Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

Some of my readers will smile at the simplicity which believed these passports necessary, and was ignorant that wealth alone is wanting to attain any position, to frequent any society, to be the intimate of any set in Europe, and that the rich man is other than he was in classic days, – “Honoratus, pulcher, rex denique regum.”

I have lived to be wiser, and to see vulgarity, coarseness, meanness, knavery, nay, even convicted guilt, the favored guests of royal saloons. The moral indictments against crime have to the full as many flaws as the legal ones; and we see, in every society, men, and women too, as notoriously criminal as though they wore the red-and-yellow livery of the galleys. Physicians tell us that every drug whose sanitary properties are acknowledged in medicine, contains some ingredients of a noxious or poisonous nature. May not something similar exist in the moral world? and even in the very healthiest mixture, may not some “bitter principle” be found to lurk?

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE VOYAGE OF THE ‘ACADIE’

I was not sorry to leave the Havannah on the following day. I did not desire another interview with my “friend” the Governor, but rather felt impatient to escape a repetition of his arithmetic and the story of the “original debt.”

Desirous of supporting my character as a great personage, and at the same time to secure for myself the pleasure of being unmolested during the voyage, I obtained the sole right to the entire cabin accommodation of the “Acadie” for myself and suite; my equipages, baggage, and some eight or ten Mexican horses occupying the deck.

A salute of honor was fired as I ascended the ladder, and replied to by the forts, – a recognition of my dignity at which I took occasion to seem offended; assuring the captain that I was travelling in the strictest incognito; leaving it to his powers of calculation to compute what amount of retinue and followers I should have when journeying in the full blaze of acknowledged identity.

I sat upon the poop-deck as they weighed the anchor, contrasting in my mind my present condition with that of my first marine experiences on board the “Firefly.” I am richer, thought I. Am I better? Have I become more generous, more truthful, more considerate, more forgiving?

Has my knowledge of the world developed more of good in me, or of evil; have my own successes ministered rather to my self-esteem than to my gratefulness; and have I learned to think meanly of all who have been beaten in the race of fortune? Alas! there was not a count of this indictment to which I dared plead “Not guilty.” I had seen knavery thrive too often, not to feel a kind of respect for its ability; I saw honesty too often worsted, not to feel something like contempt for its meekness. It was difficult to feel a reverence for poverty, whose traits were frequently ridiculous; and it was hard to censure wealth, which dispensed its abundance in splendid hospitalities. Oh, the cunning sophistries by which we cover up our real feelings in this life, smothering every healthy impulse and every generous aspiration, under the guise of some “conventionality.”

My conscience was less lenient than I expected. I cut but a sorry figure “in the dock,” and was obliged to throw myself upon the mercy of the court. I will be more considerate in future, said I to myself; I will be less exacting with my servants, and more forgiving to their delinquencies; I will try and remember that there is an acid property in poverty that sours even the sweetest “milk of human kindness.” I will be trustful, too, – a “gentleman” ought not to be suspicious; it is eminently becoming a Bow Street officer, but suits not the atmosphere of good society. These excellent resolutions were to a certain extent “à propos;” for just as “the foresail began to draw,” a boat came alongside and hailed the ship. I did not deign any attention to a circumstance so trivial to “one of my condition,” and never noticed the conversation which in very animated tones was kept up between the captain and the stranger, until the former, approaching me with the most profound humility, and asking forgiveness for the great liberty he was about to take, said that a gentleman whom urgent business recalled to Europe humbly entreated permission to take his passage on board the “Acadie.”

“Are you not aware it is impossible, my good friend?” said I, listlessly. “The accommodation is lamentably restricted, as it is; my secretary’s cabin is like a dog-kennel, and my second cook has actually to lie round a corner, like a snake.”

The captain reddened, and bit his lip in silence.

“As for myself,” said I, heroically, “I never complain. Let me have any little cabin for my bed, a small bath-room, a place to lounge in during the day, with a few easy sofas, and a snug crib for a dinner-room, and I can always rough it. It was part of my father’s system never to make Sybarites of his boys.” This I asserted with all the sturdy vehemence of truth.

