Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

“Let’s have a light, mon cher,” said the other, half coaxingly.

“I never have a light,” said I; “I detest glare, hate snuffing a candle, and can’t endure the thought of patronizing Russia and her tallow.”

“Could n’t we have a bit of fire, then?” asked he.

“Fire before Christmas!” exclaimed I. “Are we in Tobolsk? What Sybarite talks of fire in Paris at this season?”

“I really am ambitious of seeing you, Monsieur,” said the other: “can we not compass this object without any violence to your feelings?”

“Have you a cigar-case?” said I.

“Yes.”

“Well, strike a light; and here ‘s a letter which you may set fire to: you can thus make an inspection of me by ‘inch of paper.’”

He laughed pleasantly at the conceit, and lighted the letter, by the aid of which, as he held it above his head, he took a rapid survey of the chamber and its contents, myself being the chief movable it boasted.

“Of a truth, my friend,” said he, “this apartment has nothing superfluous about it.”

“Cool and airy,” said I, calmly, “with a magnificent view of red-tiled roofs and chimney-pots.”

“And you – would it be an impertinence to ask if you ever condescend to the restriction of anything more limited than that very graceful dressing-room?”

“Oh, certainly!” exclaimed I; “only be good enough to say why you ask the question.” By this time the stranger’s torch had burned down so close to his fingers as to cause an exclamation of pain as he threw it on the ground, and thus were we once more in the dark.

“Not from mere motives of idle curiosity, Monsieur,” said he, “did I ask, but simply, having come here to request the pleasure of your company at dinner to-day. I made the inquiry with a direct object. My name is Paul de Minérale.”

“Not the distinguished writer, the inimitable novelist, the delightful composer of the ‘Curate’s Niece,’ ‘The Path through the Vineyard,’ ‘The Rose of Auteuil’?”

“I am much flattered,” said he, cutting short my enumeration, “to discover so ardent an admirer of my poor productions; but, as time presses, will you be good enough to hasten your toilet, for my ‘cottage’ is near Belleville, and will take us nigh an hour to reach.”

I proceeded accordingly to array myself in cleaner costume, while my visitor kept up an agreeable conversation, chiefly bearing upon my line of life, the changeful passages of which, he seemed to think, ought to offer much amusement; nor could he conceal his astonishment on learning that he himself was my first and only client. “What an age we live in I” cried he; “where is that ‘ancient faith’ departed? Can men so openly disparage the gods?”

“Though my theology has been changed,” said I, “that’s all. The Bourse and the Ballet are the modern deities, and he must be a rare sceptic who refuses to believe in them.”

“You are a philosopher, I perceive,” said he.

“Only before dinner,” replied I. “I am speculative with the soup, and grave with my ‘petit pâté;’ reserved with the first entrée; blandly communicative after the pièce de résistance; playful over the asparagus or the peas; soothing with the rôti; and so descend into a soft and gentle sadness as the dessert appears. I leave digestion to take its course, waiting for my mocha and maraschino. In the drawing-room I blaze forth in all the vividness of agreeability.”

“What could have induced one so evidently intended for a foreground figure to prefer the humble and shadowy part of a ‘quatorzième ‘?” said he, in surprise.

“The ‘Res Dura’ that crosses every man’s destiny, and a spice of that spirit of investigation which teaches one to explore very unwholesome depths and very unrewarding regions, – a blending of that which made the Czar a carpenter, and Louis Philippe a teacher of mathematics.”

“Ah! that reminds me,” interposed he, “that I ought to put you on your guard. To-day a Royal Prince will honor us with his company. There are a couple of ministers and a general. The rest of the party are of the artiste class, whose susceptibilities you cannot wound; authors, actresses, journalists, and danseuses, however touchy in the great world, are angels of good temper in small societies.” With this he proceeded to give me a nearer insight into the kind of company into which I was to be introduced, – a society, so far as I could learn, that a rigid moralist might have deemed “more fair than honest.” I learned, too, that I owed the distinction of my invitation to a wager between his Royal Highness the Duc de St. Cloud and my host; the bet being that De Minérale was to find out a “quatorzième” and bring him to dinner, his search for one not to begin till after five o’clock p.m.; the Prince being fully convinced that no regular practitioner in that walk any longer existed. “Your presence, my dear sir,” continued he, “is worth, independent of the charm of your conversation, fifty Napoleons; one-half of which I must beg you to accept;” saying which, he gracefully presented me with a purse, whose pleasant weight descended into my palm with a sensation indescribably soft and soothing.

