CHAPTER XIII
The Chateau de Courtornieu is, next to Sairmeuse, the most magnificent habitation in the arrondissement of Montaignac.
The approach to the castle was by a long and narrow road, badly paved. When the carriage containing Martial and his father turned from the public highway into this rough road, the jolting aroused the duke from the profound revery into which he had fallen on leaving Sairmeuse.
The marquis thought that he had caused this unusual fit of abstraction.
“It is the result of my adroit manoeuvre,” he said to himself, not without secret satisfaction. “Until the restitution of Sairmeuse is legalized, I can make my father do anything I wish; yes, anything. And if it is necessary, he will even invite Lacheneur and Marie-Anne to his table.”
He was mistaken. The duke had already forgotten the affair; his most vivid impressions lasted no longer than an indentation in the sand.
He lowered the glass in front of the carriage, and, after ordering the coachman to drive more slowly:
“Now,” said he to his son, “let us talk a little. Are you really in love with that little Lacheneur?”
Martial could not repress a start. “Oh! in love,” said he, lightly, “that would perhaps be saying too much. Let me say that she has taken my fancy; that will be sufficient.”
The duke regarded his son with a bantering air.
“Really, you delight me!” he exclaimed. “I feared that this love-affair might derange, at least for the moment, certain plans that I have formed—for I have formed certain plans for you.”
“The devil!”
“Yes, I have my plans, and I will communicate them to you later in detail. I will content myself today by recommending you to examine Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu.”
Martial made no reply. This recommendation was entirely unnecessary. If Mlle. Lacheneur had made him forget Mlle. de Courtornieu that morning for some moments, the remembrance of Marie-Anne was now effaced by the radiant image of Blanche.
“Before discussing the daughter,” resumed the duke, “let us speak of the father. He is one of my strongest friends; and I know him thoroughly. You have heard men reproach me for what they style my prejudices, have you not? Well, in comparison with the Marquis de Courtornieu, I am only a Jacobin.”
“Oh! my father!”
“Really, nothing could be more true. If I am behind the age in which I live, he belongs to the reign of Louis XIV. Only—for there is an only—the principles which I openly avow, he keeps locked up in his snuff-box—and trust him for not forgetting to open it at the opportune moment. He has suffered cruelly for his opinions, in the sense of having so often been obliged to conceal them. He concealed them, first, under the consulate, when he returned from exile. He dissimulated them even more courageously under the Empire—for he played the part of a kind of chamberlain to Bonaparte, this dear marquis. But, chut! do not remind him of that proof of heroism; he has deplored it bitterly since the battle of Lutzen.”
This was the tone in which M. de Sairmeuse was accustomed to speak of his best friends.
“The history of his fortune,” he continued, “is the history of his marriages—I say marriages, because he has married a number of times, and always advantageously. Yes, in a period of fifteen years he has had the misfortune of losing three wives, each richer than the other. His daughter is the child of his third and last wife, a Cisse Blossac—she died in 1809. He comforted himself after each bereavement by purchasing a quantity of lands or bonds. So that now he is as rich as you are, Marquis, and his influence is powerful and widespread. I forgot one detail, however, he believes, they tell me, in the growing power of the clergy, and has become very devout.”
He checked himself; the carriage had stopped before the entrance of the Chateau de Courtornieu, and the marquis came forward to receive his guests in person. A nattering distinction, which he seldom lavished upon his visitors. The marquis was long rather than tall, and very solemn in deportment. The head that surmounted his angular form was remarkably small, a characteristic of his race, and covered with thin, glossy black hair, and lighted by cold, round black eyes.
The pride that becomes a gentleman, and the humility that befits a Christian, were continually at war with each other in his countenance.
He pressed the hands of M. de Sairmeuse and Martial, overwhelming them with compliments uttered in a thin, rather nasal voice, which, issuing from his immense body, was as astonishing as the sound of a flute issuing from the pipes of an orphicleide would be.
“At last you have come,” he said; “we were waiting for you before beginning our deliberations upon a very grave, and also very delicate matter. We are thinking of addressing a petition to His Majesty. The nobility, who have suffered so much during the Revolution, have a right to expect ample compensation. Our neighbors, to the number of sixteen, are now assembled in my cabinet, transformed for the time into a council chamber.”
