XXXIV
Denoisel was at Henri Mauperin's. They were sitting by the fire talking and smoking. Suddenly they heard a noise and a discussion in the hall, and, almost at the same time, the room door was opened violently and a man entered abruptly, pushing aside the domestic who was trying to keep him back.
"M. Mauperin de Villacourt?" he demanded.
"That is my name, monsieur," said Henri, rising.
"Well, my name is Boisjorand de Villacourt," and with the back of his hand he gave Henri a blow which made his face bleed. Henri turned as white as the silk scarf he was wearing as a necktie and, with the blood trickling down his face, he bent forward to return the blow, and then, just as suddenly, drew himself up and stretched his hand out towards Denoisel, who stepped forward, folded his arms, and spoke in his calmest tone:
"I think I understand what you mean, sir," he said; "you consider that there is a Villacourt too many. I think so too."
The visitor was visibly embarrassed before the calmness of this man of the world. He took off his hat, which he had kept on his head hitherto, and began to stammer out a few words.
"Will you kindly leave your address with my servant?" said Henri, interrupting him; "I will send round to you to-morrow."
"A disagreeable affair," began Henri, when he was once more alone with Denoisel. "Where can he have sprung from, this Villacourt? They told me that there were none of them left. Ah, my face is bleeding," he said, wiping it with his handkerchief. "He's a regular buffalo. Georges, bring some water," he called out to his domestic.
"You'll choose the sword, shall you not?" asked Denoisel. "Hand me a stick. Now listen—you must be on guard from the first, and strike out very little. That man's one of the bloodthirsty sort; he'll go straight for you, and you must defend yourself with circular parries. When you are hard pressed and he rushes headlong at you, move aside to the right with the left foot, turn round on tip-toes on your right foot—like that. He'll have nothing in front of him then, and you'll have him from the side and can run him through like a frog."
"No," said Henri, lifting his face from the basin, in which he was sponging it, "not the sword."
"But, my dear fellow, that man is evidently a sportsman; he'll be accustomed to fire-arms."
"My dear fellow, there are certain situations which are most awkward. I've taken another name, and that's always ridiculous. Here's a man who accuses me of having stolen it from him. I have enemies, and a good number of them, too; they'll make a scandal with all this. I must kill this fellow, that's very evident; it's the only way to make my position good. I should put an end to everything by that, lawsuits, and all the stories and gossip—everything. The sword would not serve my purpose. With the sword you can kill a man who has been five years at it, who can use it, and who keeps his body in the positions you have been accustomed to. But a man who has had no sword practice, who jumps and dances about, who flourishes it about like a stick; I should wound him, and that would be all. Now with the pistol—I'm a good shot, you know. You must do me the justice of admitting that I was wise in my choice of accomplishments. And my idea is to put it there," he touched Denoisel as he spoke just above the hip, "just there, you see. Higher up, it's no good, the arm is there to ward it off; but here, why there are a lot of very necessary organs; there's the bladder, for instance; now if you are lucky enough to hit that, and if it should happen to be full, why it would be a case of peritonitis. And you'll get the pistol for me. A duel—without a fuss, you understand. I want it kept quite secret, so that no one shall hear of it beforehand. Whom shall you take with you?"
"Suppose I asked Dardouillet? He served in the National Guard, in the cavalry; I shall have to appeal to his military instincts."
"That's the very thing, good! Will you call in and see mother first. Tell her that I cannot come before Thursday. It would be awkward if she happened to drop in on us just the next day or two. I shall not go out; I'll have a bath and get a little more presentable. This mark doesn't show very much now, does it? I shall send out for dinner, and then spend the evening writing two or three necessary letters. By-the-bye, if you see the gentleman to-morrow morning, why not have it out in the afternoon at four o'clock? It's just as well to get it over. To-morrow you'll find me here all the day—or else I shall be at the shooting gallery. Arrange things as you would for yourself, and thanks for all your trouble, old man. Four o'clock, then—if possible."
XXXV
The name of the farm that Henri Mauperin had added to his surname to make it sound more aristocratic happened, by a strange chance, such as sometimes occurs, to be the name of an estate in Lorraine and of a family, illustrious in former days, but at present so completely forgotten that every one believed it had died out.
The man who had just dealt Henri this blow was the last of those Villacourts who took their name from the domain and château of Villacourt, situated some three leagues from Saint-Mihiel, and owned by them from time immemorial.
In 1303 Ulrich de Villacourt was one of the three lords who set their seal to the will of Ferry, Duke of Lorraine, by order of that prince. Under Charles the Bold, Gantonnet de Villacourt, who had been taken prisoner by the Messinians, only regained his liberty by giving his word never to mount a battle-horse, nor to carry military weapons again. From that time forth he rode a mule, arrayed himself in buffalo-skin, carried a heavy iron bar, and returned to the fight bolder and more terrible than ever. Maheu de Villacourt married Gigonne de Malain and afterward Christine de Gliseneuve. His marble statue, between his two wives, was to be seen before the Revolution in the Church of the Grey Friars at Saint-Mihiel. Duke René allowed him to take eight hundred florins from the town of Ligny for the ransom that he had had to pay after the disastrous battle of Bulgnéville.
Remacle de Villacourt, Maheu's son, was killed in 1476, in the battle waged by Duke René before Nancy against Charles the Daring. Hubert de Villacourt, Remacle's sons, Seneschal of Barrois and Bailiff of Bassigny, followed Duke Antoine as standard-bearer in the Alsatian war, while his brother Bonaventure, a monk of the strict order of Saint-François, was made three times over the triennial Superior of his order, and confessor of Antoine and François, Dukes of Lorraine; and one of his sisters, Salmone, was appointed Abbess of Sainte Glossinde of Metz.
Jean-Marie de Villacourt served in the French army, and after the Landrecies day, the king made him a knight and embraced him. He was afterward captain of three hundred foot soldiers and Equerry of the King's stables, and was then appointed to the captaincy of Vaucouleurs and made Governor of Langres. He had married a sister of Jean de Chaligny, the celebrated gun-founder of Lorraine, who cast the famous culverin, twenty-two feet high. His brother Philibert was a cavalry captain under Charles IX. His brother Gaston made himself famous by his duels. It was he who killed Captain Chambrulard, with two sword-strokes, before four thousand persons assembled at the back of the Chartreux in Paris. Jean-Marie had another brother, Angus, who was Canon of Toul and Archdeacon of Tonnerrois, and a sister, Archange, who was Abbess of Saint-Maur, Verdun.
