The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 8

It seemed to me I saw another opportunity. With a sense of elation I did my best to conceal, I watched him quickly drain his gla.s.s, and I thought his eyes were brighter, and his gestures less careful and alert.

"Politics," he said, "and politics alone, Henry, are responsible for this evening's entertainment. Surely you have perceived that much. The gla.s.ses, Brutus, watch the gla.s.ses! These are parlous times, my son." He raised his gla.s.s again--

"Mademoiselle will tell you as much. We made an interesting journey through the provinces, did we not, my lady? It is a pity your father, the Marquis, could not have enjoyed it with us. He had a penchant for interesting situations, and in France today anything may happen. In a few scant months dukes have turned into pastry cooks, and barbers' boys into generals. Tomorrow it may be a republic, or a monarchy that governs, or some bizarre contrivance that is neither one nor the other. Just now it is Napoleon Bonaparte, a very determined little man. Ah, you have heard of him, my son? I sometimes wonder if he will not go further than many of us think."

Yes, we had already begun to hear his name in America. We had already begun to wonder how soon his influence would be overthrown, for it was in the days before he had consolidated his power. He was still existing in a maze of plots, still facing royalists and revolutionists, all conspiring to seize the reins.

"I sometimes wonder, Mademoiselle," he continued thoughtfully, "if your friends realized the task before them when they attempted to kill Napoleon. Ah, now you grow interested, my son? Yes, that is what this paper signifies. Written on this paper are the signatures of fifty men--signatures to an oath to kill Napoleon Bonaparte and to restore a king to France. You will agree with me it is a most original and intriguing doc.u.ment."

"So they didn't kill him," I said.

"Indeed not," he replied; "quite the contrary. They gave him a new lease of life."

"Then why," I demanded, "didn't they burn the paper. Why--"

"Ah!" said my father, with an indulgent smile. "There you have it, to be sure. You have hit the root of the whole matter."

"It was the old Marquis's idea. He told me of it at the time. If everyone in the plot signed the oath, it would be a dangerous thing indeed for anyone to inform on the rest, because they would immediately produce the paper which showed him as guilty as they. There are commendable points in the Marquis's idea, my son. Now that the plot has failed, the existence of this paper is all that keeps many a man from telling a valuable and dangerous little story. In these signatures I read names of men above suspicion, men high in the present government. Somehow Napoleon's police have learned of the existence of this paper. It has become almost vital for Napoleon to obtain it. He has tried to get it already. Since it reposed in the strong box at the Chateau of Blanzy, it has cost him five men. It has cost me new halliards and rigging for the Eclipse, and Brutus a disfigured countenance--not that I am complaining. Someone shall pay me for it. And the game is just beginning, my son. Mr. Lawton--have you wondered who he is? He is a very reckless man in the pay of France. He will get that paper if he can, if not by force, by money. Even now his men are watching the house. Suppose you held the paper in your hands, my son, you still have Mr. Lawton."

He folded the paper, and replaced it in his pocket.

"It is safer here at present," said my father. "There will be others who will want it presently, and then, perhaps, we will dispose of it."

"In other words, you intend to sell the people who entrusted you with the paper to the highest bidder?" I inquired.

He glanced towards Mademoiselle, and back to me again, and smiled brightly.

"That," he admitted pleasantly, "is one way of looking at it, though it might be viewed from more congenial angles."

I started to speak, but he raised his voice, and for the second time that evening became entirely serious.

"The paper," he said, "has nothing to do with your being in this house tonight. You are becoming more of a hindrance than I expected, but you are here, and here you will stay for another reason. I have heard much of the good examples parents set their children. For me to set one is a patent impossibility. I have never been a good example. But perhaps I can offer you something which is even better, and that, my son, is why I asked you to this house. Can you guess what it is?"

"There is no need to guess," I said, "you have been perfectly clear."

Gossip had it that my father always loved the theatre, though perhaps the Green Room better than the footlights. The marked pa.s.sages in his library still attest his propensity. He now looked about him with a keen appreciation, as though my words were all that he required to round out his evening. Like a man whose work is finished, and who is pleasantly fatigued by his exertions, he leaned back in his chair.

