The price of a coronet, or Jeanne Berthout, Countess de Mercoeur

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

CASSELL’S BLUE LIBRARY.

II

Raoul de Mercoeur was walking up the long avenue of oak trees, part of the old property of Madame de Pompadour. He stopped before an iron gate, on the other side of which he could hear merry laughter. He murmured, “ San Rinazzi ? Her name is not recorded in the Almanac de Gotha. Well, let it go ! We are now a Republic.”

While he was ringing the bell, which was partly hidden by the foliage, he turned his head, and saw two ladies passing, arm-in-arm. One was a tall, fair girl in deep mourning, the other, an old lady, perhaps her mother. “ What a beautiful girl,” he thought.

The old lady looked at the visitor curiously, but the young girl appeared absolutely unconscious. He watched, and saw them enter the next villa.

“ Glad to see you ! ” he heard. He was dazed at de Bressac’s voice, who turned toward a lady as he spoke. “ Dear Madame, allow me to present you my old friend, the Count of Mercoeur.”

No one in Paris knew exactly who de Bressac 13 was, still everybody knew him, and he went everywhere. Always dressed in latest fashion, tall, thin, and very bony, with a long mustache, a soft, gentle voice, better manners than the sons of the oldest families, decided in his opinions, kept his own council as to how he lived and who he was. Lived at the rate of a hundred thousand francs a year, thought to be very rich, but no one knew where his property was situated, though his accent was southern.

Very agreeable, always willing to help the ladies in organizing fairs, and other charitable works, never failed to witness the first night of a new play, would ride his friend’s horses at steeple chases, (only as an amateur, be it understood), and never refused a friend a loan of ten louis.

Once the Duchess of Roquemont said, “ I don’t like his eyes ; they are that bluish green, changing with the weather, and restless as though he was afraid to look you in the face.”

For a long time he had been recognized as the most intimate acquaintance of the baroness. A few indiscreet persons whispered, “ lover.” It was still rumored that little Saint-Elme, having said something derogatory of her character, de Bressac promptly rewarded his audacity with a sword thrust.

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In spite of this public denial, a few uninterested persons shrugged their shoulders.

Bressac was of a selfish, cold, calculating disposition, hardly likely to fall in love with a woman so much older than he was. And if he had fought on her account, why it only showed his gallantry, that’s all there is to it. The conduct of Madame de San Rinazzi was far too circumspect to allow people to imagine that there was a lover. She was a widow, since she had appeared on the horizon of Parisian society. No one had seen the baron, but a magnificent oil painting graced the salon. There were rather too many decorations and orders on his breast, he must have been a very brave man, this colonel in the Italian army. Her daughter, for she acknowledged she had a daughter, a girl of fourteen, was being carefully educated by the Urselines, where only the daughters of the old noblesse could gain admittance. Her mother found the education was far too worldly at the Sacred Heart, and by a special favor had obtained her daughter admission at the Urselines. She herself had resided there during the first two years of her widowhood.

The baroness lived in the Rue Verneuil, where occasionally her footman announced the most distinguished names in France. In her salon the furniture was somber and rich, all gobelin tapestry and carved oak. A photograph of the Count de Chambord, with his own autograph, in a very rich frame, had the place of honor opposite that of her husband’s picture ; and over the mantle-piece a life-sized portrait of the murdered Bishop of Paris inspired respect of the devout.

When the baroness came from Italy to watch her daughter’s education, with true maternal solicitude, she had been introduced to society under the auspices of the Duchess de Roquemont. Dame Rumor said that the baroness had' assisted the ruined duke in marrying the daughter of Midas, the millionaire petroleum broker. This calumny fell to the ground, and Madame de San Rinazzi’s five o’clock teas were a great success. She always had a bevy of beautiful girls, and naturally the young men were anxious to secure invitations. She was extremely particular whom she invited. Bressac had met the baroness at a charity fair ; such a sympathetic person, she was warm-hearted and charitable, participating in all the good works, even to sending blankets to the Hottentots, etc., etc. During the summer the baroness, whose modest fortune would not permit her to spend the summer

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in the whirl of some gay watering place, took a small cottage at Bellevue, “ Which my modest means permit me to do,” she said. Though she acknowledged her daughter was a miss of fourteen, her figure was still graceful, always welldressed, and she had a magnificent pair of black eyes. Her hands were slender and well kept, perhaps too well kept, if anything.

