My Uncle Florimond Read online

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  MY UNCLE FLORIMOND

  By Sidney Luska (Henry Harland)

  Author of The Yoke of the Thorah and Others

  D. Lothrop Company

  Boston: Franklin and Hawley Streets

  1888

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  TO MY GRANDMOTHER

  A. L. H.

  IN REMEMBRANCE OF OLD

  NORWICH DAYS

  CHAPTER I.--THE NEPHEW OF A MARQUIS.

  Both of my parents died while I was still a baby; and I passed mychildhood at the home of my father’s mother in Norwich Town--which liesupon the left bank of the river Yantic, some three miles to the north ofNorwich City, in Eastern Connecticut.

  My father’s mother, my dear old grandmother, was a French lady bybirth; and her maiden name had been quite an imposing one--Aurore AlineRaymonde Marie Antoinette de la Bourbonnaye. But in 1820, when she wasnineteen years old, my grandfather had persuaded her to change itfor plain and simple Mrs. Brace; from which it would seem that mygrandfather must have been a remarkably persuasive man. At that timeshe lived in Paris with her father and mother, who were very lofty,aristocratic people--the Marquis and Marquise de la Bourbonnaye. Butafter her marriage she followed her husband across the ocean to his homein Connecticut, where in 1835 he died, and where she had remained eversince. She had had two children: my father, Edward, whom the rebels shotat the Battle of Bull Run in July, 1861, and my father’s elder brother,my Uncle Peter, who had never married, and who was the man of our housein Norwich.

  The neighbors called my Uncle Peter Square, because he was a lawyer.Some of them called him Jedge, because he had once been a Justice of thePeace. Between him and me no love was lost. A stern, cold, frowning man,tall and dark, with straight black hair, a lean, smooth-shaven face,thin lips, hard black eyes, and bushy black eyebrows that grew togetherover his nose making him look false and cruel, he inspired in me anexceeding awe, and not one atom of affection. I was indeed so afraidof him that at the mere sound of his voice my heart would sink into myboots, and my whole skin turn goose-flesh. When I had to pass thedoor of his room, if he was in, I always quickened my pace and went ontiptoe, half expecting that he might dart out and seize upon me; ifhe was absent, I would stop and peek in through the keyhole, with thefascinated terror of one gazing into an ogre’s den. And, oh me! whatan agony of fear I had to suffer three times every day, seated atmeals with him. If I so much as spoke a single word, except to answera question, he would scowl upon me savagely, and growl out, “Childrenshould be seen and not heard.” After he had helped my grandmother, hewould demand in the crossest tone you can imagine, “Gregory, do youwant a piece of meat?” Then I would draw a deep breath, clinch my fists,muster my utmost courage, and, scarcely louder than a whisper, stammer,“Ye-es, sir, if you p-please.” It would have come much more easily tosay, “No, I thank you, sir,”--only I was so very hungry. But not once,in all the years I spent at Norwich, not once did I dare to ask formore. So I often left the table with my appetite not half satisfied, andwould have to visit the kitchen between meals, and beg a supplementarymorsel from Julia, our cook.

  Uncle Peter, for his part, took hardly any notice whatever of me, unlessit was to give me a gruff word of command--like “Leave the room,” “Go tobed,” “Hold your tongue,”--or worse still a scolding, or worst of alla whipping. For the latter purpose he employed a flexible rattan cane,with a curiously twisted handle. It buzzed like a hornet as it flewcutting through the air; and then, when it had reached its objectivepoint--mercy, how it stung! I fancied that whipping me afforded him agreat deal of enjoyment. Anyhow, he whipped me very often, and on thevery slightest provocation: if I happened to be a few minutes behindhandat breakfast, for example, or if I did not have my hair nicely brushedand parted when I appeared at dinner. And if I cried, he would whip allthe harder, saying, “I’ll give you something to cry about,” so that inthe end I learned to stand the most unmerciful flogging with never somuch as a tear or a sob. Instead of crying, I would bite my lips, anddrive my fingernails into the palms of my hands until they bled. Why,one day, I remember, I was standing in the dining-room, drinking a glassof water, when suddenly I heard his footstep behind me; and it startledme so that I let the tumbler drop from my grasp to the floor, where itbroke, spilling the water over the carpet. “You clumsy jackanapes,” he cried; “come up-stairs with me, and I’ll show you how to breaktumblers.” He seized hold of my ear, and, pinching and tugging at it,led me up-stairs to his room. There he belabored me so vigorouslywith that rattan cane of his that I was stiff and lame for two daysafterward. Well, I dare say that sometimes I merited my Uncle Peter’swhippings richly; but I do believe that in the majority of cases whenhe whipped me, moral suasion would have answered quite as well, or evenbetter. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was one of his fundamentalprinciples of life.

