The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty
“Delay is always prejudicial, and there is no wholly favorable time in
any business; hence if one were to wait for a perfect chance, nothing
would ever be done, or if done be bungled.”
“That is Machiavelli,” said the King. “I will remember the advice of
that secretary to the Magnificent Republic of Venice. But hush! I hear
steps--it is Gamain; let us go to meet him so that he may not think we
were busy about something else than the cupboard the lock is for.”
He opened the secret door, in time, for the master locksmith was there,
with the lock in his hand and a grin on his face.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE FRIEND OF THE FALLEN.
At eight that same evening, a workingman, holding his hand to his
waistcoat pocket as though it contained money in larger quantity than
usual, staggered out of the Tuileries Palace and meandered along the
road to the Soapworks Wharfside. It was there a strolling ground with
drinking resorts along the line. On Sundays and holidays, it was
thronged; on other days lonesome.
This man passed the wine-stores with much difficulty but for a period
temperance triumphed; but when it came to the twentieth saloon on the
route, it was too much, and he entered the next one for--only one glass.
The demon of drink, against whom he had valiantly struggled, seemed
embodied in a stranger who followed him closely and even went into the
saloon with him, sitting opposite and apparently watching him succumb
with glee.
Five seconds after the workman had resumed his road, this watcher was on
his track.
But how can the drinkingman stop going downhill when he has taken a
whet, and perceives with the amazement of the toper that nothing makes
one so thirsty as taking a drink? Scarcely had he tottered a hundred
paces before his thirst was so sharp that he had to slack it once more.
The result of these lapses from the path he had previously trod was that
he reached deviously the highway beyond the Passy bars, where he
felicitated himself on the road being tolerably free from temples of the
God of Wine.
In his gladness he set up singing. Unfortunately the delight was
ephemeral and the song of short duration.
He fell to muttering and then talking to himself, and the soliloquy was
in the form of imprecations on unknown persecutors of whom the unsteady
sot complained.
“Oh, the scoundrel! to give an old friend, a master, doctored wine--ugh!
So, just let him send again for me to fix his locks, let him send his
traitor of a workmate who gives me the go-by and I will tell him: ‘It
won’t work this trip! let your Majesty fix up your own locks.’ We shall
see then if a lock is to be turned out as sleek as a decree. Oh, I’ll
give you all you want of locks, with three wards, confound the villain!
the wine was salted, peppered--by heaven, it was poisoned! Hope I may be
saved, but the wine was poisoned!”
So howling, overcome by the force of the poison, of course, the
unfortunate victim laid himself at full length, not for the first time,
on the road, mercifully carpetted thickly with mud.
On other occasions the drunkard had scrambled up alone; difficult to do
but he had got through the difficulty with honor; but this third time,
after desperate efforts, he had to confess that the task was beyond him.
With a sigh, much resembling a groan, he seemed decided to sleep for
this night on the bosom of our common Mother Earth.
No doubt the follower had waited for this period of doubt,
disheartenment and weakness, for he approached him warily, went all
round fallen greatness, and calling a hack, said to the driver:
“Old man, here’s my friend who has shipped too heavy a cargo. Take this
piece for yourself, help me to put the poor fellow in the straw of your
coach where he will not soil the elegant cushions, and take him to your
wine saloon at Sevres Bridge. I will get up beside you.”
There was nothing surprising that the customer should sit up with the
driver, as he appeared to be one of his sort. So, with the touching
confidence men of the lower classes have for one another, the jarvey
said:
“All right, but let us have a look at the silver, see!”
“Here you are, old brother,” ventured the man without being in the least
offended and handing over a six-livre crownpiece.
“But will there be a little bit beyond the fare for myself, my master?”
inquired the coachman, mollified by the money.
“That depends how we get along. Let us get the poor chap in; shut the
blinds, try to keep your pair of skeletons on their hoofs, and we will
see when we get to Sevres, how you _conducted_ us!”
“Now, I call this speaking to the purpose,” returned the knight of the
whip. “Take it easy, master! A nod is as good as a wink. Get upon the
box and keep my Arabian steeds from bolting up the road; no jokes, they
feel the want of a supper and are chafing to race home to the stables. I
will manage the rest.”
The generous stranger did as he was bid; the driver, with all the
delicacy of which he was susceptible, dragged the sot up by the arms,
jabbed him down between the seats, slammed the door, drew down the
blinds, mounted the box again, and whipped up the barbs. With the
funeral gait of night hack-horses they stumbled through the village of
Point-du-Jour and reached the Sevres Saloon in an hour.
The house was shut up for the night, but the new-comer jumped down and
applied such blows of the fist to the door that the inhabitants, however
fond of slumber, could not enjoy it long under so much racket. The host,
who was alone, finally got up in his night dress, to see the rioter and
promised to pack him off smartly if the game were not worth the candle.
Apparently though the value of the game was clear, for, at the first
whisper by the irreverent arouser to the landlord, he plucked off his
cotton nightcap and made bows which his scanty costume rendered
singularly grotesque. He hastened to pilot the coachman, lugging
Gamain, into the little taproom where he had once filled himself with
his favorite burgundy.