“We will do everything to make your Excellency comfortable,” said the captain, who clearly could not see the reasons for my self-praise. “And as to the Consul, what shall we say to him?”

“Consul, did you say?” said I.

“Yes, Señhor Condé, he is the French Consul for the Republic of ‘Campecho.’” That this was a State I had never heard of before, was quite true; yet it was clearly one which the French Government were better informed upon, and deigned to recognize by an official agent.

“Hold on there a bit!” shouted out the captain to the boat’s crew. “What shall I say, Señhor Condé? The Chevalier de la Boutonerie is very anxious on the subject.”

“Let this man have his passage,” said I, indolently, and lighted a cigar, as if to turn my thoughts in another direction, not even noticing the new arrival, who was hoisted up the side with his portmanteau in a very undignified fashion for an official character. He soon, however, baffled this indifference on my part, by advancing towards me, and, in a manner where considerable ease and tact were evident, thanked me for my polite consideration regarding him, and expressed a hope that he might not in any way inconvenience me during the voyage.

Now, the Chevalier was not in himself a very prepossessing personage, while his dress was of the very shabbiest, being a worn-out suit of black, covered by a coarse brown Mexican mantle; and yet his fluency, his quiet assurance, his seeming self-satisfaction, gained an ascendancy over me at once. I saw that he was a master in a walk in which I myself had so long been a student, and that he was a consummate adept in the “art of impudence.”

And how mistaken is the world at large in the meaning of that art! How prone to call the unblushing effrontery of every underbred man impudence! The rudeness that dares any speech, or adventures upon any familiarity; the soulless, heartless, selfish intrusiveness that scruples not to invade any society, – these are not impudence, or they are such specimens of the quality as men only possess in common with inferior animals. I speak of that educated, cultivated “impudence” which, never abashed by an inferiority, felt acutely, is resolved to overbear worldly prejudices by the exercise of gifts that assert a mastery over others, – a power of rising, by the expansive force of self-esteem, into something almost estimable. Ordinary mortals tell lies at intervals, per saltum, as the doctors say; but these people’s whole life is a lie. The Chevalier was a fine specimen of the class, and seemed as indifferent to a hundred little adverse circumstances as though everything around him went well and pleasantly.

There was a suave dignity in the way he moved a very dubious hand over his unshaven chin, in the graceful negligence he exhibited when disposing the folds of his threadbare cloak, in the jaunty lightness with which, after saluting, he replaced his miserable hat on the favored side of his head, that conveyed the whole story of the man.

What a model for my imitation had he been, thought I, if I had seen him in the outset of life! what a study he had presented! And yet there he was, evidently in needy circumstances, pressed on by even urgent want, and I, Con Cregan, the outcast, the poor, friendless street-runner, had become a “millionnaire.”

I don’t know how it was, but certainly I felt marvellously ill at ease with my new friend. A real aristocrat, with all the airs of assumption and haughtiness, would have been a blessing compared with the submissive softness of the “Chevalier.” Through all his flattery there seemed a sly consciousness that his honeyed words were a snare, and his smile a delusion; and I could never divest myself of the feeling that he saw into the very secret of my heart, and knew me thoroughly.

I must become his dupe, thought I, or it is all over with me. The fellow will detect me for a “parvenu” long before we reach Malaga!

No man born and bred to affluence could have acquired the keen insight into life that I possessed. I must mask this knowledge, then, if I would still be thought a “born gentleman.” This was a wise resolve, – at least, its effects were immediately such as I hoped for. The Chevalier’s little sly sarcasms, his half-insinuated “équivoques,” were changed for a tone of wonder and admiration for all I said. How one so young could have seen and learned so much! – what natural gifts I must possess! – how remarkably just my views were! – how striking the force of my observations! – and all this while I was discoursing what certainly does not usually pass for “consummate wisdom.” I soon saw that the Chevalier set me down for a fool; and from that moment we changed places, —he became the dupe versus me. To be sure, the contrivance cost me something, as we usually spent the evenings at piquet or écarté, and the consul was the luckiest of men; to use his own phrase, applied to one he once spoke of, “savait corriger la fortune.”