  Happily, however, except at meal hours, my Uncle Peter was seldom in thehouse. He had an office at the Landing--that was the name Norwich Citywent by in Norwich Town--and thither daily after breakfast and againafter dinner, he betook himself. After supper he would go out to spendthe evening--where or how I never knew, though I often wondered; butall day Sunday he would stay at home, shut up in his room; and all daySunday, therefore, I was careful to keep as still as a mouse.

  He did not in the least take after his mother, my grandmother; for she,I verily believe, of all sweet and gentle ladies was the sweetest andthe gentlest. It is now more than sixteen years since she died; yet, asI think of her now, my heart swells, my eyes fill with tears, and I cansee her as vividly before me as though we had parted but yesterday: alittle old body, in a glistening black silk dress, with her snowyhair drawn in a tall puff upward from her forehead, and her kind faceilluminated by a pair of large blue eyes, as quick and as bright as anymaiden’s. She had the whitest, daintiest, tiniest hands you ever didsee; and the tiniest feet. These she had inherited from her noble Frenchancestors; and along with them she had also inherited a delicate Romannose--or, as it is sometimes called, a Bourbon nose. Now, as you willrecollect, the French word for nose is _nez_ (pronounced _nay_); and Iremember I often wondered whether that Bourbon nose of my grandmother’smight not have had something to do with the origin of her family name,Bourbonnaye. But that, of course, was when I was a very young andfoolish child indeed.

  In her youth, I know, my grandmother had been a perfect beauty. Amongthe other pictures in our parlor, there hung an oil painting whichrepresented simply the loveliest young lady that I could fancy. She hadcurling golden hair, laughing eyes as blue as the sky, ripe red lipsjust made to kiss, faintly blushing cheeks, and a rich, full throat likea column of ivory; and she wore a marvelous costume of cream-coloredsilk, trimmed with lace; and in one hand she-held a bunch of splendidcrimson roses, so well painted that you could almost smell them. Iused to sit before this portrait for hours at a stretch, and admire thecharming girl who smiled upon me from it, and wonder and wonder who shecould be, and where she lived, and whether I should ever have the goodluck to meet her in proper person. I used to think that perhaps I hadalready met her somewhere, and then forgotten; for, though I could notput my finger on it, there was something strangely familiar to me in herface. I used to say to myself, “What if after all it should be only afancy picture! Oh! I hope, I hope it isn’t.” Then at length, one day,it occurred to me to go to my grandmother for information. Imaginemy surprise when she told me that it was a portrait of herself, takenshortly before her wedding.

  “O, dear! I wish I had been alive in those days,” I sighed.

  “Why?” she queried.

  “Because then I could have married you,” I expl
ained. At which shelaughed as merrily as though I had got off the funniest joke in theworld, and called me an “_enfant terrible_”--a dreadful child.

  This episode abode in my mind for a long time to come, and furnished mefood for much sorrowful reflection. It brought forcibly home to me theawful truth, which I had never thought of before, that youth and beautycannot last. That this young girl--so strong, so gay, so full of life,with such bright red lips and brilliant golden hair--that she could havechanged into a feeble gray old lady, like my grandmother! It was a sadand appalling possibility.