Martial shuddered at the thought of all the ridiculous and tiresome conversation he would probably be obliged to hear; and his father’s recommendation occurred to him.
“Shall we not have the honor of paying our respects to Mademoiselle de Courtornieu?”
“My daughter must be in the drawing-room with our cousin,” replied the marquis, in an indifferent tone; “at least, if she is not in the garden.”
This might be construed into, “Go and look for her if you choose.” At least Martial understood it in that way; and when they entered the hall, he allowed his father and the marquis to go upstairs without him.
A servant opened the door of the drawing-room for him—but it was empty.
“Very well,” said he; “I know my way to the garden.”
But he explored it in vain; no one was to be found.
He decided to return to the house and march bravely into the presence of the dreaded enemy. He had turned to retrace his steps when, through the foliage of a bower of jasmine, he thought he could distinguish a white dress.
He advanced softly, and his heart quickened its throbbing when he saw that he was right.
Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu was seated on a bench beside an old lady, and was engaged in reading a letter in a low voice.
She must have been greatly preoccupied, since she had not heard Martial’s footsteps approaching.
He was only ten paces from her, so near that he could distinguish the shadow of her long eyelashes. He paused, holding his breath, in a delicious ecstasy.
“Ah! how beautiful she is!” he thought. Beautiful? no. But pretty, yes; as pretty as heart could desire, with her great velvety blue eyes and her pouting lips. She was a blonde, but one of those dazzling and radiant blondes found only in the countries of the sun; and from her hair, drawn high upon the top of her head, escaped a profusion of ravishing, glittering ringlets, which seemed almost to sparkle in the play of the light breeze.
One might, perhaps, have wished her a trifle larger. But she had the winning charm of all delicate and mignonnes women; and her figure was of exquisite roundness, and her dimpled hands were those of an infant.
Alas! these attractive exteriors are often deceitful, as much and even more so, than the appearances of a man like the Marquis de Courtornieu.
The apparently innocent and artless young girl possessed the parched, hollow soul of an experienced woman of the world, or of an old courtier. She had been so petted at the convent, in the capacity of only daughter of a grand seigneur and millionnaire; she had been surrounded by so much adulation, that all her good qualities had been blighted in the bud by the poisonous breath of flattery.
She was only nineteen; and still it was impossible for any person to have been more susceptible to the charms of wealth and of satisfied ambition. She dreamed of a position at court as a school-girl dreams of a lover.
If she had deigned to notice Martial—for she had remarked him—it was only because her father had told her that this young man would lift his wife to the highest sphere of power. Thereupon she had uttered a “very well, we will see!” that would have changed an enamoured suitor’s love into disgust.
Martial advanced a few steps, and Mlle. Blanche, on seeing him, sprang up with a pretty affectation of intense timidity.
Bowing low before her, he said, gently, and with profound deference:
“Monsieur de Courtornieu, Mademoiselle, was so kind as to tell me where I might have the honor of finding you. I had not courage to brave those formidable discussions inside; but——”
He pointed to the letter the young girl held in her hand, and added:
“But I fear that I am de trop.”
“Oh! not in the least, Monsieur le Marquis, although this letter which I have just been reading has, I confess, interested me deeply. It was written by a poor child in whom I have taken a great interest—whom I have sent for sometimes when I was lonely—Marie-Anne Lacheneur.”
Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of drawing-rooms, the young marquis had taught his face not to betray his feelings.
He could have laughed gayly with anguish at his heart; he could have preserved the sternest gravity when inwardly convulsed with merriment.
And yet, this name of Marie-Anne upon the lips of Mlle. de Courtornieu, caused his glance to waver.
“They know each other!” he thought.
In an instant he was himself again; but Mlle. Blanche had perceived his momentary agitation.
“What can it mean?” she wondered, much disturbed.
Still, it was with the perfect assumption of innocence that she continued:
“In fact, you must have seen her, this poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, since her father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?”
“Yes, I have seen her, Mademoiselle,” replied Martial, quietly.
“Is she not remarkably beautiful? Her beauty is of an unusual type, it quite takes one by surprise.”
