A Modern Aladdin

"Mother," said he, suddenly, "the family returns to the château to-day?"

"Yes," said his mother; "they passed through the town about a half an hour before you came."

"I know," said Oliver; "I saw them upon the road. There were two ladies with monseigneur. Do you know who they were?"

"One of them was thin and wrinkled, with black eyes and heavy eyebrows?"

"Yes," said Oliver.

"The other, a young girl, rather pretty?"

"She is beautiful!" said Oliver.

"No doubt they were Madame the Marquise, and Mademoiselle Céleste, the daughter," said Madame Munier.

There was a little time of silence, and then Oliver gave his mother that second shock, a shock such as the poor woman never had in her life before.

"Mother," said he, "I love Mademoiselle Céleste."

Madame Munier opened her eyes and mouth as wide as she was able. "You what?" she cried.

"I love Mademoiselle Céleste," said Oliver: it was delicious to repeat those words.

Madame Munier looked slowly all about her, as though she had dropped from the moon, and knew not as yet where she was. "He loves Mademoiselle Céleste!" she repeated to herself.

"Yes," said Oliver; "I love her."

"He loves her!" said Madame Munier, mechanically. "He is mad!"

"Mad!" said Oliver. "Why am I mad? Were I a beggar and she a princess I might still love her. Were I now as I was twelve months ago, poor, ignorant, dull, a witless, idle sot, satisfied to sit the day through on the bench in front of the inn yonder, I might still love her! Were we living in poverty as we were then – you and I – dwelling in that little stone hut, feeding upon stewed cabbage and onions, I might still love Céleste de Flourens! Love," cried Oliver – "love is universal; it is limitless; it is the right of every man, and no one can take it from him!"

Madame Munier listened; she thought that she had never heard any one talk so beautifully as Oliver. It put the matter in a new light.

"But I am no longer as I was then," continued Oliver. "I have seen much; I have passed through much; I have lived in Paris. But all would be of no importance were it not for another thing. Listen, mother! We are rich, you and I. We are the richest people in France – excepting one other; yes, the richest people in France! You think me crazy to love Céleste de Flourens! I tell you, I swear to you, I could to-morrow buy Flourens from one end to the other – the town, the château, and all. You do not believe me? Very well, you shall see! But as for this love of mine, it is not so hopeless nor so mad as you think. To-morrow you shall go in my coach, with my servant Henri, down to the château yonder."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," interrupted Madame Munier, sharply.

Oliver only smiled; he did not answer. A habit he had caught from his master during the last year was to contradict nobody. "To-morrow you shall go down to the château in my coach, with my servant Henri, and then you shall see how complaisant the marquis will be."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Madame Munier again. "I will not go down to the château."

Still Oliver did not seem to hear her. Going to the table, he chose a key, and unlocking the iron box, brought forth from it a curious old silver snuffbox, handsomely chased and enamelled with figures and flowers. "Do you see this box?" said he, holding it up between his thumb and finger.

"Yes," said Madame Munier, "I see it; but I will not go to the château."

"It is only a snuffbox," said Oliver. "It is a small thing; but what then? Within it is a charm – a key with which I hope to unlock the portals of a new world to us. It shall give us the entrée to the château."

"I shall not go to the château," said Madame Munier.

"Also," said Oliver, "I will give you a letter, which you will present, together with this snuffbox, to the marquis; and I shall sign the letter Oliver de Monnière."

"But that is not your name," said Madame Munier.

"Very well," said Oliver; "but it shall hereafter be our name – yours and mine – De Monnière. Remember it, mother – De Monnière."

"But what, then, is in the snuffbox?" said Oliver's mother.

"I will show you," said Oliver, and he opened the lid.

"Bah!" said his mother; "and is that all? Do you think that Monseigneur the Marquis will care for that thing?"

Oliver smiled. "Yes," said he, "he will care for this thing."

Oliver's mother had nearly forgotten herself. "I will not go to the château," said she.

Scene Third. —The marquis's apartments at the château

It is the next day after the marquis has returned to the Château de Flourens. It is three o'clock in the afternoon, and the marquis is discovered still in bed. His valet, August, an incomparable fellow, has been in and out a dozen times; has smoothed the marquis's clothes; has rearranged a freshly-powdered wig that hung as white as snow upon the block; has moved a chair here and a table there. But the Marquis de Flourens has paid no attention to him. He is reading the latest effusion of the immortal Jean Jacques; for one must keep up with the world, even if one is compelled to live in Flourens; moreover, as he often observes, a book suffices somewhat to relieve the ennui.

The Marquis de Flourens looks very droll. He is clad in a loose dressing-robe of figured cloth, and lies in bed reading his book, with a chocolate-pot and a delicate cup, with the brown dregs at the bottom, upon a light table standing at the bedside. His knees are drawn up into a little white mountain, the lace pillows are tucked in billowy masses behind him, and his nightcap is pushed a little to one side, giving a glimpse of his shining, newly-shaven head; his round face, in contrast with the white pillows behind, as red as a newly-risen sun.

The valet again enters the room, but this time with an object. He bears upon a silver tray a three-cornered billet and a snuffbox. The marquis lingeringly finishes the sentence he is reading, and then lays the book face down upon the bed beside him. "What is it you would have, August?" said he.

"A lady, monseigneur, has just now stopped at the door in a coach."

The marquis sat up as though moved by a spring. "A lady?" he cried. "Young, beautiful?"

"No," said August, seriously; "old, fat."

The marquis lay back upon the pillows again. "What is it that you have brought, August?" said he, languidly. August presented the waiter. "Oh!" said the marquis. "A letter; and what is that – a snuffbox?" He reached out and took Oliver's three-cornered billet from the waiter. "This is not a woman's handwriting," said he; "it is the handwriting of a man."

August said nothing, and the marquis opened the letter. It ran as follows:

"Monseigneur, – Having heard, monseigneur, that you have been interested in collecting odd and unique objects of curiosity and virtu, I have taken the great liberty of sending by madame my mother this insignificent trifle, which I hope, monseigneur, you will condescend to accept.

    "Oliver de Monnière."

"M – m – m! What is it the fool is writing about? Curios? I making a collection of curios? I never collected anything in my life but debts. The man is crazy! Does he think that I am a snuffy collector of stuffy curios? Let me see the snuffbox, August."

The incomparable valet presented the waiter.

The marquis took the snuffbox in his hand and looked at it. "It is handsome," said he; "it is curious. It is solid silver, and is worth – " he weighed it in his hand – "a hundred livres, perhaps." He pressed the spring and opened the box as he spoke. It was full of cotton. Something dropped from it upon the coverlet. The marquis picked it up. It was a diamond of excessive brilliancy, almost as large as a bean.

The incomparable August was busied in removing the chocolate-pot and the empty cup, but presently observing the silence, he looked around. The marquis was holding something between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes were as big as teacups. His face was a sight to see. August was startled out of his composure. He hastily set the waiter with the china upon the window-seat, and hurried to the bedside.

"What is it, monseigneur?" said he.

His voice roused the marquis.