I left my card, with an intimation that I had just returned from Sullacaro, and that I was the bearer of a letter from M. Lucien, his brother. I inquired when he would be at home, as I had undertaken to deliver the letter with my own hand.
To conduct me to his master’s study, where I wished to write a note, the valet led me through the dining-room and the salon1.
I looked around me as I proceeded with a curiosity which will be understood, and I recognized the influence of the same taste which I had already perceived at Sullacaro; only the taste was here set off by true Parisian elegance2. M. Louis de Franchi certainly appeared to have a very charming lodging3 for a bachelor.
Next morning, about eleven o’clock, my servant announced M. Louis de Franchi. I told the man to offer my visitor the papers and to say that I would wait on him as soon as I was dressed.
In five minutes I presented myself.
M. Louis do Franchi who was, no doubt from a sense of courtesy, reading a tale I had contributed to La Presse, raised his head as the door opened, and I entered.
I stood perfectly4 astounded5 at the resemblance between the two brothers. He rose.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I could scarcely credit my good fortune when I read your note yesterday on my return home. I have pictured you twenty times so as to assure myself that it was in accord with your portraits, and at last I, this morning, determined6 to present myself at your house without considering the hour, and I fear I have been too early.”
“I hope you will excuse me if I do not at once acknowledge your kindness in suitable terms, but may I inquire whether I have the honour to address M. Louis or M. Lucien de Franchi?”
“Are you serious? Yes, the resemblance is certainly wonderful, and when I was last at Sullacaro nearly every one mistook one of us for the other, yet, if he has not abjured7 the Corsican dress, you have seen him in a costume, which would make a considerable difference in our appearance.”
“And justly so,” I replied; “but as chance would have it, he was, when I left, dressed exactly as you are now, except that he wore white trowsers, so that I was not able to separate your presence from his memory with the difference in dress of which you speak, but,” I continued, taking the letter from my pocket-book, “I can quite understand you are anxious to have news from home, so pray read this which I would have left at your house yesterday had I not promised Madame de Franchi to give it to you myself.”
“They were all quite well when you left, I hope?”
“Yes, but somewhat anxious.”
“On my account?”
“Yes; but read that letter, I beg of you.”
“If you will excuse me.”
So Monsieur Franchi read the letter while I made some cigarettes. I watched him as his eyes travelled rapidly over the paper, and I heard him murmur8, “Dear Lucien, Darling Mother——yes——yes——I understand.”
I had not yet recovered from the surprise the strange resemblance between the brothers had caused me, but now I noticed what Lucien had told me, that Louis was paler, and spoke9 French better than he did.
“Well,” I said when he had finished reading the letter, and had lighted the cigarette, “You see, as I told you, that they are anxious about you, and I am glad that their fears are unfounded.”
“Well, no,” he said gravely, “not altogether; I have not been ill, it is true, but I have been out of sorts, and my indisposition has been augmented10 by this feeling that my brother is suffering with me.”
“Monsieur Lucien has already told me as much, and had I been sceptical I should now have been quite sure that what he said was a fact. I should require no further proof than I now have. So you, yourself, are convinced, monsieur, that your brother’s health depends to a certain extent on your own.”
“Yes, perfectly so.”
“Then,” I continued, “as your answer will doubly interest me, may I ask, not from mere11 curiosity, if this indisposition of which you speak is likely soon to pass away?”
“Oh, you know, monsieur, that the greatest griefs give way to time, and that my heart, even if seared, will heal. Meantime, however, pray accept my thanks once more, and permit me to call on you occasionally to have a chat about Sullacaro.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” I replied; “but why not now continue our conversation, which is equally agreeable to both of us. My servant is about to announce breakfast. Will you do me the honour to join me, and we can talk at our ease?”
“I regret that it is impossible; I have an appointment with the Chancellor12 at twelve o’clock, and you will understand that such a young advocate as I am cannot afford to stay away.”
“Ah, it is probably only about that Orlandi and Colona affair, as you, no doubt, are aware, and I can re-assure you on that point, for I myself signed the contract as sponsor for this Orlandi.”
“Yes, my brother said as much.”
“But,” he added, looking at his watch, “it is nearly twelve o’clock; I must go and inform the Chancellor that my brother has redeemed13 my word.”
“Ah, yes, most religiously, I can answer for that.”
“Dear Lucien, I knew quite well, though our sentiments do not agree on this point, that he would do it for me.”
“Yes, and I assure you it cost him something to comply.”
“We will speak of all this later, for you can well understand how pleasant it is for me to re-visit with your assistance my mother, my brother, and our home surroundings, so if you will tell me when you are disengaged——”
“That will be somewhat difficult; for this next few days I shall be very busy, but will you tell me where I am likely to find you.”
“Listen,” he said, “to-morrow is Mi-Careme, is it not?”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Are you going to the Opera Ball?”
“Yes and No. Yes, if you will meet me there. No, if I have no object in going.”
“I must go, I am obliged to be there.”
“Ah, yes,” I said laughing, “I understand, as you said just now, time heals up the greatest griefs, and your seared heart must be healed.”
“You are under a misapprehension, for I shall probably sustain new tortures by going.”
“Then do not go.”
“But what is one to do in this world? We cannot always do what we want; I am dragged thither14 by fate in spite of myself. I know I had better not go, and nevertheless I shall go.”
“Well, then, to-morrow, at the Opera.”
“Yes, agreed.”
“At what time?”
“Half-past twelve midnight, if that will suit you.”
“And whereabouts?”
“In the foyer—at one, I will be in front of the clock.”
“That is understood.”
We then shook hands and he left the house quickly. It was on the stroke of twelve.
As for me, I occupied myself all the afternoon and all the next day in those employments as a man is obliged to undertake on his return from a lengthened15 tour.
At half-past twelve o’clock at night I was at the rendezvous16.
Louis had been waiting some time—he had been following a mask which he thought he recognized, but the lady had been lost in the crowd, and he had not been able to rejoin her.
I wished to speak of Corsica, but Louis was too absent to follow out such a grave subject of conversation. His eyes were constantly fixed17 on the clock, and suddenly he rushed away from my side, exclaiming:
“Ah, there is my
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