  My grandmother stood nearly as much in awe of my Uncle Peter as I did.He allowed himself to browbeat and bully her in a manner that made myblood boil. “Oh!” I would think in my soul, “just wait till I am a manas big as he is. Won’t I teach him a lesson, though?” She and I talkedtogether for the most part in French. This was for two reasons: first,because it was good practice for me; and secondly, because it waspleasant for her--French being her native tongue. Well, my Uncle Peterhated the very sound of French--why I could not guess, but I suspectedit was solely for the sake of being disagreeable--and if ever a word ofthat language escaped my grandmother’s lips in his presence, he wouldglare at her from beneath his shaggy brows, and snarl out, “Can’t youspeak English to the boy?” She never dared to interfere in my behalfwhen he was about to whip me--though I knew her heart ached to doso--but would sit alone in her room during the operation, and wait tocomfort me after it was over. His rattan cane raised great red weltsupon my skin, which smarted and were sore for hours. These she would rubwith a salve that cooled and helped to heal them; and then, puttingher arm about my neck, she would bid me not to mind it, and not to feelunhappy any more, and would give me peppermint candies and cookies, andtell me long, interesting stories, or read aloud to me, or show me thepictures in her big family Bible. “Paul and Virginia” and “The ArabianNights” were the books I liked best to be read to from; and my favoritepicture was one of Daniel iii the lion’s den. Ah, my dear, deargrandmother! As I look back upon those days now, there is no bitternessin my memory of Uncle Peter’s whippings; but my memory of your tendergoodness in consoling me is infinitely sweet.

  No; if my Uncle Peter was perhaps a trifle too severe with me, mygrandmother erred in the opposite direction, and did much to spoil me.I never got a single angry word from her in all the years we livedtogether; yet I am sure I must have tried her patience very frequentlyand very sorely. Every forenoon, from eight till twelve o’clock, shegave me my lessons: geography, history, grammar, arithmetic and music.I was neither a very apt nor a very industrious pupil in any of thesebranches; but I was especially dull and especially lazy in my pursuit ofthe last. My grandmother would sit with me at the piano for an hour,and try and try to make me play my exercise aright; and though Ialways played it wrong, she never lost her temper, and never scolded. Ideserved worse than a scolding; I deserved a good sound box on the ear;for I had shirked my practising, and that was why I blundered so. Butthe most my grandmother ever said or did by way of reproof, was to shakeher head sadly at me, and murmur, “Ah, Gregory, Gregory, I fear that youlack ambition.” So very possibly, after all, my Uncle Peter’s sternnesswas really good for me as a disagreeable but salutary tonic.

  My Uncle Florimond was my grandmother’s only brother, unmarried, fiveyears older than herself, who lived in France. His full name was evenmore imposing than hers had been; and to write it I shall have to use upnearly all the letters of the alphabet: Florimond Charles Marie AugusteAlexandre de la Bourbonnaye. As if this were not enough, he joined to itthe title of marquis, which had descended to him from his father;just think--Florimond Charles Marie Auguste Alexandre, Marquis de laBourbonnaye.

  Though my grandmother had not once seen her brother Florimond since hermarriage--when she was a blushing miss of nineteen, and he a dashingyoung fellow of four-and-twenty--I think she cared more for him thanfor anybody else alive, excepting perhaps myself. And though I had neverseen him at all, I am sure that he was to me, without exception,the most important personage in the whole wide world. He owed thisdistinguished place in my regard to several causes. He owed it partly,no doubt, to the glamour attaching to his name and title. To my youthfulimagination Florimond Charles Marie Auguste Alexandre de la Bourbonnayemade a strong appeal. Surely, any one who went through life bearing aname like that must be a very great and extrordinary man; and the factthat he was my uncle--my own grandmother’s brother--stirred my bosomwith pride, and thrilled it with satisfaction. Then, besides, he was amarquis; and a marquis, I supposed, of course, must be the embodimentof everything that was fine and admirable in human nature--good, strong,rich, brave, brilliant, beautiful--just one peg lower in the scaleof glory than a king. Yes, on account of his name and title alone, Ibelieve, I should have placed my Uncle Florimond upon a lofty pedestalin the innermost shrine of my fancy, as a hero to drape with all thedazzling qualities I could conceive of, to wonder about, and to worship.But indeed, in this case, I should most likely have done very much thesame thing, even if he had had no other title than plain Mister, and ifhis name had been homely John or James. For my grandmother, who nevertired of talking to me of him, had succeeded in communicating to myheart something of her own fondness for him, as well as imbuing my mindwith an eager interest in everything that concerned him, and in firingit with a glowing ideal of his personality. She had taught me that hewas in point of fact, all that I had pictured him in my surmises.

