The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)

  Produced by David Widger

  THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN

  By Charles Lever

  With Illustrations By Phiz.

  In Two Volumes

  Vol. II.

  Boston: Little, Brown, And Company.

  1906

  THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN.

  CHAPTER I. MR. HERMAN MERL

  This much-abused world of ours, railed at by divines, sneered down bycynics, slighted by philosophers, has still some marvellously pleasantthings about it, amongst which, first and foremost, _facile princeps_,is Paris! In every other city of Europe there is a life to be learnedand acquired just like a new language. You have to gain the acquaintanceof certain people, obtain admission to certain houses, submit yourselfto ways, habits, hours, all peculiar to the locality, and conform tousages in which--at first, at least--you rarely find anything beyondpenalties on your time and your patience. But Paris demands no suchsacrifices. To enjoy it, no apprenticeship is required. You becomefree of the guild at the Porte St. Denis. By the time you reach theBoulevards you have ceased to be a stranger. You enter the "Freres" atdinner hour like an old habitue. The atmosphere of light, elastic gayetyaround you, the tone of charming politeness that meets your commonestinquiry, the courtesy bestowed upon your character as a foreigner, areall as exhilarating in their own way as your sparkling glass of Moet,sipped in the window, from which you look down on plashing fountains,laughing children, and dark-eyed grisettes! The whole thing, in itsbustle and movement, its splendor, sunlight, gilded furniture,mirrors, and smart toilettes, is a piece of natural magic, with thisdifference,--that its effect is ever new, ever surprising!

  Sad and sorrowful faces are, of course, to be met with, since grief hasits portion everywhere; but that air of languid indifference, thatlook of wearied endurance, which we characterize by the classic term of"boredom," is, indeed, a rare spectacle in this capital; and yet nowat the window of a splendid apartment in the Place Vendome, listlesslylooking down into the square beneath, stood a young man, every lineof whose features conveyed this same expression. He had, although notreally above twenty-four or twenty-five, the appearance of one tenyears older. On a face of singular regularity, and decidedly handsome,dissipation had left its indelible traces. The eyes were deep sunk,the cheeks colorless, and around the angles of the mouth were thosetell-tale circles which betray the action of an oft-tried temper, andthe spirit that has gone through many a hard conflict. In figure he wasvery tall, and seemed more so in the folds of a long dressing-gownof antique brocade, which reached to his feet; a small, dark greenskull-cap, with a heavy silver tassel, covered one side of his head, andin his hand he held a handsome meerschaum, which, half mechanically, heplaced from time to time to his lips, although its bowl was empty.

  At a breakfast-table covered with all that could provoke appetite, sat afigure as much unlike him as could be. He was under the middle size,and slightly inclined to flesh, with a face which, but for some strangeresemblance to what one has seen in pictures by the older artists, wouldhave been unequivocally vulgar. The eyes were small, keen, and furtive;the nose, slightly concave in its outline, expanded beneath intonostrils wide and full; but the mouth, thick-lipped, sensual, andcoarse, was more distinctive than all, and showed that Mr. Herman Merlwas a gentleman of the Jewish persuasion,--a fact well corroborated bythe splendor of a very flashy silk waistcoat, and various studs, goldchain, rings, and trinkets profusely scattered over his costume. Andyet there was little of what we commonly recognize as the Jew in thecharacter of his face. The eyes were not dark, the nose not aquiline;the hair, indeed, had the wavy massiveness of the Hebrew race; but Mr.Merl was a "Red Jew," and the Red Jew, like the red partridge, is aspecies _per se_.

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  There was an ostentatious pretension in the "get up" of this gentleman.His moustache, his beard, his wrist-buttons, his shirt-studs, thecamellia in his coat,--all, even to the heels of his boots, had beenmade studies, either to correct a natural defect, or show off what hefancied a natural advantage. He seemed to have studied color like apainter, for his dark brown frock was in true keeping with the tintof his skin; and yet, despite these painstaking efforts, the man wasindelibly, hopelessly vulgar. Everything about him was imitation, but itwas imitation that only displayed its own shortcomings.

