This bench M. Anspach had at last discovered at the intersection of the balustrade and platform, between two hedges of woodbine and honeysuckle, shaded by the foliage of a noble tree, and fragrant with roses and jasmine. He could there bask in the morning sun, enjoy a refreshing breeze at noon, and in the evening luxuriate in the perfume exhaled from the flowers and shrubs. The place, however, was so narrow, and so completely buried in the surrounding foliage that, although, as we have before insinuated, our friend was the longest and thinnest of majors, he could not, without some trouble, ensconce himself within its limits, but, once seated, his angular figure so completely coincided with the geometrical accidences of the bench, that it was impossible for even a fly to find a resting-place beside him.
Established in his daily position, the view of the dazzling façade of the royal palace through the grove of venerable chestnut trees, would plunge the old man in retrospection of the gay scenes in which he had once been an actor, and it was these melancholy though pleasing reminiscences of the past, combined with the murmur of the lively crowd and the mingled perfume and beauty of the flowers and foliage, that rendered this spot a terrestrial paradise to the cidevant musqueteer.
And how does it happen, you ask, that this poor Major Anspach, who was really a gentleman and courtier at Versailles forty years ago, should now be reduced to seek a refuge from the sun, and from the inquisitive gaze that might have too closely peered into the mystery of his plush inexpressibles?
It was by one of those simple, unforeseen accidents, on which sometimes hangs the destiny of a life-time, and which, in the major’s case, occurred in this wise: One evening a celebrated belle, Mademoiselle Guimard, was so awkward as to drop her handkerchief; the consequence of which was that her friend fell from one trouble into another, until Fate landed him in his long snuff-colored overcoat and plush pantaloons on the bench which is the true subject of this remarkable history.
Mademoiselle Guimard having dropped her handkerchief, of the finest linen cambric, edged with Malines lace, and apparently embroidered by the hands of fairies, the Chevalier de Palissandre, an arrant fop, clothed in velvet, and an expert swordsman, conceived the impertinent idea of stooping to pick it up; but he did it so clumsily that he trod on the toe of Major Anspach, who was just then offering his arm to the lady—how inexcusable! Briefly they exchanged glances—bowed most politely—and the next morning went out to cut each other’s throats.