PHILIP stalked majestically through the snow-covered streets of the capital, where as many people were still visible as in the middle of the day. Carriages were rattling in all directions; the houses were all brilliantly lighted. Our watchman enjoyed the scene. He sang his verses at two o’clock, and blew his horn lustily in the neighborhood of St. Gregory’s Church, with many a thought on Rose, who was then with her friend. “Now, she hears me,” he said to himself; “now, she thinks of me, and forgets the scene around her. I hope she won’t fail me at twelve o’clock at the church door.” And when he had gone his round, he always returned to the dear house, and looked up at the lighted window. Sometimes he saw female figures, and his heart beat quick at the sight; sometimes he fancied he saw Rose herself; and sometimes he studied the long shadows thrown on the wall or the ceiling to discover which of them was Rose’s, and to fancy what she was doing. It was certainly not a very pleasant employment to stand in frost and snow, and look up at a window; but what care lovers for frost and snow? And watchmen are as fiery and romantic lovers as ever were the knights of ancient ballads.
He only felt the effects of the frost, when, at eleven o’clock, he had to set out upon his round. His teeth chattered with cold; he could scarcely call the hour or sound his horn. He would willingly have gone into a beer-house to warm himself at the fire. As he was pacing through a lonely by-street, he 133 met a man with a black half-mask on his face, enveloped in a fire-coloured silken mantle, and wearing on his head a magnificent hat turned up at one side, and fantastically ornamented with a number of high and waving plumes.
Philip endeavored to escape the mask, but in vain. The stranger blocked up his path, and said, “Ha! thou art a fine fellow! I like thy phiz amazingly! Where are you going, eh? I say, where are you going?”
“To Mary Street,” replied Philip. “I was going to call the hour there.”
“Enchanting!” answered the mask. “I’ll hear thee; I’ll go with thee. Come along, thou foolish fellow, and let me hear thee, and mind thou singest well, for I am a good judge. Canst thou sing me a jovial song?”
Philp saw that his companion was of high rank and a little tipsy, and answered, “I sing better over a glass of wine in a warm room, than when up to my waist in snow.”
They had now reached Mary Street, and Philip sang, and blew the horn.
“Ha! that’s but a poor performance!” exclaimed the mask, who had accompanied him thither. “Give me the horn! I shall blow so well, that you’ll half die with delight.”
Philip yielded to the mask’s wishes, and let him sing the verses and blow. For four or five times all was done as if the stranger had been a watchman all his life. He dilated most eloquently on the joys of such an occupation, and was so inexhaustible in his own praises, that he made Philip laugh at his extravagance. His spirits evidently owed no small share of their elevation to an extra glass of wine.
“I’ll tell you what, my treasure, I’ve a great fancy to be a watchman myself for an hour or two. If I don’t do it now, I shall never arrive at that honor in the course of my life. 134 Give me your greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, and take my domino. Go into a beer-house and take a bottle at my expanse; and when you have finished it, come again and give me back my masking-gear. You shall have a couple of dollars for your trouble. What do you think, my treasure?”
But Philip did not like this arrangement. At last, however, at the solicitations of the mask, he capitulated as they entered a dark lane. Philip was half frozen; a warm drink would do him good, and so would a warm fire. He agreed to give up his watchmanship for one half hour, which would be till twelve o’clock. Exactly at that time the stranger was to come to the great door of St. Gregory’s and give back the greatcoat, horn, and staff, taking back his own silk mantle, hat, and domino. Philip also told him the four streets in which he was to call the hour. The mask was in raptures. “Treasure of my heart,” he exclaimed, “I could kiss thee if thou wert not a dirty, miserable fellow! But thou shalt have naught to regret if thou art at the church at twelve, for I will give thee money for a supper then. Joy! I am a watchman!”
The mask looked a watchman to the life, while Philip was completely disguised with the half-mask tied over his face, the bonnet, ornamented with a buckle of diamonds, on his head, and the red silk mantle thrown around him. When he saw his companion commence his walk, he began to fear that the young gentleman might compromise the dignity of the watchman. He therefore addressed him once more, and said:
“I hope you will not abuse my good nature and do any mischief, or misbehave in any way, as it may cost me the situation.”
“Hullo!” answered the stranger, “what are you talking about? Do you think I don’t know my duty? Off with you 135 this moment, or I’ll let you feel the weight of my staff! But come to St. Gregory’s Church and give me back my clothes at twelve o’clock. Good-by. This is glorious fun!”
The new guardian of the streets walked onward with all the dignity becoming his office, while Philip hurried to a neighboring tavern.
Passing the door of the royal palace, he was laid hold of by a person in a mask who had alighted from a carriage. Philip turned round, and in a low, whispering voice asked what the stranger wanted.
