Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (322 page)

Truly he had done nothing to ingratiate himself; his every word had been steeped in unfriendliness, envy, and that contempt which (as it is born of anger) it is possible to support without humiliation.  On my part, I had been little more conciliating; and yet I began to be sorry for this man, hired spy as I knew him to be.  It seemed to me less than decent that he should have been brought up in the expectation of this great inheritance, and now, at the eleventh hour, be tumbled forth out of the house door and left to himself, his poverty and his debts — those debts of which I had so ungallantly reminded him so short a time before.  And we were scarce left alone ere I made haste to hang out a flag of truce.

‘My cousin,’ said I, ‘trust me, you will not find me inclined to be your enemy.’

He paused in front of me — for he had not accepted the lawyer’s invitation to be seated, but walked to and fro in the apartment — took a pinch of snuff, and looked at me while he was taking it with an air of much curiosity.

‘Is it even so?’ said he.  ‘Am I so far favoured by fortune as to have your pity?  Infinitely obliged, my cousin Anne!  But these sentiments are not always reciprocal, and I warn you that the day when I set my foot on your neck, the spine shall break.  Are you acquainted with the properties of the spine?’ he asked with an insolence beyond qualification.

It was too much.  ‘I am acquainted also with the properties of a pair of pistols,’ said I, toising him.

‘No, no, no!’ says he, holding up his finger.  ‘I will take my revenge how and when I please.  We are enough of the same family to understand each other, perhaps; and the reason why I have not had you arrested on your arrival, why I had not a picket of soldiers in the first clump of evergreens, to await and prevent your coming — I, who knew all, before whom that pettifogger, Romaine, has been conspiring in broad daylight to supplant me — is simply this: that I had not made up my mind how I was to take my revenge.’

At that moment he was interrupted by the tolling of a bell.  As we stood surprised and listening, it was succeeded by the sound of many feet trooping up the stairs and shuffling by the door of our room.  Both, I believe, had a great curiosity to set it open, which each, owing to the presence of the other, resisted; and we waited instead in silence, and without moving, until Romaine returned and bade us to my uncle’s presence.

He led the way by a little crooked passage, which brought us out in the sick-room, and behind the bed.  I believe I have forgotten to remark that the Count’s chamber was of considerable dimensions.  We beheld it now crowded with the servants and dependants of the house, from the doctor and the priest to Mr. Dawson and the housekeeper, from Dawson down to Rowley and the last footman in white calves, the last plump chambermaid in her clean gown and cap, and the last ostler in a stable waiscoat.  This large congregation of persons (and I was surprised to see how large it was) had the appearance, for the most part, of being ill at ease and heartily bewildered, standing on one foot, gaping like zanies, and those who were in the corners nudging each other and grinning aside.  My uncle, on the other hand, who was raised higher than I had yet seen him on his pillows, wore an air of really imposing gravity.  No sooner had we appeared behind him, than he lifted his voice to a good loudness, and addressed the assemblage.

‘I take you all to witness — can you hear me? — I take you all to witness that I recognise as my heir and representative this gentleman, whom most of you see for the first time, the Viscount Anne de St.-Yves, my nephew of the younger line.  And I take you to witness at the same time that, for very good reasons known to myself, I have discarded and disinherited this other gentleman whom you all know, the Viscount de St.-Yves.  I have also to explain the unusual trouble to which I have put you all — and, since your supper was not over, I fear I may even say annoyance.  It has pleased M. Alain to make some threats of disputing my will, and to pretend that there are among your number certain estimable persons who may be trusted to swear as he shall direct them.  It pleases me thus to put it out of his power and to stop the mouths of his false witnesses.  I am infinitely obliged by your politeness, and I have the honour to wish you all a very good evening.’

As the servants, still greatly mystified, crowded out of the sickroom door, curtseying, pulling the forelock, scraping with the foot, and so on, according to their degree, I turned and stole a look at my cousin.  He had borne this crushing public rebuke without change of countenance.  He stood, now, very upright, with folded arms, and looking inscrutably at the roof of the apartment.  I could not refuse him at that moment the tribute of my admiration.  Still more so when, the last of the domestics having filed through the doorway and left us alone with my great-uncle and the lawyer, he took one step forward towards the bed, made a dignified reverence, and addressed the man who had just condemned him to ruin.

