University of Virginia Library

18. XVIII.
Wash. Fudge becomes Involved.

OUR good cousin Washington is not to be
forgotten. We must go back to Paris
to find him. He is luxuriating in the way that
most very young Americans are apt to luxuriate
in the gay capital. It is an odd truth, but confirmed
by very much out-of-the-way observation
of my own, that if you put a young New-Yorker on
the road to the d—l, he will gallop there faster
than any youngster of any nation upon the face
of the globe. The old adage of the beggar on
horseback will occur to the erudite reader; yet it
is not apropos: a beggar is not often on horseback;
but a travelling New-York youngster is

rarely pursuing his journey in any other direction
than that I have suggested.

Those elegant young gentlemen who introduce
the fashions for shirt-collars, small pantaloons,
charms, short canes, schottisch, or matinées, are
not, in a general way, very robust of brain: the
atmosphere of Paris is almost uniformly fatal to
those who are not robust in that organ. The ladies
must explain why it is that such feebleness in our
city scions is becoming common. It is my opinion
—whatever Mr. Theodore Parker or Miss Abby
Folsom may say—that ladies, young and old, are
much more accountable for the intellectual and
moral habits of our thriving boys, than they are for
slavery, or a low tariff. Under the present hop-and-skip
aspect of the town society, it is certain
that strong-minded ladies content themselves with a
side-view, and do not take an active part in the
entertainment of such young gentlemen as my
cousin Wash. Fudge.

In the saloon, however, of the pretty, but middle-aged
Countess de Guerlin, Washington found
kindness.

Nothing so touches the heart of a stranger in
a foreign land as a tender sympathy.

“Oh, mon petit,” said the charming lady, “I like
you so much! and that odious colonel, who has

won your money, I detest him; il est monstre!
But, my dear, it will turn better, I feel ver' sure.
Cou-rage, Vashy!”

And the three thousand already mentioned are
not all. Indeed, a sight-draft (which my uncle
Solomon abominates) is on its way for double the
amount. And the little suppers—charming affairs
—are more and more frequent; and so are the
drives in the pleasant Bois de Boulogne.

Once or twice it does occur, even to the darkened
mind of Wash. Fudge, that it might possibly be
better to forswear high society, live quietly, and
observe a little more attentively what might be
worth observing in so extended a tract of country
as Europe. Once or twice, I say, this does occur,
with a winning fancy of some definite object in life,
more than looking on, or dancing, or losing money
at “écarté;” but it is a shadowy fancy; the
straggling remnant of some magazine suggestion,
or fragment of a sermon; and has none of the
vitality about it which belongs to the graceful
speech of the Guerlin.

Moreover, the mamma, Mrs. Phœbe, riding in
her claret coach, is she not spending years in just
such conquest of brilliant connection as the hopeful
Washington has leaped upon at a bound? Is not
our lively boy dutifully pursuing the bent of his

early impressions? And he slips on in his Guerlin
coupé, with very much the same quietude of
conscience with which the stout woman, my aunt
Phœbe, prosecutes her daily drives with the angelic
Wilhelmina, amid the delightful scenery of human
vanities.

But there are roughnesses even in the soft paths
of life; and to anticipate them is almost a conquest.
Mrs. Fudge will find it so. Wash. Fudge has
found it so.

The draft for five thousand being on its way,
Wash., charmed with the Guerlin still, continues to
lend the attraction of his presence to the petits
soupers in the Rue de Helder. The old gentleman
in the white moustache is unfailing; and the
colonel, the monster, presumes also to be present,
and to play unflinchingly at “écarté.” It is in
strong evidence of the disinterestedness of the
Countess, that she has never received from Mr.
Fudge the amount of her private earnings; she has,
indeed, transferred a few of his souvenirs of indebtedness
to the gentleman of the white moustache;
but Washington feels bold and grateful: he playfully
provokes, upon a certain evening, very large
bettings with the Countess, and loses. The
delicious supper and the excitement of the evening
drive the matter out of his mind. Indeed, it might

have escaped him wholly, if the colonel had not
called upon him a few days after, and urged, in his
blandest manner, that he, Wash. Fudge, should
cancel that little debt to the Countess.

Washington is surprised. He will call on
madame.

“Pardon; Madame la Comtesse is engaged
to-day.”

Mr. Fudge cannot act in the matter without
authority from the Countess.

Mr. Fudge may relieve himself of all anxiety,
since Madame la Comtesse is the wife of his obedient
servant, the Colonel Duprez.

The French are a polite people, as the colonel's
manner abundantly proved. He even volunteered
an explanation in reply to Washington's expression
of distrust.