Then came Guillaume de Villacourt, who fought against Louis XIII. He was obliged to surrender with Charles de Lenoncourt, who was defending the town of Saint-Mihiel, and he shared his four years' captivity in the Bastille. His son, Mathias de Villacourt, married in 1656 Marie Dieudonnée, a daughter of Claude de Jeandelincourt, who opened the salt mine of Château-Salins. Mathias had fourteen children, ten of whom were killed in the service of Louis XIV: Charles, captain of the regiment of the Pont, killed in the siege of Philisbourg; Jean, killed in the battle of Nerwinde; Antoine, captain of the regiment of Normandie, killed in the siege of Fontarabie; Jacques, killed in the siege of Bellegarde, where he had gone by permission of the king; Philippe, captain of the grenadiers in the Dauphin's regiment, killed in the battle of Marsaille; Thibaut, captain in the same regiment, killed in the battle of Hochstett; Pierre-François, commander in the Lyonnais regiment, killed in the battle of Fleurus; Claude-Marie, commander in the Périgord regiment, killed in the passage of the Hogue; Edme, lieutenant in his brother's company, killed at his side in the same affair, and Gerard, Knight of the Order of Saint-Jean of Jerusalem, killed in 1700, in a conflict between four galleys of Christians and a Turkish man-of-war. Of the three daughters of Charles-Mathias, Lydie married the Seigneur de Majastre, Governor of Epinal, and the other two, Berthe and Phœbé, died unmarried.
The eldest of the sons of Charles-Mathias, Louis-Aimé de Villacourt, who served eighteen years and retired from service after the battle of Malplaquet, died in 1702. His son left Villacourt, settled down in Paris, threw himself into the life of the capital, and so got rid of the remainder of a fortune which had already been encroached upon by the loss of a lawsuit between his father and the d'Haraucourts. He endeavoured to recover his losses at the gaming-table, got into debt, and returned to Villacourt with a wife from Carrouge who had kept a gambling house in Paris. He died in 1752, owning very little besides the walls of the château, and leaving a name less famous and less honourable than his father's had been. He had two children by his marriage, a daughter and a son. The daughter became maid of honour to the Empress-Queen, the son remained at Villacourt, leading a low, coarse life as a country gentleman. On the abolition of privileges in 1790 he gave up his rank and lived on a friendly and equal footing with the peasants until he died in 1792. His son Jean, lieutenant in the regiment of the Royal-Liégeois in 1787, was in the Nancy affair. He emigrated, went through the campaigns of 1792 to 1801 in Mirabeau's legion, which was then commanded by Roger de Damas, and in the Bourbon grenadiers in Condé's army. On the thirteenth of August, 1796, he was wounded on the head in the Oberkamlach battle. In 1802 he returned to France, bringing with him a wife he had married in Germany, who died after bearing him four children, four sons. He had become weak in intellect, almost childish in fact, from the result of his wound, and after his wife's death there was no one to regulate the household expenses. Disorder gradually crept in, he kept open table and took to drinking, until at last he was obliged to sell what little land he had round the château. Finally the château itself began to crumble away. He could not have it repaired, as he had no money to pay the workmen. The wind could be felt through the cracks, and the rain came in. The family were obliged to give up one room after another, taking refuge where the roof was still sound. He himself was indifferent to all this; after drinking two or three glasses of brandy he would take his seat in what used to be the kitchen garden, on a stone bench near a meridian, the figures of which had worn away, and there he would get quite cheerful in the sunshine, calling to people over the hedge to come in and drink with him. Decay and poverty, however, made rapid strides in the château. There was nothing left of all the old silver but a salad-bowl, which was used for the food of a horse called Brouska, that the exile had brought with him from Germany, and which was now allowed to roam in liberty through the rooms on the ground-floor.
The four sons grew up as the château went to decay, accustomed to wind, rain, and roughing it. They were entirely neglected and abandoned by their father, and their only education consisted of a few lessons from the parish priest. From living like the peasants, and mixing with them in their work and games, they gradually became regular peasants themselves, and the roughest and strongest in the country round. When their father died the four brothers, by common consent, made over to a land agent the remaining stones of their château in return for a few pounds, with which to pay their most pressing debts, and an annuity of twenty pounds, which was to be paid until the death of the last of the four. They then took up their abode in the forest, which joined their estate, and lived there with the wood-cutters and in the same way as they did, making a regular den of their hut, and living there with their sweethearts or wives, peopling the forest with a half-bred race, in which the Villacourts were crossed with nature, noblemen mated with children of the forest, whose language, even, was no longer French. Some of Jean de Villacourt's old comrades in arms had tried, on his death, to do something for his children. They were interested in this name, which had been so great and had now fallen so low. In 1826 the youngest of the boys, who was scarcely more than sixteen, was brought to Paris. The little savage was clothed and presented to the Duchesse d'Angoulême: he appeared three or four times in the salons of the Minister of War, who was related to his family, and who was very anxious to do something for him; but at the end of a week, feeling stifled in these drawing-rooms, and ill at ease in his clothes, he had escaped like a little wolf, gone straight back to his hiding-place, and had not come out of it again for years.
Of these four Villacourts, he was the only one left at the end of twenty years. His three brothers died one after the other, and all by violent deaths; one from drunkenness, the second from illness, and the other from blows he had received in a skirmish. All three had been struck down suddenly, snatched as it were from the midst of life. Living among the bastards they had left, this last of the Villacourts was looked up to in the forest as the chieftain of a clan until 1854, when the game laws came into force. All the regulations and the supervision, the trials, fines, confiscations, and liabilities connected with the chase, which had now become his very life, and the fear of giving way to his anger some day and of putting a bullet into one of the keepers, disgusted him with this part of the world, with France, and with this land which was no longer his own.
It occurred to him to go to America in order to be quite free, and to be able to hunt in untrodden fields where no gun license was necessary. He went to Paris to set sail from Havre, but he had not enough money for the voyage. He then fell back on Africa, but there he found a second France with laws, gendarmes, and forest-keepers. He tried working a grant of land, and then a clearing, but that kind of labour did not suit him. The country and the climate tried him, and the burning heat of the sun and soil began to take effect on his robust health. At the end of two years he returned to France.
