The Nickel Man Read online

  The arrival of Monsieur de La Choupillière, who had rented a beautiful residence in the area, was, as one can imagine, a great subject of conversation. All the mothers trembled on learning that he was rich and had a daughter, and it was even worse when the demoiselle had been seen, and her charms were further emphasized by a beautiful carriage, elegant lackeys and a superb hunter.

  By a strange circumstance, that retinue had the same nature as the master and the mistress; the horses, as well as the valets, had something stiff and jerky about them, which was initially striking. However, as everything was admirably well-chosen, well kept and perfectly regular, the eye adapted without difficulty to that eccentricity, which was attributed to the English origin of a part of the staff and the apparatus, and to the rather long sojourn that the family had made in the British Isles. In fact, English men and women, horses, dogs and mules—everything that originates from that country—all have a mechanical appearance, and an angular character that is not found elsewhere. Where does it come from? Is it the climate, the habits, the coal, the porter or the plum pudding? Chemists, anatomists and physiologists will decide.

  When Monsieur de La Choupillière was installed in his château, had made his visits to the authorities and the principal families, and had sent cards to the others, he wanted to celebrate his arrival with a party. All the high society of the city was invited, and Baron Léon was not forgotten.

  Before he had even met the young woman, her title of heiress had seduced him; as soon as he saw her there was, as one would expect, a veritable surge of sympathy. Never, since Pyramus and Thisbe, Petrarch and Laure, the old and the new Héloïse, had a more violent passion set a heart ablaze, and when the superb silverware was deployed and he had heard its proprietress sing, and seen her dance, and was able to convince himself that the diamonds with which she was covered were not paste, what did he not experience? His bosom pounded as violently as if he had run a race on the Champ-de-Mars against the horse Phoenix or the mare Atalante. So he was all care and attention for the lovely young daughter, and manifested his admiration to the father, who, with a smile that one might have thought hewn with a chisel, replied: “She’s the very image of her late mother.”

  Monsieur de Saint-Marcel, occupied with his new passion, had greatly neglected his old acquaintances during the evening—he had not even spoken to Mademoiselle O***, with whom he had danced regularly at every ball for ten years—with the result that the following day, there was a unanimous outcry against him.

  The young men, excited by the others, and perhaps naturally aggressive in the city of B***, thought it appropriate to pick quarrels with him. They were all the more disposed to do so because Léon had just been deprived of his firmest support—his right arm, so to speak. That is a circumstance that it will not be futile to make known.

  Our Baron, although very skillful with the épée, as with a pistol, did not like fighting, because he had noticed that one never gained anything whether one killed or was killed. In order to enjoy the pleasure of impertinence, however, and, at the same time, only to have to submit to its consequences as rarely as possible, he had for his second in all encounters a kind of cutthroat, a professional swashbuckler and the terror of honest folk for ten leagues around. One could not seek a quarrel with the Baron without having to answer to Captain Lapierre, a beast as malevolent as he was venomous, who had already murdered many a family’s scion.

  No one knew what regiment the Captain had served in; it was whispered in low tones that he was a former fencing-master, expelled from the capital for his evil deeds, and that all his campaigns had been fought in penal battalions. He had actively assisted, by means of malicious talk, in the ruination of the unfortunate D***, and prevented anyone from defending his memory by virtue of the fear he inspired. The young lieutenant, an innocent victim of calumny, having wished to give it the lie, had been challenged to a duel and killed by the said individual.

  However, that redoubtable man was, for the moment, unable to fight.

  The Captain had the habit of going every evening to the only café in the neighborhood, drinking and gambling at the expense of flatterers—for, whether by virtue of fear or something else, everyone has them. When he went in, he always put his hat on a table, where no one dared disturb it, under penalty of an immediate explanation, after which it was necessary to put the hat back where it had been found, or accept a rendezvous for the following day—an encounter that no one sought, convinced that there was neither honor or profit to be gained therein.

  One evening, when the terrible Lapierre and his redoubtable headgear were in their customary places, a stranger had come in, who, only seeing one vacant table, had removed the hat and sat down there.

  The swashbuckler cries: “Respect Captain Lapierre’s hat!”

  At that interpellation the stranger looks up, not knowing whether it was to him that it was addressed. The other repeats it, adding a coarse oath. The impassive stranger approaches the stove, and puts the hat on it, to the amazement of the entire assembly, trembling for the imprudent, who probably did not know what he was risking.

  As for the Captain, he stood up like Achilles, and the most terrible threat, accompanied by the obligatory challenge, emerged from his mouth.

  The stranger’s only response was to open the window, seize the arm of the unfortunate captain with an iron grip, and, without further ado, hurl him into the street.

  It is difficult to fall on to a road from the first floor, however lacking in elevation it might be, without an inconvenient result, so the valiant Lapierre had his head cracked and his arm broken. He had been confined to bed for a month, vomiting fire and flame against the brute who had put him out of a condition to assume a fighting stance, while his pupil and protégé, Monsieur de Saint-Marcel, found himself the target of the animadversion of all the brothers and cousins of the ladies of the locale.

