From the Memoirs of a Minister of France [28]
"But," I said, "your son wishes to fight, M. de Clan?"
He nodded.
"And you cannot hinder him?"
He shrugged his shoulders grimly. "No," he said; "he is a St. Germain."
"Well, that is just my case," I answered. "You see this young fellow St. Mesmin was commended to me, and is, in a manner, of my household; and that is a fatal objection. I cannot possibly act against him in the manner you propose. You must see that; and for my wishes, he respects them less than your son regards yours."
M. de Clan rose, trembling a little on his legs, and glaring at me out of his fierce old eyes. "Very well," he said, "it is as much as I expected. Times are changed--and faiths--since the King of Navarre slept under the same bush with Antoine St. Germain on the night before Cahors! I wish you good-day, M. le Marquis."
I need not say that my sympathies were with him, and that I would have helped him if I could; but in accordance with the maxim which I have elsewhere explained, that he who places any consideration before the King's service is not fit to conduct it, I did not see my way to thwart M. de Saintonge in a matter so small. And the end justified my inaction; for the duel, taking place that evening, resulted in nothing worse than a serious, but not dangerous, wound which St. Mesmin, fighting with the same fury as in the morning, contrived to inflict on his opponent.
For some weeks after this I saw little of the young firebrand, though from time to time he attended my receptions and invariably behaved to me with a modesty which proved that he placed some bounds to his presumption. I heard, moreover, that M. de Saintonge, in acknowledgment of the triumph over the St. Germains which he had afforded him, had taken him up; and that the connection between the families being publicly avowed, the two were much together.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when one day a little before Christmas, M. de Saintonge sought me at the Arsenal during the preparation of the plays and interludes--which were held there that year--and, drawing me aside into the garden, broke into a furious tirade against the young fellow.
"But," I said, in immense astonishment, "what is this? I thought that he was a young man quite to your mind; and--"
"He is mad!" he answered.
"Mad?" I said.
"Yes, mad!" he repeated, striking the ground violently with his cane. "Stark mad, M. de Rosny. He does not know himself! What do you think--but it is inconceivable. He proposes to marry my daughter! This penniless adventurer honours Mademoiselle de Saintonge by proposing for her!"
"Pheugh!" I said. "That is serious."
"He--he! I don't think I shall ever get over it!" he answered.
"He has, of course, seen Mademoiselle?"
M. de Saintonge nodded.
"At your house, doubtless?"
"Of course!" he replied, with a snap of rage.
"Then I am afraid it is serious," I said.
He stared at me, and for an instant I thought that he was going to quarrel with me. Then he asked me why.
I was not sorry to have this opportunity of at once increasing his uneasiness, and requiting his arrogance. "Because," I said, "this young man appears to me to be very much out of the common. Hitherto, whatever he has said he would do, he has done. You remember Crillon? Well, I trace a likeness. St. Mesmin has much of his headlong temper and savage determination. If you will take my advice, you will proceed with caution."
M. de Saintonge, receiving an answer so little to his mind, was almost bursting with rage. "Proceed with caution!" he cried. "You talk as if the thing could be entertained, or as if I had cause to fear the coxcomb! On the contrary, I intend to teach him a lesson a little confinement will cool his temper. You must give me a letter, my friend, and we will clap him in the Bastille for a month or two."
"Impossible," I said firmly. "Quite impossible, M. le Marquis."
M. de Saintonge looked at me, frowning. "How?" he said arrogantly. "Have my services earned no better answer than that?"
"You forget," I replied.