Mercoeur examined her critically, and thought Bressac had nothing to complain of. ‘‘You are welcome at my house, Monsieur de Mercoeur,” said the baroness smilingly, “ I have asked Monsieur de Bressac to bring you often.”

Mercoeur was one of the few who had been refractory in accepting the baroness’s invitations to the five o’clock teas.

Raoul had an innate horror of pretensions ; he would be friendly with a carter or a gardener, but the nobility of the third Republic disgusted him, and he felt confident that the baroness’s title only dated back to the time she opened her salon on the Rue Verneuil.

Actuated solely by necessity he came to this woman’s house, and strove to crush the rising antipathy he felt toward her. He came to her as a last resource from a hint given by de Bressac, “ A most obliging woman, ‘mon cher,’ perhaps she can suggest some way to mend your fortune.”

Mend the fortune of a ruined gentleman ; a gentleman, whose name could be found in all histories ; these words had enlightened Raoul somewhat. During the last few years he had seen a good many of his friends make their fortunes through a wedding ring. Roquemont was one of the first ; he blamed them severely for bartering their name and title, as though it was a piece of furniture.

Raoul smiled at the baroness’s warm welcome, and begged her to excuse his tardiness. De Bressac looked charmed. After a few minutes’ laughing conversation Madame de San Rinazzi turned toward de Bressac and said, “ You are so much at home here, won’t you order lunch ? ” A real country .lunch. The ladies in gay toilettes, the men in summer clothes. The table was spread under a rose arbor, whose fragrant leaves fell on the cloth ; the introductions were very unceremonious.

“Don’t you know the Count de Mercoeur, the Marquis of St Leon, Captain Lira, the Viscount Poulans, Madame de Leuns, and others.”

Very fine society, an avalanche of titles, many of which had a false ring, though a few were genuine. De Bressac was the only untitled person in the gay throng. It would have amused Raoul on any other occasion to see how cleverly the baroness placed her guests, kept the conversational ball rolling, laughing at the jokes of Captain Lira and saying, “ Oh, Duchess, Duchess, how could you laugh at the simplicity of our service in church this morning,” where they had all attended.

Madame de San Rinazzi had given the place of honor on her right hand to Raoul. He felt she wanted to captivate him ; she was certainly a fascinating woman, so innocent and gentle, and her style was thoroughly Parisian, and the way she had of hesitating in the middle of a phrase, permitted him to see her small white teeth. The Duchess of Roquemont interrupted their conversation several times by saying, “ You quite monopolize the Count de Mercoeur’s society.”

The Duchess of Roquemont had never been able to resist the temptation of giving a person's title in full. Gaetana de San Rinazzi was cleverer than that ; Raoul had not been able to trace the slightest vulgarity in either her speech or actions, she was perfectly educated, and her manners had that high state of polish that only comes from associating with thoroughbred people. She was saying when interrupted, “ I am extremely sorry you never

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graced any of our reunions.” Raoul was almost as sorry as she pretended to be, and wished that he had allowed Bressac to introduce her to him before. He began to think it looked strange to eat a meal at a person’s house at the first invitation, without ever having paid the formal call.

The luncheon was over, and where laughter had been heard now it was all silent. The guests had left the table, invited by Bressac, to visit the beautiful gardens which surrounded the villa. Gaetana asked the count to come into the house.

