The Last Hope

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS

  There are in humble life some families which settle their domesticdifferences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastily bythe commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In the Europeancongerie France represents this loud-voiced household, and Paris--Paris,the city that soon forgets--is the doorstep whereon they wrangle.

  The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances andchanges of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At thistime there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovialyoung gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes andenjoying the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank--theComte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri who tried to play agreat part and failed, he was married to an Italian princess and had nochildren. He was, therefore, the last of the Bourbons, and passed inEurope as such. But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy ofthe indolent which saith that some one must be last and why not I?

  Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. On hisfather's side he was descended from sixty-six kings of France. From hismother he inherited a relationship to many makers of history. For theDuchesse de Berri's grandmother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Hermother was aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was anotable exception to the rule that "Bon sang ne peut mentir." Her fatherwas a king of Sicily and Naples. She was a Bourbon married to a Bourbon.When she was nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next day. Ina year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two years later herhusband died in her arms, assassinated, in a back room of the Opera Housein Paris.

  Seven months after her husband's death she gave birth to the Comte deChambord, the last of the old Bourbons. She was active, energetic and ofboundless courage. She made a famous journey through La Vendee onhorseback to rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, Charles X,to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them all. And herson was the Comte de Chambord, who could have been a king if he had notbeen a philosopher, or a coward.

  He was waiting till France called him with one voice. As if France hadever called for anything with one voice!

  Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the younger branch ofthe Royal line--the Orleans. Louis Philippe--king for eighteen years--wasstill alive, living in exile at Claremont. Two years earlier, in the rushof the revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape to Newhaven. TheOrleans always seek a refuge in England, and always turn and abuse thatcountry when they can go elsewhere in safety. And England is not onepenny the worse for their abuse, and no man or country was ever yet onepenny the better for their friendship.

  Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the people of France. Hisreign of eighteen years was marked by one great deed. He threw open thePalace of Versailles--which was not his--to the public. And then thepeople who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been attemptedmany times. All the other kings hated him and refused to let theirdaughters marry his sons. He and his sons were waiting at Claremont whilethe talkers in Paris talked their loudest.

  There was a third bone of contention--the Imperial line. At this time thechampions of this morsel were at the summit; for a Bonaparte was ridingon the top of the revolutionary scrimmage.

  By the death of the great Napoleon's only child, the second son of histhird brother became the recognised claimant to the Imperial crown.

  For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as the rightfulheir. There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born of France. Napoleon'sson, the King of Rome, died in exile, an Austrian. The Duc de Bordeaux,born eight years after him, never wore the crown, and died in exile,childless. The Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiledwhen he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of onegeneration. And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of Francein 1870, perished on the Veldt. The King of Rome lies in his tomb atVienna, the Duc de Bordeaux at Goeritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge,the Prince Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of France, bornin the palace of the Tuileries. How are they cast upon the waters of theworld! And where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons nowcall to each other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on thepublic seat he whom France has always with her, the _vaurien_--theworth-nothing.

  So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing to be born in apalace, nor to live in one.

  It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when heemerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th ofAugust, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, thenewsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved asheet in the face of the passer: "The King is dead! The King is dead!"

  And Paris--the city that soon forgets--smiled and asked what King?

  Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, thebad son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happyhunting-ground always has been, always will be, France.

  John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought. Heperceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field open tothe next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own mettle.

  Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed acheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin,was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait ofan unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI lay concealed. He wrote out atelegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villa nearRoyan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of thecareful critic.

  The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in theapartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d'Antin. But he did not openthe envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking ifit would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And hesuspected that it would not.

  "When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, "put that into anenvelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack myportmanteau for a week."

  Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalistswhom his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner he waspre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in those daysa long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, fromwhence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, and there take aboat to Royan--that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde.

  "Must have a change--of cooking," he explained to Mrs. St. PierreLawrence. "Doctor says I am getting too stout."

  He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice herblank looks.

  "So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is goingto be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give me abed--a solid one--for a night or two."

  "Oh no!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners, andwas one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. "Did you notreceive my telegram?"

  "Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?"

  "Well," admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that hewould ultimately see the telegram, "hardly so fervent as that--"

  "Good Lord!" interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda,which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearingcoffee-cups. "Who is that?"

  "Which?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow thedirection of his glance. "Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But theother--gad!"

  "Why do you say gad?" asked the lady, with surprise.

  "Where did he get that face from?" was the reply.

  Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and theAugust sun was setting over a copper sea.

  "Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. PierreLawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation."The heavenly wareh
ouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is afriend of Dormer's."

  "Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest."

  Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath theshade of her lace-trimmed parasol.

  "What do you mean by that?" she asked, in a voice suddenly hard andresentful.

  "That he chooses his friends well," returned the banker, with hisguileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt to beshiny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thusoutwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified,and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her.

  "I will be frank with you," she said. "I telegraphed to tell you that theVilla Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests."

  "What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of mycarriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time ofyear, you know, house would be full. I'll just shake hands with Colvilleand then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You and Imust have a talk about money, you will remember."

  There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving theirapproach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meetthem. He laughed as he came, for John Turner's bulk made him a laughingmatter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invite themto frank amusement.

  The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and after beingintroduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave without fartherdefining his intentions for the evening.

  "I do not think it matters much," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence said to hertwo guests, when he had left. "And he may not come, after all."

  Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready toleave something to chance. But Colville shook his head.

  It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who hadbeen invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a littlemusic found the English banker complacently installed in the largestchair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormalwaistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it.

  "He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence to oneand another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is nopolitician--merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he willgo to sleep."

  During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly atthe Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and lightrefreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each evening thedrawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to overflowing.Friends brought their friends and introduced them to the hostess, who inturn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a distance, drivingfrom Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken houses for thebathing-season at Royan itself.

  "He never makes a mistake," said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behindher fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay and easymovements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit hismanner to his interlocutor.

  To-night there was more music and less conversation.

  "Play him to sleep," Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And atlength Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snored inthe shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no waysuffered.

  It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who weretalking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Onceor twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end of theroom, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led thelaughter there.

  "Oh! but he is charming, my dear," more than one guest whispered to Mrs.St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure.

  "He will do--he will do," the men said with a new light of hope in theirgrave faces.

  Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colvillethrew a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep.

  "I will come round to-morrow," he said, bidding his hostess good night."I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell your_rentes_ and leave the money idle at your bank."

  "Yes. I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for she was before hertime inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speechas cock-sure.

  And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself atthe Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sittingalone in the veranda.

  "Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have goneaway," she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation.

  "Suddenly?"

  "Oh no," she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firmhand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense.