Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

“For England, I suppose,” said a pale young gentleman, with black moustaches, not looking up from the table, where he sat reading his “Galignaui.”

“No, sir, mine is not a passport case. I am here to make a charge against the Spanish Government for false imprisonment and spoliation.”

The young gentleman raised his head, and stared at me fixedly for a couple of seconds, and then, in the most silvery of accents, said, “Be good enough to repeat what you have said.”

I did so; adding, “As my case has occupied the attention of the Foreign Office for some time back, you may possibly have heard of my name, – Count Cregan.”

The youth sprang up from his chair, and hastened into another room, whence I could hear loud shouts of laughter immediately proceeding.

“No, no, Barrington,” said a deeper and an older voice; “I don’t want to see the fellow, and I advise you to get rid of him at once. He ‘ll be a bore to us every day of the week, if you give him the slightest encouragement.”

“But is there really nothing in his case?”

“Nothing whatever; he is a downright impostor.”

“But Puzzleton certainly corresponded with him.‘’

“Of course he did, to prevent the Opposition making a handle of his case in ‘the House;’ but he soon saw the whole thing was a trumped-up charge, and as we want to go on smoothly with the Madrid Government, it would be absurd to disturb our relations for the sake of a fellow like this.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said the attaché, catching a faint glimmering of the secret machinery of diplomacy.

“To be sure,” added the other; “if we wanted a grievance, that man’s would do as well as another; but there is no need to hold him over, we can always catch the Spaniards tripping when we want it. My advice is, therefore, get rid of him. Say that he must embody his statement in the form of a memorial, supported by whatever he can adduce in the way of evidence; that a personal interview can lead to nothing; and, in fact, dismiss him in the usual way.”

And with these lucid instructions, – given in a tone far too loud to be diplomatic, – the attaché returned to the room where I waited.

“You ‘ll have to reduce this to writing, Count Cregan,” said he, standing with his back to the fire, and assuming an air that he fancied was quite that of a Talleyrand, – “something in the form of a memorial, you understand.”

“I have already done so, unsuccessfully,” said I, shortly.

“Ah, wasn’t aware,” sighed the young gentleman, stroking his moustache.

“The Secretary of Foreign Affairs acknowledged the receipt of my statement, and at one time held out some hope of redress.”

“Ah, indeed!” echoed the other.

“The state of our relations with Spain, however,” added I, “not requiring a grievance just then, my case was naturally shelved.”

He started, bit his lip, and evinced unmistakable signs of being ill at ease. “In fact,” resumed I, growing warmer as I proceeded, “no further notice was taken of me than what barely sufficed to take my case out of the hands of Opposition members. I was assumed to be an impostor, because the moment was not favorable to believe me honest. Good diplomacy, perhaps, but rather lax morality. Now, sir, I have lost my cause, – that is quite evident; let us see if you have gained yours. The press is the great vindicator of individual wrongs, and I ‘ll make its columns the arena in which this struggle shall be decided.”

“Be good enough to wait one instant, – take a seat, Count,” observed the young gentleman, in his very politest of tones, while he hastily retired into the inner room once more. This time the conversation was so low that not a whisper reached me. After a few seconds he re-entered.

“Your case will be inquired into, Count, and representation made to the Spanish minister at this court. May I ask where you are staying here?”

“I have not yet taken up my residence at Paris.” “Your passport is of course with the police?” I bowed an assent, while a sudden thought flashed across me. “They mean to send me out of the country!” The attaché had twice said “Good morning,” ere I remarked it, and with a hurried leave-taking I quitted the room, well aware of the folly into which a momentary fit of passion had betrayed me.

It was palpable enough, – my passport would at once offer a ground for my expulsion: I was an English subject, travelling on a Spanish passport. I must, of course, expect to be disowned by the Spanish minister, and not acknowledged by my own.