“My gracious lord,” answered the mask, “in your reverie you have passed the door. Will your Royal Highness ——”
“What? Royal Highness?” said Philip, laughing. “I am no highness. What put that in your head?”
The mask bowed respectfully, and pointed to the diamond buckle in Philip’s cap. “I ask your pardon if I have betrayed your disguise. But, in whatever character you assume, your noble bearing will betray you. Will you condescend to lead the way? Does your Highness intend to dance?”
“I? Dance?” replied Philip. “No; you see, I have boots on.”
“To play cards, then?” inquired the mask.
“Still less. I have brought no money with me,” said the assistant watchman.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the mask. “Command my purse — all I possess is at your service!” Saying this, he forced a full purse into Philip’s hand.
“But do you know who I am?” inquired Philip, as he rejected the purse.
The mask whispered, with a bow of profound obeisance, “His Royal Highness, Prince Julian.”
At this moment Philip heard his deputy in an adjoining 136 street calling the hour very distinctly, and he now became aware of his metamorphosis. Prince Julian, who was well known in the capital as an amiable, wild, and good-hearted young man, had been the person with whom he had changed his clothes. “Now, then,” thought Philip, “as he enacts the watchman so well, I will not shame his rank; I’ll see if, for one half hour, I can’t be the prince. If I make any mistake, he has himself to blame for it.” He wrapped the red silken mantle closer round him, took the offered purse, put it in his pocket, and said, “Who are you, mask? I will return your money to-morrow.”
“I am the Chamberlain Pilzou.”
“Good! Lead the way, I’ll follow.”
The chamberlain obeyed, and tripped up the marble stairs, Philip coming close behind him. They entered an immense hall, lighted by a thousand tapers and dazzling chandeliers which were reflected by brilliant mirrors. A confused crowd of maskers jostled each other, sultans, Tyrolese, harlequins, knights in armor, nuns, goddesses, satyrs, monks, Jews, Medes, and Persians. Philip for a while was abashed and blinded. Such splendor he had never dreamed of. In the middle of the hall the dance was being carried on by hundreds of people to the music of a full band. Philip, who in the heat of the apartment recovered from his frozen state, was so bewildered with the scene that he could scarcely nod his head as different masks addressed him, some confidentially, other deferentially.
“Will you go to the card-table?” whispered the chamberlain, who stood beside him, and who Philip now observed was dressed as a Brahman.
“Let me get thawed out first,” answered Philip; “I am an icicle at present.”
137“A glass of hot punch?” inquired the Brahman, and led him into the refreshment-room. The pseudo-prince did not wait for a second invitation, but emptied one glass after the other in a short time. The punch was good, and it spread its genial warmth through Philip’s veins.
“How is it you don’t dance to-night, Brahman?” he asked of his companion, when they returned into the hall.
The Brahman sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no pleasure now in dancing. Gaiety is distasteful to me. The only person I care to dance with — the Countess Bonau — I thought she loved me; our families offered no objection; but all at once she broke with me.” His voice trembled as he spoke.
“What?” said Philip; “I never heard of such a thing.”
“You never heard of it?” repeated the other. “The whole city is ringing with it. The quarrel happened a fortnight ago, and she will not allow me to justify myself, but has sent back three letters I wrote to her, unopened. She is a declared enemy of the Baroness Reizenthal, and she had made me promise to drop her acquaintance. But think how unfortunate I was! When the queen mother made the hunting party to Freudenwald, she appointed me cavalier to the baroness. What could I do? It was impossible to refuse. On the very birthday of the adorable Bonau I was obliged to set out. She heard of it. She put no trust in my heart!”
“Well, then, Brahman, take advantage of the present moment. The new year makes up all quarrels. Is the countess here?”
“Do you not see her over there — the Carmelite on the left of the third pillar, beside the two black dominos? She has laid aside her mask. Ah, prince, your intercession would ——”
Philip thought, “Now I can do a good work,” and, as the 138 punch had inspired him, he walked directly to the Carmelite. The Countess Bonau looked at him for some time seriously, and with flushed cheeks, as he sat down beside her. She was a beautiful girl; yet Philip remained persuaded that Rose was a thousand times more beautiful.
“Countess,” he said, and became embarrassed when he met her clear bright eye fixed upon him.
“Prince,” said the countess, “an hour ago you were somewhat too bold.”
“Fair countess, I am therefore at this present moment the more quiet.”
“So much the better. I shall not, then, be obliged to keep out of your way.”
“Fair lady, allow me to ask one question: Have you put on a nun’s gown to do penance for your sins?”
“I have nothing to do penance for.”
“But you have, countess! Your cruelties, your injustice to the poor Brahman yonder, who seems neglected by his goddess and all the world!”
The beautiful Carmelite cast down her eyes, and appeared uneasy.