“I wish to say, Monsieur” (and the colonel
tweaks his moustache), “that my wife (c'est à dire,
la Comtesse de Guerlin) has handed to me these little
billets. They bear, I think, your name, and a promise
to pay, de vue, twenty-five hundred francs.
Pas grand chose, but les affaires me pressent beaucoup.
Je vous attend, Monsieur.”

“The wife of Colonel Duprez? Impossible!”

“Vous croyez, Monsieur?” And the colonel plays
with his moustache.

In despair, Mr. Fudge asks if the colonel can
wait until to-morrow.

“With the greatest pleasure.” And the colonel
withdraws, leaving our pleasant hero in a very
excited condition. Twenty-five hundred francs are
not so very much: but to be so deceived! Surely
the Countess can be no party to this imposition.
And he is the more confirmed in this opinion by the
speedy receipt of a delicate note, in the handwriting
of his “distressed Countess.”

“She fears that monstre, the colonel, has importuned
him; has told him—all, perhaps! Oh!
the false-heartedness and vexations of the world!
Poor, trusting woman! her tears blind her as she
writes. Do not, dear Mr. Fudge, be disturbed. A
bientôt. Beatrice de Guerlin.”

And very soon it is that the charming coupé stops
at the door of Mr. Fudge's hotel, not, as formerly,
to command the attendance of our hero; but in the
grief of the late disclosure, the Countess worthily
abandons her pride, and finds her way in person to
the apartment of our excited cousin. Never before
had Mr. Fudge taken such pride in the elaborate
elegance of his salon; never before had his mirrors
reflected such distinguished presence.

And the Countess is bewitchingly dressed: such
gloves; such a delicately-fitted boot and waist;

such a coy, half-yielding of the veil! Poor Washington!

“And, mon cher Vash., the colonel has been
here?”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse.”

“Monstre!—and he has told you”—

“A very queer story, Madame.”

“Ah, mon Dieu! Que je suis malheureuse!” and
the pretty veiled head falls upon the pretty gloved
hands, as if tears were being shed.

Washington is sympathetic, and his tones show it.

“Ah, mon cher!” says the countess, recovering,
and walking up and down in a very excited, but
very dramatic manner, “it is too much! too much!
He has taken all—all but this poor heart [a dainty
glove presses pleadingly upon the heaving bosom],
this poor heart—he has not—oh no, no, mon cher
Monsieur!”

Wash. Fudge is sympathetic, and takes her
hand—a charming little hand! “Can he do nothing
for his dear Countess?”

“She fears not: even her jewels are to be sold.”

Wash. Fudge says her jewels shall not be sold.

She does not hear him. “My dear mother's
jewels”—

“They shall not be sold: I will save them!”
says Wash. excitedly.

“Ah, quel bon cœur!” and the Countess looks
fondly and gratefully upon poor Wash.

And poor Wash. is failing fast; and the tears
gather in the eyes of the Countess; and she hides
them: she can hide them only by dropping her head
upon the shoulder of our suffering hero.

Now, just as Washington Fudge found himself in
this very affecting attitude, the door was suddenly
opened (as doors open in melo-dramas), and there
appeared the figure of Colonel Duprez!

The Countess shrieked. The colonel looked—
iron. Yet he was generous. Washington allowed
it; although an aggrieved man, he showed great
magnanimity. He led away the Countess in a
drooping condition. He turned a last look upon
the horrified young Fudge—a look of marble, which
was worse, even, than the iron one.

He sent a friend to Mr. Fudge to arrange a
meeting for the next day in the Bois de Boulogne.

This did not leave pleasant matter for reflection
with our young friend. It is my opinion that New
York fashionable education does not cultivate those
powers of observation which contemplate gaily a
possibility of death, even with broad-swords, or
duelling-pistols. And yet, judging from the small-sized
limbs belonging to most of the present habitués
of Broadway, one might suppose they could

allow themselves to be shot at from an honorable
distance with perfect impunity. Mr. Washington
Fudge showed no appreciation of this advantage of
person.

I cannot say that he slept soundly. It was a
capital thing to boast of, provided he should escape.
What a thing to tell down at Bassford's, on his
return; or at the New York Club; or to mention
incidentally and apologetically at the Spindles's—
those elegant people, who had made considerable
capital out of a challenge once sent by a third
cousin of theirs to Colonel Magloshky! What a
thing to hint at, as a trifling occurrence, when
dining in company with the tall Captain Gohardy,
of Governor's Island!