This was a sorry beginning, and I sauntered out into the streets in a very depressed state of mind. What was I to do? My funds were at a low ebb, – I had not above four hundred francs in the world. Into what career could I throw myself, and, while obtaining a livelihood, avoid discovery? I knew various things, in that smattering sort of way which, by the aid of puffing and notoriety, often succeeds with the world; but yet notoriety was the very thing I most dreaded! There was nothing for it but to change my name. Many would doubtless say that this was not any great sacrifice, – need not have cost me any very poignant sufferings; but they would be wrong. I had clung to my name through all the changes and vicissitudes of my fortune, as though it embodied my very identity. It was to make that humble name a great one that I had toiled and struggled through my whole life. In that obscure name lay the whole impulse of my darings. Take that from me, and you took away the energy that sustained me, and I sunk down into the mere adventurer, living on from day to day, and hour to hour, without purpose or ambition. I had borne my name in the very lowest passages of my fortune, hoping one day or other to contrast these dark periods with the brilliant hours of my destiny. And now I must abandon it! “Well, be it so,” thought I, “and, by way of compromise, I ‘ll keep half of it, and call myself Monsieur Corneille; and as to nationality, there need be little difficulty. Whenever a man talks indifferent Spanish, he says he is from the Basque. If he speaks bad German, he calls himself an Austrian. So I, if there be any irregularities in my regular verbs, will coolly assert that I am a brave Belge and a subject of King Leopold; and if humility be a virtue, this choice of a native land ought to do me credit.”

I raised my head from my musings at this moment, and found myself at the corner of the Rue Goguenarde, exactly opposite a house covered with placards and announcements, from the street to the third story, a great board with gilt letters, over the entrance, proclaiming it the “Bureau des Affiches” for all nations. Nor was the universality a mere pretence, as a single glance could show the range of advertisements, taking in everything, from an estate in Guadaloupe to a neat chamber in the Marais; from a foundry at Lyons to the sweeping of a passage in the Rue Rivoli. All the nostrums of medicine, all the cheap appliances of the toilet, remedies against corpulence, perventives to extreme emaciation, how to grow hair, how to get rid of it, governesses, ballet-dancers, even ladies “with suitable portions and great personal attractions,” were all at the command of him rich enough to indulge his indolence. “There must surely be something applicable to me in all those varied wants,” thought I; and I entered a great room where several knots of men and women, of different ranks and conditions, were gathered around large tablets of advertisements.

Some were in search of lost articles of dress or jewelry, a runaway child or a missing spaniel; some inquiring for cheap apartments, or economical modes of travel with others going the same road: but the greater number were in pursuit of some means of livelihood, – and what a host they were! Professors of every art, science, and language; journalists, poets, tenors, gardeners, governesses, missionaries, rope-dancers, frail little damsels who performed as goddesses in a pantomime, and powerful fellows who performed the “life-models” of academies, together with a number of well-dressed gentlemen of a certain age who announced themselves as “discreet friends to any party engaged in a delicate and difficult transaction.”

My heart sunk within me as I saw the mass of capability by which I was surrounded. “What could the world want with me,” thought I, “in such a glut of acquirements as I see here?” And I was about to turn away, when my attention was drawn to a very little elderly man who was most importunately entreating one of the clerks to do him some service or other. The old man’s eagerness was actually painful to witness. “I will sell it for a mere nothing,” said he, “although it cost me five hundred francs!”

“You’ll be fortunate if you get one hundred for it,” said the clerk.

“I would accept of even one hundred, – nay! I’d take eighty,” sighed the old man.

“So you ought,” said the other. “These things are all at a discount now; men like more active and energetic situations. Retirement is not the taste of our day.”

“Retirement!” thought I; “that may be exactly what would suit me at this moment,” and I drew near to listen.

“Find me a purchaser with seventy francs,” ejaculated the old man, “and I’ll close with him.”

“What is it, Monsieur?” said I, bowing civilly to both.

