A Start in Life [84]
to his animals, and the vehicle,
drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg
Saint-Denis at a slow trot.
But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a
mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop
was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through
the valley of Montmorency.
It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which
the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.
"We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere
Leger?" he said, pulling out a silver watch.
"Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger," said the
millionaire.
"Why, here's our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles," cried
Joseph Bridau. "Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or
America?"
"Sacrebleu! I've made the revolution of July, and that's enough for
me, for it ruined me."
"Ah! you made the revolution of July!" cried the painter, laughing.
"Well, I always said it never made itself."
"How people meet again!" said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de
Reybert. "This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you
undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles."
"We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,"
said Joseph Bridau, "and the little young man who was stupid enough to
talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and
about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace."
"And the count himself, you lack him," said old Reybert.
"I'm afraid," said Joseph Bridau, sadly, "that the last journey the
count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present
at my marriage."
"He still drives about the park," said Reybert.
"Does his wife come to see him?" asked Leger.
"Once a month," replied Reybert. "She is never happy out of Paris.
Last September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom,
since the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very
rich young Pole, the Comte Laginski."
"To whom," asked Madame Clapart, "will Monsieur de Serizy's property
go?"
"To his wife, who will bury him," replied Georges. "The countess is
still fine-looking for a woman of fifty-four years of age. She is very
elegant, and, at a little distance, gives one the illusion--"
"She will always be an illusion to you," said Leger, who seemed
inclined to revenge himself on his former hoaxer.
"I respect her," said Georges. "But, by the bye, what became of that
steward whom the count turned off?"
"Moreau?" said Leger; "why, he's the deputy from the Oise."
"Ha! the famous Centre man; Moreau de l'Oise?" cried Georges.
"Yes," returned Leger, "Moreau de l'Oise. He did more than you for the
revolution of July, and he has since then bought the beautiful estate
of Pointel, between Presles and Beaumont."
"Next to the count's," said Georges. "I call that very bad taste."
"Don't speak so loud," said Monsieur de Reybert, "for Madame Moreau
and her daughter, the Baronne de Canalis, and the Baron himself, the
former minister, are in the coupe."
"What 'dot' could he have given his daughter to induce our great
orator to marry her?" said Georges.
"Something like two millions," replied old Leger.
"He always had a taste for millions," remarked Georges. "He began his
pile surreptitiously at Presles--"
"Say nothing against Monsieur Moreau," cried Oscar, hastily. "You
ought to have learned before now to hold your tongue in public
conveyances."
Joseph Bridau looked at the one-armed officer for several seconds;
then he said, smiling:--
"Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made
his way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named
him in their reports."
"Oscar Husson!" cried Georges.
drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg
Saint-Denis at a slow trot.
But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a
mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop
was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through
the valley of Montmorency.
It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which
the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.
"We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere
Leger?" he said, pulling out a silver watch.
"Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger," said the
millionaire.
"Why, here's our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles," cried
Joseph Bridau. "Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or
America?"
"Sacrebleu! I've made the revolution of July, and that's enough for
me, for it ruined me."
"Ah! you made the revolution of July!" cried the painter, laughing.
"Well, I always said it never made itself."
"How people meet again!" said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de
Reybert. "This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you
undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles."
"We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,"
said Joseph Bridau, "and the little young man who was stupid enough to
talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and
about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace."
"And the count himself, you lack him," said old Reybert.
"I'm afraid," said Joseph Bridau, sadly, "that the last journey the
count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present
at my marriage."
"He still drives about the park," said Reybert.
"Does his wife come to see him?" asked Leger.
"Once a month," replied Reybert. "She is never happy out of Paris.
Last September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom,
since the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very
rich young Pole, the Comte Laginski."
"To whom," asked Madame Clapart, "will Monsieur de Serizy's property
go?"
"To his wife, who will bury him," replied Georges. "The countess is
still fine-looking for a woman of fifty-four years of age. She is very
elegant, and, at a little distance, gives one the illusion--"
"She will always be an illusion to you," said Leger, who seemed
inclined to revenge himself on his former hoaxer.
"I respect her," said Georges. "But, by the bye, what became of that
steward whom the count turned off?"
"Moreau?" said Leger; "why, he's the deputy from the Oise."
"Ha! the famous Centre man; Moreau de l'Oise?" cried Georges.
"Yes," returned Leger, "Moreau de l'Oise. He did more than you for the
revolution of July, and he has since then bought the beautiful estate
of Pointel, between Presles and Beaumont."
"Next to the count's," said Georges. "I call that very bad taste."
"Don't speak so loud," said Monsieur de Reybert, "for Madame Moreau
and her daughter, the Baronne de Canalis, and the Baron himself, the
former minister, are in the coupe."
"What 'dot' could he have given his daughter to induce our great
orator to marry her?" said Georges.
"Something like two millions," replied old Leger.
"He always had a taste for millions," remarked Georges. "He began his
pile surreptitiously at Presles--"
"Say nothing against Monsieur Moreau," cried Oscar, hastily. "You
ought to have learned before now to hold your tongue in public
conveyances."
Joseph Bridau looked at the one-armed officer for several seconds;
then he said, smiling:--
"Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made
his way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named
him in their reports."
"Oscar Husson!" cried Georges.