All this time we were rattling along towards Belleville at a rapid pace; and although the rain swept past in torrents, the lightning flashed, and the wind tore the strong trees from their roots, and strewed the ground with their gigantic limbs, I sat in a revery of sweet and delightful fancies, the only alloy to my ecstasy being a passing fear that at each moment shot through me: Can this be real? Am I awake? or has long fasting so weakened my faculties that this is but a delusion; and instead of hastening to a dinner-party with a royal guest, I am speeding onwards to a prison, or, mayhap, a madhouse. These fancies, at first but fitful and at intervals, became at length so distressing that I was on the very point of communicating them to my companion, and asking for his counsel and comfort, when we drove into a small avenue, and then almost immediately drew up in front of a porch, where, amid a blaze of light, stood three or four servants in gaudy liveries, awaiting our arrival.

“Well, Paul!” cried a young, fashionable-looking fellow, with a very imposing black beard, “what success?”

“I ‘ve won, – here he is!” cried my companion. “Have I much time to spare?”

“Something less than two minutes,” said the other, as he coolly surveyed me through his glass. “Present me, Paul.”

“Mons. Alphonse de Langeron – Mons. de Corneille.”

“The author of the ‘Fancies by Starlight,’” said I, bowing with a most respectful devotion.

“Guilty, sir! and of fifty other indiscretions to the full as great,” said he, laughing.

“Ah, sir, I know it by heart; that stanza on the ‘Waled Letty’ haunts me like a dream.”

“Sharp fellow, our friend the ‘quatorzième’!” whispered Alphonse to Paul as we walked along towards the drawing-room.

How I should like to dwell upon the details of that dinner, the most delightful entertainment of my whole life! It needed not the sudden transition from the dark and dreary chamber I inhabited to the gilded saloon, all in a blaze with wax-lights, to make me feel it such. The “service” was splendid – the cookery perfection – the wines the rarest of every vintage – the apartment itself had all the chastened grandeur of a mediaeval chamber, with the gorgeous splendor contributed by a magnificent beauffet of silver; – and the guests! what beauty and fascination of female loveliness – what charm of wit and agreeability among the men! The great damper upon my enjoyment was my actual doubt of the reality of the whole scene. It was not, alone, that all the splendor appeared so wonderful – that the glitter of gold and the beauty of porcelain dazzled the eye; but the very names of the illustrious guests themselves suggested incredulity. What wonder if I could not credit my senses, as I heard the first names in all the genius of France on every side of me! Here, the great historian, and philosopher, and statesman; there, the delightful lyric poet; yonder, the first novelist of Europe; and next to him the distinguished painter, whose great battle-piece was in commemoration of the young Prince beside him, a hero of “two-and-twenty.”

Nothing could be more easy or familiar than the tone of conversation, – that happy pleasantry that tickles but never wounds, so unlike the English propensity for “quizzing” – that vulgar version of Gallic “badinage;” and then how eloquent, without pedantry, how sparkling, and how suggestive! Ah, my kind reader, I see the rippling smile over the broad Atlantic of your countenance. You have guessed all the secret of my enthusiasm, and you know the mystery of my admiration. Be it so; I am ready to confess all. It was my own success that made the chief enchantment of the scene. I was the lion of the evening. Not a theme on which I did not hold forth, not a subject I did not discuss, – politics, bull-fighting, cookery, dress, literature, duelling, the ballet, horse-racing, play, scandal, naval tactics, colonization, cotton-spinning, music, railroads, and the “dry-rot.” I was profound, playful, serious, jocose, instructive, and amusing by turns. Madmlle. de la Bourdonaye, the first actress of the “Français,” was charmed with my dramatic criticism; the poet – enthusiastic at my recital of a stanza of his own; the general pronounced me the very best judge of cavalry evolutions he had ever met; the great painter begged the favor of a visit from me at his studio; and the Prince’s aide-de-camp – himself a distinguished soldier – told me, in a whisper, to hold myself disengaged for the following Wednesday.

These were, after all, but the precursors of greater triumphs in the drawing-room, where I played and sang several Mexican ballads; danced the Bollero with Madmlle. Rose Jasmin, of the Grand Opéra; and lassoed a Mount St. Bernard mastiff with the bell-rope. After this, beat the statesman at chess; rolled up Indian cigarettes for the ladies, whom I taught to sit squaw fashion; told various anecdotes of my prairie adventures; and wound up all by concocting a bowl of “ponch à l’Américaine,” at once the astonishment and the delight of all. I must not suffer myself to dwell longer on this theme, nor speak of that supper, with its champagne and culembourgs, its lyrics and its lobster salads, with ortolans, epigrams, seductive smiles, and maraschino jelly. Enough. The orgies – for it was no less – lasted till nigh morning; and when we arose from table, a pale streak of coming day was struggling between the margins of the curtains.

“His Royal Highness will set you down, Mons. de Corneille,” said the aide-de-camp, advancing to me.

