45. XLV.
IN WHICH CAPTAIN WAGNER REQUESTS MONSIEUR JAMBOT TO
PULL HIS NOSE.
THE spectacle which greeted Falconbridge as he
entered the doorway of the Ordinary, was one of
those tableaux which are only presented upon
extraordinary occasions, and under peculiar
circumstances.
In the middle of the apartment, Captain Wagner and
Monsieur Jambot were locked in a tender, and fraternal
embrace, upon which Mrs. Butterton looked with tears of
joyous agitation and hysterical delight.
What had caused this fine picture? Let us explain.
Since the evening when Mrs. Butterton yielded to the onset
of the valiant Borderer, the bosom of Monsieur Jambot
had been consumed by a gloomy internal fire. He had
speedily discovered the result of that low-toned conversation
between the Captain and the widow—and the discovery was
gall and wormwood to him. He had flattered himself, with
that talent for hope which characterizes his nation, that all
obstacles to an union with himself would disappear from the
mind of Mrs. Butterton—that she regarded Captain Wagner
with nothing more than ordinary friendship—and that
he himself had only to wait, and the prize would be his
own.
When he now found his rival successful, his own hopes all
crushed, the demon of revenge invaded his breast; and he
set about obeying its dictates.
On the evening of the day to which we have now arrived, he
clad himself carefully from top to toe, and paid minute attention
to every detail of his costume and appearance. His
silk stockings were irreproachable; his coat almost as good
as new; his frill immense and snow-white; his cocked hat
resting gallantly on his powdered peruke, the model chapeau
of a noble chevalier. Indeed Jambot was truly a chevalier
of Touraine, of no means; but vastly ancient race,—and had
much of the bel air in his carriage when he chose to adopt it
—he was a noble still.
In this guise he presented himself before Mrs. Butterton,
and declared with deep sadness that in the distant land to
which he was soon about to proceed, he would always remember
her, and speak of her to his friends with admiration
and respect.
The fair lady looked surprised at this announcement, and
said:
“Why, where are you going, Monsieur Jambot?”
“I go to my native Touraine, madame,” returned Monsieur
Jambot with a touching air, “I am desolated to announce
this to madame, but 'tis necessary. I go to the home of my
race, to my native land. My worthy aunt has had the politeness
to die—I have some rentes—my cousin, the Vicomte
de Louvais, will give the poor exile home—or in the most
hospitable mansion of my uncle, Monsieur le Chevalier de
Sautry, I shall linger out, it may be, these few sad years,
which, alas! will pass themselves so far from madame!”
With these words Monsieur Jambot assumed an expression
of mingled love and sorrow, which really became him,
and had no little effect upon the widow. She had liked
Monsieur Jambot—had indeed thought seriously of bestowing
her hand upon him—a possession which he evidently
coveted. He was poor and homeless, but then he was gallant
and chivalric; he might be romantic and unfit for business,
but then he was devoted and kind-hearted—he would
love her and wait upon her; she might do worse than become
Madame Jambot. These reflections, we say, had more
than once passed through the mind of Mrs. Butterton, and
now when the triste exilé as he often called himself, spoke of
departing—when he addressed her in a strain of such touching
regret and affection—the heart of the lady felt all its
old impressions revive, and the graces of Captain Wagner
for the moment quite disappeared from her memory. She
therefore responded to the touching address of her admirer
by looking sadly at him, and saying:
“Are you really obliged to go, Monsieur Jambot?”
“'Tis better,” replied her sorrowful companion; “'tis best
for the peace of mind of madame's poor friend. That friend
will not make himself too free with those events, he will say
those tragic events, which have come to desolate his life, to
crush his hopes, to make the life of him but a mocking
dream, a chimera, which disappears! May the friend of the
poor chevalier be happy in one who goes to love her much,
though not so greatly as another! May he feel in his native
home, at the board of De Sautry, or on the battlements
of the Chateau de Louvais which makes itself admired by all
upon the green banks of the Loire, that he has still a friend
—a fair and beautiful friend in the distant land from which
he now goes to depart—may he know that one whom he has
loved, with a love so profound, so devoted, so ineffable, has
not forgotten him, but thinks still of him, and perhaps in
the bright days will murmur, `Finally he loved me very
much, this poor sad chevalier—this exile!' ”
The head of the fair widow sank. The mournful words
impressed her deeply, and revived all her old affection.