Although he spoke freely of the fashionable world of Paris and London, with all whose celebrities he affected a near intimacy, he rarely touched upon his New World experiences, and blinked all allusion whatever to the republic of “Campecho.” His own history was comprised in the brief fact that he was the cadet of a great family of Provence, – all your French rogues, I remark, come from the South of France, – that he had once held a high diplomatic rank, from which, in consequence of the fall of a ministry, he was degraded, and, after many vicissitudes of fortune, he had become Consul-General at Campecho. “My friends,” continued he, “are now looking up again in the world, so that I entertain hopes of something better than perpetual banishment.”

Of English people, their habits, modes of life, and thought, the Chevalier spoke to me with a freedom he never would have used if he had not believed me to be a Spaniard, and only connected with Ireland through the remote chain of ancestry. This deceit of mine was one he never penetrated, and I often thought over the fact with satisfaction. To encourage his frankness on the subject of my country, I affected to know nothing, or next to nothing, of England; and gradually he grew to be more communicative, and at last spoke with an unguarded freedom which soon opened to me a clew of his real history.

It was one day as we walked the deck together that, after discussing the tastes and pursuits of the wealthy English, he began to talk of their passion for sport, and especially horse-racing. The character of this national pastime he appeared to understand perfectly, not as a mere foreigner who had witnessed a Derby or a Doncaster, but as one conversant with the traditions of the turf or the private life of the jockey and the trainer.

I saw that he colored all his descriptions with a tint meant to excite an interest within me for these sports. He drew a picture of an “Ascot meeting,” wherein were assembled all the ingredients that could excite the curiosity and gratify the ambition of a wealthy, high-spirited youth; and he dilated with enthusiasm upon his own first impressions of these scenes, mingled with half-regrets of how many of his once friends had quitted the “Turf” since he last saw it!

He spoke familiarly of those whose names I had often read in newspapers as the great leaders of the “sporting world,” and affected to have known them all on terms of intimacy and friendship. Even had the theme been less attractive to me, I would have encouraged it for other reasons, a strange glimmering suspicion ever haunting my mind that I had heard of the worthy Chevalier before, and under another title; and so completely had this idea gained possession of me that I could think of nothing else.

At length, after we had been some weeks at sea, the welcome cry of “Land!” was given from the mast-head; but as the weather was hazy and thick, we were compelled to shorten sail, and made comparatively little way through the water; so that at nightfall we saw that another day must elapse ere we touched mother earth again.

The Chevalier and the Captain both dined with me; the latter, however, soon repaired to the deck, leaving us in tête-à-tête. It was in all likelihood the last evening we should ever pass together, and I felt a most eager longing to ascertain the truth of my vague suspicions. Chance gave me the opportunity. We had been playing cards, and luck – contrary to custom, and in part owing to my always shuffling the cards after my adversary – had deserted him and taken my side. At first this seemed to amuse him, and he merely complimented me upon my fortune, and smiled blandly at my success. After a while, however, his continued losses began to irritate him, and I could see that his habitual command of temper was yielding to a peevish, captious spirit he had never exhibited previously.

“Shall we double our stake?” said he, after a long run of ill-luck.

“If you prefer it, of course,” said I. And we played on, but ever with the same result.

“Come,” cried he, at last, “I ‘ll wager fifty Napoleons on this game.” The bet was made, and he lost it! With the like fortune he played on and on, till at last, as day was dawning, he had not only lost all that he had won from me during the voyage, but a considerable sum besides, and for which he gave me his check upon a well-known banker at Paris.

“Shall I tell you your fortune, Monsieur le Comte?” said he, in a tone of bitterness that almost startled me.

“With all my heart,” said I, laughing. “Are you skilful as a necromancer?”

“I can at least decipher what the cards indicate,” said he. “There is no great skill in reading, where the print is legible.” With these words, he shuffled the cards, dividing them into two or three packets; the first card of each he turned on the face. “Let me premise, Count,” said he, “before I begin, that you will not take anything in bad part which I may reveal to you, otherwise I’ll be silent. You are free to believe, or not to believe, what I tell you; but you cannot reasonably be angry if unpleasant discoveries await you.”

