Prologue
THE STORY OF THIRTY YEARS AGO
"And you are certain of the year he was married in?"
"Perfectly-there is no possibility of my being mistaken. He was married on New Year's Day, '58; I was born in May, '59."
"It is strange, certainly. But there is one solution of it-is it not possible that, even if this is he, the lady registered as his wife might not have been so? In fact she could not have been, otherwise he could never have married your mother."
"I will not believe it! He was too cold and austere-too puritanical I had almost said-to form any such connection."
"Do you think, then, that he would commit bigamy?"
"I don't know what to think!" the other answered gloomily.
Two men, both about the same age, twenty-five, were seated in a private room at an inn, known as the Hôtel Bellevue, at Le Vocq, a dreary fishing town with a good though small harbour, a dozen miles west of Havre. On a fine day the bay that runs in from Barfleur to Fécamp is gay and bright, but it presented a melancholy appearance on this occasion, as the two young men gazed out at it across the rain-soaked plots of grass that formed the lawn of the "Bellevue." Down below the cliff on which the inn stood, the port was visible, and in the port was to be seen an English cutter, the Electra, in which the friends had run for Le Vocq when the storm, that had now been raging for twenty-four hours, broke upon them. They had left Cowes a fortnight ago, and had been yachting pleasantly in the Channel since, putting into Cherbourg on one occasion, into Ste. Mère Eglise on another, and Havre on a third; and now, as ill-luck would have it, it seemed as if they were doomed to be weather-bound in, of the many dreary places on the coast, the dreariest of all, Le Vocq.
The first night in the inn, to which they had come up after seeing the yacht made snug and comfortable in the harbour below, and the sailors left in charge of her also provided for, passed easily enough. There was the hope of the storm abating-which was cheering-and they had cards, and some Paris newspapers to read, and above all, they were fatigued and could sleep well. But, on the next day, the storm had not abated, and they were tired of cards, the old Paris papers had been read and re-read, and later ones had not arrived, and they were refreshed with their night's rest and wanted to be off. But there was no getting off, and what was to be done?
They had stood all the morning looking out of the window disconsolately, had smoked pipes and cigarettes innumerable, and had yawned a good deal, and sworn a little.
"What the deuce are we to do to prevent ourselves from dying of ennui, Philip?" the one asked the other.
"Jerry," the other answered solemnly, "I know no more than you do. There is nothing left to read, and soon-very soon, alas! – there will be nothing left to smoke but the caporal obtainable in the village. That, however, might poison us and end our miseries."
Then the one called Philip began looking about the salon that was at their disposal, and whistling plaintively, and peering into the cupboards, of which there were two:
"Hullo!" he suddenly exclaimed, "here is another great mental treat for us-a lot of old books; and precious big ones, too! I wonder what they are?"
"Pull them out and let us see. Probably only Le Monde Illustré, or Le Journal Amusant, bound up for the landlord's winter nights' delectation, after they have been thumbed by every sailor in the village."
"Oh, confound the books!" Philip exclaimed when he had looked into them, "they are only the old registers, the Livres des Étrangers of bygone years."
"Nevertheless, let us see them," the other answered; "at any rate we shall learn what kind of company the house has kept."
So, obeying his behest, Philip brought them out, and they sat down "to begin at the beginning," as they said laughingly; and each took a volume and commenced to peruse it.
Every now and then they told one another of some name they had come across, the owner of which was known to them by hearsay, and they agreed that the "Hôtel Bellevue" had, in its day, had some very good people for its guests. They had found several titles-English-inscribed in the pages of the register, and also many prominent names belonging to the same nationality.
"Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to heaven some of them were here now, and that-"
He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing fixedly at the page before him.
"What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very wonderful?"
"It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his finger to a line in the book.
"By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "Août 17, 1854, L'Hon. Gervase Occleve et sa femme." Then he said, "Your father of course, before he inherited his title?"
"Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence, except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?"