“And do you know, fair countess, that in teh Freudenwald affair the chamberlain was as innocent as myself?”
“As you, prince?” said he countess, frowning. “What did you tell me an hour ago?”
“You are right, dear countess; I was too bold. You said so yourself. But now I declare to you the chamberlain was obliged to go to Freudenwald by command of the queen mother — against his will was obliged to be cavalier to the hated Reizenthal ——”
“Hated — by him?” interrupted the countess, with a bitter and sneering laugh.
139“Yes, he hates, he despises the baroness. Believe me, he scarcely treated her with civility, and incurred the royal displeasure by so doing. I know it; and it was for your sake. You are the only person he loves; to you he offers his hand, his heart; and you — you reject him!”
“How comes it, prince, that you intercede so warmly for Pilzou? You did not do so formerly.”
“That was because I did not know him, and still less the sad state into which you have thrown him by your behavior. I swear to you he is innocent; you have nothing to forgive him; he has much to forgive you.”
“Hush!” whispered the Carmelite, “we are watched here. Come away!” She replaced her mask, stood up, and placing her arm within that of the supposed prince, they crossed the hall and entered a side-room. The countess uttered many bitter complaints against the chamberlain, but they were the complaints of jealous love. The countess was in tears, when the tender Brahman soon after came timidly into the apartment. There was a deep silence among the three. Philip, not knowing how to conclude his intercession better, led the Brahman to the Carmelite, and joined their hands together, without saying a word, and left them to fate. He himself returned into the hall.
Here he was hastily addressed by a Mameluke: “I’m glad I have met you, Domino. Is the rose-girl in the side-room?” The Mameluke rushed into it, but returned in a moment evidently disappointed. “One word alone with you, Domino,” he said, and led Philip into a window recess in a retired part of the hall.
“What do you want,” asked Philip.
“I beseech you,” replied the Mameluke, in a subdued yet terrible voice, “where is the rose-girl?”
140“What is the rose-girl to me?”
“But to me she is everything!” answered the Mameluke, whose suppressed voice and agitated demeanor showed that a fearful struggle was going on within. “To me she is everything. She is my wife. You make me wretched, prince! I conjure you, drive me not to madness! Think of my wife no more.”
“With all my heart,” answered Philip dryly. “What have I to do with your wife?”
“Oh, prince, prince!” exclaimed the Mameluke, “I have made a resolve, which I shall execute if it cost me my life. Do not seek to deceive me a moment longer. I have discovered everything. Here! look at this! ’tis a note my false wife slipped into your hand, and which you dropped in the crowd, without having read it.”
Philip took the note. It was written in pencil, and in a fine, delicate hand: “Change your mask. Everybody knows you. My husband is watching you. He does not know me. If you obey me I will reward you.”
“Hm!” muttered Philip. “As I live, this was not written to me! I don’t trouble my head about your wife.”
“Death and fury, prince! do not drive me mad! Do you know who it is that speaks to you? I am the Marshal Blankenschwert. Your advances to my wife are not unknown to me, ever since the last rout at the palace.”
“My Lord Marshal,” answered Philip, “excuse me for saying that jealously has blinded you. If you knew me well, you would not think of accusing me of such folly. I give you my word of honor I will never trouble your wife.”
“Are you in earnest, prince?”
“Entirely.”
“Give me a proof of this?”
141“Whatever you require.”
“I know you have hindered her until now from going with me to visit her relations in Poland. Will you persuade her to do so now?”
“With all my heart, if you desire it.”
“Yes, yes! And your Royal Highness will prevent inconceivable and unavoidable misery.”
The Mameluke continued for some time, sometimes begging and praying, and sometimes threatening so furiously, that Philip feared he might make a scene before the whole assembly that would not have suited him precisely. Scarcely had he lost himself in the crowd, when a female, closely wrapped in deep mourning, tapped him familiarly on the arm, and whispered:
“Butterfly, whither away? Have you no pity for the disconsolate widow?”
Philip answered very politely, “Beautiful widows find no lack of comforters. May I venture to include myself among them?”
“Why are you so disobedient and why have you not changed your mask?” said the widow, while she led him aside, that they might speak more freely. “Do you really fancy, prince, that every one here does not know who you are?”
“They are very much mistaken in me, I assure you,” replied Philip.
“No, indeed,” answered the widow; “they know you very well, and if you do not immediately change your apparel, I shall not speak to you again the whole evening. I have no desire to give my husband an opportunity of making a scene.”
By this Philip discovered whom he was talking with. “You were the beautiful rose-girl; are your roses withered so soon?”
“What is there that does not wither? Not the constancy of man? I saw you when you slipped off with the Carmelite. Acknowledge your inconstancy; you can deny it no longer.”