The drawing-room at Bellevue was far more simple in its furnishings than that of Rue de Verneuil ; books, draperies, and statuettes helped to furnish this bijou room, the pictures of the king and the bishop had the same prominent positions, also one of his Holiness graced the wall. After the glare of the sun outside, the almost mysterious light was charming, and a heavy exotic perfume permeated the atmosphere.

“ Is not this a charming room,” asked the baron- • ess, “ for a tete-a-tete ? ”

“Oh ! I think your residence is delightful,” said Raoul, as he took her hand and kissed it most respectfully. And as she handed him a glass of Armagnac, she said, “ This comes from Gascony,

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you ought to relish it.” At her earnest solicitation Raoul drank a second glass very slowly, curious to hear what she would say next. At the same time, he could not help thinking his father’s vineyards might have furnished the grapes. Then he laughed to himself, and smilingly said to her, “ I have lost my vineyards and those of my parents in your charming Paris, Madame.”

Gaetana’s face was a study, she looked so sympathetic, “ Was it really true that Raoul Pontais, Count of Mercoeur, had sold all his patrimony, and strangers lived in his chateau?” “No, no! Mercoeur is still uninhabited, it was two years ago since I sold it, and my agent remitted me the money ; he sold the entire property to a foreigner, I believe, who, strange to say, never showed up.”

As if she was really sorry for him, she murmured, “ Ruined ! ruined ! ruined ! ” Why the

d 1 had he told this woman he was ruined, but

he had come to her for advice ; did not Bressac say she might help him out ?

Gaetana had changed her seat, and had placed herself by his side, striving to refill his glass. Raoul looked at her large dark eyes, and wondered how she could help him. There was a very embarrassing silence for a few minutes. Then Raoul

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gained courage and told her his financial position, how he had squandered his capital, the dunning of his creditors ; in fact, he was ready to cut his throat. The baroness hesitated a minute before answering Raoul’s last words ; she looked pensive, and finally said, “ When a person has your name and title, it is very easy to get over money difficulties.” Raoul jumped as though he had been shot, his teeth chattered. Had he then fallen so low that they dared to offer him money for bartering his name ?

“ Really, Madame ■”

She came a little closer to him and spoke so softly in her voluptuous voice, “Why was he vexed with a friend who wished to be of service to him ? Yes, of service ! It might have astonished Monsieur de Mercoeur, but Bressac, his old college chum, had told her his difficulties, and she thought ”

Mercoeur at once saw her business, he understood the five o’clock tea, and the number of people who had been invited. During the ten years he had resided in Paris, he had thrown into the fire a great many matrimonial agency cards. Still he could not understand how a woman, received in the best society of the Faubourg St. Germain, could

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carry on such a “ metier .” He felt inclined to turn on his heel and quit the presence of the Baroness de San Rinazzi, and to go right home and order Joseph never to admit Bressac, — Bressac, this society man, who was no doubt but a middle man in the employ of the baroness.

By this time he did not feel inclined to move, what with the perfume of the apartment, and the strength of the liquor, he yielded at the request of the baroness to talk it over. He was ashamed of himself, and listened attentively to the projects offered by this marriage agent.

“ Voyons y you are ruined, completely ruined. Your only chance is to marry a rich woman. Now perhaps I can find you a rich girl, who is anxious to wear a coronet. Countess, that looks remarkably well on one’s linen, a coronet with nine points is the prettiest of all.’’ The first feelings of pride had left Raoul. After all he was the last of his race, no one had a right to ask him to account for his conduct. He certainly could not consider in the light of a family the few antiquities that remained in Gascony. There was only his Aunt de Lansac to whom he owed any family recognition, and since he had quarreled with her, all her property was to go to the hospital at Livone. She

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was a very devout woman he heard, never missed early mass, and attired herself as near like a nun as she could. Pouah ! He hated the country, with its prejudices and narrow mindedness, he would never go back. Never !

Besides, the woman he married would never know that he bartered his title for her gold. The marriage accomplished, the commission paid, he would forever close his doors to Gaetana and Bressac, “ Why, he would be generous and pay them a large commission.”