On going back to his log-hut at Motte-Noire he found a newspaper there, the only thing which had come for him during his absence. It was a number of the Moniteur and was more than a year old. He tore it up to light his pipe, and, just as he was twisting it, caught sight of a red-pencil mark. He opened it out again and read the marked paragraph:
"M. Mauperin (Alfred-Henri), better known by the name of Villacourt, is about to apply to the Keeper of the Seals for permission to add to his name that of Villacourt, and will henceforth be known as Mauperin de Villacourt."
He got up, walked about, fumed, then sat down again, and slowly lighted his pipe.
Three days later he was in Paris.
Just at first on reading the paper he had felt as though some one had struck him across the face with a horsewhip. Then he had said to himself that he was robbed of his name, but that was all, that his name was no longer worth anything, as it was now the name of a beggar. This philosophizing mood did not last long, the thought of the theft of his name gradually came back to him, and it irritated and hurt him, and made him feel bitter. After all he had nothing left but this name, and he could not endure the idea of having it stolen from him, and so started for Paris.
On arriving he was as furious as a mad bull, and his one idea was to go and knock this M. Mauperin down at once. When once he was in the capital, though, with its streets and its crowds, face to face with its people, its shops, its life, all the passers-by, and the noise, he felt dazed, like some wild beast let loose in a huge circus, whose rage is suddenly turned into fright and who stops short after its first leap. He went straight to the law courts, and in the long hall accosted one of those men in black, who are generally leaning against a pillar, and told him what had happened. The man in black informed him that as the year's delay had expired there was nothing to be done but appeal to the high court against the decree authorizing the addition of the name, and he gave him the address of a counsel of the higher court. M. de Villacourt hurried to this counsel. He found a very cold, polite man, wearing a white necktie, who, while leaning back in a green morocco chair, listened with a fixed expression in his eyes all the time to his case, his claims, his rights, his indignation, and to the sound of the parchments he was turning over with a nervous hand.
The expression of the counsel's face never changed, so that when M. de Villacourt had finished he fancied that the other man had not understood, and he began all over again. The lawyer stopped him with a gesture, saying: "I think you will gain your case, monsieur."
"You think so? Do you mean to say you are not sure of it?"
"A lawsuit is always a lawsuit, monsieur," answered the lawyer with a faint smile, which was so sceptical that it chilled M. de Villacourt, who was just prepared to burst out in a rage. "The chances are on your side, though, and I am quite willing to undertake your case."
"Here you are then," said M. de Villacourt, putting his roll of title-deeds down on the desk. "Thank you, sir," he added, rising to take his leave.
"Excuse me," said the lawyer on seeing him walk towards the door, "but I must call your attention to the fact that in business of this kind, in an appeal to the higher court, we do not only act as the barrister but as the lawyer of our client. There are certain expenses, for getting information and examining deeds—If I take up your case I shall be obliged to ask you to cover these expenses. Oh, it is only a matter of from twenty to twenty-five pounds. Let us say twenty pounds."
"Twenty to twenty-five pounds! Why, what do you mean!" exclaimed M. de Villacourt, turning red with indignation. "Some one steals my name, and because I have not seen the newspaper in which the man warns me that he intends robbing me, I must pay twenty-five pounds to make this rascal give up my name again. Twenty to twenty-five pounds! But I haven't the money, sir," he said, lowering his head and letting his arms fall down at his sides.
"I am extremely sorry, monsieur, but this little formality is indispensable. Oh, you must be able to find it. I feel sure that among the relatives of the families into which your family has married—in such questions as these, families are always ready to pull together."
"I do not know any one—and the Count de Villacourt will never ask for money. I had just twelve pounds when I arrived. I bought this coat for about two pounds at the Palais Royal on the way here. This hat cost me five and tenpence. I suppose my hotel bill will cost me about a sovereign, and I shall want about a sovereign to get back home. Could you do with what is left?"
"I am very sorry, monsieur——"
M. de Villacourt put his hat on and left the room. At the hall-door he suddenly turned round, passed through the dining-room and opening the office-door again, he said, in a smothered voice which he was doing his utmost to control:
"Can I have the address of M. Henri Mauperin—known as de Villacourt—without paying for it?"
"Certainly; he is a barrister. I shall find his address in this book. Here it is; Rue Taitbout—14."
It was after all this that M. de Villacourt had hurried away to Henri Mauperin's.
XXXVI
When Denoisel entered the Mauperins' drawing-room that evening he found every one more gay and cheerful than usual. There was a look of happiness on all the faces; M. Mauperin's good-humour could be guessed by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Mme. Mauperin was most gracious, she positively beamed and looked blissfully happy. Renée was flitting about the room, and her quick, girlish movements were so bird-like that one could almost imagine the sound of a bird's wings.
"Why, here's Denoisel!" exclaimed M. Mauperin.
"Good-evening, m'sieu," said Renée, in a playful tone.
"You haven't brought Henri with you?" asked Mme. Mauperin.
"He couldn't come. He'll be here the day after to-morrow without fail."
"How nice of you! Oh, isn't he a good boy to have come this evening," said Renée, hovering round and trying to make him laugh as though he had been a child.
"Oh, he's a bad lot! Ah, my dear fellow—" and M. Mauperin shook hands and winked at his wife.
"Yes; just come here, Denoisel," said Mme. Mauperin. "Come and sit down and confess your sins. It appears that you were seen the other day in the Bois—driving——"
She stopped a minute like a cat when it is drinking milk.
"Ah, now your mother's wound up!" said M. Mauperin to Renée. "She's in very good spirits to-day—my wife is. I warn you, Denoisel."
Mme. Mauperin had lowered her voice. Leaning forward towards Denoisel she was telling him a very lively story. The others could only catch a word here and there between smothered bursts of laughter.
"Mamma, it's not allowed; that sort of thing—laughing all to yourselves. Give me back my Denoisel, or I'll tell stories like yours to papa."
"Oh, dear, wasn't it absurd!" said Mme. Mauperin, when she had finished her bit of gossip, laughing heartily as old ladies do over a spicy tale.
"How very lively you all are this evening!" exclaimed Denoisel, chilled by all this gaiety.
"Yes, we are as gay as Pinchon," said Renée, "that's how we all feel! And we shall be like this to-morrow, and the day after, and always; shall we not, papa?" and running across to her father she sat down on his knees like a child.
"My darling!" said M. Mauperin to his daughter. "Well, I never! Just look, my dear, do you remember? This was her knee when she was a little girl."