“Hm,” answered Philip dryly, “accuse me, if you will; I can return the accusation.”
“How, pretty butterfly?”
“Why, for instance, there is not a more constant man alive than the marshal.”
“There is not, indeed! And I a wrong, very wrong, to have listened to you so long. I reproached myself enough, but he has unfortunately discovered our flirtation.”
“Since the last rout at court, fair widow ——”
“Where you were so reckless and persistent, pretty butterfly!”
“Let us repair the mischief. Let us part. I honor the marshal, and, for my part, do not like to give him pain.”
The widow looked at him for some time in speechless amazement.
“If you have indeed any regard for me,” continued Philip, “you will go with the marshal to Poland, to visit your relations. It is better that we should not meet so often. A beautiful woman is beautiful, but a pure and virtuous woman is more beautiful still.”
“Prince!” cried the astonished lady, “are you really in earnest? Have you ever loved me, or have you deceived me all along?”
“Look you,” answered Philip, “I am a tempter of a peculiar kind. I search constantly among women to find truth and virtue, and ’tis seldom that I encounter them. Only the true and virtuous can keep me constant, therefore I am true 143 to none; but no, I will not lie; there is one that keeps me in her chains. I am sorry, fair widow, that that one — is not you!”
“You are in a strange mood to-night, prince,” answered the rose-girl, and the trembling of her voice and heaving of her bosom showed the working of her mind.
“No,” answered Philip, “I am in as rational a mood to-night as I ever was in my life. I wish only to repair an injury; I have promised your husband to do so.”
“How!” he exclaimed in a voice of terror; “you have revealed all to the marshal?”
“Not everything,” answered Philip; “only what I knew.”
The widow wrung her hands in the extremity of agitation, and at last said, “Where is my husband?”
Philip pointed to the Mameluke, who at this moment approached them with slow steps.
“Prince,” said the marshal’s wife in a tone if inexpressible rage — “prince, you may be forgiven this, but not by me! I never dreamed that the heart of a man could be so deceitful; but you are unworthy of a thought. You are an impostor! My husband in the dress of a barbarian is a prince; you in the dress of a prince are a barbarian. In this world you see me no more!”
With these words she turned proudly away from him, and going up to the Mameluke, they left the hall in deep and earnest conversation. Philip laughed quietly, and said to himself, “My substitute, the watchman, must look to it, for I do not play my part badly; I only when he returns he will continue as I have begun.”
He went up to the dancers, and was delighted to see the beautiful Carmelite standing up in a set with the overjoyed Brahman. No sooner did the latter perceive him, than he 144 kissed his hand to him, and in dumb show gave him to understand in what a blessed state he was. Philip thought, “’Tis a pity I am not to be prince all my life! The people would be satisfied then. To be a prince is the easiest thing in the world. He can do more with a single word than a lawyer with a four hours’ speech. Yes, if I were a prince, my beautiful Rose would be — lost to me forever. No, I would not be a prince.”
He now looked at the clock and saw it was half past eleven. The Mameluke hurried up to him and gave him a paper. “Prince,” he exclaimed, “I could fall at your feet and thank you in the very dust; I am reconciled to my wife1 You have broken her heart; but it is better that it should be so. We leave for Poland this very night, and there we shall fix our home. Farewell! I shall be ready, whenever your Royal Highness requires me, to pour out my last drop of blood in your service. My gratitude is eternal. Farewell!”
“Stay!” said Philip to the marshal, who was hurrying away, “what am I to do with this paper?”
“Oh, that — ’tis the amount of my loss to your Highness last week at cards. I had nearly forgotten it; but before my departure I must clear my debts. I have indorsed it on the back.” With these words the marshal disappeared.
Philip opened the paper, and read in it an order for five thousand dollars. He put it in his pocket, and thought, “Well, it’s a pity that I’m not a prince.” Some one whispered in his ear:
“Your Royal Highness, we are both discovered. I shall blow my brains out!”
Philp turned round in amazement, and saw a negro at his side.
145“What do you want, mask?” he asked in an unconcerned tone.
“I am Colonel Kalt,” whispered the negro. “The marshal’s wife has been blabbing to Duke Hermann, and he has been breathing fire and fury against us both.”
“He is quite welcome,” answered Philip.
“But the king will hear it all,” sighed the negro. “This very night I may be arrested and carried off to a dungeon. I’ll sooner hang myself!”
“No need of that,” said Philip.
“What! am I to be made infamous for my whole life? I am lost, I tell you! The duke will demand entire satisfaction. His back is black and blue yet with the marks of the cudgeling I gave him. I am lost, and the baker’s daughter too. I’ll jump from the bridge, and drown myself at once!”
“God forbid!” answered Philip. “What have you and the baker’s daughter to do with it?”
