Part 33 (1/2)
”Listen, father,” exclaimed Germain with a kind of gaiety, appreciating the melancholy humour of the situation, ”I have not only traced you up, but shall show you the evidence. Carry in my little box while I bring the black one.”
They brought the boxes in, and the small one--that with the gilt coat of arms, from which Germain had taken his pa.s.sport at Quebec--was put on the table. Germain unlocked it, and brought out the de Lincy genealogical tree.
”Here,” said he to his father, while the family crowded to look over their shoulders, ”you are the son of this one; I have seen and read your baptismal register which records it, in the Church of St.
Germain-des-Pres.”
”True--that was my parish,” the old man answered. ”Are you certain that my father was not----?”
”Positive.”
”Very well, then,” old Lecour answered, somewhat reluctantly.
”What a romance!” the married daughter cried.
”I am about to show you some precious relics of our past,” Germain continued. ”See what a store of parchments. Here are grants of _n.o.blesse_ from the King, grants of t.i.tles, dispensations signed by the Popes--do you know what these are?” he cried, taking out and putting on his breast a couple of beautiful jewels, standing up as he did so.
”Tell us!”
”This,” said he, ”is the Commander's Cross of St. Louis; and that the Order of the Holy Ghost.”
While they pushed forward in excitement to look closer at the decorations, he bent, lifted the lid of the large black box and with both hands raised before them an oil portrait of a gentleman in full wig, velvet coat and ruffles.
”That,” said he, surveying it with becoming pride, ”is our ancestor Hypolite LeCour de Lincy. Sir,” said he, laughingly turning to his parent, ”behold your father against your will.”
”Bravo, Monsieur my son,” cried Madame Lecour.
”Now I can make my old man dress like a gentleman. The next time I go to Montreal, Lecour--or rather my Chevalier--I shall spend some of your money on a peruke and a scarlet coat for you.”
”Holy Mary, save me!”
”About that please the ladies, father,” Germain put in; ”but there is another matter. Who drew your marriage contract?”
”D'Aguilhe, the notary,” his mother returned.
”Is he of St. Elphege?”
”Yes.”
”He has, of course, omitted mention of your n.o.bility.”
”He knew of none,” said the merchant.
”Then we must go to him with our t.i.tles, and he must rectify it to-morrow.”
”As you please, if it will suit you better,” the merchant murmured.
”I must be a Prince, for I create n.o.bles,” p.r.o.nounced Germain, shaking with fevered laughter, as he drew the sheets over him in the state bed that night. His merriment was a pitiful cover for his desperation. In his favour it is well to remember the dictum of Schopenhauer: that the English are the only nation who thoroughly realise the immorality of lying; and we must also keep in mind that the extent of his disorder was a measure of the power of that pa.s.sion which was its cause. Better things were yet in him.