It has often been a wonder to me what would be
precisely the sensations of a man of no very strong
nerve, in anticipation of standing up to be shot at.
They can hardly be pleasant. There may be a wild
sort of satisfaction in shooting at a brutal fellow
who has injured you; but for him to have a shot at
you, is a different matter. It is a rational admission,
so far as there is any rationality in it, that
your lives are on a par, and that your own is quite
as worthless as his. This, indeed, may well happen;
but, so far as my observation goes, it is not currently
recognized: most of us possess an instinctive

and weakly leaning toward the belief that our own
lives are comparatively invaluable. Washington
Fudge had long nursed this fancy, in a subdued and
quiet way.

It is a very brave thing to fight a duel, but
uncomfortable. If a man could be sure of a ball
in the right quarter—say the fleshy part of the
arm, or of the thigh, or a grazing shot upon one of
the ribs; or, indeed, a ball plump through the
heart; or no hit at all—it would be well enough.
But it is not pleasant to anticipate (especially if
one has a slight acquaintance with anatomy) a
bullet in the shoulder-joint, occasioning infinite
pain, and a crippled limb for life: or a ball in the
hip, badly scratching the femoral artery, and bloating
up into aneurisms; or in the articulation of the
lower jaw, splintering bones of importance; or one
in the lungs, producing great wheezing and weak
wind for the residue of life; or in the stomach,
allowing much gastric juice to escape, and spoiling
all thought of dinners for ever.

It is much the same thing with the short-sword;
there is no determining in advance what particular
spot our antagonist will select for a home-thrust;
and under the short-sword excitement, he may be
quite as apt to “stamp the vitals” as any other
part.

I must confess that I am no duel-theorist. In
the place of my cousin Wash. Fudge (which, however,
I should cautiously have avoided), I think I
should have declined fighting; considering that if my
life were worth anything either to Solomon, Mrs.
Phœbe, Wilhelmina, or the world in general, or
self in particular, it was worth more than that of
any such antagonist.

Howbeit, Wash was not strong enough or bold
enough to have the world speak ill of him; and
although trembling in his shoes at the bare thought
of Colonel Duprez and a broad-sword or a pistol, he
trembled still more at the thought of the Spindles
and the Pinkertons; and he determined to go out.

It was a dull, grey morning which followed upon
the arrangement of the meeting, and which was
to precede the final catastrophe. At least, our
friend Wash. said it was a dull grey morning, in
his letter; and such times are apt to be of a dull
grey. It was a dull, grey evening, if I remember
rightly, that preceded the killing of Macbeth; and
it was a dull grey day when Hamlet stabbed the
man behind the arras, thinking he was a rat. And
it was a dull, grey day when Robinson Crusoe went
ashore, and built his cave, and so on; and it was
another of the same sort of days when Olivia Primrose
ran off with a bad fellow, to wit, young Thornhill.

And it must have been, I think (though
Thackeray does not mention it), a day of the same
color, when Rawdon Crawley was smuggled out of
prison, and found Lord Steyne in little Becky
Sharpe's parlor, very lover-like and engaging in his
manner.

But in the midst of the greyness, the old Concierge
came up the stairs and delivered a letter from
Aunt Phœbe. It is surprising how a letter in a
well-known hand, bringing up old-fashioned thoughts
and feelings, will often break down the most
splendid imaginative flights in the world; and turn
us back by a grasp—not of iron, but of home-knit
mittens—from the fancy and ideal world, into a
world of almanacs and home-affection! Even in
the most extraordinary epochs of life, when we
fancy ourselves giants, or heroes, or saints, a letter
from old-time friends, very quaint, very familiar,
very full of our old weaknesses, reduces us at a
blow to the dull, standard actual; and convinces us,
against our glowing hope and thought, that we too
are, after all, frail mortals, tied to the poor fabric
of every-day life by the same bonds which tied
us always! We never rise to be more than sons,
or more than brothers, or more than men. And
happy is the calm-thoughted fellow who knows this
from the beginning; and who so orders his designs,

that every purpose may help toward the symmetric
fulfilment of a destiny, which is only ours by the
ordering of Providence; and which we may qualify
by worthy deeds, but never shake from us by a
spasm of pride or of anger.

Thus, while Wash. Fudge was about to submit
his valuable life to the turn of a short-sword, the
mamma was all hopefulness and beatitude; foreseeing
a magnificent triumph for her darling Washington
with the Spindles and the Pinkertons. He
was casting up his mortal longings and immortal
speculations, upon the hinge of two hours' time;
and she, rubicund in her sprawling periods, was
enjoying the charming fancy of the elegant young
Fudge in Parisian neck-tie and seductive vest-pattern!