"Yes," said Mme. Mauperin, "and Henri had the other one."
"Yes, I can see them now," continued M. Mauperin; "Henri was the girl and you were the boy, Renée. Just to fancy that all that was fifteen years ago. It used to amuse you finely when I let you put your little hands on the scars that my wounds had left. What rascals of children they were! How they laughed!" Then turning to his wife he added, "What work you had with them, my dear. It doesn't matter though, Denoisel; it's a good thing to have a family. Instead of only having one heart, it's as though you have several—upon my word it is!"
"Ah, Denoisel, now that you are here, we shall not let you go again," said Renée. "Your room has been waiting for you long enough."
"I'm so sorry, Renée, but really I have some business to attend to this evening in Paris; I have, really."
"Oh, business! You? How important you must feel, to be sure!"
"Do stay, Denoisel," said M. Mauperin. "My wife has a whole collection of stories for you like the one she has just told you."
"Oh yes, do, will you?" pleaded Renée. "We'll have such fun; you'll see. I won't touch the piano at all, and I won't put too much vinegar in the salad. We'll make puns on everything. Come now, Denoisel."
"I accept your invitation for next week."
"Horrid thing!" and Renée turned her back on him.
"And Dardouillet," said Denoisel; "isn't he coming this evening?"
"Oh, he'll come later on," said Mauperin. "By-the-bye, it's just possible he won't come, though. He's very busy—in the very thick of marking out his land. I fancy he's just busy transporting his mountain into his lake and his lake on to the top of his mountain."
"Well, but what about this evening?"
"Oh, this evening—no one knows," said Renée. "He's full of mysteries, M. Dardouillet. But how queer you look to-day, Denoisel!"
"I do?"
"Yes, you; you don't seem at all frolicsome; there's no sparkle about you. What's been ruffling you?"
"Denoisel, there's something the matter," said Mme. Mauperin.
"Nothing whatever, madame," answered Denoisel. "What could be the matter with me? I'm not low-spirited in the least. I'm simply tired; I've had to rush about so much this last week for Henri. He would have my opinion about everything in connection with his furnishing."
"Ah yes," said Mme. Mauperin, her face lighting up with joy; "it's true, the twenty-second is getting near. Oh, if any one had told me this two years ago! I'm afraid I shall be too happy to live on that day. Just think of it, my dear," and she half closed her eyes and revelled in her dreams of the future.
"I shall be simply lovely for the occasion, I can tell you, Denoisel," said Renée. "I have had my dress tried on to-day, and it fits me to perfection. But, papa, what about a dress-coat?"
"My old dress-coat is quite new."
"Oh, but you must have one made, a newer one still, if I'm to take your arm. Oh, how silly I am; you won't take me in, of course. Denoisel, please keep a quadrille for me. We shall give a ball, of course, mamma?"
"A ball and everything that we can give," said Mme. Mauperin. "I expect people will think it is not quite the thing; but I can't help that. I want it to be very festive—as it was for our wedding, do you remember, my dear? We'll dance and eat and drink, and——"
"Yes, that's what we'll do," said Renée, "and we'll let all our work people drink till they are quite merry—Denoisel too. It will liven him up a little to have too much to drink."
"Well, with all this, I don't fancy Dardouillet's coming——"
"What in the world makes you so anxious to see Dardouillet, this evening?" asked M. Mauperin.
"Yes, that's true," put in Renée. "That hasn't been explained. Please explain, Denoisel."
"How inquisitive you are, Renée. It's just a bit of nonsense—nothing that matters. I want him to lend me his bulldog for a rat-fight at my club to-morrow. I've made a bet that he'll kill a hundred in two minutes. And with that I must depart. Good-night, all!"
"Good-night!"
"Then, my boy will be here the day after to-morrow, for sure?" said Mme. Mauperin at the door to Denoisel.
Denoisel nodded without answering.
XXXVII
On arriving at Dardouillet's little house at the other end of the village, Denoisel rang the bell. An old woman opened the door.
"Has M. Dardouillet gone to bed?"
"Gone to bed? No, indeed! A nice life he leads!" answered the old servant; "he's pottering about in the garden; you'll find him there," and she opened the long window of the dining-room.
The bright moonlight fell on a garden absolutely bare, as square as a handkerchief, and with the soil all turned over like a field. In one corner, standing motionless and with folded arms, on a hillock, was a black figure which looked like a spectre in one of Biard's pictures. It was M. Dardouillet, and he was so deeply absorbed that he did not see his visitor until Denoisel was quite close to him.
"Ah, it's you, M. Denoisel? I'm delighted to see you. Just look now," and he pointed to the loose soil all round. "What do you think of that? Plenty of lines there, I hope; and it's all quite soft and loose, you know," and he put his hand out over the plan of his rising ground as though he were stroking the brow of his ideal hill.
"Excuse me, M. Dardouillet," said Denoisel. "I've come about an affair that——"
"Moonlight—remember that—if ever you have a garden—there's nothing like moonlight for seeing what you have done—exactly as it is. By daylight you can't see the embankments——"
"M. Dardouillet, I want to appeal to a man who has worn a soldier's uniform. You are a friend of the Mauperins. I have come to ask you if you will act for Henri as——"
"A duel?" And Dardouillet fastened up the black coat he wore, winter and summer alike, with all that was left of the button. "Good heavens! Yes, a service of that kind is a duty."
"I shall take you back with me, then," said Denoisel, putting his arm through Dardouillet's. "You can sleep at my place. It must be settled quickly. It will be all over to-morrow, or the day after at the latest."
"Good!" said Dardouillet, looking regretfully at a line of stakes that had been commenced, the shadows of which the moon threw on the ground.
XXXVIII
On leaving Henri Mauperin's, M. de Villacourt had suddenly recollected that he had no friends, no one at all whom he could ask to serve as seconds. This had not occurred to him before. He remembered two or three names which had been mixed up in his father's family history, and he went along the streets trying to find the houses where he had been taken when he had come to Paris in his boyhood. He rang at several doors, but either the people were no longer living there or they were not at home to him.
At night he returned to his lodging-house. He had never before felt so absolutely alone in the world. When he was taking the key of his bed-room, the landlady asked him if he would not have a glass of beer and, opening a door in a passage, showed him into a café which took up the ground-floor of the house.
