Part 5 (1/2)
He stood revealed, brisk, and ready for business, the nimble Chevalier de Calembours.
”You are en route for America? So am I--we will be comrades,” quoth the chevalier.
”With all my heart! Yes, I go to join the army. I shall either find fame or death in the American war.”
”Bah! I go to court the jade Fortune. She has jilted me of late. I would feed my wrinkled purse with American dollars, _ma foi!_ that purse is famis.h.i.+ng just now.”
”You are not pure French?” demanded the captain.
”_Mon Dieu!_ no,” rasped monsieur, with a shrug. ”I am cosmopolite, yes.”
”Where is your birthplace?”
”The Hungary, _mon ami_. Have been in Vienna, in Geneva, in Turin, and for the rest--everywheres.”
”You omit England?”
”Ah, I did not live in England. I saw it, no more.”
”Yet you speak English well.”
”I am flattered. I have the habitude of the languages; they count me an expert. Insisted on giving me the post of Professor of the modern languages in the University of Berlin.”
”But it was not as a knight of the ferule that you won this mark of distinction?” laughed the captain, touching a fluttering badge which depended from the chevalier's b.u.t.ton-hole.
”_Ma foi! non!_ I am Magyar, and that is to say patriot and warrior in one. I combat under the gaze of our glorious Kossuth; but there are times when even valor himself must fly, and the sword of the brave must change, in the stranger's land, to the plowshare, the pen--anything to keep the wolf from the door. But the ferule, the pen, the pestle, I abhor. I hear the blast of the trumpet, I return to my first loves. I cross to Algiers. I fight my way up till I win my _grade_, and this bagatelle. Nothing more there to pick. I looked around; the rays of glory are beginning to gild the long slumbering west. I leave the ancient world, and sinking my ill.u.s.trious personality, I forget that I am Count of the Order of Santo Spirito, Turin; that I wear the ribbon of Legion of Honor, and am to throw myself among these Republican hordes, and to fight knee by knee with the mob. Enough!” he concluded; ”to you I shall be but Ludovic, _mon ami_. Come--do you play?”
”I play, chevalier. I am at your service,” answered the captain.
The chevalier preceded his new friend to his state-room, and ushered him in with ”effusion.”
A man rose stiffly from the table, where he had been reading, and made way for the chevalier and his guest.
A tall, elderly man, in servant's livery, who stooped and slunk softly about, whose sallow, brown face grew white when the captain scanned it curiously, whose thin, gray hair and immense overhanging gray mustache showed traces of cares rather than of years, and whose s.h.i.+fting, shrinking eyeb.a.l.l.s ever sought the ground, as if their depths held emotions which the man must hide on peril of his life.
A sudden shudder seized Captain Brand; a thrill ran sickening through his heart, which had never so thrilled before. He turned his back--he knew not why--in hatred upon the chevalier's valet.
Was it a perception of evil, slow creeping toward him from the gloomy future--slow, but sure to come as death himself?
Pshaw! what necromancer's dream was this? The captain, scoffing, threw it from him, and forgot the haggard old servant.
”Thoms, we play _ecarte_,” aspirated the chevalier, in his rough English (he invariably spoke French to the captain). ”Bring wine and cards, and wait upon us.”
They plunged with zest into the game, and pa.s.sed many hours in its intricacies. The chevalier protested that he had found an adversary worthy of him, and Captain Brand swore that for want of more piquant sauce a game of euchre every night with Calembours might answer to flavor the insipidity of the voyage out to New York.
But the careless captain might have noted, too, had he considered such a worm worthy of notice, that whatever he did--talk, sing, drink wine, or muse--the secret, s.h.i.+fting eyes of Thoms, the valet, never lost a movement, but hour after hour watched him with the unearthly intentness of a blood-hound.
While the captain slept that night in unconscious security, the Chevalier de Calembours, with a complacent chuckle and a flowing pen, wrote down in his diary, these famous words:
”'_I came. I saw, I conquered!_' Monsieur Brand promises to be excellent sport though little hope of pigeoning him, _en pa.s.sant_. Yes, he has keener scent than monsieur, my patron, gave him credit for--he won't be led altogether by the nose. But pouf! who is it that will not be gulled by Ludovic de Calembours?”