Washington attempted to leave a few lines for
his mother. He went on very well for a sentence
or two, when he grew desperate and broke down;
exclaiming meantime, much more reverently than he
was in the habit of doing, “O Lord!” and shed
a few tears.

It was, as I said, a dull, grey morning; and it
continued to be dull and grey as Master Fudge
pursued his course, thoughtfully, in a hackney-cab,
out to the Bois de Boulogne. This wood (for wood
't is) is just outside one of the gates of Paris, and

is a scrubby, low forest, where one can find quiet
places for duels, or any diversion of that kind.

Never in all his experience of Paris coachmen
had Washington found a cocher who drove with such
spirit and zest. He seemed to advance upon a
gallop. The shops flitted dismally by. The fountains,
and gardens, and gay equipages, seemed to
have lost very much of their charm. And yet
Washington was loath to leave them behind him.

Once, in that fast drive, the wheels splashed very
near the great gateway of La Charité; it was
open; and they were carrying a man upon a litter,
whose shoulder had been shattered by a fall. A
wounded man upon a litter in the street, with crimson
blood dappling the white sheet that half covers
him, is at any time an unpleasant sight. But to
our friend Wash. it was painful to the last degree.

On and on rattled the furious cocher.

“A little slower,” said Wash.

And the driver slackened his speed along the
quay, where a group of invalid soldiers were lounging
on a bench, and reposing their wooden legs.

Washington turned to look upon the river,
gliding along placidly enough, bringing down floating
weeds and sticks from the laughing country of
Bourgogne, which Wash. remembered with a sigh.
And over the clanking bridge the hackney-coach

rolled on; and under the trees of the Elysian
Fields—very Elysian and gay to those of my
cousin's taste—and up the long reach of that great
avenue, toward the triumphal arch, plunged on the
hackney-cab that bore our depressed hero to his
first field of battle.

Now, it is my opinion, that the most serious part
of the embarrassment which beset the brilliant
Wash. Fudge, lay in the fact that the whole drift
of his elegant education and his fashionable tutelage
bore him as straightly and irresistibly to the duelling-ground
as the impetuous cocher himself. It was
a very awkward way of living up to Mrs. Fudge's
mark; or, what would be still more awkward, of
dying up to the mark.

A man who puts a reasonable value on his
life, has a respectable excuse for taking care of it,
and for keeping it, on ordinary, private occasions,
out of the reach of musket or pistol-shot. But
the man, on the contrary, who lives principally for
the attainment of elegant boudoir opinions, has no
sort of apology for shirking any demand which the
boudoir code of honor may make upon him, whether
as the mark for a cool eighteen-pace pistol-shot, or
the revolver of an aggrieved husband.

In short, young Wash. was just now paying in
the penance of cool perspiration for his extraordinary

steps toward high life. And he trembled
perceptibly when he landed from his cab upon the
spot designated. As yet, no one had appeared
upon the ground. Mr. Fudge sauntered about
uneasily. The sky was still grey. The sound of
the retiring coach had died away; a field-fare or
two were twittering in the bushes.

No one approached.

Mr. Fudge looked at his watch, and found it
some ten minutes past the hour agreed upon. His
spirits revived somewhat. It might be that the
colonel had thought better of the matter; at least,
there was hope; and he amused himself by calling
up old scenes—his elegant mother, the dashing
Wilhelmina, the pretty cousin Kitty; all which
thoughts, however, were presently dashed by the
approaching sound of wheels. The sound grew
nearer and nearer. The perspiration gathered upon
the brow of Mr. Fudge.

It was not a spot to which a carriage would
drive except by appointment. Therefore, when the
coachman reined up within a yard or two of Mr.
Fudge, he knew there could be no mistake.

A few minutes more, and he felt assured that he
would become a hero or a badly hurt man; perhaps
both.

At least so it appeared to Washington Fudge;

when the carriage-door opened, and there alighted—
the FEMME DE CHAMBRE of the Countess de Guerlin!

This accomplished young lady was the bearer of
a note, which ran in the following very incohorent
and distressed way:

It is needless to remark that Washington
breathed more freely; drove to his rooms with the
French femme de chambre; revolved the matter;
drew upon my uncle Solomon for a matter of five
thousand francs; and was safe—safe for his dear
mother's transports; safe for the Bodgers legacy.

Life in Paris is very gay for a young man of
parts. Subject to ups and downs, to be sure, but
gay. On many accounts, it is desirable; chiefly,
however, for those of cool tempers and active
brains. I do not think my cousin Washington is
possessed of these. I fear he is in the way of difficulty.
I have my doubts about the sincerity of
this Countess de Guerlin. I may be mistaken.

I hope I am.