Some swords were hanging from the hat-pegs, with cocked hats over them. At the far end, through the tobacco smoke, he could see men dressed in military uniform moving about round a billiard-table. A sickly looking boy with a white apron on was running to and fro, scared and bewildered, giving the Army Monitor and the other papers a bath, each time that he put a glass or cup on the table.
Near the counter, a drum-major was playing at backgammon with the landlord of the café in his shirt-sleeves. On every side voices could be heard calling out and answering each other, with the rolling accent peculiar to soldiers.
"To-morrow I'm on duty at the theatre."
"I take my week."
"Gaberiau is beadle at Saint-Sulpice."
"He was proposed and was to be examined."
"Who's on service at the Bourdon ball?"
"What an idea! to blow his brains out when he hadn't a single punishment down on his book!"
It was very evident that they were the Paris Guards from the barracks, just near, waiting until nine o'clock for the roll-call.
"Waiter, a bowl of punch and three glasses," said M. de Villacourt, taking his place at a table where two of the Guards were seated.
When the punch was brought he filled the three glasses, pushed one before each of the Guards, and rose to his feet.
"Your health, gentlemen!" he said, and then lifting his glass he continued: "You are military men—I have to fight to-morrow, and I haven't any one I can ask. I feel sure that you will act as seconds for me."
One of the Guards looked full at M. de Villacourt, and then turned to his comrade.
"We may as well, Gaillourdot; what do you say?"
The other did not reply, but picking up his glass touched M. de Villacourt's with it.
"Well then, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Room 27."
"Right!" answered the Guards.
The following morning, just as Denoisel was starting with Dardouillet to call on M. Boisjorand de Villacourt, his door-bell rang and the two Guards entered. As their mission was to accept everything, terms, weapons, and distances, the arrangements for the duel were soon made. Pistols were decided upon at a distance of thirty-five paces, both adversaries to be allowed to walk ten paces. Denoisel requested, in Henri's name, that the affair should be got over as quickly as possible. This was precisely what M. de Villacourt's seconds were about to ask, as they were supposed to be going to the theatre that evening, and were only free that day until midnight. A meeting was fixed for four o'clock at the Ville-d'Avray Lake. Denoisel next went to one of his friends who was a surgeon, and then to order a carriage for bringing home the wounded man. He called to see Henri, who was out; then went on to the shooting-gallery, where he found him, amusing himself with shooting at small bundles of matches hanging from a piece of string, at which he fired, setting the brimstone alight with the bullet.
"Oh, that's nothing!" he said to Denoisel; "I fancy those matches get set on fire with the wind from the bullet; but look here!" and he showed him a cardboard target, in the first ring of which he had just put a dozen bullets.
"It's to be to-day at four, as you wished," said Denoisel.
"Good!" said Henri, giving his pistol to the man. "Look here," he continued, putting his fingers over two holes on the cardboard which were rather far away from the others; "if it were not for these two flukes this would be fit to frame. Oh, I'm glad it's arranged for to-day." He lifted his arm with the gesture of a man accustomed to shooting and just about to take aim, and then shook his hand about to get the blood into it again.
"Only imagine," he continued, "that it had quite an effect on me—the idea of this affair—when I was in bed this morning. It's that deuced horizontal position; I don't fancy it's good for one's courage."
They all lunched together at Denoisel's and then proceeded to smoke. Henri was cheerful and communicative, talking all the time. The surgeon arrived at the hour appointed, and they all four got into the carriage and drove off.
They had been silent until they were about half way, when Henri suddenly threw his cigar out of the window impatiently.
"Give me a cigar, Denoisel, a good one. It's very important to have a good cigar when you are going to shoot, you know. If you are to shoot properly you mustn't be nervous; that's the principal thing. I took a bath this morning. One must keep calm. Now, driving is the most detestable thing; the reins saw your hand for you. I'd wager you couldn't shoot straight after driving; your fingers would be stiff. Novels are absurd with their duels, where the man arrives and flings his reins to his groom. What should you think if I told you that one ought to go in for a sort of training? It's quite true, though. I never knew such a good shot as an Englishman I once met; he goes to bed at eight o'clock; never drinks stimulants and takes a short walk every evening like my father does. Every time that I have driven in a carriage without springs to the shooting-gallery, my targets have shown it. By-the-bye, this is a very decent carriage, Denoisel. Well, with a cigar it's the same thing. Now a cigar that's difficult to smoke keeps you at work, you have to keep lifting your hand to your mouth, and that makes your hand unsteady; while a good cigar—you ask any good shot, and he'll tell you the same thing—it's soothing, it puts your nerves in order. There's nothing better than the gentle movement of the arm as you take the cigar out of your mouth and put it in again. It's slow and regular."
On arriving, they found M. de Villacourt and his seconds waiting between the two lakes. The ground was white with the snow that had fallen during the morning. In the woods the trees stretched their bare branches towards the sky, and in the distance the red sunset could be seen between the rows of dark trees. They walked as far as the Montalet road. The distances were measured, Denoisel's pistols loaded, and the opponents then took their places opposite each other. Two walking-sticks, laid on the snow, marked the limits of the ten paces they were each allowed. Denoisel walked with Henri to the place which had fallen to his lot, and as he was pushing down a corner of his collar for him which covered his necktie, Henri said in a low voice: "Thanks, old man; my heart's beating a trifle under my armpit, but you'll be satisfied——"
M. de Villacourt took off his frock-coat, tore off his necktie, and threw them both some distance from him. His shirt was open at the neck, showing his strong, broad, hairy chest. The opponents were armed, and the seconds moved back and stood together on one side.
"Ready!" cried a voice.
At this word M. de Villacourt moved forward almost in a straight line. Henri kept quite still and allowed him to walk five paces. At the sixth he fired.
M. de Villacourt fell to the ground, and the witnesses watched him lay down his pistol and press his thumbs with all his strength on the double hole which the bullet had made on entering his body.
"Ah! I'm not done for—Ready, monsieur!" he called out in a loud voice to Henri, who, thinking all was over, was moving away.
M. de Villacourt picked up his pistol and proceeded to do his four remaining paces as far as the walking-stick, dragging himself along on his hands and knees and leaving a track of blood on the snow behind him. On arriving at the stick he rested his elbow on the ground and took aim slowly and steadily.
"Fire! Fire!" called out Dardouillet.