“Your Royal Highness banters me, and I am in despair! I humbly beseech you to give me two minutes’ private conversation.”
Philip followed the negro into a small boudoir dimly lighted up with a few candles. The negro threw himself on a sofa, quite overcome, and groaned aloud. Philip found some sandwiches and wine on the table, and helped himself with great relish.
“I wonder your Royal Highness can be so cool on hearing this cursed story. If that rascally Salmoni were here who acted the conjurer, he might save us by some contrivance, for the fellow was a bunch of tricks. As it is, he has slipped out of the scrape.”
“So much the better,” interrupted Philip, replenishing his 146 glass. “Since he has got out of the way, we can throw all the blame on his shoulders.”
“How can we do that? The duke, I tell you knows that you, and I, and the marshal’s wife, and the baker’s daughter, were all in the plot together, to take advantage of his superstition. He knows that it was you that engaged Salmoni to play the conjurer; that it was I that instructed the baker’s daughter — with whom he is in love — how to inveigle him into the snare; that it was I that enacted the ghost that knocked him down and cudgeled him till he roared again. If I had only not carried the joke too far! I only wished to cool his love a little for my sweetheart. It was a devilish business! I’ll take poison!”
“Rather take a glass of wine; it is delicious,” said Philip, helping himself to another tart at the same time. “To tell you the truth, my friend, I think you are rather a white-livered sort of rogue for a colonel, to think of hanging, drowning, shooting, and poisoning yourself about such a ridiculous story as that. One of these modes would be too much, but as to all the four — nonsense. I tell you that at this moment I don’t know what to make out of your tale.”
“Your Royal Highness, have pity on me, my brain is turned! The duke’s page, an old friend of mine, has told me this very moment that the marshal’s wife, inspired by the devil, went up to the duke, and told him that the trick played on him at the baker’s house was planned by Prince Julian, who opposed his marriage with his sister; that the spirit he saw was myself, sent by the princess to be a witness of his superstition; that your Highness was a witness of his descent into the pit after hidden gold, and of his promise to make the baker’s daughter his mistress, and also to make her one of the nobility immediately after his marriage 147 with the princess. ‘Do not hope to gain the princess. It is useless for you to try!’ were the last words of the marshal’s wife to the duke.”
“And a pretty story it is!” muttered Philip. “Why, behavior like that would be a disgrace to the meanest of the people! I declare, there is no end to these deviltries.”
“Yes, indeed. ’Tis impossible to behave more meanly than the marshal’s lady. The woman must be a fury. My gracious Lord, save me from destruction!”
“Where is the duke?” asked Philip.
“The page told me he started up on hearing the story, and said, ‘I will go to the king.’ And if he tells the story to the king in his own way ——”
“Is the king here, then?”
“Oh, yes, he is at cards in the next room with the archbishop and the minister of police.”
Philip walked up and down the boudoir. The case required consideration.
“Your Royal Highness,” said the negro, “protect me! Your own honor is at stake. You can easily make all straight; otherwise, I am ready, at the first intimation of danger to fly across the border. I will pack up, and to-morrow I shall expect your final commands as to my future behavior.”
With these words the negro took his leave.
“It is high time I was a watchman again,” thought Philip. “I am getting both myself and my substitute into scrapes he will find it hard to get out of; and that makes the difference between a peasant and a prince. One is no better off than the other. Good heavens! what fine things these court lords are up to, which we do not dream of with lantern and staff in hand, or digging with a spade! We think they lead the lives of angels, without sin or care. 148 Pretty piece of business! Within a quarter of an hour I have heard of more rascally tricks than I ever played in my whole life. And—” But his reverie was interrupted by a whisper.
“So lonely, prince! I consider myself happy in having a minute’s conversation with your Royal Highness.”
Philip looked at the speaker. He was a miner, covered over with gold and jewels.
“Only an instant,” said the mask. “The business is pressing, and deeply concerns you.”
“Who are you?” inquired Philip.
“Count Bodenlos, the minister of finance, at your Highness’s service,” answered the miner, and showed his face, which looked as if it was a second mask, with its little eyes and copper-colored nose.
“Well, then, my Lord, what are your commands?”
“May I speak openly? I waited on your Royal Highness thrice, and was never admitted to the honor of an audience; and yet — Heaven is my witness — no man in all this court has a deeper interest in your Royal Highness than I have.”
“I am greatly obliged to you,” replied Philip. “What is your business just now? But be quick!”
“May I venture to speak of the house of Abraham Levi?”
“As much as you like.”
“They have applied to me about the fifty thousand dollars which you owe them, and threaten to apply to the king. And you remember your promise to his Majesty when last he paid your debts.”
“Can’t the people wait?” asked Philip.
