“Two hours, perhaps.”
“So long?”
After a moment he said dreamily: “It is but a step.”
The Little Chemist nodded, though he did not understand. The Cure stooped over him.
“A step, my son?” he asked, thinking he spoke of the voyage the soul takes.
“To the Tuileries,” answered Valmond, and he smiled. The Cure’s brow clouded; he wished to direct the dying man’s thoughts elsewhere. “It is but a step—anywhere,” he continued; and looked towards the Little Chemist. “Thank you, dear monsieur, thank you. There is a silver night-lamp in my room; I wish it to be yours. Adieu, my friend.”
The Little Chemist tried to speak, but could not. He stooped and kissed Valmond’s hand, as though he thought him still a prince, and not the impostor which the British rifles had declared him. To the end, the coterie would act according to the light of their own eyes.
“It is now but a step—to anything,” repeated Valmond.
The Cure understood him at last. “The longest journey is short by the light of the grave,” he responded gently.
Presently the door opened, admitting the avocat. Valmond calmly met Monsieur Garon’s pained look, and courteously whispered his name.
“Your Excellency has been basely treated,” said the avocat, his lip trembling.
“On the contrary, well, dear monsieur,” answered the ruined adventurer. “Destiny plays us all. Think: I die the death of a soldier, and my crusade was a soldier’s vision of conquest. I have paid the price. I have—”
He did not finish the sentence, but lay lost in thought. At last he spoke in a low tone to the avocat, who quickly began writing at his dictation.
The chief clause of the record was a legacy of ten thousand francs to “my faithful Minister and constant friend, Monsieur Parpon;” another of ten thousand to Madame Joan Degardy, “whose skill and care of me merits more than I can requite;” twenty thousand to “the Church of St. Nazaire of the parish of Pontiac,” five thousand to “the beloved Monsieur Fabre, cure of the same parish, to whose good and charitable heart I come for my last comforts;” twenty thousand to “Mademoiselle Madelinette Lajeunesse, that she may learn singing under the best masters in Paris.” To Madame Chalice he left all his personal effects, ornaments, and relics, save a certain decoration given the old sergeant, and a ring once worn by the Emperor Napoleon. These were for a gift to “dear Monsieur Garon, who has honoured me with his distinguished friendship; and I pray that our mutual love for the same cause may give me some title to his remembrance.”
Here the avocat stopped him with a quick, protesting gesture.
“Your Excellency! your Excellency!” he said in a shaking voice, “my heart has been with the man as with the cause.”
Other legacies were given to Medallion, to the family of Lagroin, of whom he still spoke as “my beloved General who died for me;” and ten francs to each recruit who had come to his standard.
After a long pause, he said lingeringly: “To Mademoiselle Elise Malboir, the memory of whose devotion and solicitude gives me joy in my last hour, I bequeath fifty thousand francs. In the event of her death, this money shall revert to the parish of Pontiac, in whose graveyard I wish my body to lie. The balance of my estate, whatever it may now be, or may prove to be hereafter, I leave to Pierre Napoleon, third son of Lucien Bonaparte, Prince of Canino, of whom I cherish a reverent remembrance.”
A few words more ended the will, and the name of a bank in New York was given as agent. Then there was silence in the room, and Valmond appeared to sleep.
Presently the avocat, thinking that he might wish to be alone with the Cure, stepped quietly to the door and opened it upon Madame Chalice. She pressed his hand, her eyes full of tears, passed inside the room, going softly to a shadowed corner, and sat watching the passive figure on the bed.
What were the thoughts of this man, now that his adventure was over and his end near? If he were in very truth a prince, how pitiable, how paltry! What cheap martyrdom! If an impostor, had the game been worth the candle?—Death seemed a coin of high value for this short, vanished comedy. The man alone could answer, for the truth might not be known, save by the knowledge that comes with the end of all.
She looked at the Cure, where he knelt praying, and wondered how much of this tragedy the anxious priest would lay at his own door.
“It is no tragedy, dear Cure” Valmond said suddenly, as if following her thoughts.
“My son, it is all tragedy until you have shown me your heart, that I may send you forth in peace.”
He had forgotten Madame Chalice’s presence, and she sat very still.
“Even for our dear Lagroin,” Valmond continued, “it was no tragedy. He was fighting for the cause, not for a poor fellow like me. As a soldier loves to die, he died—in the dream of his youth, sword in hand.”
“You loved the cause, my son?” was the troubled question. “You were all honest?”
Valmond made as if he would rise on his elbow, in excitement, but the Cure put him gently back. “From a child I loved it, dear Cure,” was the quick reply. “Listen, and I will tell you all my story.”
He composed himself, and his face took on a warm light, giving it a look of happiness almost.
“The very first thing I remember was sitting on the sands of the sea-shore, near some woman who put her arms round me and drew me to her heart. I seem even to recall her face now, though I never could before—do we see things clearer when we come to die, I wonder? I never saw her again. I was brought up by my parents, who were humble peasants, on an estate near Viterbo, in Italy. I was taught in the schools, and I made friends among my school-fellows; but that was all the happiness I had; for my parents were strict and hard with me, and showed me no love. At twelve years of age I was taken to Rome, and there I entered the house of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, as page. I was always near the person of His Highness.”