Henri, standing still and covering his face with his pistol, was waiting. He was pale, and there was a proud, haughty look about him. The shot was fired; he staggered a second, then fell flat, with his face on the ground and with outstretched arms, his twitching fingers grasping for a moment at the snow.
XXXIX
M. Mauperin had gone out into the garden as he usually did on coming downstairs in the morning, when, to his surprise, he saw Denoisel advancing to meet him.
"You here, at this hour?" he said. "Why, where did you sleep?"
"M. Mauperin," said Denoisel, pressing his hand as he spoke.
"What is it? What's the matter?" asked M. Mauperin, feeling that something had happened.
"Henri is wounded."
"Dangerously? Is it a duel?"
Denoisel nodded.
"Wounded? Ah, he is dead!"
Denoisel took M. Mauperin's two hands in his for a second, without uttering a word.
"Dead!" repeated M. Mauperin mechanically, and he opened his hands as though something had slipped from their grasp. "His poor mother, Henri!" and the tears came with the words. "Oh, God—We don't know how much we love them till this comes—and only thirty years old!" He sank down on a garden-seat, choked with sobs.
"Where is he?" he asked at last.
"There," and Denoisel pointed to the window of Henri's room.
From Ville-d'Avray he had taken the corpse straight to M. Dardouillet's, and during the evening had found a pretext for sending for M. Bernard, who had a key of the Mauperins' house. In the middle of the night, while the family were asleep, the three men had taken off their shoes, carried Henri's dead body upstairs, and laid it on the bed in his own room.
"Thank you," said M. Mauperin, and making a sign to him that he could not talk he got up.
They walked round the garden four or five times in silence. The tears came every now and then into M. Mauperin's eyes, but they did not fall. Words, too, seemed to come to his lips and die away again. Finally, in a deep, crushed voice, breaking the long silence by a desperate effort, and not looking at Denoisel, M. Mauperin asked an abrupt question.
"Was it an honourable death?"
"He was your son," answered Denoisel.
The father lifted his head at these words, as if strength had come to him with which to fight against his grief. "Well, well; I must do my duty now. You have done your part," and he drew Denoisel nearer to him, his tears falling freely at last.
XL
"Murder is the name for affairs of this kind," M. Barousse was saying to Denoisel as they followed the hearse to the cemetery. "Why didn't you arrange matters between them?"
"After that blow?"
"After or before," said M. Barousse, peremptorily.
"You'd better say that to his father!"
"He's a soldier—but you, hang it all—you've never served in the army, and you let him get killed! I consider you killed him."
"Look here, I've had enough, M. Barousse."
"You see, I reason things out; I've been a magistrate."—Barousse had been a judge on the Board of Trade.—"You have the law courts and you can demand justice. But duels are contrary to all laws, human or divine; remember that. Why, just fancy—a scoundrel comes and gives me a blow in the face; and he must needs kill me as well. Ah, I can promise you one thing: if ever I'm on a jury, and there's a case of a duel—well, I look upon it as murder. Duellists are assassins. In the first place it's a cowardly thing——"
"A cowardly thing that every one hasn't the courage to carry through, M. Barousse; it's like suicide."
"Ah, if you are going to uphold suicide," said Barousse, and leaving the discussion he continued in a softened tone: "Such a fine fellow too, poor Henri! And then Mauperin, and his wife, and his daughter—the whole family plunged into this grief. No, it makes me wild when I think of it. Why, I had known him all his life." Barousse pulled his watch half out of his waistcoat-pocket as he spoke. "There!" he said, breaking off suddenly; "I know it will be sold; I shall have missed The Concert, a superb proof, earlier than the one with the dedication."
Denoisel returned to Briche with M. Mauperin, who, on arriving, went straight upstairs to his wife. He found her in bed, with the blinds down and the curtains drawn, overwhelmed and crushed by her terrible sorrow.
Denoisel opened the drawing-room door and saw Renée, seated on an ottoman, sobbing, with her handkerchief up to her mouth.
"Renée," he said, going to her and taking her hands in his, "some one killed him——"
Renée looked at him and then lowered her eyes.
"That man would never have known; he never read anything and he did not see any one; he lived like a regular wolf; he didn't subscribe to the Moniteur, of course. Do you understand?"
"No," stammered Renée, trembling all over.
"Well, it must have been an enemy who sent the paper to that man. Ah, you can't understand such cowardly things; but that's how it all came about, though. One of his seconds showed me the paper with the paragraph marked——"
Renée was standing up, her eyes wide open with terror; her lips moved and she opened her mouth to speak—to cry out: "I sent it!"
Then all at once she put her hand to her heart, as if she had just been wounded there, and fell down unconscious and rigid on the carpet.
XLI
Denoisel came every day to Briche to inquire about Renée. When she was a little better, he was surprised that she did not ask for him. He had always been accustomed to seeing her when she was not well, even when she was lying down, as though he had been one of the family. And whenever she had been ill, he was always one of the first she had asked for. She expected him to entertain and amuse her, to enliven her during her convalescence and bring back her laughter. He was offended and kept away for a day or two, and then when he came again he still could not see her. One day he was told that she was too tired, another day that the Abbé Blampoix was talking to her. Finally, at the end of a week, he was allowed to see her.
He expected an effusive welcome, such as invalids give their friends when they see them again for the first time. He thought that after an illness she would, in her impulsive way, be almost ready to embrace him. Renée held out her hand to him and just let her fingers lie in his for a second; she said a few words such as she might have said to any one, and after about a quarter of an hour closed her eyes as though she were sleepy. This coldness, which he could not understand in the least, irritated Denoisel and made him feel bitter. He was deeply hurt and humiliated, as his affection for Renée was pure and sincere and of such long standing. He tried to imagine what she could possibly have against him, and wondered whether M. Barousse had been instilling his ideas into her. Was she blaming him, as a witness of the duel, for her brother's death? Just about this time one of his friends who had a yacht at Cannes invited him for a cruise in the Mediterranean, and he accepted the invitation and went away at once.
Renée was afraid of Denoisel. She only remembered the commencement of the attack that she had had in his presence, that terrible moment which had been followed by her fall and a fit of hysterics. She had had a sensation of being suffocated by her brother's blood, and she knew that a cry had come to her lips. She did not know whether she had spoken, whether her secret had escaped her while she was unconscious. Had she told Denoisel that she had killed Henri, that it was she who had sent that newspaper? Had she confessed her crime?