“No more than the brothers Goldschmidt, who demand their seventy-five thousand dollars.”
149“It is all the same to me, If the people won’t wait for their money, I must ——”
“No hasty resolutions, my gracious Lord! I have it in my power to settle everything comfortably, if ——”
“Well, if what?”
“If you will honor me by listening to me one moment. I hope to have no difficulty in redeeming all your debt. The house of Abraham Levi has bought up immense quantities of corn, so that the price is very much raised. A decree against importation will raise it three or four per cent higher. By giving Abraham Levi the monopoly, the business will be arranged. The house erases your debt, and pays off your seventy-five thousand dollars to the Goldschmidts, and I give you over the receipts. But everything depends on my continuing for another year at the head of the finances. If Baron Greifensack succeeds in ejecting me from the ministry, I shall be unable to serve your Royal Highness as I could wish. If your Highness will leave the party of Greifensack, our point is gained. For me it is a matter of perfect indifference whether I remain in office or not. I sigh for repose. But for your Royal Highness it is a matter of great moment. If I have not the shuffling of the pack, I lose the game.”
For some time Philip did not know what answer to make. At last, while the finance minister, waiting for his reply, took a pinch out of his snuff-box set with jewels, Philip said:
“If I rightly understand you, Sir Count, you would starve the country a little in order to pay my debts. Consider, sir, what misery you will cause. And will the king consent to it?”
“If I remain in office I will answer for that, my gracious Lord. When the price of corn rises, the king will, of course, 150 think of permitting importation, and prevent exportation by levying heavy imposts. The permission to do so is given to the house of Abraham Levi, and they export as much as they choose. But, as I said before, if Greifensack gets the helm, nothing can be done. For the first year he would be obliged to attend strictly to his duty, in order to be able afterwards to feather his nest at the expense of the country. He must first make sure of his ground. He is dreadfully grasping!”
“A pretty project!” answered Philip. “And how long do you think a finance minister must be in office before he can lay his shears on the flock to get wool enough for himself and me?”
“Oh, if he has his wits about him he may manage it in a year.”
“Then the king ought to be counseled to change his finance minister every twelve months, if he wishes to be faithfully and honorably served.”
“I hope, your Royal Highness, that since I have had the exchequer, the king and court have been faithfully served.”
“I believe you, count, and the poor people believe you still more. Already they scarcely know how to pay their rates and taxes. You should treat us with a little more consideration, count.”
“Us? Don’t I do everything for the court?”
“No; I mean the people. You should have a little more consideration for them.”
“I appreciate what your Royal Highness says; but I serve the king and the court; the people are not to be considered. The country is his private property, and the people are only useful to him as increasing the value of his land. But this is no time to discuss the old story about the interests of the 151 people. I beg your Royal Highness’s answer to my propositions. Am I to have the honor to discharge your debts on the above specified conditions?”
“Answer? No, never, never — at the expense of hundreds and thousands of starving families!”
“But, your Royal Highness, if, in addition to the clearance of your debts, I make the house of Abraham Levi present you with fifty thousand dollars in hard cash? I think it may afford you that sum. The house will gain so much by the operation, that ——”
“Perhaps it may be able to give you also a mark of its regard.”
“Your Highness is pleased to jest with me. I gain nothing by the affair. My whole object is to obtain the protection of your Royal Highness.”
“You are very polite!”
“I may hope, then, prince?”
“Count, I will do my duty. Do you do yours.”
“My duty is to be of service to you. To-morrow I shall send for Abraham, and conclude the agreement with him. I shall have the honor to present your Royal Highness with the receipt for all your debts, besides the gift of fifty thousand dollars.”
“Go; I want to hear no more of it!”
“And your Royal Highness will honor me with your favor? For unless I am in the ministry it is impossible for me to deal with Abraham Levi, so as ——”
“I wish to Heaven you and your ministry, and Abraham Levi, were all three on the Blocksberg! I tell you what, unless you lower the price of corn, and take away the monopoly from that infernal Jew, I’ll go this moment and reveal your villainy to the king, and get you and Abraham Levi banished 152 from the country. See to it — I’ll keep my word!” Philip turned away in a rage, and proceeded to the ballroom, leaving the minister of finance petrified with amazement.
IN the autumn of 1782 the surgeon Louis Thévenet, of Calais, received an unsigned invitation requesting him to come on the following day to a country-house situated on the road to Paris, and to bring with him the instruments necessary for the performance of an amputation. Thévenet was widely known at that time as the most skilful practitioner of his art; it was not uncommon to summon him across the Channel to England for consultation. He had long served in the army, and had kept something brusk in his bearing, but his natural kindliness rendered him universally beloved.