Blushing with pleasure and shame together, I accepted what could not be declined, and proceeded to take leave of my kind host and his friends. Cordial greetings, and flattering wishes soon to meet again, met me on every side, and I retired actually overwhelmed with civil attentions.

“Do we pass by your quarter, Monsieur?” said his Royal Highness, as I took my seat in the carriage.

I would have given all my worldly wealth, and expectations to boot, to be able to say that I lived in the Place Vendôme or the Rue Royale; but there was no help for it, the murder would out one day, since my host knew my address; and with an easy, unabashed air, I said that I lodged in the Rue de la Forge, near the Mount St. Parnasse.

The Prince bowed, and took no notice of the announcement; but I thought that I could read a very peculiar twinkle in the eye of the aide-de-camp. I might have easily been mistaken, however, for I felt myself on my trial, and thought everything an accusation. How gratuitously I tortured myself, subsequent knowledge of life has repeatedly convinced me; for while to some upstart rich man, the acknowledgment of my humble abode would have been a shock sufficient to sever us forever, to the Prince the matter had no other significance than that it suited my means, with which, whether ample or the reverse, he had no right to meddle. Indeed, I was not sorry to remain in doubt upon the fact, since in the difficult negotiation between the aide-de-camp and the coachman, who had never so much as heard of my unhappy street, his Royal Highness never evinced any surprise whatever, but sat patiently to the end of the discussion, without vouchsafing even a word upon the subject.

“This must be the house, number 21,748,” said the chasseur, at length; and we drew up at the well-known door, where the old porter sat reading on one side, while his wife was peeling carrots at the other.

It was the first moment of confusion I suffered, since I had left the same spot; but my cheek was in a flame as the lacquey let down the steps, and offered me his arm to descend. The lowly veneration of the old porter, as he stared at the royal liveries and the emblazoned panels of the carriage, was but a sorry compensation for the mock servility of the chasseur, whose eyes seemed to look through into my very heart, so that I actually did not hear the parting words of the Prince as the equipage drove away.

Curious anomaly! the half-insolent glances of the lacqueys sank deeper into my spirit than the flattering smile of the Prince’s adieu. How much more alive is our nature to the pang of scorn than to the balm of kindness! These were my reflections as I entered my humble chamber, every portion of which seemed doubly miserable to me now. “Is it possible,” thought I, “that I have endured this hitherto? Have I really sat in that crazy old chair, and stretched my limbs upon that wretched pallet? Can it be real? or which is the delusion, – my recent splendor, or my present squalor?” Although up all night, I was far too much excited for sleep, even could I have persuaded myself to seek it on so humble a couch. I therefore set myself to think over the future, and wonder whether the brilliant scene in which I had so lately mixed would remain in its isolated brightness amid the desolation of my life, or be the guide-star to future greatness and distinction. My late success emboldened me to think that Fortune had not yet deserted me. “Who knows,” thought I, “but the Spaniards may behave handsomely yet, and make restitution of my property; or what if the Mexican banker should be a true man, and acknowledge my claim upon him?” “If I could but enlist the Prince in my cause,” thought I again, “how certain should I be of the issue! French influence always was powerful in Spain. Napoleon used to say, ‘There were no Pyrenees;’ I should be content if there were only a good road over them to convey the despatches that might assert my just right.”

A quick step upon the stairs at that instant caught my ear; few ever ascended so high up as my story, so I listened, and almost at once my door was thrown open, and my host of the preceding evening rushed into the room. Having shaken hands with me cordially, he said, “Corneille, mon ami! I have made another wager about you; and although the sum is a trifling one, I am curious to ascertain if I am the winner. Jules de Montserrat and Emile de Gency and myself had a dispute last night about your nationality, which ended in a bet. I am bound in honor not to tell you what our several opinions and guesses were, but still at liberty to ask you, what is your native country?”

“I am an Irishman, and derive my name from the ancient family of Cregan. Cornelius is but my Christian name, which I assumed to cover the disgrace of my altered fortune.”

“As to our wager, then, we were all in error, – none of us guessed Ireland. As to your being a man of birth and station, I need scarcely say, we were all agreed.”

“Would it were otherwise,” said I, with a deep sigh; “a humble position might be endured well enough, if unalloyed by the regrets of a condition forfeited forever. If you are curious to hear a very unhappy story, I am willing to relate it.”

“You couldn’t do me a greater favor,” said he, seating himself like one eager to listen.

“First, then, we’ll have some breakfast,” said I; “and then, with a good fire and no fear of interruption, – for I have not one acquaintance in Paris, – you shall hear my history from beginning to end.”

Chocolate and cutlets, champagne and devilled kidneys, brioches, sardines, and coffee, made their appearance as rapidly as though such delicacies were in the habit of daily mounting these steep stairs; and a cheerful blaze glowed once more in a grate where the oldest inhabitant had never beheld a fire.