As the driver and his steeds had done their best, the stranger gave the
former a piece of money as extra.
Then seeing that Master Gamain was stuck up in a chair, with his head on
the table before him, he hastened to have the host bring him two bottles
of wine and a decanter of water, and opened the windows and blinds to
change the mephitic air which the common people like to breathe in such
resorts.
After bringing the wine, with alacrity, and the water, with reluctance,
the host respectfully retired and left the stranger with the drunkard.
Having renewed the air, as stated, the former clapped smelling salts to
Gamain’s nose which ceased to snore and gave a sneeze. This awakened him
a little from that disgusting sleep of drunkards the sight of which
would cure them--if by a miracle, they could see what they look like at
such periods.
Gamain opened his eyes widely, and muttered some words, unintelligible
for anybody but the philologist who distinguished by his profound
attention these words:
“The scoundrel--he--poisoned--poisoned wine----“
The good Samaritan seemed to see with satisfaction that his ward was
under the same impression: he gave him another sniff of the hartstorn
which permitted the son of Noah to complete the sense of his phrase in
an accusation pointing to an abuse of trust and wanton heartlessness.
“To poison a friend--an old friend!”
“That’s so--it is horrible,” observed the other.
“Infamous,” faltered Gamain.
“What a good thing I was handy to give you an antidote,” suggested the
hearer.
“It was lucky,” said the locksmith.
“But as one dose is not enough, have another,” said the stranger,
putting a few drops from the smelling bottle in a glass of water; it was
ammonia and the man had hardly swallowed the compound than he opened his
eyes immeasurably and gurgled between two sneezes:
“Ah, monster, what are you giving us there? augh, augh!”
“My dear fellow, I am giving you stuff that will save your life,”
returned the kind friend.
“If it is physic, that is all right,” said Gamain: “but it is a beastly
failure if you call it a drink.”
The stranger profited by his sneezing again and twitching his features,
shut the blinds though not the windows.
Looking round him the master locksmith recognized with the profound
gratitude of drinking men for old haunts, the saloon where he had
feasted before. In his frequent trip to town from Versailles, he had not
seldom halted here. It might be thought necessary, as the house was
halfway.
This gratitude produced its effect: it gave him a great confidence to
find himself on friendly ground.
“Hurrah, it looks as though I were halfway home anyway,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, thanks to me,” said the stranger.
“Thanks to you? why, who are you?” stammered Gamain, looking from still
life to animated things.
“My dear Gamain, your question shows that you have a poor memory.”
“Hold on,” said the smith, giving him more attention: “it strikes me
that I have seen you before.”
“You don’t say so? that is a blessed thing.”
“Ay, but where--that is the rub.”
“Look around you, then; something may remind you; or had you better have
some more of the counterbane to refresh you?”
“No, thank ’ee, I have had enough of that remedy,” said Gamain,
stretching his arms out. “I am so nearly brought round that I will do
without it. Where did I see you? why, in this very spot, of course. And
when? the day I was coming back from doing a special job at Paris--I
seem to be in for this sort of thing,” added he, chuckling.
“Very well: but who am I?”
“A jolly honest mate who paid for the liquor. Shake hands!”
“Good, good, you remember now.”
“With all the more pleasure as it is but a step from Master locksmith to
master gunsmith,” said the other.
“Ah, good, good, I remember now. Yes, it was the sixth of October, when
the King went to Paris: we talked about him.”
“And I found your conversation interesting, Master Gamain; so that, as
your memory comes home and I want to enjoy it again, I should like to
know, if I am not too inquisitive, what the deuse you were doing across
the road where a vehicle might have cut you in two? Have you sorrows,
old blade, and had you screwed up your mind to suicide?”
“Faith, no! What was I doing flat across the road, eh? Was I in the
road?”
“Look at your clothes.”
“Whew!” whistled Gamain after the inspection. “Mother Gamain will kick
up a hullabaloo for she said yesterday: ‘Don’t put on your new coat; any
old thing will do for the Tuileries.'”
“Hello? been to the Tuileries? were you coming from the Tuileries when I
picked you up?” asked the kind soul.
“Why, yes, that’s about the size of it,” responded Gamain, scratching
his head and trying to collect his entangled ideas; “certainly I was
coming home from the Tuileries. Why not? It is no mystery that I am
master locksmith to Master Veto.”
“Who is he?”
“Why, have you come from China? not to know old Veto?”
“What do you want? I am obliged to stick to my trade, and that is not
politics.”
“You are blamed lucky! I have to mix up with these high folk--more’s the
pity! or rather, they force me to mix with them. It will be my ruin.” He
sighed as he looked up to heaven.
“Pshaw! were you called to Paris again to do another piece of work in
the style of that other one?” asked the friend.
“But this time I was not blindfolded but taken with my eyes open.”
“So that you knew it was the Tuileries this time?”
“The Tuileries? who said anything about the Tuileries?”
“Why, you, of course, just now. How would I know where you had been
carousing had you not told me?”
“That is true,” muttered Gamain to himself; “how should he, unless I
told him? Perhaps,” he said aloud, “I was wrong to let you know; but you