When Denoisel entered her room she imagined that he knew all. The embarrassment which he felt and which was the effect of her manner to him, his coldness, which was entirely due to her own, all this confirmed her in her idea, in her certainty that she had spoken and that it was a judge who was there with her.
Before Denoisel's visit was over, her mother got up to go out of the room a minute, but Renée clung to her with a look of terror and insisted on her staying. It occurred to her that she might defend herself by saying that it was a fatality; that by sending the newspaper she had only meant to make the man put in his claim; that she had wanted to prevent her brother from getting this name and to make him break off his engagement; but then she would have been obliged to say why she had wished to do this—why she had wished to ruin her brother's future and prevent him from becoming a rich man. She would have had to confess all; and the bare idea of defending herself in such a way, even in the eyes of the man she respected more than any other, horrified and disgusted her. It seemed to her that the least she could do would be to leave to the one she had killed his fair fame and the silence of death.
She breathed freely when she heard of Denoisel's departure, for it seemed to her, then, as though her secret were her own once more.
XLII
Renée gradually recovered and in a few months' time seemed to be quite well again. All the outward appearances of health came back to her, and she had no suffering at all. She did not even feel anything of the disturbance which illness leaves in the organs it has touched and in the life it has just attacked.
All at once the trouble began again. When she went upstairs or walked uphill she suddenly felt suffocated. Palpitation became more frequent and more violent, and then just as suddenly all this would stop again, as it happens sometimes with these insidious diseases which at intervals seem to entirely forget their victims.
At the end of a few weeks the doctor from Saint-Denis, who was attending Renée, took M. Mauperin aside.
"I don't feel satisfied about your daughter," he said. "There is something not quite clear to me. I should like to have a consultation with a specialist. These heart affections are very treacherous sometimes."
"Yes, these heart affections—you are quite right," stammered M. Mauperin.
He could not find anything else to say. His former notions of medicine, the desperate doctrines of the old school, Corvisart, the epigraph in his famous book on the subject of heart affections: "Hæret lateri lethalis arundo"; all these things came suddenly back to his mind, clearly and distinctly. He could see the pages again of those books so full of terror.
"You see," the doctor went on, "the great danger of these diseases is that they are so often of long standing. People send for us when the disease has made great headway. There are symptoms that the patient has not even noticed. Your daughter must have been very impressionable always, from her very childhood, I should say; isn't that so? Torrents of tears for the least blame, her face on fire for nothing at all, and then her pulse beating a hundred a minute, a constant state of emotion with her, very excitable, tempers like convulsions, always slightly feverish. She would put a certain amount of passion into everything, I should say, into her friendship, her games, her likes and dislikes; am I not right? Oh yes, this is generally the way with children in whom this organ predominates and who have an unfortunate predisposition to hypertrophy. Tell me now, has she lately had any great emotion—any great grief?"
"Yes, oh yes; her brother's death."
"Her brother's death. Ah yes, there was that," said the doctor, not appearing to attach any great importance, nevertheless, to this information. "I meant to ask you, though, whether she had been crossed in love, for instance."
"She? Crossed in love? Oh, good heavens!" and M. Mauperin shrugged his shoulders, and half joining his hands looked up in the air.
"Well, I'm only asking you that for the sake of having my conscience clear. Accidents of this kind only develop the germ that is already there and hasten on the disease. The physical influence of the passions on the heart is a theory—It has been studied a great deal the last twenty years; and quite right, too, in my opinion. The thesis that the heart is lacerated in a burst of temper, in any great moral——"
M. Mauperin interrupted him:
"Then, a consultation—you fancy—you think—don't you?"
"Yes, M. Mauperin, that will be quite the best thing. You see, it will be more satisfactory for every one; for you, and for me. We should call in M. Bouillaud, I suppose. He is considered the first authority."
"Yes—M. Bouillaud," repeated M. Mauperin, mechanically nodding his head in assent.
XLIII
It was just five minutes past twelve, and M. Mauperin was seated by Renée's bed, holding her two hands in his. Renée glanced at the time-piece.
"He'll be here soon," said M. Mauperin.
Renée answered by closing her eye-lids gently, and her breathing and the beating of her heart could be heard like the ticking of a watch in the silence of the room at night.
Suddenly a peal of the door-bell rang out, clearly and imperiously, vibrating through the house. It seemed to M. Mauperin as though it had been rung within him, and a shudder passed through him to his very finger-tips like a needle-prick. He went to the door and opened it.
"It is some one who rang by mistake, sir," said the servant-man.
"It's very warm," said M. Mauperin to his daughter as he took his seat again, looking very pale.
Five minutes later the servant knocked. The doctor was waiting in the drawing-room.
"Ah!" said M. Mauperin, getting up once more.
"Go to him," murmured Renée, and then calling him back, she asked, looking alarmed: "Is he going to examine me?"
"I don't know; I don't think so. There'll be no need, perhaps," answered M. Mauperin, playing with the knob of the door.
M. Mauperin had fetched the doctor and left him with his daughter. He was in the drawing-room waiting the result. He had walked up and down, taken a seat, and gazed mechanically at a flower on the carpet, and had then gone to the window and was tapping with his fingers on the pane.
It seemed to him as though everything within himself and all round had suddenly stopped. He did not know whether he had been there an hour or a minute. It was one of those moments in life for him, the measure and duration of which cannot be calculated. He felt as though he were living again through his whole existence, and as though all the emotions of a lifetime were crowded into a moment that was eternal.
He turned dizzy, like a man in a dream falling from a height and enduring the anguish of falling. All kinds of indistinct ideas, of confused anxieties and vague terrors, seemed to rise from the pit of his stomach and buzz round his temples. Yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, the doctor, his daughter, her illness, all this whirled round in his head, perplexing him, mingled as it all was with a physical sensation of uneasiness, anxiety, fear, and dread. Then all at once one idea became distinct. He had one of those clear visions that cross the mind at such times. He saw the doctor with his ear pressed against his daughter's back and he listened with him. He thought he heard the bed creak as it does when any one turns on it. It was over, they would be coming now; but no one came. He began pacing up and down again, as he could not keep still. He grew irritable with impatience and thought the doctor was a very long time, but the next minute he said to himself that it was a good sign, that a great specialist would not relish wasting his time, and that if there had been nothing he could do, he would already have been back. Fresh hope came to him with this thought: his daughter was saved; when the doctor came in he should see by his face that his daughter was saved. He watched the door, but no one came. Then he began to say to himself that they would have to take precautions, that perhaps she would always be delicate, that there were plenty of people who went on living in spite of palpitation of the heart. Then the word, the terrible word, death, came to him and haunted him. He tried to drive it away by thinking over and over again the same thoughts about convalescence, getting well, and good health. He went over in his mind all the persons he had known, who had been ill a long time, and who were not dead. And yet in spite of all his efforts the same question kept coming back to him: "What would the doctor tell him?"