  The Baron was sensitive to his situation; he had always been reckoned brave in the minds of fathers and mothers—which is to say, the people who did not know him—and it was important for him not to lose that salutary reputation. Knowing, therefore, that someone would definitely pick a quarrel with him, he thought it prudent to warn his enemies, and having examined the question of which of them might be the most maladroit and cowardly member of the coalition. He took advantage of the first opportunity to provoke him.

  The rendezvous having been agreed, they went to the dueling-ground. As the Baron had anticipated, his adversary was afraid, and there was talk of lunch. The victor accepted, and took the opportunity to invite all his rivals, whom he treated to truffles and champagne.

  There is no intimity that can resist fine cuisine; the anger of young men is not tenacious, especially when it is only artificial and second-hand. It was, in any case, unimportant to them that Monsieur de Saint-Marcel adored demoiselles and was adored by them. He cleverly made them aware of that, and the peace treaty, whose preliminaries had been presented with the first course, was signed with the second.

  With matters thus arranged, the elegant Léon was able to abandon himself entirely to his amour. The charming Colombe appeared to welcome all her admirers with equal kindness, but as she saw the Baron most frequently, it was to him that she listened with pleasure most frequently. The father did not seem at all inclined to oppose his daughter’s inclinations; he had no scruples about leaving her alone with her visitors. Someone having made an observation to him in that regard, he replied that he had every confidence in Mademoiselle de La Choupillière, who was the image of her late mother.

  One day, Monsieur de Saint-Marcel found his inamorata sitting on a grassy bank under a honeysuckle arbor. Everyone knows that arbors and grass are appropriate to sentiment in all countries, and they were no less so in the fine city of B and its environs. As soon as Léon had touched the bracken he felt suddenly inspired, and to be frank, he should have been; the semi-obscurity of the boscage, the simple and skimpy attire of the young woman, including the dress whose indiscreet folds allow
ed treasures to be divined, all seemed calculated to seduce him, if he had not been seduced already; I even believe that he would have fallen to his knees in his admiration if the tight trousers he was wearing had permitted him the possibility.

  He commenced with a sigh, which was followed by a question that is slightly vulgar, but which had always been positive in the locality of B***: “Have you ever been in love, Mademoiselle?”

  “I’ve heard a great deal of talk about it, Monsieur,” Mademoiselle de La Choupillière replied.

  “It’s a burning passion, Mademoiselle.”

  “That’s what everyone says, Monsieur.”

  The Baron had started badly, for he remained tongue-tied, as often happens during a matrimonial declaration—further proof of the malice of the demon that always murmurs accurately and effectively to us when it is a matter of an evil motive.

  It was necessary to get out of it. What good was it to Monsieur de Saint-Marcel to have been the daring of all the local beauties for such a long time, only to remain mute, like an infatuated fifteen-year-old, on the day when it was most important for him to speak?

  The second attempt was no more fortunate. He embarked on a definition of love. He was not very strong in the descriptive genre, and he took almost all of it from the valet in Le Joueur.1

  Mademoiselle de La Choupillière could have said to him: “Love can no more be defined than air or light; it is sensed; it is inspired,” but she did not, for she was very modest and reserved.”

  Finally, Monsieur de Saint-Marcel, after a profound sigh, exclaimed: “Adorable Colombe, it is futile to disguise my wishes any longer. I adore you; I offer you my heart, my life, my name, my fortune. Speak: it is my sentence that you are pronouncing.”

  “Monsieur,” replied Mademoiselle de La Choupillière. “I’m extremely flattered by what you’ve done me the honor of saying to me, but, as you have had occasion to remark. I have a father; it’s to him that you ought to have gone first to ask him for authorization to declare sentiments to me that, honorable as they might be, are entirely irregular at this point in time.”

  That was a perfect response, and as there is nothing to add when all has been said, the Baron found himself halted again, as if he had had less presence of mind.

  “Oh, Mademoiselle,” he continued, in a despairing tone “what would be the use of your father’s agreement, if I did not have the joy of obtaining yours? In the name of pity, for I do not dare to speak any longer in the name of love, pronounce your verdict; it is life or death.”

  For a second time he had the idea of throwing himself at her feet, but the wretched trousers still restrained him, and he swore that he would put on more ample ones when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Monsieur,” replied Mademoiselle de La Choupillière, “my father’s wishes are always mine, and the will of a good child cannot be other than to obey.”

  That manner of expression was somewhat less than romantic, but, as we have said, the daughter and father alike only spoke in ready-made formulas, sentences and phrases, such as are found in all almanacs, gazettes, posters and announcements.

  Léon hastened to respond as one responds in such cases, to wit: “Mademoiselle, it’s not obedience, but love that…etc.” His ardor carried him away to the point that he forgot the inconvenience of his attire, and the genuflection occurred.

  Immediately, that which had to happen happened: the inflexible cloth was rent, not in the heart but in a less appropriate place—and that disconcerted him to such an extent that, although not timid by nature, he blushed, went pale, and could only retire, covering the vestment laid bare with his hat.