  When, in 1820, Aurore de la Bourbonnaye became Mrs. Brace, and badegood-by to her home and family, her brother Florimond had held acommission as lieutenant in the King’s Guard. A portrait of him in hislieutenant’s uniform hung over the fireplace in our parlor, directlyopposite the portrait of his sister that I have already spoken of. Younever saw a handsomer young soldier: tall, muscular, perfectly shaped,with close-cropped chestnut hair, frank brown eyes, and regularclean-cut features, as refined and sensitive as a woman’s, yet full ofmanly dignity and courage. In one hand he held his military hat, plumedwith a long black ostrich feather; his other hand rested upon the hiltof his sword.

  His uniform was all ablaze with brass buttons and gold lace; and abeautiful red silk sash swept over his shoulder diagonally downwardto his hip, where it was knotted, and whence its tasseled endsfell half-way to his knee. Yes, indeed; he was a handsome, dashing,gallant-looking officer; and you may guess how my grandmother flatteredme when she declared, as she often did, “Gregory, you are hisliving image.” Then she would continue in her quaint old-fashionedFrench:--“Ah! that thou mayest resemble him in spirit, in character,also. He is of the most noble, of the most generous, of the most gentle.An action base, a thought unworthy, a sentiment dishonorable--it is tohim impossible. He is the courage, the courtesy, the chivalry, itself.Regard, then, his face. Is it not radiant of his soul? Is it noteloquent of kindness, of fearlessness, of truth? He is the model, theparagon even, of a gentleman, of a Christian. Say, then, my Gregory, isit that thou lovest him a little also, thou? Is it that thou art goingto imitate him a little in thy life, and to strive to become a man asnoble, as lovable, as he?”

  To which I would respond earnestly in the same language, “O, yes! I lovehim, I admire him, with all my heart--after thee, my grandmother, betterthan anybody. And if I could become a man like him, I should be happierthan I can say. Anyway, I shall try. He will be my pattern. But tell me,shall I never see him? Will he never come to Norwich? I would give--oh!I would give a thousand dollars--to see him, to embrace him, to speakwith him.”

  “Alas, no, I fear he will never come to Norwich. He is married to hisFrance, his Paris. But certainly, when thou art grown up, thou shalt seehim. Thou wilt go to Europe, and present thyself before him.”

  “O, dear! not till I am grown up,” I would complain. “That is so longto wait.” Yet that came to be a settled hope, a moving purpose, in mylife--that I should sometime meet my Uncle Florimond in person. I usedto indulge my imagination in long, delicious day-dreams, of which ourmeeting was the subject, antic
ipating how he would receive me, and whatwe should say and do. I used to try honestly to be a good boy, so thathe would take pleasure in recognizing me as his nephew. My grandmother’sassertion to the effect that I looked like him filled my heart withgladness, though, strive as I might, I could not see the resemblance formyself. And if she never tired of talking to me about him, I never tiredof listening, either. Indeed, to all the story-books in our library Ipreferred her anecdotes of Uncle Florimond.