“A ‘quatorzième,’ sir,” said the clerk, interposing, that he might earn his commission, in the event of a deal. “A quatorzième; and I am bound to say one of the best in this quarter of Paris. It takes in the Rue de la Chuine, the Place de la Boucherie, with a very large sweep of the Boulevard Mont Parnasse.”

“A quatorzième!” cried I, in amazement; “I never heard of any one living so high up. Are there really houses in Paris fourteen stories high?”

They both burst into a fit of laughter as I said this, and it was some time ere the clerk could recover his gravity sufficiently to reply; at last he said, “I perceive that Monsieur is a stranger to Paris and its ways, or he would know that a quatorzième is not an apartment fourteen stories high, but an individual who holds himself always in readiness at the dining-hours of his neighborhood, to make the fourteenth at any table, where, by accident, the unlucky number of thirteen should be assembled, – a party which every well-informed person would otherwise scruple to sit down with. This, sir, is a quatorzième; and here is a gentleman desirous of disposing of his interest in such an enviable property.”

To my question as to what were the necessary qualifications, they both answered in a kind of duet, by volubly recapitulating that nothing was needed but a suit of black, and clean gloves; unobtrusive demeanor and a moderate appetite being the certain recommendations to a high professional success. I saw the chief requirement well, – to eat little, and to talk less; to come in with the soup, and go out with the salad; never to partake of an entrée, nor drink save the “ordinaire:” these were the duties; the reward was ten francs. “It used to be a Napoleon, Monsieur,” said the old mau, wiping his eyes. “In the time of Charles the Tenth it was always a Napoleon; but these ‘canailles’ nowadays have no reverence for anything; I have known even the ministry dine thirteen on a Friday, – to be sure, the king was fired at two days afterwards for it; but nothing can teach them.”

The old gentleman grew most communicative on the subject of his “walk,” which he was only abandoning in consequence of the rheumatism, and the difficulty of ascending to dinner-parties on a high elevation. He depicted with enthusiasm the enjoyments of a profession that demanded, as he observed, so little previous study, was removed from all the vicissitudes of commerce, pleasant in practice, and remunerative in pay. He also insinuated the possible advantages to a young and handsome man, who could scarcely fail to secure a good marriage, by observing a discreet and decorous demeanor; and, in fact, he represented his calling in such a light as at least to give me the liveliest curiosity to enter upon it for a brief space, and while meditating what future steps I should take in life.

That same afternoon I saw myself announced at the porter’s window of a very shabby-looking house in the Rue de la Forge as “Monsieur de Corneille,” – the “de” being advised by my predecessor, – “Quatorzième prêt à toute heure,” and thus opened my professional career. I was told that it was all important in my vocation that I should not be seen much abroad in the world. There should be a certain mysteriousness about me, when I appeared at a dinner-table, that might permit the host to speak of me – to strangers – as his old friend the Baron de So-and-so, who rarely ventured out even to dine with him. In fact, I should be as guarded against publicity as though I were a royal personage. This was not a hard condition at the time, since I was desirous of escaping notice. I passed all my mornings, therefore, in writing – sometimes memorials to a minister, sometimes statements for the press; now, they were letters to the banker at Guajuaqualla, or to Don Estaban, or to the great firm at the Havannah. The cost of postage deterred me from despatching most of them, but I continued to write them, as though to feed the cravings of my hope. When evening drew nigh, I abandoned the desk for the toilet; and having arrayed myself in most austere black, waited for the summons which should invite me to some unknown feast. I have often perused records of the early struggles of a professional life, – the nervous vacillations between hope and fear which haunt him who watches day after day, for some time, that he is not forgotten of the world; the fretful jealousies of the fortunate rival; the sad depression over his own failures; the eager watching lest the footfall on the stairs stop not at his door, and the wearisome sinking of the heart as the sounds die away in the distance, and leave him to the silence of his own despair. If I had not to feel the corroding regrets of him who has toiled long and ardently for the attainment of a knowledge that now lies in rust, unused, unasked for, unwanted, I had to learn what are his tortures who waits till the world call him.

