as he swallowed a glass of refino.
Suddenly from sabre hilts and pistol butts resounded vigorously on the badly-joined plank of the door, and a powerful voice shouted angrily, —
"Open, in the devil's name, or I'll smash in your miserable door!"
CHAPTER IV
COUNT MAXIME GAËTAN DE LHORAILLES
Before explaining to the reader the cause of the infernal noise which suddenly rose to disturb the tranquility of the people assembled in the pulquería, we are obliged to go back a little distance.
About three years before the period in which our story opens, on a cold and rainy December night, eight men, whose costumes and manners showed them to belong to the highest Parisian society, were assembled in an elegant private room of the Café Anglais.
The night was far advanced; the wax candles, two-thirds consumed, only spread a mournful light; the rain lashed the windows, and the wind howled lugubriously. The guests, seated round the table and the relics of a splendid supper, seemed, in spite of themselves, to have been infected by the gloomy melancholy that brooded over nature, and, lying back on their chairs, some slept, while others, lost in thought, paid no attention to what was going on around them.
The clock on the mantelpiece slowly struck three, and the last sound had scarcely died away ere the repeated cracking of a postilion's whip could be heard beneath the windows of the room.
The door opened and a waiter came in.
"The post-chaise the Count de Lhorailles ordered is waiting," he said.
"Thanks," one of the guests said, dismissing the waiter by a sign.
The latter went out, and closed the door after him. The few words he had uttered had broken the charm which enchained the guests; all sat up, as if aroused from sleep suddenly; and turning to a young man of thirty, they said, —
"It is really true that you are going?"
"I am," he answered, with a nod of affirmation.
"Where to, though? People do not usually part in this mysterious way," one of the guests continued.
The gentleman to whom the remark was addressed smiled sorrowfully.
The Count de Lhorailles was a handsome man, with expressive features, energetic glance, and disdainful lip; he belonged to the most ancient nobility, and his reputation was perfectly established among the "lions" of the day. He rose, and looking round the circle, said, —
"Gentlemen, I can perfectly well understand that my conduct appears to you strange. You have a right to an explanation from me, and I am most desirous to give it to you. It was, indeed, for that purpose that I invited you to the last supper we shall enjoy together. The hour for my departure has struck – the chaise is waiting. Tomorrow I shall be far from Paris, and within a week I shall have left France never to return. Listen to me."
The guests made a marked movement as they gazed on the count.
"Do not be impatient, gentlemen," he said; "the story I have to tell you is not long, for it is my own. In two words, here it is: —
"I am completely ruined. I have only a small sum of money left, on which I should starve in Paris, and end in a month by blowing out my brains – a gloomy perspective which possesses no attractions for me, I assure you. On the other hand, I have such a fatal skill with arms, that, without any fault of my own, I enjoy a reputation as a duellist, which weighs on me fearfully, especially since my deplorable affair with that poor Viscount de Morsens, whom I was obliged to kill against my will, in order to close his mouth and put a stop to his calumnies. In short, for the reasons I have had the honour of imparting to you, and an infinity of others it is needless for you to know, and which I am convinced would interest you very slightly, France has become odious to me to such a degree that I am most anxious to quit it. So now a parting glass of champagne, and good-by to all."
"A moment," remarked the guest who had already spoken. "You have not told us, count, to what country you intend to proceed."
"Can't you guess? To America. I am allowed to possess a certain amount of courage and intelligence, and therefore am going to a country where, if I may believe all I hear, those two qualities are sufficient to make the fortune of their possessor. Have you any more questions to ask me, baron?" he added, turning to his questioner.
The latter, ere replying, remained for some moments plunged in serious reflections; at length he raised his head, and fixed a cold and searching glance on the count.
"You really mean to go, my friend?" he said quite seriously. "You swear it on your honour?"
"Yes, on my honour."
"And you are really resolved to make for yourself, in America, a position at the least equal to that you held here?"
"Yes," he said sharply, "by all means possible."
"That is good. In your turn listen to me, count, and if you will profit by what I am about to reveal to you, you may perhaps, by the help of Heaven, succeed in accomplishing the wild projects you have formed."
All the guests drew round curiously; the count himself felt interested in spite of himself.
The Baron de Spurtzheim was a man of about five-and-forty. His bronzed complexion, his marked features, and the strange expression of his eye gave him a peculiar aspect, which escaped the notice of the vulgar herd, and caused him to be regarded as a really remarkable man by all intelligent persons.
The only thing known about the baron was his colossal fortune, which he spent royally. As for his antecedents, everyone was ignorant of them, although he was received in the first society. It was merely remarked vaguely that he had been a great traveller, and had resided for several years in America; but nothing was more uncertain than these rumours, and they would not have been sufficient to open the salons of the noble suburb to him, had not the Austrian ambassador, without his knowledge, served as his guarantee most warmly in several delicate circumstances.
The baron was more intimately connected with the count than with his other companions. He seemed to feel a certain degree of interest in him; and several times, guessing his friend's embarrassed circumstances, he had delicately offered him his assistance. The Count de Lhorailles, though too proud to accept these offers, felt equally grateful to the baron, and had allowed him to assume a certain influence over him, without suspecting it.
"Speak, but be brief, my dear baron," the count said. "You know that the chaise is waiting for me."
Without replying, the baron rang the bell. The waiter came in.
"Dismiss the postilion, and tell him to return at five o'clock. You can go."
The waiter bowed and went out.
The count, more and more amazed at his friend's strange conduct, did not make the least observation. However, he poured out a glass of champagne, which he emptied at a draught, crossed his arms, leant back in his chair, and waited.
"And now, gentlemen," the baron said in his sarcastic and incisive voice, "as our friend De Lhorailles has told us his history, and we are becoming confidential, why should I not tell you mine? The weather is fearful – it is raining torrents. Here we are, comfortably tiled in: we have champagne and regalias – two excellent things when not abused. What have we better to do? 'Nothing,' I hear you say. Listen to me, then, for I believe what I have to tell you
