CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH THERE IS REASON TO FEAR THAT PRINCES ARE NOT INVARIABLY FREE
FROM HUMAN PECCADILLOES.
ON entering Paris, my veteran fellow-traveller took leave of me, and I
proceeded to my hotel. When the first excitement of my thoughts was a
little subsided, and after some feelings of a more public nature, I
began to consider what influence the King's death was likely to have on
my own fortunes. I could not but see at a glance that for the cause of
the Chevalier, and the destiny of his present exertions in Scotland, it
was the most fatal event that could have occurred.
The balance of power in the contending factions of France would, I
foresaw, lie entirely between the Duke of Orleans and the legitimatized
children of the late king: the latter, closely leagued as they were with
Madame de Maintenon, could not be much disposed to consider the welfare
of Count Devereux; and my wishes, therefore, naturally settled on the
former. I was not doomed to a long suspense. Every one knows that the
very next day the Duke of Orleans appeared before Parliament, and was
proclaimed Regent; that the will of the late King was set aside; and
that the Duke of Maine suddenly became as low in power as he had always
been despicable in intellect. A little hubbub ensued: people in general
laughed at the Regent's /finesse/; and the more sagacious admired the
courage and address of which the /finesse/ was composed. The Regent's
mother wrote a letter of sixty-nine pages about it; and the Duchess of
Maine boxed the Duke's ears very heartily for not being as clever as
herself. All Paris teemed with joyous forebodings; and the Regent, whom
every one some time ago had suspected of poisoning his cousins, every
one now declared to be the most perfect prince that could possibly be
imagined, and the very picture of Henri Quatre in goodness as well as
physiognomy. Three days after this event, one happened to myself with
which my public career may be said to commence.
I had spent the evening at a house in a distant part of Paris, and,
invited by the beauty of the night, had dismissed my carriage, and was
walking home alone and on foot. Occupied with my reflections, and not
very well acquainted with the dangerous and dark streets of Paris, in
which it was very rare for those who have carriages to wander on foot, I
insensibly strayed from my proper direction. When I first discovered
this disagreeable fact, I was in a filthy and obscure lane rather than
street, which I did not remember having ever honoured with my presence
before. While I was pausing in the vain hope and anxious endeavour to
shape out some imaginary chart--some "map of the mind," by which to
direct my bewildered course--I heard a confused noise proceed from
another lane at right angles with the one in which I then was. I
listened: the sound became more distinct; I recognized human voices in
loud and angry altercation; a moment more and there was a scream.
Though I did not attach much importance to the circumstance, I thought I
might as well approach nearer to the quarter of noise. I walked to the
door of the house from which the scream proceeded; it was very small and
mean. Just as I neared it, a window was thrown open, and a voice cried,
"Help! help! for God's sake, help!"
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Whoever you are, save us!" cried the voice, "and that instantly, or we
shall be murdered;" and, the moment after, the voice ceased abruptly,
and was succeeded by the clashing of swords.
I beat loudly at the door; I shouted out,--no answer; the scuffle within
seemed to increase. I saw a small blind alley to the left; one of the
unfortunate women to whom such places are homes was standing in it.
"What possibility is there of entering the house?" I asked.
"Oh!" said she, "it does not matter; it is not the first time gentlemen
have cut each other's throats /there/."
"What! is it a house of bad repute?"
"Yes; and where there are bullies who wear knives, and take purses, as
well as ladies who--"
"Good heavens!" cried I, interrupting her, "there is no time to be lost.
Is there no way of entrance but at this door?"
"Yes, if you are bold enough to enter at another!"
"Where?"
"Down this alley."
Immediately I entered the alley; the woman pointed to a small, dark,
narrow flight of stairs; I ascended; the sounds increased in loudness.
I mounted to the second flight; a light streamed from a door; the
clashing of swords was distinctly audible within; I broke open the door,
and found myself a witness and intruder on a scene at once ludicrous and
fearful.
A table, covered with bottles and the remnants of a meal, was in the
centre of the room; several articles of women's dress were scattered
over the floor; two women of unequivocal description were clinging to a
man richly dressed, and who having fortunately got behind an immense
chair, that had been overthrown probably in the scuffle, managed to keep
off with awkward address a fierce-looking fellow, who had less scope for
the ability of his sword-arm, from the circumstance of his attempting to
pull away the chair with his left hand. Whenever he stooped to effect
this object his antagonist thrust at him very vigorously, and had it not
been for the embarrassment his female enemies occasioned him, the latter
would, in all probability, have despatched or disabled his besieger.