  Once a month regularly my grandmother wrote him a long letter; and oncea month regularly a long letter arrived from him for her--the receptionof which marked a great day in our placid, uneventful calendar. It wasmy duty to go to the post-office every afternoon, to fetch the mail.When I got an envelope addressed in his handwriting, and bearing theFrench postage-stamp--oh! didn’t I hurry home! I couldn’t seem to runfast enough, I was so impatient to deliver it to her, and to hear herread it aloud. Yet the contents of Uncle Florimond’s epistles wereseldom very exciting; and I dare say, if I should copy one of them here,you would pronounce it quite dull and prosy. He always began, “_Ma sourbien-aimee_”--My well-beloved sister. Then generally he went on to givean account of his goings and his comings since his last--naming thepeople whom he had met, the houses at which he had dined, the plays hehad witnessed, the books he had read--and to inquire tenderly touchinghis sister’s health, and to bid her kiss his little nephew Gregory forhim. He invariably wound up, “_Dieu te garde, ma sour cherie_”--God keepthee, my dearest sister.--“Thy affectionate brother, de la Bourbonnaye.” That was his signature--de la Bourbonnaye, written uphill, with a bigflourish underneath it--never Florimond. My grandmother explained tome that in this particular--signing his family name without his givenone--he but followed a custom prevalent among French noblemen. Well, asI was saying, his letters for the most part were quite unexciting; yet,nevertheless, I listened to them with rapt attention, reluctant to losea single word. This was for the good and sufficient reason that theycame from him--from my Uncle Florimond--from my hero, the Marquis de laBourbonnaye. And after my grandmother had finished reading one of them,I would ask, “May I look at it, please?” To hold it between my fingers,and gaze upon it, exerted a vague, delightful fascination over me.To think that his own hand had touched this paper, had shaped thesecharacters, less than a fortnight ago! My Uncle Florimond’s very hand!It was wonderful!

  I was born on the first of March, 1860; so that on the first of March,1870, I became ten years of age. On the morning of that day, afterbreakfast, my grandmother called me to her room.

  “Thou shalt have a holiday to-day,” she said; “no study, no lessons. Butfirst, stay.”

  She unlocked the lowest drawer of the big old-fashioned bureau-desk atwhich she used to write, and took from it something long and slender,wrapped up in chamois-skin. Then she undid and peeled off thechamois-skin wrapper, and showed me--what do you suppose? A beautifulgolden-hilted sword, incased in a golden scabbard!

  “Isn’t it pretty?” she asked.

  “Oh! lovely, superb,” I answered, all admiration and curiosity.

  “Guess a little, _mon petit_, whom it belonged to?” she went on.

  “To--oh! to my Uncle Florimond--I am sure,” I exclaimed.

  “Right. To thy Uncle Florimond. It was presented to him by the king, byKing Louis XVIII.”

  “By the king--by the king!” I repeated wonderingly. “Just think!”

  “Precisely. By the king himself, as a reward of valor and a token of hisregard. And when I was married my brother gave it to me as a keepsake.And now--and now, my Gregory, I am going to give it to thee as abirthday present.”

  “To me! Oh!” I cried. That was the most I could say. I was quiteovercome by my surprise and my delight.

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  “Yes, I give it to thee; and we will hang it up in thy bed-chamber, onthe wall opposite thy bed; and every night and every morning thou shaltlook at it, and think of thy Uncle Florimond, and remember to be likehim. So thy first and thy last thought every day shall be of him.”

  I leave it to you to fancy how happy this present made me, how happy andhow proud. For many years that sword was the most highly prized of allmy goods and chattels. At this very moment it hangs on the wall in mystudy, facing the table at which I write these lines.

  A day or two later, when I made my usual afternoon trip to thepost-office, I found there a large, square brown-paper package, aboutthe size of a school geography, postmarked Paris, and addressed, in myUncle Florimond’s handwriting, not to my grandmother, but to me! to myvery self. “Monsieur Grégoire Brace, chez Madame Brace, Norwich Town,Connecticut, Etats-unis d’Amérique.” At first I could hardly believemy eyesight. Why should my Uncle Florimond address anything to me? Whatcould it mean? And what could the contents of the mysterious parcel be?It never occurred to me to open it, and thus settle the question formyself; but, burning with curiosity, I hastened home, and puttingit into my grandmother’s hands, informed her how it had puzzled andastonished me. She opened it at once, I peering eagerly over hershoulder; and then both of us uttered an exclamation of delight. It wasa large illustrated copy of my favorite story, “Paul et Virginie,” boundin scarlet leather, stamped and lettered in gold; and on the fly-leaf,in French, was written, “To my dear little nephew Gregory, on his tenthbirthday with much love from his Uncle de la Bourbonnaye.” I can’t tellyou how this book pleased me. That my Uncle Florimond should care enoughfor me to send me such a lovely birthday gift! For weeks afterwardI wanted no better entertainment than to read it, and to look at itspictures, and remember who had sent it to me. Of course, I sat rightdown and wrote the very nicest letter I possibly could, to thank him forit.