There I sat in all my “bravery.” What a contrast between my sleek exterior and the half-famished creature within! Sometimes my impatience would break out into a fit of passion, in which I railed at the old knave who had entrapped me, at fortune that deserted me, at myself, who had grown indolent, and void of enterprise. Sometimes I became almost stupid by long reflection, and would sit to a late hour of the night, unconscious of everything; and sometimes I would actually laugh outright at the absurdity of my assumed calling, wondering how I ever could have been fool enough to embrace it.

The world had evidently grown out of its superstitions; republicanism and socialism, and all the other free and easy notions by which men persuaded themselves that the rich are thieves, and the poor the just inheritors of the gains, had knocked down many a mock idol besides monarchy. Men no longer threw a pinch of salt over their left shoulder when they upset the salt-cellar; did n’t pierce their egg-shell, lest the fairies might make a boat of it; and so, among many other remains of the custom of our ancestors abandoned, they sat down to dinner, careless whether the party were thirteen or thirty.

“I might as well try and revive astrology,” thought I, “as seek to trade upon superstition in this unbelieving age! I doubt if all Paris contains another quatorzième than myself; the old villain knew the trade was ruined, when he sold me his ‘goodwill’ of the business.”

I was in the very deepest and darkest abyss of these gloomy thoughts one evening, when a heavy down-pour of rain, and the sorrowful moan of a December wind, added melancholy to my wearied spirit. It was such a night that none would have ventured out who could have claimed the humblest roof to shelter him. The streets were perfectly deserted, and, early as it was, the shops were already closed for the night. The very lamps that swung to and fro with the wind, looked hazy and dim amid the sweeping rain, and the chains clanked with the dreary cadence of a gibbet.

I knew it was needless to go through the ceremony of dressing on such a night. “Better face all the imaginary terrors of a thirteen party than brave the real danger of a storm like this,” – so I reasoned; and, in all the freedom of my tattered dressing-gown, I paced my room in a frame of mind very little above despair. “And this in Paris,” cried I; “this the city where in some hundred gilded saloons, – at this very moment – are met men brilliant in all the gifts of genius, and women more beautiful and more fascinating than the houris of Paradise. Wit and polished raillery, bright glances and soft smiles, are now mingling amid the glitter of stars, and crosses, and diamonds; while some thousands, like me, are actually famishing with hunger, – too poor even to have a fire to thaw the icicles of despair that are gathering around the heart!”

Had it not been better for me if I had lived on in the same humble condition to which I was born, than have tasted of the fascinations of riches, to love and pine after them forever? No! this I could not agree to. There were some moments of my glorious prosperity that well repaid me for all I had, or all I could suffer for them; and to whatever depth of evil destiny I might yet be reserved, I should carry with me the delicious memory of my once happiness. Con Cregan – the light-hearted – was himself again! Con, – the vagrant, the passionate lover of whatever life offered of pleasure, of beauty, and of splendor, – who only needed a good cash account with Coutts to make his existence a “fairy tale”! I forgot for a moment that I lived in a mean chamber with a broken window, a fireless grate, a table that never was graced with a meal! a bed that resembled a “board,” and a chair, to sit upon which without smashing, required the dexterity of a juggler!

A sharp knocking at my door cut short these meditations, and a voice at the same time cried out my name. “Come in,” said I, authoritatively. I fancied it might be the landlord, and was not sorry to brave him – by the darkness. The door opened, and a figure, which even in the gloom I could perceive was that of a stranger, entered. “Monsieur de Corneille lives here?” said he.

“I have the humble honor to be that individual,” responded I.

“Have you got no light? I have smashed my shins across a confounded chair,” said he, querulously.

“You ‘re all safe now,” said I; “keep round by the wall, but take care of the rat-trap near the corner.”