This fortified gentleman, being backed by the window, I immediately
concluded to be the person who had called to me for assistance.
At the other corner of the apartment was another cavalier, who used his
sword with singular skill, but who, being hard pressed by two lusty
fellows, was forced to employ that skill rather in defence than attack.
Altogether, the disordered appearance of the room, the broken bottles,
the fumes with which the hot atmosphere teemed, the evident profligacy
of the two women, the half-undressed guise of the cavaliers, and the
ruffian air and collected ferocity of the assailants, plainly denoted
that it was one of those perilous festivals of pleasure in which
imprudent gallants were often, in that day, betrayed by treacherous
Delilahs into the hands of Philistines, who, not contented with
stripping them for the sake of plunder, frequently murdered them for the
sake of secrecy.
Having taken a rapid but satisfactory survey of the scene, I did not
think it necessary to make any preparatory parley. I threw myself upon
the nearest bravo with so hearty a good will that I ran him through the
body before he had recovered his surprise at my appearance. This
somewhat startled the other two; they drew back and demanded quarter.
"Quarter, indeed!" cried the farther cavalier, releasing himself from
his astonished female assailants, and leaping nimbly over his bulwark
into the centre of the room, "quarter, indeed, rascally /ivrognes/! No;
it is our turn now! and, by Joseph of Arimathea! you shall sup with
Pilate to-night." So saying, he pressed his old assailant so fiercely
that, after a short contest, the latter retreated till he had backed
himself to the door; he then suddenly turned round, and vanished in a
twinkling. The third and remaining ruffian was far from thinking
himself a match for three men; he fell on his knees, and implored mercy.
However, the /ci-devant/ sustainer of the besieged chair was but little
disposed to afford him the clemency he demanded, and approached the
crestfallen bravo with so grim an air of truculent delight, brandishing
his sword and uttering the most terrible threats, that there would have
been small doubt of the final catastrophe of the trembling bully, had
not the other gallant thrown himself in the way of his friend.
"Put up thy sword," said he, laughing, and yet with an air of command;
"we must not court crime, and then punish it." Then, turning to the
bully, he said, "Rise, Sir Rascal! the devil spares thee a little
longer, and this gentleman will not disobey /his/ as well as /thy/
master's wishes. Begone!"
The fellow wanted no second invitation: he sprang to his legs, and to
the door. The disappointed cavalier assisted his descent down the
stairs with a kick that would have done the work of the sword to any
flesh not accustomed to similar applications. Putting up his rapier,
the milder gentleman then turned to /the ladies/, who lay huddled
together under shelter of the chair which their intended victim had
deserted.
"Ah, Mesdames," said he, gravely, and with a low bow, "I am sorry for
your disappointment. As long as you contented yourselves with robbery,
it were a shame to have interfered with your innocent amusements; but
cold steel becomes serious. Monsieur D'Argenson will favour you with
some inquiries to-morrow; at present, I recommend you to empty what
remains in the bottle. Adieu! Monsieur, to whom I am so greatly
indebted, honour me with your arm down these stairs. You" (turning to
his friend) "will follow us, and keep a sharp look behind. /Allons!
Vive Henri Quatre/!"
As we descended the dark and rough stairs, my new companion said, "What
an excellent antidote to the effects of the /vin de champagne/ is this
same fighting! I feel as if I had not tasted a drop these six hours.
What fortune brought you hither, Monsieur?" addressing me.
We were now at the foot of the first flight of stairs; a high and small
window admitted the moonlight, and we saw each other's faces clearly.
"That fortune," answered I, looking at my acquaintance steadily, but
with an expression of profound respect,--"that fortune which watches
over kingdoms, and which, I trust, may in no place or circumstance be a
deserter from your Highness."
"Highness!" said my companion, colouring, and darting a glance, first at
his friend and then at me. "Hist, Sir, you know me, then,--speak
low,--you know, then, for whom you have drawn your sword?"
"Yes, so please your Highness. I have drawn it this night for Philip of
Orleans; I trust yet, in another scene and for another cause, to draw it
for the Regent of France!"