  Having returned home, cursing the fragility of modern fabrics, he could think of nothing better to do than follow Mademoiselle de La Choupillière’s instructions o the letter and address himself to her respectable father.

  Meanwhile, the mothers, who were not unaware of the Baron’s projects, were suffocating with chagrin. It was, in fact, hard to see a stranger winning such a victory over their daughters, merely because she was richer, more beautiful and more amiable, so it was necessary to hear what they were saying about the Comte and his progeniture.

  After having exhausted all the resources of ordinary ill-speaking they came to calumny. According to the ladies, no one knew where the Comte had some from, although he had been many things. It was said at first that he was a nonentity, or even less, and was not even a man at all. It was claimed that at certain time, words suddenly failed him completely, and then movement, and that neither were returned to him until a certain agent, who accompanied him everywhere, had subjected him to some mechanical, chemical or surgical operation.

  Such a rumor had nothing that could disturb a son-in-law greatly, but it was added that Mademoiselle de La Choupillière was in precisely the same state, and that during these accidents, no one was admitted to the house. It had also been noticed that on the days of balls, at a fixed time, the senior valet or steward, the only one who did not have the strained mannerisms of the rest of the household, came to extinguish the lights, and that at that signal, the Comte and his daughter wished their guess goodnight and withdrew. That had initially been taxed as arrant impoliteness; then people had got used to it, and now everyone was convinced that the master’s health required it thus.

  It was therefore believed to be an attack of catalepsy, which is nothing but a perfected epilepsy, and it was alleged that Mademoiselle Colombe was afflicted with the same disease. But Monsieur de Saint-Marcel saw nothing in these allegations but malevolence, and did not believe a word of it. In any case, the fortune was there, and with a few precautions, catalepsy could not have any effect on it.

  The amorous Baron, having prepared his request carefully, went to see Monsieur de La Choupillière one day, and presented himself in the most respectable and filial manner that he could imagine. The Comte recited, one by one, all the words that do not say yes or no, and sent him back to Mademoiselle de La Choupillière, with his accustomed remark.

  Sparing readers, mercifully, from preliminaries that would be as tedious for them as for the lovers, we shall say that after having been from daughter to father and from father to daughter, Monsieur de Saint-Marcel obtained the consent that he desired, with the aid of the steward, who seemed to have great credit with both of them. Convention dictated that the marriage would take place in a month, and a mutual agreement was signed, under the guarantee of a large sum.

  Now, it has long been embarked that, in counties where one wants to marry, everyone hears the news of a marriage before anyone has mentioned it; that is what happened in the great city of B . The next day, it was the talk of every drawing room.

  The anger of the mothers and daughters was terrible, and many might perhaps have died of it if, the day after the publication of the banns, the rumor had not spread that the Comte had just lost half his fortune in a major lawsuit.

  The future spouse ran to his future father-in-law, who confirmed the verity of that unfortunate circumstance, and added. “But you still have Mademoiselle de La Choupillière; she’s the very image of her late mother; you can’t fail to be perfectly happy.”

  That reasoning, and the certainty that half of the Comte’s fortune could still pass for a complete fortune, partly dissipated the disappointed Baron’s concerns.

  A few days later, it was said that the Comte had become involved in an affair on the Bourse, which had removed the other half of his capital. A further visit by Monsieur Marcel brought forth a further confirmation on the part of the Comte, who, after having addressed a superb speech to him, repeated: “But you still have Mademoiselle de La Choupillière.”

  That was, in fact, a great consolation. The future was still rosy. And then, the furniture, silverware and diamonds were worth a lot of money. The next day, however, it was said that the tableware had been sold and the diamonds seized.

  A further race by the son-in-law followed, to whom the father-in-law replied with the same formula. Now, the contract had been
signed, so there was a considerable forfeit; there was no more going back. In any case, it is necessary to say, Monsieur de Saint-Marcel was in love, and, even had he been free, he might have hesitated before renouncing his inamorata.

  The wedding took place the following day. In spite of the Comte’s misfortunes, a feast had been prepared; the entire city was there, some out of curiosity, some out of interest for the family, of which no one was any longer jealous now that it no longer possessed anything. The evening was quite cheerful, and, whatever the amorous Léon did to prevent it from being prolonged, it was nearly midnight when the steward, as usual, came to extinguish the lights and send the company away.

  Monsieur de Saint-Marcel retired immediately to his wife’s apartment; at that moment he forgot all the blows that fortune had struck him; he was the possessor of the most delightful of creatures, and an air of abandon and languor that he had not remarked before rendered her more seductive than ever. She was on a sofa; she sat down beside her; he removed the light gauze covering her shoulders, and those pure forms appeared to his enchanted eyes. Then his love burst forth in burning expressions.

  She responded to it with a sight, and said “I…”

  Then midnight chimed.

  She stopped.

  Léon thought that emotion alone was the cause, and even more smitten, he repeated his protestations.

  To that his young wife made no reply. A curl of blonde hair tickled the amorous husband’s cheek. He wanted to touch that charming hair; he asked to press it to his lips. She kept silent; that was a consent; He drew nearer, but at the first effort the curl came away from the forehead.