Thévenet was surprised at the anonymous note. Time and place were indicated with the greatest exactitude; he was told where and when he was expected, yet, as has been said, a signature was lacking. “Some young fool,” he thought to himself, “probably wants to send me on a wild-goose chase.” And he did not go.
Three days later he received a similar invitation, more pressing still, and informing him that at nine o’clock on the next morning a carriage would stop at his house to fetch him. And in fact, next morning, at the stroke of nine, a handsome open carriage appeared. Thévenet hesitated no longer, but entered it.
153Outside the city gate he asked the coachman, “To whom are you taking me?” The man answered, “I don’t know, and it doesn’t concern me.” These words were spoken in English.
“You are a boor,” replied Thévenet.
The carriage finally stopped before the country-house in question. “To whom am I to go? Who lives here? Who is ill?” Thévenet asked the coachman before he got out of the carriage. The latter gave his previous answer, to which the physician, too, replied as before. At the door of the house a handsome young man, about twenty-eight years old, met him, and led him up a flight of stairs into a large room. The young man’s accent showed him to be an Englishman. Consequently Thévenet addressed him in that language, and received a friendly answer.
“You have summoned me here,” said the surgeon.
“I am very grateful to you for having taken the trouble to come,” answered the Englishman. “Will you not be seated? Here are chocolate, coffee, wine, in case you should care to take something before performing the operation.”
“But, sir, I should first like to see the patient. I must examine the injury, to see whether an amputation is necessary.”
“It is necessary, Mr. Thévenet. Kindly sit down. I have every confidence in you. Therefore, listen: I have in this purse two hundred guineas, which I design to pay you for performing the operation you are to undertake More will be forthcoming if it is successfully done. If it turns out baldly, or if you refuse to accede to my wishes — you see this loaded pistol, and you are in my power — I will shoot you down, so help me God!”
“Sir, I do not fear your pistol. But what do you desire? 154 Speak plainly, without preamble. What am I to do here?”
“You must cut off my right leg.”
“With the greatest pleasure, and, if you wish it, your head too. Only, if I noticed rightly, the leg seems to be in perfectly good condition. You sprang up the stairs before me like a rope-dancer. What is the matter with the leg?”
“Nothing. I want to get rid of it.”
“Sir, you are a fool!”
“That does not concern you, Mr. Thévenet.”
“What sin has your admirable leg committed?”
“None. But have you made up our mind to rid me of it?”
“Sir, I do not know you. Produce witnesses to prove you otherwise sound and healthy in mind.”
“Will you yield to my wishes, Mr. Thévenet?”
“Sir, as soon as you give me a reasonable ground for this mutilation.”
“I cannot tell you the truth now; perhaps I may at the end of a year. But I am willing to bet that, after the space of a year, you yourself will confess that my reasons for getting rid of this leg were the noblest conceivable.”
“I will not bet unless you tell me your name, your place of residence, your family, and your occupation.”
“You shall know all that in the future, but not now. I beg you to consider me a man of honor.”
“A man of honor does not threaten his physician with pistols. I have certain duties even toward you, who are unknown to me. If it will please you to become the murderer of the innocent father of a family, then shoot!”
“Very well, Mr. Thévenet,” said the Englishman, taking up the pistol, “I will not shoot you, but, for all that, I will 155 force you to amputate my leg. What you will do neither as a favor to me, nor from desire of reward, nor for fear of a bullet, you will grant me out of pity.”
“And how so?”
“I will shatter my own leg with a bullet, and that right here and now, before your very eyes.”
The Englishman sat down, took the pistol, and pressed its muzzle close to the knee. Thévenet made a motion to jump up and prevent him.
“Do not move,” said the Englishmen, “or I shoot. Answer me this single question: Do you wish to prolong and intensify my pain unnecessarily?”
“Sir, you are a fool, but I will do as you with. I will rid you of your confounded leg.”
Everything was prepared for the operation. When the knife was set to the leg, the Englishman lit his pipe and swore that he would not let it go out. He kept his word. The dead leg lay on the floor. The Englishman continued to smoke.
Thévenet performed his task in a masterly way. By means of his skill, the sick man healed in a comparatively short time. He rewarded his physician, whom he esteemed more highly every day, thanked him with tears of joy for the loss of his limb, and sailed off to England with a wooden leg.
About eighteen weeks after his departure Thévenet received a letter from England to the following effect:
“Enclosed you will find, as proof of my profound gratitude, an order on M. Pachaud, the Paris banker, for two hundred and fifty guineas. By ridding me of a limb which stood in the way of my earthly happiness you have made me the happiest of mortals. Excellent man, you may now know 156 the reason for what you called my foolish whim. You declared that there could be no reasonable ground for such voluntary mutilation. I proposed to enter on a bet with you. You did well not to accept it.