“ Well, Madame, I accept your proposition ; find me a rich wife and I shall be very grateful and pay you handsomely.”

“ Hclas ! Monsieur, my modest fortune obliges me to receive some pecuniary recompense, were it otherwise I never would desire any payment.”

Then she began to talk of a charming young girl, well educated, extremely pretty, living with her widowed mother. “ It’s really the mother who requested me to try and find a husband for the young lady.”

“ Have you been acquainted with them a long time ? ”

“Only since the death of the father, who was a large manufacturer ; the girl is fair and tall.”

“ Ah ! neighbors ; perhaps I met them this morning.”

“ Really ; have you already met them ? What a curious thing chance is. Doubtless they were coming from mass.” The baroness pretended to be perfectly astonished.

“Well ! You see the girl is pretty enough for a prince, and such a magnificent fortune, more than a million. Half of it is hers to do as she pleases with on her wedding day. The mother’s health is poor. You will be a millionaire before long, Monsieur.”

“ Are you quite sure her dowry is over five hundred thousand ? ”

“ Yes ! Why ? ”

“ Because it is not the amount that interests me individually, only I suppose out of my future wife’s dowry I will have to pay your commission.”

“Oh, no; do not let that bother you. Just give us your note for three hundred thousand, which we are obliged to charge as commission. The rest of the fortune belongs to you.” Seeing that Raoul shuddered, she hastened to say, “ You need not pay us in a lump sum ; little by little, we would not inconvenience you for the world.” At that moment the sound of a piano was heard.

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“ Your future bride, mon cher, she is a remarkably fine musician.”

The young girl was playing one of Schubert’s Nocturnes. Raoul remembered the piece, his mother used to play it at Mercoeur Sur Baise, when he was a child.

“No! No! No !” he cried. “ A marriage arranged like this is infamous ! ”

The baroness replied :

“ You would prefer, perhaps, being arrested for debt. In eight days you would beg of me to find you a wife. It will be too late then. The Count of Mercoeur, arrested for debt and a bankrupt, never could hope to marry Jeanne Berthout, the daughter and heiress of a respectable manufacturer.”

Raoul was silenced. Gaetana arose and walked over to her desk for a pen and sheet of stamped paper.

“ Now, Monsieur, let us finish this trivial affair, write what I tell you ; you will be grateful to me some day.”

“ /, the U7ider signed, Raoul Pontais, Count of Mercoeur y promise on my honor , to give to the Baroness San Ranazziy the sum of three himdred thousand francs out of the dowry of Mademoiselle Jeanne Berthouty if in one year from now, this lady becomes

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my wife through the mediation of Madame San Ra?iazzi."

“ That is all right, now sign it and put your address, 54 Rue St. Dominique. It is always better to do things in a business-like way, we are only mortals.”

“ But as this is a business affair, what guarantee have you that I should pay the above note ? Individually I have not a cent.”

“ Your word as a gentleman is sufficient, my dear sir.”

“ What a magnificent day, the end of spring,” cried Bressac, as he opened the door of the salon ; behind . him came the guests, laughing, with their arms full of flowers.

Raoul had written with a very trembling hand, and as he cast his eager eyes on the paper held by madame, who carefully read it, smiling as she saw the glance he gave on his dishonored signature, she took good care to lock it up in her steel escritoire.

“ How unkind of you to have left us alone,” said the Duchess of Roquemont to the baroness.

“I had a bad headache.”

“Oh, yes, and as a nurse I suppose you selected the Count de Mercoeur ; allow me to congratulate

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Raoul felt feverish and wretched, and paid no attention to the duchess, nor did he return Bressac’s hand shake ; he was in a hurry to leave, to quit the society where everything was assumed, and he himself was obliged to be. He invented an invitation to dine in Paris.

“ What, are you going so soon to leave us ? ”

“ I am obliged, Madame, unfortunately.”