There was more than one emotion in her heart as she gazed
at him now, sadly and kindly. There was pity, regard, that
sympathy which the female bosom never fails to conceive for
the man who loves with real devotion—there was more.
Monsieur Jambot was thus, after all, a nobleman! His
family were Chevaliers and Viscounts! He was going back
to the battlements of castles and chateaus, the possessions
of his uncles and cousins! As Madame Jambot, she would
have sat at the right hand of the noble De Sautry, and De
Louvais—been a member of that elevated and refined society—this
was lost to her! Such reflections were passing
through the mind of the lady, and they were not without
their effect upon her. She had abundant reason to know
that all that Monsieur Jambot said was true—and her head
drooped as she gazed at him. It is no more than justice to
add, however, that pity and grief at parting with an old
friend were the chief causes of her sadness. The tone of
her companion was hopeless and resigned—he was yielding
like an honest chevalier to a more favored rival,—without
complaint, with the air of a gentleman who is unfortunate
and retires. Could she suffer him to depart without assuring
him of her lasting affection?
These reflections had so much influence upon her, that
the fair Mrs. Butterton begged Monsieur Jambot to come
and sit beside her. He obeyed with a resigned and touching
air, which deepened the impression produced by his
words.
The lady then proceeded to reply to his sad address.
Gracefully evading the allusion to “another,” she professed
for Monsieur Jambot a lasting and most affectionate regard.
He had proved himself, she said, a true friend, on very many
occasions—she had found from many circumstances, that
he was as reliable and devoted in his regard, as he was
kindly and sincere in his feelings, and she could not give
him up—she could not bid him farewell—he must not—
must not—go!
With these words, the last of which were uttered in a
broken and agitated voice, the fair widow turned her head
away, placed her handkerchief to her eyes, and uttered a
sob.
The sound seemed to act like an electric shock upon Monsieur
Jambot. He uttered a deep groan—cried, “Oh
heaven! She weeps!”—and falling upon his knees, caught
her other hand in his own, and pressed it ardently to his
lips.
It was just at this moment that a heavy step resounded
behind Monsieur Jambot, a tremendous growl was heard,
and a sonorous voice, full of wrath and astonishment,
cried:
“Ho there! On his knees, or the devil fly away with
me!”
It was Captain Wagner:—Captain Wagner astounded;
Captain Wagner furious; Captain Wagner boiling with fiery
jealousy and indignation, and threatening with his drawn
sword to let loose the bloody dogs of war upon his enemy.
Monsieur Jambot rose quickly to his feet, and returned
the look of the Captain with one equally ferocious.
“Ah? ventrebleu! Monsieur le Capitaine goes to get
angry!” he hissed in a mocking and satiric tone. “Monsieur
is of the jealous!”
“No sir! I'm not jealous,” returned the Captain, “but
it is my intention to spit your carcass on this little trinket
—to skin you, and eat you, hind legs and all, Monsieur
Frog-eater! If I don't I'm a dandy and a kitten!”
With these awful words, the Captain advanced straight on
Monsieur Jambot, who had whipped out his little dress-sword,
and did not budge an inch; and in an instant the
weapons clashed together.
A grim pleasure at his opponent's pluck came to the
face of the Captain, and gravely saluting with his other
hand, he made a lunge at his foe which would have
carried out the terrible threat just uttered, had it not
been for an unexpected circumstance. This circumstance
was nothing less than the disappearance of the valiant Captain's
head, shoulders, arm and sabre, beneath a huge horse-blanket,
from the folds of which the weapon of the soldier
made ineffectual slashes in the air.
The hysterical Mrs. Butterton had performed this feat.
In her agitation she had seized and made use of the huge
wrapping, and it had answered the purpose which she designed.
Captain Wagner resembled, as he struggled and
struck out wildly, one of those luckless individuals whom
the Venetian “Ten” doomed to the stiletto, a mantle being
thrown over their heads before the blow.
