Chapter III

“Friend,” said the new comer, “you appear overwhelmed with trouble. What can I do for you?”

“I will tell you, sir, what you can do,” said the major, haughtily drawing himself up; “you can take off your hat when you address me.”

“You are right,” replied the unknown, with a calm smile, removing his hat, “an honest man respects misfortune.”

“It is not my misfortunes, sir, but myself I insist on your respecting, when you do me the honor to speak to me.”

“You are French, sir.”

“A Frenchman and a nobleman.”

“You are mistaken.”

“What do you say, sir.”

“I say you cannot be a French nobleman, since there are no more noblemen in France.”

“I know not if there be any in France, but there is one here who will make you food for fishes.”

“You will not do it.”

“Do you mean that for a challenge?”

“Merely as advice. You are the cidevant Baron Anspach, of Phalsbourg, and you descend by the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine. I know that, and I know also that your farm near Phalsbourg has been confiscated, because you emigrated; that you have no funds in France, and that you are there condemned to death.”

“I am obliged to you for the information, but I see nothing in it to prevent my pitching you into the water.”

“You may be right, sir; but even should you drown me, I do not perceive how it will improve your affairs. You will only have one friend less, and very certainly one misfortune more.”

“It appears, sir, that you have pretensions to wit.”

“I do not know which of us two has the most, sir; I, who would enlighten you on your situation, or you who would throw me into the river for offering you my assistance.”

“I am your debtor, sir, but a gentleman descended from the last Dukes of Lorraine cannot accept the offers of a stranger.”

“And from whom can you expect them here, if not from a stranger.”

“Permit me to inform you, sir, that no gentleman is reduced to humiliation who retains his sword.”

“Why, how would you use it?”

“To chastise the scoundrel who would insult me with his importunate pity, and then, rather than expose myself to repeated injury, thrust it through my own body.”

“You speak proudly; but acknowledge that you can do better than thus to insult God by disposing of the life of your fellow being and yourself. Are you sure there is no resource left you but suicide?”

“Yes. I have six Louis left.”

“Better than that, Major Anspach; there is a treasure in your reach.”

“Perhaps you mean wisdom?”

“No, but something that leads to it.”

“What then do you mean?”

“Labor.”

“Ah, you are a moral reformer.”

“I am but an humble creature of God, major, whose consciousness of his fallibility has led him to pursue the useful conjoined to the good. But I have only discovered one resource that is alike beneficial to mind and body, to the one in this world, to the other in eternity.”

“And this thing,” said M. Anspach thoughtfully, “is labor?”

“Yes, sir, labor—man’s destiny since his creation.”

“Man—well, you are right, for being no longer a baron I am but a man. But what is your motive in this conversation? You have catechised me for an hour, as if I recognized your right to annoy me. Remember, sir, I do not even know your name.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh, the devil! take care; you shall not give me the lie twice.”

“Well,” said the unknown, smiling, “I am going to commit the offence for the third time, in repeating that you cannot be ignorant of my name.”

“Faith, sir, if you think your name of any importance, I do not prevent your telling it to me.”

“It was my intention to have done so just now, when I offered you my hand and my services. My name is Franklin.”

“Franklin! Ah, sir, what have I done! Can you ever pardon me? I throw myself at your feet.”

Mr. Franklin raised the major, laughing till the tears came into his eyes, and telling him that it was not the great man he imagined, as that luminary had ceased to enlighten the world two years before, but for want of a better he, George Steward Zachariah Franklin, of the firm of Franklin & Son, of New York, was at his service, and ready to give proofs of his identity to his worthy friend M. Anspach. He further explained, that it was on the recommendation of Lafayette himself, that he had sought him out; the latter on leaving America having related the major’s situation and adventures to him, and commended him to his attention. He added that if the major would do him the honor to dine with him, he would have the pleasure of submitting some propositions to him worthy of consideration.

Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg, extended his hand to Mr. Franklin, and pledged himself to profit for the future by the lesson of wisdom so opportunely received. The banker pursued his advantage so well that three days later the major left for Canada, and three months afterward was superintending the labors of five hundred colonists, who, under his orders, cleared a forest of some eight square leagues.

M. Anspach lived happily in these solitudes for twenty-five years, laboring to introduce civilization into their savage recesses. It was a rude apprenticeship for the cidevant courtier, but it is due to truth to declare that as his fortune increased, the major had the good sense to forget, for the moment at least, that he was descended on the female side from the last Dukes of Lorraine, and having married the daughter of a rich farmer, he thanked Providence, whose inscrutable ways had led him to true happiness at more than 1500 leagues from the Opera. Unfortunately the major’s wife died after a brief illness, leaving no children, and the day after her death he received letters from France, apprising him of the return of the Bourbons. The devil then put it into his head to remember his barony of Phalsbourg and his regiment. He immediately sold his American property, realized his whole fortune, which was more than a million of dollars, and embarked on board the Neptune for Havre. The voyage was prosperous until within sight of the coast of Brittany, when a sudden tempest arose, drove the vessel on shore and completely wrecked her. Some passengers were saved, among whom was the major, who landed on the shores of France as poor as he had left them thirty years before.

The only hope left to him after this disaster was, that he should be favorably received at court; and although his views were, in many respects, much changed, he resolved nevertheless to present himself to the king, in whose guards he had formerly served. But, from his first appearance, he saw there was no room for delusive expectations. In fact the major was not what was then termed “a nobleman broken down by exile,” he had dared to be happy while monarchy suffered, and to enrich himself among republicans, while other men of quality were forced to ask credit from the butchers of Coblentz. They did not even take into account his recent misery, since it was owing to a fortuitous accident, and he was therefore coldly dismissed.

The major was too proud of his maternal descent to abase himself by servility. He sturdily turned his back on the Tuileries, and concentrated all his efforts toward reëstablishing himself in his farm at Phalsbourg. He partly succeeded in his object, but when he had paid the advocates, the solicitors, the bailiffs, and the court fees; when he had discharged the debts he owed to some old friends, he found himself the possessor of 800 francs a year and an extremely philosophical wardrobe. He did not complain, but resigned himself to the dictates of necessity; he reduced his desires to the compass of his means, his ambition vanished, his contentment increased, and the man of the American forests, the colonist, reappeared more worthy of esteem in the midst of poverty than when he was rich and powerful in those vast solitudes.

And this brings us back, dear reader, to the little bench so prettily hidden in the clustering jasmine and roses, last retreat, last enjoyment of the cidevant musqueteer, who ruined himself twice and became a sage because Mademoiselle Guimard dropped her handkerchief.

[Conclusion in our next.