“Go on fearlessly,” said I; “I’ll not promise implicit faith in everything, but I ‘ll pledge myself to keep my temper.”

He began at once drawing forth every third card of each heap, and disposing them in a circle, side by side. When they were so arranged, he bent over, as if to study them, concealing his eyes from me by his hand; but at the same time, as I could perceive, keenly watching my face between his fingers. “There is some great mistake here,” said he at length, in a voice of irritation. “I have drawn the cards wrong, somehow; it must be so, since the interpretation is clear as print. What an absurd blunder, too!” and he seemed as if about to dash the cards up in a heap, from a sense of angry disappointment.

“Nay, nay,” cried I, interposing. “Let us hear what they say, even though we may dispute the testimony.”

“If it were less ridiculous it might be offensive,” said he, smiling; “but being as it is, it is really good laughing-matter.”

“I am quite impatient, – pray read on.”

“Of course it is too absurd for anything but ridicule,” said he, smiling, but, as I thought, with a most malicious expression. “You perceive here this four of clubs, which, as the first card we turn, assumes to indicate your commencement in life. Now, only fancy, Monsieur le Comte, what this most insolent little demon would insinuate. Really, I cannot continue. Well, well, be it so. This card would say that you were not only born without rank or title, but actually in a condition of the very meanest and most humble poverty. Isn’t that excellent?” said he, bursting out into a fit of immoderate laughter, in which the spiteful glance of his keen eyes seemed to pierce through and through me.

As for me, I laughed too; but what a laugh it was! Never was a burst of natural sorrow so poignant in suffering as that forced laugh, when, covered with shame, I sat there, beneath the sarcastic insolence of the wretch, who seemed to gloat over the tortures he was inflicting.

“I can scarcely expect that this opening will inspire you with much confidence in the oracle,” said he; “the first step a falsehood, promises ill for the remainder of the journey.”

“If not very veracious,” said I, “it is at least very amusing. Pray continue.”

“What would the old counts of your ancestry have said to such a profanation?” cried the Chevalier. “By Saint Denis, I would not have been the man to asperse their blood thus, in their old halls at Grenada!”

“We live in a less haughty age,” said I, affecting a smile of indifference, and motioning to him to proceed.

“What follows is the very commonest of that nonsense which is revealed in all lowly fortunes. You are, as usual, the victim of cold and hunger, suffering from destitution and want. Then there are indications of a bold spirit, ambitious and energetic, bursting out through all the gloom of your dark condition, and a small whispered word in your ear, tells you to hope!” While the Chevalier rattled out this “rodomontade” at a much greater length than I have time or patience to repeat, his eyes never quitted me, but seemed to sparkle with a fiend-like intelligence of what was passing within me. As he concluded, he mixed up the cards together, merely muttering, half aloud, “adventures and escapes by land and sea. Abundance of hard luck, to be all compensated for one day, when wealth in all its richest profusion is showered upon you.” Then, dashing the cards from him in affected anger, he said, “It is enough to make men despise themselves, the way in which they yield credence to such rank tomfoolery! but I assure you, Count, however contemptible the oracle has shown herself to-day, I have on more than one occasion been present at the most startling revelations, – not alone as regarded the past, but the future also.”

“I can easily believe it, Chevalier,” replied I, with a great effort to seem philosophically calm. “One must not reject everything that has not the stamp of reason upon it; and even what I have listened to to-day, absurd as it is, has not shaken my faith in the divination of the cards. Perhaps this fancy of mine is the remnant of a childish superstition, which I owe in great part to my old nurse. She was a Moor by birth, and imbued with all the traditions and superstitions of her own romantic land.”

There was a most sneering expression on the Chevalier’s face as I uttered these words. I paid no attention to it, however, but went on: “From the venerable dame I myself attained to some knowledge of ‘destiny reading,’ of which I remember once or twice in life to have afforded very singular proofs. My skill, however, usually preferred unravelling the ‘future’ to the ‘present.’”