“After my second return from India I became acquainted with Emily Harley, the most perfect of women. I adored her. Her fortune and connections pleased my family; I cared only for her beauty, for her angelic disposition. I became one of her crowd of admirers. Ah, my dear Thévenet, I was happy enough to become the unhappiest of all my rivals. She loved me, me before all men, made no secret of it, and yet for that very reason she repelled me. In vain did I beg for her hand; in vain did my parents and her friends beg for me. She remained unmoved.
“For a long time I could not discover the cause of her aversion to a marriage with me, whom, by her own confession, she loved to distraction. At last one of her sisters revealed the secret to me. Miss Harley was a marvelous beauty, but she had one defect — she was one-legged, and on account of this imperfection she feared to become m wife. She dreaded that I would despise her for it. My mind was immediately made up. I would share her misfortune. Thanks to you, my dear Thévenet, I became able to do it.
“I returned home with a deceptive wooden leg. The first thing I did was to visit Miss Harley. The news had gone abroad, and I myself had written to England to say that I had broken my leg by falling from a horse, and that it had been amputated. I was universally pitied. Emily fainted at our first meeting. For a long time she was inconsolable but she became my wife. Not until the day after our marriage did I tell her the secret of the sacrifice that I had made in 157 order to win her. She loved me the more tenderly for it. Oh, excellent Thévenet, had I ten legs to lose, I would give them all, without pulling a face, for Emily!
As long as I live I shall be grateful to you. Come to London, visit me, become acquainted with my adorable wife, and then still say, if you can, that I am a fool!
“CHARLES TEMPLE.”
Thévenet communicated the story and the contents of the letter to his friends, laughing heartily as often as he related it.
“For all that, he remains a fool!” cried the doctor.
His reply to the letter ran as follows:
“SIR: I thank you for your valuable present. I call it thus, for I can hardly call it a reward for my small trouble.
“I wish you happiness on your marriage with the most charming of all Englishwomen. It is true, a leg is not much to give in exchange for a beautiful, virtuous, and tender wife, if only in the end one is not deceived in one’s bargain. Adam had to pay a rib of his own body for the possession of a wife; many another man has paid as much, some even their head.
“Nevertheless you will permit me humbly to keep to my original opinion. To be sure, at this moment you are in the right. You now dwell in the paradise of love’s springtide. But I, too, am right, with this difference, that the truth of my opinion, like every truth that one hesitates a long time to accept, will be slow to ripen.
“Sir, hear what I say. I fear that after two years you will regret having had your leg amputated above the knee. ‘It would have done just as well below,’ you will say to yourself. At the end of three years you will be convinced that the loss 158 of a foot would have been sufficient. At the end of four years you will declare that the sacrifice of the great toe would have been too much. At the end of five, you will assert the same of the little toe. When six years shall have passed, you will confess to me that the paring of the nails would have been quite enough.
“All this I say without trying to detract from the merits of your charming wife. Ladies can keep their beauty and their virtues more changeless than men their judgments. In my youth I would at any time have given my life for my beloved; in my life I should never have given a leg. The former sacrifice I would never have regretted, the latter always. For had I made it, I would have said to myself to this very day, ‘Thévenet, you were a fool!’ With which remark, I have the honor to be, sir, your humble servant,
“G. THÉVENET.”
In the year 1793, during the Reign of Terror, having been brought into suspicion of aristocratic leanings by a younger colleague, Thévenet fled to London, in order to save his life from the leveling guillotine.
Either because time hung heavily on his hands, or because he wished to seek acquaintances, he went to see Sir Charles Temple.
He was directed to that gentleman’s mansion. He was announced and received. In an armchair, over a pot of foaming porter, near the chimney, and surrounded by twenty newspapers, sat a stout gentleman, so unwieldy that he could scarcely rise.
“Ah, welcome, Mr. Thévenet!” cried the stout gentleman, who was no other than Sir Charles himself. “Don’t take it ill that I remain seated, but the infernal wooden leg 159 hinders me in everything. My friend, I suppose you have come to see whether the truth has ripened?”
“I come as a refugee, seeking protection of you.”
“You must be my guest, for, on my life, you are a wise man. You must console me. In truth, Thévenet, I might have been and admiral to-day, if this miserable wooden leg had not rendered me unfit for the service of my country. As it is, I read the papers, and curse myself blue in the face on account of my forced inactivity. Come, console me!”
“Your wife will be better able to console you than I.”
“Not at all. Her wooden leg prevents her from dancing, and so she has taken to cards and gossip. There is no getting along with her. In other things she is an excellent woman.”
“And so I seem to have been in the right?”
“Oh, entirely, my dear Thévenet; but let us be silent on that subject. I acted like an ass. Could I get my leg back, I would not give the paring of a toe-nail! Between you and me, I was a fool! But keep this information to yourself.”