In an instant he extricated himself, breathing fire and
slaughter; but it was only to find his sword arm drawn down
by the entire weight of Mrs. Butterton's person.
“For shame, Captain! for shame!” cried the lady, with
blushing agitation, and pouting; “how could you treat
Monsieur Jambot so badly, so cruelly!”
“Badly, madam!” thundered the Captain, with Olympian
indignation and astonishment. “Cruelly! Did I not see
him with my own eyes kneeling there! Did I not see him
kissing your hand, madam, and making love to you?”
“And if he did kiss my hand, what of that?” said the
lady, with a more obvious pout still; “my hand is my own,
and no one else's!”
“That may be, madam,” returned the soldier, still irate,
but growing cooler at these significant words, “but I'll none
the less have Monsieur's blood!”
“You shall not fight with him, or he with you!” cried the
widow, again, alarmed at the Captain's ferocity; “I tell you
it was nothing; Monsieur Jambot is going away!”
And Mrs. Butterton rapidly related the particulars of the
interview; forgetting, however, to mention the unimportant
circumstance that she had urged the nephew of the Chevaier
de Santry not to depart. The history quite changed
the feelings and intentions of the worthy Captain. He
grew gradually cooler, and soon recovered all his equanimity,
when he reflected that his rival was about to go. Had he
not been guilty, indeed, of wanton insult and annoyance to
that gentleman? Was his ferocious attack well calculated
to advance him in the estimation of his lady love? Did he
not owe Monsieur Jambot a full and frank explanation—an
apology, and a disclaimer of all intent to outrage him?
These thoughts passed seriatim through the mind of the
worthy, as he listened; and at the end of the relation, his
mind was made up. Replacing his sword in its scabbard,
he fixed upon Mrs. Butterton a look full of sorrowful but
ardent adoration, and said:
“I am glad that you arrested me in my course, madam!
I was wrong. But in certain states of mind, I have always
observed that the most intelligent men act like fools, or non
compos mentis people, as the Greeks say. You understand
me, madam,” said the Captain, with immense significance;
“and I leave you to decide. As to Monsieur Jambot, I am
willing and even desirous to assure that gentleman, for whom
I have a very high esteem, of my regrets. I was wrong—I
was a fool and ninny, or I'm a dandy! Monsieur Jambot, I
have grown a pair of long ears, I'm a donkey, or the devil
take it! If it will be any satisfaction, and productive of
any pleasure to you, you are at liberty to pull my miserable
nose, or cut off, with that handsome sword of yours, the
lengthy ears of which I spoke—only I beg of you to pull
with a gentle and tender hand, and to leave enough of the
said ears to grow out again—or the future historian of my
eventful life will write in the book which he makes about
my adventures, the words, `Captain Longknife was destitute
of ears!' which would be shocking and mortifying to my
descendants—to my very great grandchildren!”
With these solemn words, Captain Wagner bowed courteously
to Monsieur Jambot, and added:
“I am ready to shake hands, my dear friend, and beg
your pardon—I'll do it—if I don't, I'm a dandy!”
“Shake hands!” cried Monsieur Jambot, whose temper
was excitable, but as generous as the day, “it shall not be
that we shake hands, Mon cher Capitaine and friend—that
we embrace!”
As he spoke the worthy Jambot extended his arms, and
the two bloody foes were locked in a fraternal embrace.
The chin of Captain Wagner reposed affectionately between
the shoulders of his friend; the countenance of Monsieur
Jambot appeared above the arm of the other; and to make
the whole complete, the fair lady who had caused all the
commotion, stood by crying—but laughing too, and rejoicing
at the result.
It was then that Falconbridge entered, and stood silent
with astonishment; but all was soon explained to him.
“The fact is, my dear Falconbridge, your friend Wagner
is a fool,” said the Captain; “but when a man grows jealous
he sees things double, or I'm a dandy! I remember hearing
about a black fellow who knocked up a courtship with some
king's daughter or other, by his nigger-witchcraft, and ran
off with her[1]
—after which he got jealous without any reason,
and choked her to death with a bolster. Falconbridge,”
said the Captain, with affecting solemnity of accent,
“beware of jealousy!”
