Dross

Dross, by Henry Seton Merriman

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Title: Dross
Author: Henry Seton Merriman

Release Date: January 1, 2007 [eBook #20243]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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DROSS
by
HENRY SETON MERRIMAN
Author of "With Edged Tools," "The Sowers," Etc.

[Illustration: I WAS MAKING PRETENCE, IN A SHALLOW WAY
NO DOUBT, TO STUDY THE PAPERS ON THE TABLE. AND
LUCILLE STANDING BEFORE MY DESK WAS LOOKING
DOWN AT MY BENT HEAD, NOTING PERHAPS THE GREY
HAIRS THERE. THUS WE REMAINED FOR A MINUTE IN
SILENCE.]

Herbert S. Stone & Co. Chicago and New York MDCCCXCIX
Copyright, MDCCCXCVI by Herbert S. Stone & Company

CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. Mushrooms 1 II. Monsieur 13 III. Madame 25 IV. Disqualified 36 V.
C'est la Vie 49 VI. A Glimpse of Home 60 VII. In Provence 72 VIII. In
Paris 83 IX. Finance 95 X. The Golden Spoon 107 XI. Theft 118 XII.
Ruin 130 XIII. The Shadow Again 141 XIV. A Little Cloud 153 XV.
Flight 165 XVI. Exile 177 XVII. On the Track 189 XVIII. A Dark

Horse 201 XIX. Sport 213 XX. Underhand 223 XXI. Checkmate 234
XXII. Home 245 XXIII. Wrecked 256 XXIV. An Explanation 267
XXV. Paris Again 277 XXVI. Above the Snow Line 289 XXVII. The
Hand of God 300 XXVIII. The Links 312 XXIX. At La Pauline 324
Chapter I
Mushrooms
"La célébrité est comme le feu, qui brûle de près et illumine de loin."
Under a glorious sky, in the year 1869, Paris gathered to rejoice in the
centenary of the birth of the First Napoleon. A gathering this of
mushroom nobility, soldiery and diplomacy, to celebrate the hundredth
anniversary of the greatest mushroom that ever sprang to life in the
hotbed of internecine strife.
"Adventurers all," said John Turner, the great Paris banker, with whom
I was in the Church of the Invalides; "and yonder," he added, indicating
the Third Napoleon, "is the cleverest."
We had pushed our way into the gorgeous church, and now rubbed
elbows with some that wore epaulettes on peaceful shoulders. There
were ladies present, too. Did not the fair beings contribute to the rise
and fall of that marvellous Second Empire? Representatives of almost
every European power paid homage that day to the memory of a little
Corsican officer of artillery.
As for me, I went from motives of curiosity, as, no doubt, went many
others, if indeed all had so good a call. In my neighbourhood, for
instance, stood a stout gentleman in court uniform, who wept aloud
whenever the organ permitted his grief to be audible.
"Who is that?" I inquired of my companion.
"A Legitimist, who would perhaps accept a Napoleonic post," replied
John Turner, in his stout and simple way.

"And is he weeping because the man who was born a hundred years
ago is dead?"
"No! He is weeping because that man's nephew may perchance note his
emotion."
One could never tell how dense or how acute John Turner really was.
His round, fat face was always immobile and fleshy--no wrinkle, no
movement of lip or eyelid, ever gave the cue to his inmost thought. He
was always good-natured and indifferent--a middle-aged bachelor who
had found life not hollow, but full--of food.
Nature having given me long legs (wherewith to give the slip to my
responsibilities, and also to the bailiffs, as many of my female relatives
have enjoyed saying), I could look over the heads of the majority of
people present, and so saw the Emperor Napoleon III for the first time
in my life. The mind is, after all, a smaller thing than those who deny
the existence of that which is beyond their comprehension would have
us believe. At that moment I forgot to think of all that lay behind those
dull, extinguished eyes. I forgot that this was a maker of history, and
one who will be placed by chroniclers, writing in the calm of the
twentieth century, only second to his greater uncle among remarkable
Frenchmen, and merely wondered whether Napoleon III perceived the
somewhat obtrusive emotion of my neighbour in the court uniform.