  "I wonder how you can resist these oysters, Captain," said he, as hedaintily adjusted one of these delicacies on his fork; "and the Chablis,I assure you, is excellent."

  "I never eat breakfast," said the other, turning away from the window,and pacing the room with slow and measured tread.

  "Why, you are forgetting all the speculations that used to amuse uson the voyage,--the delicious little dinners we were to enjoy at the'Rocher,' the tempting dejeuners at 'Vefour's.' By Jove! how hungry youused to make me, with your descriptions of the appetizing fare beforeus; and here we have it now: Ardennes ham, fried in champagne; Ostendoysters, salmi of quails with truffles--and such truffles! Won't thattempt you?"

  But his friend paid no attention to the appeal, and walking again to thewindow, looked out.

  "Those little drummers yonder have a busy day of it," said he, lazily;"that's the fourth time they have had to beat the salute to Generalsthis morning."

  "Is there anything going on, then?"

  But he never deigned an answer, and resumed his walk.

  "I wish you'd send away that hissing teakettle, it reminds me of asteamboat," said the Captain, peevishly; "that is, if you have done withit."

  "So it does," said the other, rising to ring the bell; "there's the samediscordant noise, and the--the--the--" But the rest of the similitudewould n't come, and Mr. Merl covered his retreat with the process oflighting a cigar,--an invaluable expedient that had served to aid many amore ready debater in like difficulty.

  It would be a somewhat tedious, perhaps not a very profitable task, toinquire how two men, so palpably dissimilar, had thus become what theworld calls friends. Enough if we say that Captain Martin,--the heir ofCro' Martin,--when returning from India on leave, passed some time atthe Cape, where, in the not very select society of the place, he met Mr.Merl. Now Mr. Merl had been at Ceylon, where he had something to do witha coffee plantation; and he had been at Benares, where opium interestedhim; and now again, at the Cape, a question of wine had probably somerelation to his sojourn. In fact, he was a man travelling about theworld with abundance of leisure, a well-stocked purse, and what ourfriends over the Strait would term an "industrial spirit." Messes hadoccasionally invited him to their tables. Men in society got the habitof seeing him "about," and he was in the enjoyment of that kind oftolerance which made every man feel, "He's not _my_ friend,--_I_ didn'tintroduce him; but he seems a good sort of fellow enough!" And so hewas,--very good-tempered, very obliging, most liberal of his cigars,his lodgings always open to loungers, with pale ale, and even icedchampagne, to be had |for asking. There was play, too; and although Merlwas a considerable winner, he managed never to incur the jealous enmitythat winning so often imposes. He was the most courteous of gamblers; henever did a sharp thing; never enforced a strict rule upon a novice ofthe game; tolerated every imaginable blunder of his partner with blandequanimity; and, in a word, if this great globe of ours had been agreen-baize cloth, and all the men and women whist-players, Mr. HermanMerl had been the first gentleman in it, and carried off "all thehonors" in his own hand.

  If he was highly skilled in every game, it was remarked of him that henever proposed play himself, nor was he ever known to make a wager: healways waited to be asked to make up a party, or to take or give theodds, as the case might be. To a very shrewd observer, this might havesavored a little too much of a system; but shrew
d observers are, afterall, not the current coin in the society of young men, and Merl'sconduct was eminently successful.

  Merl suited Martin admirably. Martin was that species of man which,of all others, is most assailable by flattery. A man of smallaccomplishments, he sang a little, rode a little, played, drew, fenced,fished, shot--all, a little--that is, somewhat better than others ingeneral, and giving him that dangerous kind of pre-eminence from which,though the tumble never kills, it occurs often enough to bruise andhumiliate. But, worse than this, it shrouds its possessor in a triplemail of vanity, that makes him the easy prey of all who minister to it.

