In the Days of My Youth. Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards
of his little speech; but remembering where he was, blushed, and bowed again.
"Pshaw," said my father impatiently, "the man's a conjuror."
The little Frenchman did not hear him. He was at that moment untying a packet which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared to consist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards. Selecting a couple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor and came a few steps nearer to the table.
"Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur son fils, at my Soirée Fantastique, n'est-ce pas?" he asked, timidly.
"Sir," said my father shortly, "I never encourage peripatetic mendicity."
The little Frenchman looked puzzled.
"Comment?" said he, and glanced to me for an explanation.
"I am very sorry, Monsieur," I interposed hastily; "but my father objects to public entertainments."
"Ah, mon Dieu! but not to this," cried the Chevalier, raising his hands and eyes in deprecating astonishment. "Not to my Soirée Fantastique! The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral. He is graceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he is patronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable Curé, Monsieur le Docteur Brand."
"Oh, father," I exclaimed, "Dr. Brand has taken tickets!"
"And pray, sir, what's that to me?" growled my father, without looking up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. "Let Dr. Brand make a fool of himself, if he pleases. I'm not bound to do the same."
The Chevalier blushed crimson--not with humility this time, but with pride. He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, and saying stiffly--"Monsieur, je vous demande pardon."--moved towards the door.
On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of faded dignity:--"Young gentleman," he said, "you I thank for your politeness."
He seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenly livid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against the wall.
My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather than led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessary restoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the color came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily.
"An attack of the nerves," he said, shaking his head feebly. "An attack of the nerves, Messieurs."
My father looked doubtful.
"Are you often taken in this way?" he asked, with unusual gentleness.
"Mais oui, Monsieur," admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly. "He does often arrive to me. Not--not that he is dangerous. Ah, bah! Pas du tout!"
"Humph!" ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before. "Let me feel your pulse."
The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of the operator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me.
"Do you sleep well?" asked my father, holding the fragile little wrist between his finger and thumb.
"Passably, Monsieur."
"Dream much?"
"Ye--es, I dream."
"Are you subject to giddiness?"
The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy.
"C'est vrai" he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, "J'ai des vertiges."
My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription.
"There, sir," said he, "get that preparation made up, and when you next feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. I should recommend you to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find further directions on the other side."
The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; but was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair.
"Monsieur," said he, with another of his profound bows, "I thank you infinitely. You make me too much attention; but I am grateful. And, Monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--she thanks you also. Elle m'aime, Monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvre petite! What shall she do if I die?"
Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anything theatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet with tears, which he made no effort to conceal.
My father shuffled restlessly in his chair.
"No obligation--no obligation at all," he muttered, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "And now, what about those tickets? I suppose, Basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?"
"That I am, sir," said I, joyfully. "I should like it above all things!"
The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cards upon my father's desk.
"If," said he, timidly, "if Monsieur will make me the honor to accept. … "
"Not for the world, sir--not for the world!" interposed my father. "The boy shan't go, unless I pay for the tickets."
"But, Monsieur. … "
"Nothing of the kind, sir. I cannot hear of it. What are the prices of the seats?"
Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him.
"The reserved seats," I whispered, "are half-a-crown each."
"Then I will take eight reserved," said my father, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign.
The little Frenchman started. He could hardly believe in such munificence.
"When? How much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs.
"Eight," growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile.
"Eight? mon Dieu, Monsieur, how you are generous! I shall keep for you all the first row."
"Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind," said my father, very decisively. "It would displease me extremely."
The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged them in a row beside my father's desk.
"Count them, Monsieur, if you please," said he, his eyes wandering involuntarily towards the sovereign.
My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money.
The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvas bag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recesses of his pocket.
"Monsieur," said he, "my thanks are in my heart. I will not fatigue you with them. Good-morning."
He bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at the threshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him.
My father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn of satisfaction.
"I am so much obliged to you, sir," I said, eagerly.
"What for?"
"For having bought those tickets. It was very kind of you."
"Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged back again into his books and papers.
Once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leaf and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still, within and without.
"I beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little Chevalier.
I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. He looked more wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers.
My father frowned, and muttered something between