‘My lord,’ said he, ‘you are pleased to treat me in a manner which my gratitude, and your state, equally forbid me to call in question.  It will be only necessary for me to call your attention to the length of time in which I have been taught to regard myself as your heir.  In that position, I judged it only loyal to permit myself a certain scale of expenditure.  If I am now to be cut off with a shilling as the reward of twenty years of service, I shall be left not only a beggar, but a bankrupt.’

Whether from the fatigue of his recent exertion, or by a well-inspired ingenuity of hate, my uncle had once more closed his eyes; nor did he open them now.  ‘Not with a shilling,’ he contented himself with replying; and there stole, as he said it, a sort of smile over his face, that flickered there conspicuously for the least moment of time, and then faded and left behind the old impenetrable mask of years, cunning, and fatigue.  There could be no mistake: my uncle enjoyed the situation as he had enjoyed few things in the last quarter of a century.  The fires of life scarce survived in that frail body; but hatred, like some immortal quality, was still erect and unabated.

Nevertheless my cousin persevered.

‘I speak at a disadvantage,’ he resumed.  ‘My supplanter, with perhaps more wisdom than delicacy, remains in the room,’ and he cast a glance at me that might have withered an oak tree.

I was only too willing to withdraw, and Romaine showed as much alacrity to make way for my departure.  But my uncle was not to be moved.  In the same breath of a voice, and still without opening his eyes, he bade me remain.

‘It is well,’ said Alain.  ‘I cannot then go on to remind you of the twenty years that have passed over our heads in England, and the services I may have rendered you in that time.  It would be a position too odious.  Your lordship knows me too well to suppose I could stoop to such ignominy.  I must leave out all my defence — your lordship wills it so!  I do not know what are my faults; I know only my punishment, and it is greater than I have the courage to face.  My uncle, I implore your pity: pardon me so far; do not send me for life into a debtors’ jail — a pauper debtor.’

‘
Chat et vieux
,
pardonnez
?’ said my uncle, quoting from La Fontaine; and then, opening a pale-blue eye full on Alain, he delivered with some emphasis:

‘La jeunesse se flatte et croit tout obtenir;
La vieillesse est impitoyable.’

The blood leaped darkly into Alain’s face.  He turned to Romaine and me, and his eyes flashed.

‘It is your turn now,’ he said.  ‘At least it shall be prison for prison with the two viscounts.’

‘Not so, Mr. Alain, by your leave,’ said Romaine.  ‘There are a few formalities to be considered first.’

But Alain was already striding towards the door.

‘Stop a moment, stop a moment!’ cried Romaine.  ‘Remember your own counsel not to despise an adversary.’

Alain turned.

‘If I do not despise I hate you!’ he cried, giving a loose to his passion.  ‘Be warned of that, both of you.’

‘I understand you to threaten Monsieur le Vicomte Anne,’ said the lawyer.  ‘Do you know, I would not do that.  I am afraid, I am very much afraid, if you were to do as you propose, you might drive me into extremes.’

‘You have made me a beggar and a bankrupt,’ said Alain.  What extreme is left?’

‘I scarce like to put a name upon it in this company,’ replied Romaine.  ‘But there are worse things than even bankruptcy, and worse places than a debtors’ jail.’

The words were so significantly said that there went a visible thrill through Alain; sudden as a sword-stroke, he fell pale again.

‘I do not understand you,’ said he.

‘O yes, you do,’ returned Romaine.  ‘I believe you understand me very well.  You must not suppose that all this time, while you were so very busy, others were entirely idle.  You must not fancy, because I am an Englishman, that I have not the intelligence to pursue an inquiry.  Great as is my regard for the honour of your house, M. Alain de St.-Yves, if I hear of you moving directly or indirectly in this matter, I shall do my duty, let it cost what it will: that is, I shall communicate the real name of the Buonapartist spy who signs his letters
Rue Grégoire de Tours
.’

I confess my heart was already almost altogether on the side of my insulted and unhappy cousin; and if it had not been before, it must have been so now, so horrid was the shock with which he heard his infamy exposed.  Speech was denied him; he carried his hand to his neckcloth; he staggered; I thought he must have fallen.  I ran to help him, and at that he revived, recoiled before me, and stood there with arms stretched forth as if to preserve himself from the outrage of my touch.