“Speculation is always easier than recital,” said the Chevalier, dryly.

“Very true,” said I; “and in reading the past I have ever found how want of sufficient skill has prevented my giving to the great fact of a story the due and necessary connection; so that, indeed, I appear as if distinct events alone were revealed to me, without clew to what preceded or followed them. I see destiny as a traveller sees a landscape by fitful flashes of lightning at night, great tracts of country suddenly displayed in all the blaze of noonday, but lost to sight the next moment forever! Such humble powers as these are, I am well aware, unworthy to bear competition with your more cultivated gifts; but if, with all their imperfections, you are disposed to accept their exercise, they are sincerely at your service.”

The Chevalier, I suspect, acceded to this proposal in the belief that it was an effort on my part to turn the topic from myself to him, for he neither seemed to believe in my skill, nor feel any interest in its exercise.

Affecting to follow implicitly the old Moorish woman’s precepts, I prepared myself for my task by putting on a great mantle with a hood, which, when drawn forward, effectually concealed the wearer’s face. This was a precaution I took the better to study his face, while my own remained hid from view.

“You are certainly far more imposing as a prophet than I can pretend to be,” said he, laughing, as he lighted a cigar, and lay back indolently to await my revelations. I made a great display of knowledge in shuffling and arranging the cards, the better to think over what I was about; and at last, disposing some dozen in certain mystic positions before me, I began.

“You startled me, Chevalier, by a discovery which only wanted truth to make it very remarkable. Let me now repay you by another which I shrewdly suspect to be in the same condition. There are four cards now before me, whose meaning is most positive, and which distinctly assert that you, Chevalier de la Boutonerie, are no chevalier at all!”

“This is capital.” said he, filling out a glass of wine and drinking it off with the most consummate coolness.

“And here,” said I, not heeding his affected ease, – “here is another still stranger revelation, which says that you are not a Frenchman, but a native of a land which latterly has taken upon it to supply the rest of the world with adventurers, – in plain words, a Pole.”

“It is true that my father, who held a command in the Imperial army, lived some years in that country,” said he, hastily; “but I have yet to learn that he forfeited his nationality by so doing.”

“I only know what the cards tell me,” said I, spreading out a mass of them before me, and pretending to study them attentively; “and here is a complication which would need a cleverer expositor than I am. Of all the tangled webs ever I essayed to unravel, this is the knottiest. Why, really, Chevalier, yours must have been a life of more than ordinary vicissitude, or else my prophetic skill has suffered sadly from disuse.”

“Judging from what you have just told me, I rather lean to the latter explanation,” said he, swallowing down two glasses of wine with great rapidity.

“I suspect such to be the case, indeed,” said I, “for otherwise I could scarcely have such difficulty in reading these mystic signs, once so familiar to me, and from which I can now only pick up a stray phrase here and there. Thus I see what implies a high diplomatic employment, and yet, immediately after, I perceive that this is either a mistake of mine, or the thing itself a cheat and a deception.”

“It surely does not require divination to tell a diplomatic agent that he has served on a foreign mission,” said the Chevalier, with a sneer.

“Perhaps not, but I see here vestiges of strange occurrences in which this fact is concerned. A fleeting picture passes now before my eyes: I see a race-course, with its crowds of people and its throng of carriages, and the horses are led out to be saddled, and all is expectation and eagerness, and – what! This is most singular! the vision has passed away, and I am looking at two figures who stand side by side in a richly furnished room, a man and a woman. She is weeping, and he consoling her. Stay! He lifts his head – the man is yourself, Chevalier!”

“Indeed!” said he; but this time the word was uttered in a faint voice, while a pallor that was almost lividness colored his dark features.

“She murmurs a name; I almost caught it,” exclaimed I, as if carried away by the rapt excitement of prophecy. “Yes! I hear it now perfectly, – the name is Alexis!”

A fearful oath burst from the Chevalier, and with a bound lie sprung to his feet, and dashed his closed fists against his brow. “Away with your jugglery, have done with your miserable cheat, sir, – that can only terrify women and children. Speak out like a man: who are you, and what are you?”