He paused, at sight of a sudden pain in the Cure’s face. Sighing, he continued:
“I travelled with him to France, to Austria, to England, where I learned to speak the language, and read what the English wrote about the Great Napoleon. Their hatred angered me, and I began to study what French and Italian books said of him. I treasured up every scrap of knowledge I could get. I listened to all that was said in the Prince’s palace, and I was glad when His Highness let me read aloud private papers to him. From these I learned the secrets of the great family. The Prince was seldom gentle with me—sometimes almost brutal, yet he would scarcely let me out of his sight. I had little intercourse then with the other servants, and less still when I was old enough to become a valet; and a valet I was to the Prince for twelve years.”
The Cure’s hand clasped the arm of his chair nervously. His lips moved, but he said nothing aloud, and he glanced quickly towards Madame Chalice, who sat moveless, her face flushed, her look fixed on Valmond. So, he was the mere impostor after all—a valet! Fate had won the toss-up; not faith, or friendship, or any good thing.
“All these years,” Valmond continued presently, his voice growing weaker, “I fed on such food as is not often within the reach of valets. I knew as much of the Bonapartes, of Napoleonic history, as the Prince himself, so much so, that he often asked me of some date or fact of which he was not sure. In time, I became almost like a private secretary to him. I lived in a dream for years; for I had poetry, novels, paintings, music, at my hand all the time, and the Prince, at the end, changed greatly, was affectionate indeed, and said he would do good things for me. I became familiar with all the intrigues, the designs of the Bonapartes; and what I did not know was told me by Prince Pierre, who was near my own age, and who used me always more like a friend than a servant.
“One day the Prince was visited by Count Bertrand, who was with the Emperor in his exile, and I heard him speak of a thing unknown to history: that Napoleon had a son, born at St. Helena, by a countess well known in Europe. She had landed, disguised as a sailor, from a merchant-ship, and had lived in retirement at Longwood for near a year. After the Emperor died, the thing was discovered, but the governor of the island made no report of it to the British Government, for the event would have reflected on himself; and the returned exiles kept the matter a secret. It was said that the child died at St. Helena. The story remained in my mind, and I brooded on it.
“Two years ago Prince Lucien died in my arms. When he was gone, I found that I had been left five hundred thousand francs, a chateau, and several relics of the Bonapartes, as reward for my services to the Prince, and, as the will said, in token of the love he had come to bear me. To these Prince Pierre added a number of mementoes. I went to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for many years. I found that my mother was dead, that my father was a drunkard. I left money for my father with the mayor, and sailed for England. From London I came to New York; from New York to Quebec. All the time I was restless, unhappy. I had had to work all my life, now I had nothing to do. I had lived close to great traditions, now there was no habit of life to keep them alive in me. I spent money freely, but it gave me no pleasure. I once was a valet to a great man, now I had the income of a gentleman, and was no gentleman. Ah, do you not shrink from me, Monsieur le Cure?”
The Cure did not reply, but made a kindly gesture, and Valmond continued:
“Sick of everything, one day I left Quebec hurriedly. Why I came here I do not know, save that I had heard it was near the mountains, was quiet, and I could be at peace. There was something in me which could not be content in the foolishness of idle life. All the time I kept thinking—thinking. If I were only a Napoleon, how I would try to do great things! Ah, my God! I loved the Great Napoleon. What had the Bonapartes done? Nothing—nothing. Everything had slipped away from them. Not one of them was like the Emperor. His own legitimate son was dead. None of the others had the Master’s blood, fire, daring in his veins. The thought grew on me, and I used to imagine myself his son. I loved his memory, all he did, all he was, better than any son could do. It had been my whole life, thinking of him and the Empire, while I brushed the Prince’s clothes or combed his hair. Why should such tastes be given to a valet? Some one somewhere was to blame, dear Cure. I really did not conceive or plan imposture. I was only playing a comedian’s part in front of the Louis Quinze, till I heard Parpon sing a verse of ‘Vive Napoleon!’ Then it all rushed on me, captured me—and the rest you know.”
The Cure could not trust himself to speak yet.
“I had not thought to go so far when I began. It was mostly a whim. But the idea gradually possessed me, and at last it seemed to me that I was a real Napoleon. I used to wake from the dream for a moment, and I tried to stop, but something in my blood drove me on—inevitably. You were all good to me; you nearly all believed in me. Lagroin came—and so it has gone on till now, till now. I had a feeling what the end would be. But I should have had my dream. I should have died for the cause as no Napoleon or Bonaparte ever died. Like a man, I would pay the penalty Fate should set. What more could I do? If a man gives all he has, is not that enough? ... There is my whole story. Now, I shall ask your pardon, dear Cure.”
“You must ask pardon of God, my son,” said the priest, his looks showing the anguish he felt.