‘Hands off!’ he somehow managed to articulate.

‘You will now, I hope,’ pursued the lawyer, without any change of voice, ‘understand the position in which you are placed, and how delicately it behoves you to conduct yourself.  Your arrest hangs, if I may so express myself, by a hair; and as you will be under the perpetual vigilance of myself and my agents, you must look to it narrowly that you walk straight.  Upon the least dubiety, I will take action.’  He snuffed, looking critically at the tortured man.  ‘And now let me remind you that your chaise is at the door.  This interview is agitating to his lordship — it cannot be agreeable for you — and I suggest that it need not be further drawn out.  It does not enter into the views of your uncle, the Count, that you should again sleep under this roof.’

As Alain turned and passed without a word or a sign from the apartment, I instantly followed.  I suppose I must be at bottom possessed of some humanity; at least, this accumulated torture, this slow butchery of a man as by quarters of rock, had wholly changed my sympathies.  At that moment I loathed both my uncle and the lawyer for their coldblooded cruelty.

Leaning over the banisters, I was but in time to hear his hasty footsteps in that hall that had been crowded with servants to honour his coming, and was now left empty against his friendless departure.  A moment later, and the echoes rang, and the air whistled in my ears, as he slammed the door on his departing footsteps.  The fury of the concussion gave me (had one been still wanted) a measure of the turmoil of his passions.  In a sense, I felt with him; I felt how he would have gloried to slam that door on my uncle, the lawyer, myself, and the whole crowd of those who had been witnesses to his humiliation.

CHAPTER XX — AFTER THE STORM

No sooner was the house clear of my cousin than I began to reckon up, ruefully enough, the probable results of what had passed.  Here were a number of pots broken, and it looked to me as if I should have to pay for all!  Here had been this proud, mad beast goaded and baited both publicly and privately, till he could neither hear nor see nor reason; whereupon the gate had been set open, and he had been left free to go and contrive whatever vengeance he might find possible.  I could not help thinking it was a pity that, whenever I myself was inclined to be upon my good behaviour, some friends of mine should always determine to play a piece of heroics and cast me for the hero — or the victim — which is very much the same.  The first duty of heroics is to be of your own choosing.  When they are not that, they are nothing.  And I assure you, as I walked back to my own room, I was in no very complaisant humour: thought my uncle and Mr. Romaine to have played knuckle-bones with my life and prospects; cursed them for it roundly; had no wish more urgent than to avoid the pair of them; and was quite knocked out of time, as they say in the ring, to find myself confronted with the lawyer.

He stood on my hearthrug, leaning on the chimney-piece, with a gloomy, thoughtful brow, as I was pleased to see, and not in the least as though he were vain of the late proceedings.

‘Well?’ said I.  ‘You have done it now!’

‘Is he gone?’ he asked.

‘He is gone,’ said I.  ‘We shall have the devil to pay with him when he comes back.’

‘You are right,’ said the lawyer, ‘and very little to pay him with but flams and fabrications, like to-night’s.’

‘To-night’s?’ I repeated.

‘Ay, to-night’s!’ said he.

‘To-night’s
what
?’ I cried.

‘To-night’s flams and fabrications.’

‘God be good to me, sir,’ said I, ‘have I something more to admire in your conduct than ever
I
had suspected?  You cannot think how you interest me!  That it was severe, I knew; I had already chuckled over that.  But that it should be false also!  In what sense, dear sir?’

I believe I was extremely offensive as I put the question, but the lawyer paid no heed.

‘False in all senses of the word,’ he replied seriously.  ‘False in the sense that they were not true, and false in the sense that they were not real; false in the sense that I boasted, and in the sense that I lied.  How can I arrest him?  Your uncle burned the papers!  I told you so — but doubtless you have forgotten — the day I first saw you in Edinburgh Castle.  It was an act of generosity; I have seen many of these acts, and always regretted — always regretted!  “That shall be his inheritance,” he said, as the papers burned; he did not mean that it should have proved so rich a one.  How rich, time will tell.’