“ Now you know the way to the house I hope you won’t forget us. I spend the entire summer here,” and she bowed her adieus in a most dignified way.

Raoul hurried to the railroad station, trying hard to repress the word, “canaille,” which escaped from his lips.

It was in the hands of this “ canaille,” that he placed his reputation, “ Pardieu.” He guessed why the Roquemonts were always at her house, evidently the duke had not paid all the commissions due yet. And Bressac, what r61e was he playing ? Was he an unconscious intermediary, or paid employee ? Bressac was not unconscious ! With his cleverness and sagacity, no. He must profit by these nefarious negotiations, perhaps a partner of Gaetana’s, he noticed she often said “ We.”

“ This man whom I called my friend, a college chum, is he only a scoundrel, a blackleg ? But

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am I myself any better than Bressac ? What evil genius has taken hold of me this morning ! ”

When he reached his chambers, Joseph had bad news for him. They were going to summon him through the sheriff, on the following day, for nonpayment of rent.

“ No, after all, Bressac had acted the good friend; this marriage will be my salvation,” and the names of many of his friends came into his mind, who had been married in the same way. Roquemont, Lastignac, Montbrun, Marsies, and many others, whose names and families were as good as his own.

“ Pardieu /” The old instincts were not dead within him yet ; he remembered his parents, so straightforward, so upright ; then Aunt Economy, whose strictness and honesty was proverbial in Gascony. His father’s bravery and nobility came back to him as he remembered how he fell at Patay.

Joseph was saying, “I do not know what I can tell them, and when I think the sheriff’s officer will be here to-morrow, — they are almost here now.” Raoul straightened himself up and said harshly, “ You go to the landlord, and as you do not know what else you can say to him, say this, ‘ I will surely pay you before the end of the month, along with the rest of my creditors.’ ” It was a miserable evening for Raoul, and he dined alone.

At Bellevue, Bressac and Gaetana only exchanged a few words.

“ How goes it ? ”

“He put on airs, but toils.”

we have him fast in our

III

Mademoiselle Jeanne Berthout was the only child of a rich manufacturer, lately deceased. Jeanne’s father had, like many others, worked himself up, having been foreman in the works he owned when he died. He had married the daughter of the proprietor, and had the pleasure of seeing on his wedding day, “Jean Berthout and Company” on the letter heads and over the doors of the huge factory. An entirely commercial marriage, no love on either side to distinguish it from the usual bourgeoise marriage, where the chief foreman usually marries one of the daughters.

Love, love ! he never thought of that, nor was it considered a necessary appendage to marriage. Where could he find time to make love. Plenty of orders, adding up bills and ordering workmen, and trying to prevent them from joining trades unions took up all his time.

He read his wife’s disposition thoroughly in a month, and saw she was a good little Parisian, fond of bon-bons and dress, and spent her afternoons

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shopping. Nothing pleased her better than a Sunday spent in the country. She selected Sunday for her reception day, as her husband’s business friends and their wives could grace her salon on that day. When the child was born it almost caused a quarrel ; the mother wanted to play with it as a doll, to her husband’s disgust, and he determinedly declared that the child was a human being, and he would have her educated as such, and he had a paternal right to direct the manner in which she was to be brought up.

“ You .have your friends to entertain, shopping to do, balls and receptions to attend ; you cannot take a child to all those places, even though she is dressed like an idol.”

Madame Berthout did not object to giving up her daughter’s education to her husband, and when she would speak of him to her friends it was to say :

“ He is a good fellow ; he makes an excellent nurse.”

