

millionaire.

"Why, here's our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles," cried

Joseph Bridau. "Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or

America?"

"Sacrebleu! I've made the revolution of July, and that's enough for

me, for it ruined me."

"Ah! you made the revolution of July!" cried the painter, laughing.

"Well, I always said it never made itself."

"How people meet again!" said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de

Reybert. "This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you

undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles."

"We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,"

said Joseph Bridau, "and the little young man who was stupid enough to

talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and

about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace."

"And the count himself, you lack him," said old Reybert.

"I'm afraid," said Joseph Bridau, sadly, "that the last journey the

count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present

at my marriage."

"He still drives about the park," said Reybert.

"Does his wife come to see him?" asked Leger.

"Once a month," replied Reybert. "She is never happy out of Paris.

Last September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom,

since the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very

rich young Pole, the Comte Laginski."

"To whom," asked Madame Clapart, "will Monsieur de Serizy's property

go?"

"To his wife, who will bury him," replied Georges. "The countess is

still fine-looking for a woman of fifty-four years of age. She is very

elegant, and, at a little distance, gives one the illusion--"

"She will always be an illusion to you," said Leger, who seemed

inclined to revenge himself on his former hoaxer.

"I respect her," said Georges. "But, by the bye, what became of that

steward whom the count turned off?"

"Moreau?" said Leger; "why, he's the deputy from the Oise."

"Ha! the famous Centre man; Moreau de l'Oise?" cried Georges.

"Yes," returned Leger, "Moreau de l'Oise. He did more than you for the

revolution of July, and he has since then bought the beautiful estate

of Pointel, between Presles and Beaumont."

"Next to the count's," said Georges. "I call that very bad taste."

"Don't speak so loud," said Monsieur de Reybert, "for Madame Moreau

and her daughter, the Baronne de Canalis, and the Baron himself, the

former minister, are in the coupe."

"What 'dot' could he have given his daughter to induce our great

orator to marry her?" said Georges.

"Something like two millions," replied old Leger.

"He always had a taste for millions," remarked Georges. "He began his

pile surreptitiously at Presles--"

"Say nothing against Monsieur Moreau," cried Oscar, hastily. "You

ought to have learned before now to hold your tongue in public

conveyances."

Joseph Bridau looked at the one-armed officer for several seconds;

then he said, smiling:--

"Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made

his way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named

him in their reports."

"Oscar Husson!" cried Georges. "Faith! if it hadn't been for your

voice I should never have known you."

"Ah! it was monsieur who so bravely rescued the Vicomte Jules de

Serizy from the Arabs?" said Reybert, "and for whom the count has

obtained the collectorship of Beaumont while awaiting that of

Pontoise?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Oscar.

"I hope you will give me the pleasure, monsieur," said the great

painter, "of being present at my marriage at Isle-Adam."

"Whom do you marry?" asked Oscar, after accepting the invitation.

"Mademoiselle Leger," replied Joseph Bridau, "the granddaughter of

Monsieur de Reybert. Monsieur le comte was kind enough to arrange the

marriage for me. As an artist I owe him a great deal, and he wished,

before his death, to secure my future, about which I did not think,

myself."

"Whom did Pere Leger marry?" asked Georges.

"My daughter," replied Monsieur de Reybert, "and without a 'dot.'"

"Ah!" said Georges, assuming a more respectful manner toward Monsieur

Leger, "I am fortunate in having chosen this particular day to do the

valley of the Oise. You can all be useful to me, gentlemen."

"How so?" asked Monsieur Leger.

"In this way," replied Georges. "I am employed by the 'Esperance,' a

company just formed, the statutes of which have been approved by an

ordinance of the King. This institution gives, at the end of ten

years, dowries to young girls, annuities to old men; it pays the

education of children, and takes charge, in short, of the fortunes of

everybody."

"I can well believe it," said Pere Leger, smiling. "In a word, you are

a runner for an insurance company."

"No, monsieur. I am the inspector-general; charged with the duty of

establishing correspondents and appointing the agents of the company

throughout France. I am only operating until the agents are selected;

for it is a matter as delicate as it is difficult to find honest

agents."

"But how did you lose your thirty thousand a year?" asked Oscar.

"As you lost your arm," replied the son of Czerni-Georges, curtly.

"Then you must have shared in some brilliant action," remarked Oscar,

with a sarcasm not unmixed with bitterness.

"Parbleu! I've too many--shares! that's just what I wanted to sell."

By this time they had arrived at Saint-Leu-Taverny, where all the

passengers got out while the coach changed horses. Oscar admired the

liveliness which Pierrotin displayed in unhooking the traces from the

whiffle-trees, while his driver cleared the reins from the leaders.

"Poor Pierrotin," thought he; "he has stuck like me,--not far advanced

in the world. Georges has fallen low. All the others, thanks to

speculation and to talent, have made their fortune. Do we breakfast

here, Pierrotin?" he said, aloud, slapping that worthy on the

shoulder.

"I am not the driver," said Pierrotin.

"What are you, then?" asked Colonel Husson.

"The proprietor," replied Pierrotin.

"Come, don't be vexed with an old acquaintance," said Oscar, motioning

to his mother, but still retaining his patronizing manner. "Don't you

recognize Madame Clapart?"

It was all the nobler of Oscar to present his mother to Pierrotin,

because, at that moment, Madame Moreau de l'Oise, getting out of the

coupe, overheard the name, and stared disdainfully at Oscar and his

mother.

"My faith! madame," said Pierrotin, "I should never have known you;

nor you, either, monsieur; the sun burns black in Africa, doesn't it?"

The species of pity which Oscar thus felt for Pierrotin was the last

blunder that vanity ever led our hero to commit, and, like his other

faults, it was punished, but very gently, thus:--

Two months after his official installation at Beaumont-sur-Oise, Oscar

was paying his addresses to Mademoiselle Georgette Pierrotin, whose

'dot' amounted to one hundred and fifty thousand francs, and he

married the pretty daughter of the proprietor of the stage-coaches of

the Oise, toward the close of the winter of 1838.

The adventure of the journey to Presles was a lesson to Oscar Husson

in discretion; his disaster at Florentine's card-party strengthened

him in honesty and uprightness; the hardships of his military career

taught him to understand the social hierarchy and to yield obedience

to his lot. Becoming wise and capable, he was happy. The Comte de

Serizy, before his death, obtained for him the collectorship at

Pontoise. The influence of Monsieur Moreau de l'Oise and that of the

Comtesse de Serizy and the Baron de Canalis secured, in after years, a

receiver-generalship for Monsieur Husson, in whom the Camusot family

now recognize a relation.

Oscar is a commonplace man, gentle, without assumption, modest, and

always keeping, like his government, to a middle course. He excites

neither envy nor contempt. In short, he is the modern bourgeois.