"My son," he said, "you have a keenness of wit, and a certain decision, which I confess I overlooked in you at first--"

The moment must have pleased him, for he paused, as though on purpose to prolong it.

"You are right," he continued finally. "I am here to set you a bad example, Henry, and, believe me, it will be no fault of mine if it is not more effective than a good one. Listen, my son, and you too, Mademoiselle, I have been many things, tried many things in this life, most of them discreditable. I have wasted my days and my prospects in a thousand futilities. I have lost my friends. I have lost my position. Sneer at me, my son, laugh at me, curse me if you wish. I shall be the first to commend you for it. I am broad-minded enough to recognize your position.

"But above all things watch me. Watch me, and remember the things I do.

Recall my ethics and my logic. They are to be your legacy, my son. What money I may leave you is doubtless tainted. But the things I do--of course you perceive their value?"

"Only in a negative sense," I replied pus.h.i.+ng the bottle toward him.

"You are right again," he said, refilling his gla.s.s. "Their value, as you say, is purely negative. Yet, believe me, it does not impair them. You have only to place them before you and do exactly opposite. It is the best way I can think of for you to become a decent and self-respecting man. And now you have the only reason why I permit you in my society. The lesson has already started--an original lesson, is it not?"

As though to close the interview, he sprang up lightly, and bowed to Mademoiselle. It seemed to me he was combating a slight embarra.s.sment, for he paused, seemingly uncertain how to begin, but only for a moment.

Mademoiselle had regained her self-possession, and was regarding him with attention, and a little of the contempt which became her so well.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "even the pain of distressing you is lessened by the unexpected pleasure of your company tonight. I hope you have found the hour not entirely unprofitable. It has sometimes seemed to me, my lady--pardon the rudeness of suggesting it--that you may have seen something romantic, something heroic in me from time to time. I trust you have been disillusioned tonight. The fight on the stairs, the open boat--you see them all as they should be, do you not, the necessary parts of a piece of villainy? Pray forget them--and good night, Mademoiselle."

Suddenly both he and I started, and involuntarily his hand went up to cover his torn lapel. Mademoiselle was laughing.

"Captain," she cried, "you are absurd!"

"Absurd!" exclaimed my father uncertainly.

"You of all people! You cannot sell the paper!"

He sighed with apparent relief.

"And why not?" he asked.

"Because," said Mademoiselle, "you are one of those who signed it."

"Mademoiselle forgets," said my father, bowing, "that her name and mine were written at the bottom of the list. It is a precaution I always take with such little matters. The first thing I did, Mademoiselle, was to cut both off with my razor. Brutus, light the stairs for the lady."

Without another glance at either of us, she walked slowly away, her chin tilted, her slender fingers clenched. I knew that anger, fear, and disappointment were walking there beside her, and yet she left the room as proudly as she had entered it.

I stood listening to her step on the stairs.

"Ah," said my father, "there is a woman for you."

The last few minutes seemed to have wearied him, for he sank back heavily in his chair. For a minute we were silent, and suddenly a speech of his ran through my memory.

"May I ask you a question?" I inquired.

"It is my regret if I have not been clear," he said.

"It is not that," I a.s.sured him, "but you have appeared to allow yourself a single virtue."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You have admitted," I persisted, "that circ.u.mstances force you to keep your word."

"That," my father said, "is merely a necessity--not a virtue."

"Possibly," I agreed. "Yet, in your conversation with Mr. Lawton you stated that you had given your word not to surrender this paper. My question is--how can you reconcile this with your present intentions?"

For almost the only time I can remember, my father seemed puzzled for an answer. He started to speak, and shook his head--drew out his handkerchief and pa.s.sed it over his lips.

"Circ.u.mstances alter even principles," he answered finally, "and this, my son, is one of the circ.u.mstances. Brutus, the boy has been trying to get me drunk long enough. Show him to his bedroom, and bring me my cloak and pistols."

Brutus lifted one of the candlesticks, grinned at me, and nodded.