He repeated this over and over again to himself. It seemed to him as though this visit were never going to finish and never would finish. And then at times he would shudder at the idea of seeing the door open. He would have liked to remain as he was forever, and never know. Finally hope came back to him once more, just as the door opened.
"Well?" said M. Mauperin to the doctor as he entered the room.
"You must be brave," said the doctor.
M. Mauperin looked up, glanced at the doctor, moved his lips without uttering a word—his mouth was dry and parched.
The doctor began to explain in full his daughter's disease, its gravity, the complications that were to be feared: he then wrote out a long prescription, saying to M. Mauperin at each item:
"You understand?"
"Perfectly!" answered M. Mauperin, looking stupefied.
"Ah, my dear little girl, you are going to get well!"
These were M. Mauperin's words to his daughter when he went back to her room.
"Really?" she asked.
"Kiss me."
"What did he tell you?"
"Well, you need only look at my face to know what he said," answered M. Mauperin, smiling at her. He felt as though it would kill him, though, that smile; and turning away under the pretence of looking for his hat, he continued, "I must go to Paris to get the prescription made up."
XLIV
At the railway station M. Mauperin saw the doctor getting into the train. He got into another compartment, as he did not feel as though he had the strength to speak to him or even look at him.
On arriving in Paris he went to a chemist's and was told that it would take three hours to make up the prescription. "Three hours!" he exclaimed, but at heart he was glad that it would be so long. It would give him some time before returning to the house. When once he was in the street he walked fast. He had no consecutive ideas, but a sort of heavy, ceaseless throbbing in his head like the throb of neuralgia. His sensations were blunted, as though he were in a stupor. He saw nothing but the legs of people walking and the wheels of the carriages turning round. His head felt heavy and at the same time empty. As he saw other people walking, he walked too. The passers-by appeared to be taking him with them, and the crowd to be carrying him along in its stream. Everything looked faint, indistinct, and of a neutral tint, as things do the day after any wild excitement or intoxication. The light and noise of the streets he seemed to see and hear in a dream. He would not have known there was any sun if it had not been for the white trousers the policemen were wearing, which had caught his eye several times.
It was all the same to him whether he went to the right or left. He neither wanted anything nor had he the energy to do anything. He was surprised to see the movement around him—people who were hurrying along, walking quickly, on their way to something. He had had neither aim nor object in life for the last few hours. It seemed to him as though the world had come to an end, as though he were a dead man in the midst of the life and activity of Paris. He tried to think of anything in all that might happen to a man capable of moving him, of touching him in any way, and he could not conceive of anything which could reach to the depths of his despair.
Sometimes, as though he were answering inquiries about his daughter, he would say aloud, "Oh, yes, she is very ill!" and it was as though the words he had uttered had been said by some one else at his side. Often a work-girl without any hat, a pretty young girl with a round waist, gay and healthy with the rude health of her class, would pass by him. He would cross the street that he might not see her again. He was furious just for a minute with all these people who passed him, with all these useless lives. They were not beloved as his daughter was, and there was no need for them to go on living. He went into one of the public gardens and sat down. A child put some of its little sand-pies on to the tails of his coat; other children getting bolder approached him with all the daring of sparrows. Presently, feeling slightly embarrassed, they left their little spades, stopped playing and stood round, looking shyly and sympathetically, like so many men and women in miniature, at this tall gentleman who was so sad. M. Mauperin rose and left the garden.
His tongue was furred and his throat dry. He went into a café, and opposite him was a little girl wearing a white jacket and a straw hat. Her frock was short, showing her little firm, bare legs with their white socks. She was moving about all the time, climbing and jumping on to her father and standing straight up on his knees. She had a little cross round her neck. Every few minutes her father begged her to keep still.
M. Mauperin closed his eyes; he could see his own little daughter just as she had been at six years old. Presently he opened a review, The Illustration, and bent over it, trying to make himself look at the pictures, and when he reached the last page he set himself to find out one of the enigmas.
When M. Mauperin lifted his head again he wiped his face with his handkerchief. He had made out the enigma: "Against death there is no appeal."
XLV
The terrible existence of those who have given up hope, and who can only wait, now commenced for M. Mauperin; that life of anguish, fear and trembling, of despair and of constant shocks, when every one is listening and on the watch for death; that life when one is afraid of any noise in the house, and just as afraid of silence, afraid of every movement in the next room, afraid of the sound of voices drawing near, afraid to hear a door close, and afraid of seeing the face of the person who opens the door when one enters the house, and of whom one asks without speaking if the beloved one still lives.
As people frequently do when nursing their sick friends, he began to reproach himself bitterly. He made his sorrow still harder to bear by making himself believe that it was partly his own fault, that everything had not been done which ought to have been, that she might have been saved if only there had been a consultation earlier, if at a certain time, a certain month or day, he had only thought of something or other.
At night his restlessness in bed seemed to make his grief more wild and feverish. In the solitude, the darkness, and the silence, one thought, one vision, was with him all the time—his daughter, always his daughter. His anxiety worked on his imagination, his dread increased, and his wakefulness had all the intensity of the terrible sensation of nightmare. In the morning he was afraid to wake up, and just as a man, when half-awake, will instinctively turn over from the light, so he would do his utmost to fall asleep again, to drive away his first thoughts, not to remember anything and so escape for a moment longer from the full consciousness of the present.
Then the day came again with all its torments, and the father was obliged to control his feelings, to conquer himself, to be gay and cheerful, to reply to the smiles of the suffering girl, to answer her pitiful attempts to be gay, and to keep up her feeble illusions, her clinging to the future, with some of those heart-rending words of comfort with which dying people will delude themselves, asking as they so often do for hope from those who are with them.
She would say to him, sometimes, in that feeble, soft whisper peculiar to invalids and which dies away to a whisper, "How nice it would be to have no pain! I can tell you, I shall enjoy life as soon as I get quite well."
"Yes, indeed," he would answer, choking down his tears.