  We seldom consider how much locality influences our intimacies, and howimpossible it had been for us even to know in some places the people wehave made friends of in another. Harry Martin would as soon have thoughtof proposing his valet at "Brookes's," as walk down Bond Street with Mr.Merl. Had he met him in London, every characteristic of the man wouldthere have stood out in all the strong glare of contrast, but at theCape it was different. Criticism would have been misplaced where all wasirregular, and the hundred little traits--any one of which would haveshocked him in England--were only smiled at as the eccentricities of a"good-natured poor fellow, who had no harm in him."

  Martin and Merl came to England in the same ship. It was a suddenthought of Merl's, only conceived the evening before she sailed; butMartin had lost a considerable sum at piquet to him on that night, andwhen signing the acceptances for payment, since he had not the readymoney, somewhat peevishly remarked that it was hard he should not havehis revenge. Whereupon Merl, tossing off a bumper of champagne, andappearing to speak under the influence of its stimulation, cried out,"Hang me, Captain, if you shall say that! I 'll go and take my passagein the 'Elphinstone.'" And he did so, and he gave the Captain hisrevenge! But of all the passions, there is not one less profitable toindulge in. They played morning, noon, and night, through long days ofsickening calm, through dreary nights of storm and hurricane, and theyscarcely lifted their heads at the tidings that the Needles were insight, nor even questioned the pilot for news of England, when heboarded them in the Downs. Martin had grown much older during that samevoyage; his temper, too, usually imbued with the easy indolence of hisfather's nature, had grown impatient and fretful. A galling sense ofinferiority to Merl poisoned every minute of his life. He would notadmit it; he rejected it, but back it came; and if it did not enter intohis heart, it stood there knocking,--knocking for admission. Each timethey sat down to play was a perfect duel to Martin.

  As for Merl, his well-schooled faculties never were ruffled nor excited.The game had no power to fascinate _him_, its vicissitudes had nothingnew or surprising to him; intervals of ill-luck, days even of dubiousfortune might occur, but he knew he would win in the end, just ashe knew that though there might intervene periods of bad weather andadverse winds, the good ship "Elphinstone" would arrive at last, and, aday sooner or a day later, discharge passengers and freight on the banksof the Thames.

  You may forgive the man who has rivalled you in love, the banker whose"smash" has engulfed all your fortune, the violent political antagonistwho has assailed you personally, and in the House, perhaps, answered thebest speech you ever made by a withering reply. You may extend feelingsof Christian charity to the reviewer who has "slashed" your new novel,the lawyer whose vindictive eloquence has exposed, the artist in "Punch"who has immortalized, you; but there is one man you never forgive, ofwhom you will never believe one good thing, and to whom you would wish athousand evil ones,--he is your natural enemy, brought into the worldto be your bane, born that he may be your tormentor; and this is the manwho _always_ beats you at play! Happily, good reader, you may have nofeelings of the gambler,--you may be of those to whom this fatal vicehas never appealed, or appealed in vain; but if you _have_ "played," oreven mixed with those who have, you could n't have failed to be struckwith the fact that there is that one certain man from whom you neverwin! Wherever he is, there, too, is present your evil destiny! Now,there is no pardoning this,--the double injury of insult to your skilland damage to your pocket. Such a man as this becomes at last yourmaster. You may sneer at his manners, scoff at his abilities, ridiculehis dress, laugh at his vulgarity,--poor reprisals these! In hispresence, the sense of that one superiority he possesses over you makesyou quail! In the stern conflict, where your destiny and your capacityseem alike at issue, he conquers you,--not to-day or to-morrow, but everand always! There he sits, arbiter of your fate,--only doubtful how longhe may defer the day of your sentence!