  Now, as you know, in that same year, 1870, the French Emperor, LouisNapoleon, began his disastrous war with the King of Prussia; and itmay seem very strange to you when I say that that war, fought more thanthree thousand miles away, had a direct and important influence upon mylife, and indeed brought it to its first great turning-point. But suchis the truth. For, as you will remember, after a few successes at theoutset, the French army met with defeat in every quarter; and as thenews of these calamities reached us in Norwich, through the New Yorkpapers, my grandmother grew visibly feebler and older from day to day.The color left her cheeks; the light left her eyes; her voice lost itsring; she ate scarcely more than a bird’s portion at dinner; she becamenervous, and restless, and very sad: so intense was her love for hernative country, so painfully was she affected by its misfortunes.

  The first letter we received from Uncle Florimond, after the war brokeout, was a very hopeful one. He predicted that a month or two at theutmost would suffice for the complete victory of the French, and theutter overthrow and humiliation of the Barbarians, as he called theGermans. “I myself,” he continued, “am, alas, too old to go to thefront; but happily I am not needed, our actual forces being more thansufficient. I remain in Paris at the head of a regiment of municipalguards.” His second letter was still hopeful in tone, though he had toconfess that for the moment the Prussians seemed to be enjoyingpretty good luck. “_Mais cela passera_”--But that will pass,--he addedconfidently. His next letter and his next, however, struck a far lesscheery note; and then, after the siege of Paris began, his lettersceased coming altogether, for then, of course, Paris was shut off fromany communication with the outside world.

  With the commencement of the siege of Paris a cloud settled over ourhome in Norwich, a darkness and a chill that deepened steadily until,toward the end of January, 1871, the city surrendered and was occupiedby the enemy. Dread and anxiety dogged our footsteps all day long everyday. “Even at this moment, Gregory, while we sit here in peace andsafety, thy Uncle Florimond may be dead or dying,” my grandmother wouldsay; then, bowing her head, “_O mon Dieu, sois miséricordieux_”--Omy God, be merciful. Now and then she would start in her chair, andshudder; and upon my demanding the cause, she would reply, “I wasthinking what if at that instant he had been shot by a Prussian bullet.” For hours she would sit per
fectly motionless, with her hands folded,and her eyes fixed vacantly upon the wall; until all at once, she wouldcover her face, and begin to cry as if her heart would break. And then,when the bell rang to summon us to meals, “Ah, what a horror!” she wouldexclaim. “Here are we with an abundance of food and drink, while he whomwe love may be perishing of hunger!” But she had to keep her sufferingto herself when Uncle Peter was around; otherwise, he would catch her upsharply, saying, “Tush! don’t be absurd.”

  And so it went on from worse to worse, my grandmother pining away undermy very eyes, until the siege ended in 1871, and the war was decidedin favor of the Germans. Then, on the fourteenth of February, St.Valentine’s Day, our fears lest Uncle Florimond had been killed wererelieved. A letter came from him dated February 1st. It was very short.It ran: “Here is a single line, my beloved sister, to tell thee thatI am alive and well. To-morrow I shall write thee a real letter”--_unevraie lettre_.

  My grandmother never received his “real letter.” The long strain andsuspense had been too much for her. That day she broke down completely,crying at one moment, laughing the next, and all the time talking toherself in a way that frightened me terribly. That night she went tobed in a high fever, and out of her mind. She did not know me, her owngrandson, but kept calling me Florimond. I ran for the doctor; but whenhe saw her, he shook his head.

  On the morning of February 16th my dear, dear grandmother died.