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A Year of Nobility
by
“A marquis!” said he. “This bagoulard gives himself out for a marquis! He is nothing of the kind,–a rank humbug. There is a title in the family, an estate in France, it is true. But it is mine. I have seen the papers. I have paid money to the lawyer. I am waiting now for him to arrange the matter. This man knows nothing about it. He is a fraud. I will fight him now and settle the matter.”
If a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over Jean he could not have cooled off more suddenly. He was dazed. Another marquis? This was a complication he had never dreamed of. It overwhelmed him like an avalanche. He must have time to dig himself out of this difficulty.
“But stop,” he cried; “you go too fast. This is more serious than a pot of soup. I must hear about this. Let us talk first, Pierre, and afterwards–“
The camp was delighted. It was a fine comedy,–two fools instead of one. The men pricked up their ears and clamoured for a full explanation, a debate in open court.
But that was not Jean’s way. He had made no secret of his expectations, but he did not care to confide all the details of his family history to a crowd of fellows who would probably not understand and would certainly laugh. Pierre was wrong of course, but at least he was in earnest. That was something.
“This affair is between Pierre and me,” said Jean. “We shall speak of it by ourselves.”
In the snow-muffled forest, that afternoon, where the great tree- trunks rose like pillars of black granite from a marble floor, and the branches of spruce and fir wove a dark green roof above their heads, these two stray shoots of a noble stock tried to untangle their family history. It was little that they knew about it. They could get back to their grandfathers, but beyond that the trail was rather blind. Where they crossed neither Jean nor Pierre could tell. In fact, both of their minds had been empty vessels for the plausible lawyer to fill, and he had filled them with various and windy stuff. There were discrepancies and contradictions, denials and disputes, flashes of anger and clouds of suspicion.
But through all the voluble talk, somehow or other, the two men were drawing closer together. Pierre felt Jean’s force of character, his air of natural leadership, his bonhommie. He thought, “It was a shame for that lawyer to trick such a fine fellow with the story that he was the heir of the family.” Jean, for his part, was impressed by Pierre’s simplicity and firmness of conviction. He thought, “What a mean thing for that lawyer to fool such an innocent as this into supposing himself the inheritor of the title.” What never occurred to either of them was the idea that the lawyer had deceived them both. That was not to be dreamed of. To admit such a thought would have seemed to them like throwing away something of great value which they had just found. The family name, the papers, the links of the genealogy which had been so convincingly set forth,–all this had made an impression on their imagination, stronger than any logical argument. But which was the marquis? That was the question.
“Look here,” said Jean at last, “of what value is it that we fight? We are cousins. You think I am wrong. I think you are wrong. But one of us must be right. Who can tell? There will certainly be something for both of us. Blood is stronger than currant juice. Let us work together and help each other. You come home with me when this job is done. The lawyer returns to St. Gedeon in the spring. He will know. We can see him together. If he has fooled you, you can do what you like to him. When–PARDON, I mean if–I get the title, I will do the fair thing by you. You shall do the same by me. Is it a bargain?”