  It is something in the vague indistinctness of this power--somethingthat seems to typify the agency of the Evil One himself--that at oncetortures and subdues you; and you ever hurry into fresh conflict withthe ever-present consciousness of fresh defeat! We might have spared ourreader this discursive essay, but that it pertains to our story. Suchwas the precise feeling entertained by Martin towards Merl. He hatedhim with all the concentration of his great hatred, and yet he could notdisembarrass himself of his presence. He was ashamed of the man amongsthis friends; he avoided him in all public places; he shrunk fromhis very contact as though infected; but he could not throw off hisacquaintance, and he nourished in his heart a small ember of hope thatone day or other the scale of fortune would turn, and he might win backagain all he had ever lost, and stand free and unembarrassed as in thefirst hour he had met him! Fifty times had he consulted Fortune, asit were, to ask if this moment had yet arrived; but hitherto everunsuccessfully,--Merl won on as before. Martin, however, invariablyceased playing when he discovered that his ill-luck continued. It wasan experiment,--a mere pilot balloon to Destiny; and when he saw thedirection adverse, he did not adventure on the grand ascent. It wasimpossible that a man of Merl's temperament and training should not havedetected this game. There was not a phase of the gambler's mind withwhich he was not thoroughly familiar.

  Close intimacies, popularly called friendships, have always theirsecret motive, if we be but skilful enough to detect it. We see peopleassociate together of widely different habits, and dispositions the mostopposite, with nothing in common of station, rank, object, or pursuit.In such cases the riddle has always its key, could we only find it.

  Mr. Martin had been some weeks in Paris with his family, when a briefnote informed him that Merl had arrived there. He despatched an answerstill briefer, asking him to breakfast on the following morning; and itwas in the acceptance of this same invitation we have now seen him.

  "Who's here just now?" said Merl, throwing down his napkin, and pushinghis chair a little back from the table, while he disposed his short, fatlegs into what he fancied was a most graceful attitude.

  "Here? Do you mean in Paris?" rejoined Martin, pettishly,--for he neversuffered so painfully under this man's intimacy as when his mannersassumed the pretension of fashion.

  "Yes,--of course,--I mean, who's in Paris?"

  "There are, I believe, about forty-odd thousand of our countrymen andcountrywomen," said the other, half contemptuously.

  "Oh, I've no doubt; but my question took narrower bounds. I meant, whoof _our_ set,--who of us?"

  Martin turned round, and fixing his eyes on him, scanned him from headto foot with a gaze of such intense insolence as no words could haveequalled. For a while the Jew bore it admirably; but these efforts,after all, are only like the brief intervals a man can live under water,and where the initiated beats the inexperienced only by a matter ofseconds. As Martin continued his stare, Merl's cheek tingled, grew red,and finally his whole face and forehead became scarlet.

  With an instinct like that of a surgeon who feels he has gone deepenough with his knife, Martin resumed his walk along the room withoututtering a word.

  Merl opened the newspaper, and affected to read; his hand, however,trembled, and his eyes wandered listlessly over the columns, and thenfurtively were turned towards Martin as he paced the chamber in silence.

  "Do you think you can manage that little matter for me, Captain?" saidhe at last, and in a voice attuned to its v
ery humblest key.

  "What little matter? Those two bills do you mean?" said Martin,suddenly.

  "Not at all. I 'm not the least pressed for cash. I alluded to the Club;you promised you 'd put me up, and get one of your popular friends tosecond me."

  "I remember," said Martin, evidently relieved from a momentary terror."Lord Claude Willoughby or Sir Spencer Cavendish would be the men if wecould find them."

  "Lord Claude, I perceive, is here; the paper mentions his name in thedinner company at the Embassy yesterday."

  "Do you know him?" asked Martin, with an air of innocence that Merl wellcomprehended as insult.

  "No. We 've met,--I think we 've played together; I remember once atBaden--"

  "Lord Claude Willoughby, sir," said a servant, entering with a card,"desires to know if you 're at home?"

  "And won't be denied if you are not," said his Lordship, entering at thesame instant, and saluting Martin with great cordiality.