We will leave Madame Berthout to her acquaintances. Monsieur Berthout had ordered the nurse to take the child for an airing every day in front of the workshop, and would often leave his desk and office to snatch a kiss from her rosebud lips. One day, when his wife came in unexpectedly, she went

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over to kiss Jeanne, saying, “My pet, I have not seen her since this morning.’' Her husband said, “ Hush, she is asleep now ; wait till she wakes up.” Nothing was allowed to disturb Jeanne’s repose. Her father directed her life automatically, and it was on his knees she first learned her “A B C’s.” When she reached her teens, her father’s study was the only place she learned her lessons, and often asked his assistance to solve some problem. Nothing delighted her more than to be able to coax him to leave his business for a few hours, and one day he asked her if she liked to go to an exhibition of machinery. She replied joyously, “Father, I am happy with you anywhere.” Her mother declined to go (as she had to go to a reception of a friend), so Jeanne and her father went alone. He had taught her the use of all the machinery used in his business, pointed out which was the best workman, and she was as delighted as he when he bought a new machine. She was so proud on her fifteenth birthday to receive a steel jewel case, marked with gold letters :

“ A present from her father’s workmen, and made in his shop.”

One day she came to the office where he was talking with his lawyer, who hesitated to speak

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before the young lady. “ Continue your conversation,” Jean Berthout said, “my daughter is my partner.”

This happy state of affairs was interrupted in consequence of a severe physical and mental strain. Jean Berthout contracted some heart trouble. Menaced by aneurism of one of the arteries, he felt death was close at hand ; he had one last wish, which he worked with almost gigantic force to achieve. He trebled his business, *so that Jeanne might be a millionaire.

Often she would beg of him to desist from his labors, and forcibly take him from his office, long after midnight.

The desired million was soon earned, which he invested in Government bonds ; then there was the business, the factories, the house and furniture, all for Jeanne. Too late he consented to rest ; his last effort broke the silver cord. He died suddenly in his foundry.

Jeanne was utterly prostrated ; her tears never ceased to flow until the day of the funeral ; her only consolation were the words “ Father, father.”

The pomp and ceremony disgusted her ; the crowd at the church and cemetery dazed her ; it was raining, everything was wet and damp. The priests were in a hurry to get the body in the ground ; the sympathies and caresses of friends fell on her ears with a far-off sound.

When she returned home, her mother immediately gave orders to the servants to open the shutters and clear all the funeral flowers out, light fires, and make the house look cheerful. To hear her mother talk this way was a terrible shock to Jeanne, and she ran to her own room crying. Her mother came after her, and said, in a peevish tone, “My child, I can't allow you to stay here in all your wet clothes until evening. Why, you will grieve yourself to death.” She let her mother’s maid take her bonnet and crape shawl without paying the slightest attention to them. Her grief completely prostrated her.

A few days afterward Madame Berthout brought a paper for her to sign.

“ What is it for, mother ? ”

“I am going to sell the factory.”

She never supposed her mother would sell the factory which her father’s industry had built. “ Why cannot we keep it ? It is a part of my dowry.” Her mother looked at the girl with astonishment.

“ Are you crazy ? Keep the factory ? I suppose you would like to run it — you have your father’s ideas. To keep the factory you would have to marry a mechanic. With your fortune you certainly ought to marry some one better than a workman.”

“ I will do what you like, mother ; but the house ! ”

“ The house and factory will all be sold together. I have made all necessary arrangements ; the only thing required is your signature, on account of the peculiar way your father made his will.”

“Very well, mother ! ”

After the house and factory had been sold Madame Berthout found herself in possession of fifteen hundred thousand francs in cash. She hastened to leave the Marais, this bourgeois neighborhood, and bought a magnificent house in the Faubourg St. Honore.

Her mourning was the richest money could buy, one mass of crape ; she wore it the regulation time. The only regret she had was, that her daughter had not been educated in a fashionable boarding school, but on that subject her husband had been inflexible. Jeanne had never been in a school in her life. Her father had been her sole instructor,

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and she had no young friends or confidantes to whom she could open her heart.

Madame Berthout, intoxicated by the change in her social position, did nothing but talk of her money and the property she owned — her villa at Bellevue. At last she was mistress of her own house, and could dress her servants in black livery now. By and by it would be blue and gold, with her initials on their buttons !