“The Little Chemist said two hours, but I feel”—his voice got very faint “I feel that he is mistaken.” He murmured a prayer, and crossed himself thrice.
The Cure made ready to read the office for the dying. “My son,” he said, “do you truly and earnestly repent you of your sins?”
Valmond’s eyes suddenly grew misty, his breathing heavier. He scarcely seemed to comprehend.
“I have paid the price—I have loved you all. Parpon—where are you?—Elise!”
A moment of silence, and then his voice rang out with a sort of sob. “Ah, madame,” he cried chokingly, “dear madame, for you I—”
Madame Chalice arose with a little cry, for she knew whom he meant, and her heart ached for him. She forgot his imposture—everything.
“Ah, dear, dear monsieur!” she said brokenly.
He knew her voice, he heard her coming; his eyes opened wide, and he raised himself on the couch with a start. The effort loosened the bandage at his neck, and blood gushed out on his bosom.
With a convulsive motion he drew up the coverlet to his chin, to hide the red stream, and said gaspingly:
“Pardon, madame.”
Then a shudder passed through him, and with a last effort to spare her the sight of his ensanguined body,’ he fell face downward, voiceless—for ever.
The very earth seemed breathing. Long waves of heat palpitated over the harvest-fields, and the din of the locust drove lazily through. The far cry of the king-fisher, and idly clacking wheels of carts rolling down from Dalgrothe Mountain, accented the drowsy melody of the afternoon. The wild mustard glowed so like a golden carpet, that the destroying hand of the anxious farmer seemed of the blundering tyranny of labour. Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too gay for sorrow to pass that way; but a blind girl, led by a little child, made a lane through the red luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity and valour, and the remnant of an unfulfilled manhood, lay beaten to death.
Destiny, which is stronger than human love, or the soul’s fidelity, had overmastered self-sacrifice and the heart of a woman. This woman had opened her eyes upon the world again, only to find it all night, all strange; she was captive of a great darkness.
As she broke through the hedge of lilacs by the Cure’s house, the crowd of awe-stricken people fell back, opening a path for her to the door. She moved as one unconscious of the troubled life and the vibrating world about her.
The hand of the child admitted her to the chamber of death; the door closed, and she stood motionless.
The Cure made as if to rise and go towards her, but Madame Chalice, sitting sorrowful and dismayed at the foot of the couch, by a motion of her hand stopped him.
The girl paused a moment, listening. “Your Excellency,” she whispered. It was as if a soul leaned out of the casement of life, calling into the dark and the quiet which may not be comprehended by mortal man. “Monsieur—Valmond!”
Her trembling hands were stretched out before her yearningly. The Cure moved. She turned towards the sound with a pitiful vagueness.
“Valmond, O Valmond!” again she cried beseechingly, her clouded eyes straining into the silence.
The cloak dropped from her shoulders, and the loose robe enveloping her fell away from a bosom that throbbed with the passion of a great despair. Nothing but silence.
She moved to the wall like a little child feeling its way, ran her hand vaguely along it, and touched a crucifix. With a moan she pressed her lips to the nailed feet, and came on gropingly to the couch. She reached down towards it, but drew back as if in affright; for a dumb, desolating fear was upon her.
But with that direful courage which is the last gift to the hopeless, she stooped down again, and her fingers touched Valmond’s cold hands.
They ran up his breast, to his neck, to his face, and fondled it, as only life can fondle death, out of that pitiful hunger which never can be satisfied in this world; then they moved with an infinite tenderness to his eyes, now blind like hers, and lingered there in the kinship of eternal loss.
A low, anguished cry broke from her: “Valmond—my love!” and she fell forward upon the breast of her lost Napoleon.
When the people gathered again in the little church upon the hill, Valmond and his adventure had become almost a legend, so soon are men and events lost in the distance of death and ruin.
The Cure preached, as he had always done, with a simple, practical solicitude; but towards the end of his brief sermon he paused, and, with a serious tenderness of voice, said:
“My children, vanity is the bane of mankind; it destroys as many souls as self-sacrifice saves. It is the constant temptation of the human heart. I have ever warned you against it, as I myself have prayed to be kept from its devices—alas! how futilely at times. Vanity leads to imposture, and imposture to the wronging of others. But if a man repent, and yield all he has, to pay the high price of his bitter mistake, he may thereby redeem himself even in this world. If he give his life repenting, and if the giving stays the evil he might have wrought, shall we be less merciful than God?
“My children” (he did not mention Valmond’s name), “his last act was manly; his death was pious; his sin was forgiven. Those rifle bullets that brought him down let out all the evil in his blood.
“We, my people, have been delivered from a grave error. Forgetting—save for our souls’ welfare—the misery of this vanity which led us astray, let us remember with gladness all of him that was commendable in our eyes: his kindness, eloquence, generous heart, courage, and love of Mother Church. He lies in our graveyard; he is ours; and, being ours, let us protect his memory, as though he had not sought us a stranger, but was of us: of our homes, as of our love, and of our sorrow.
“And so atoning for our sins, as did he, may we at last come to the perfect pardon, and to peace everlasting.”
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