A fool would have protested. The marquis was not guilty of this folly.
“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he.
This apparent frankness disconcerted Mlle. Blanche a trifle; and it was with an air of hypocritical compassion that she murmured:
“Poor girl! What will become of her? Here is her father, reduced to delving in the ground.”
“Oh! you exaggerate, Mademoiselle; my father will always preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.”
“Of course—I might have known that—but where will he find a husband for Marie-Anne?”
“One has been found already. I understand that she is to marry a youth in the neighborhood, who has some property—a certain Chanlouineau.”
The artless school-girl was more cunning than the marquis. She had satisfied herself that she had just grounds for her suspicions; and she experienced a certain anger on finding him so well informed in regard to everything that concerned Mlle. Lacheneur.
“And do you believe that this is the husband of whom she had dreamed? Ah, well! God grant that she may be happy; for we were very fond of her, very—were we not, Aunt Medea?”
Aunt Medea was the old lady seated beside Mlle. Blanche.
“Yes, very,” she replied.
This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor relation whom M. de Courtornieu had sheltered, and who was forced to pay dearly for her bread; since Mlle. Blanche compelled her to play the part of echo.
“It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which were so dear to me, broken,” resumed Mlle. de Courtornieu. “But listen to what Marie-Anne has written.”
She drew from her belt where she had placed it, Mlle. Lacheneur’s letter and read:
“‘My dear blanche—You know that the Duc de Sairmeuse has returned. The news fell upon us like a thunder-bolt. My father and I had become too much accustomed to regard as our own the deposit which had been intrusted to our fidelity; we have been punished for it. At least, we have done our duty, and now all is ended. She whom you have called your friend, will be, hereafter, only a poor peasant girl, as her mother was before her.’”
The most subtle observer would have supposed that Mlle. Blanche was experiencing the keenest emotion. One would have sworn that it was only by intense effort that she succeeded in restraining her tears—that they were even trembling behind her long lashes.
The truth was, that she was thinking only of discovering, upon Martial’s face, some indication of his feelings. But now that he was on guard, his features might have been marble for any sign of emotion they betrayed. So she continued:
“‘I should utter an untruth if I said that I have not suffered on account of this sudden change. But I have courage; I shall learn how to submit. I shall, I hope, have strength to forget, for I must forget! The remembrances of past felicity would render my present misery intolerable.’”
Mlle. de Courtornieu suddenly folded up the letter.
“You have heard it, Monsieur,” said she. “Can you understand such pride as that? And they accuse us, daughters of the nobility, of being proud!”
Martial made no response. He felt that his altered voice would betray him. How much more would he have been moved, if he had been allowed to read the concluding lines:
“One must live, my dear Blanche!” added Marie-Anne, “and I feel no false shame in asking you to aid me. I sew very nicely, as you know, and I could earn my livelihood by embroidery if I knew more people. I will call to-day at Courtornieu to ask you to give me a list of ladies to whom I can present myself on your recommendation.”
But Mlle. de Courtornieu had taken good care not to allude to the touching request. She had read the letter to Martial as a test. She had not succeeded; so much the worse. She rose and accepted his arm to return to the house.
She seemed to have forgotten her friend, and she was chatting gayly. When they approached the chateau, she was interrupted by a sound of voices raised to the highest pitch.
It was the address to the King which was agitating the council convened in M. de Courtornieu’s cabinet.
Mlle. Blanche paused.
“I am trespassing upon your kindness, Monsieur. I am boring you with my silly chat when you should undoubtedly be up there.”
“Certainly not,” he replied, laughing. “What should I do there? The role of men of action does not begin until the orators have concluded.”
He spoke so energetically, in spite of his jesting tone, that Mlle. de Courtornieu was fascinated. She saw before her, she believed, a man who, as her father had said, would rise to the highest position in the political world.
Unfortunately, her admiration was disturbed by a ring of the great bell that always announces visitors.
She trembled, let go her hold on Martial’s arm, and said, very earnestly:
“Ah, no matter. I wish very much to know what is going on up there. If I ask my father, he will laugh at my curiosity, while you, Monsieur, if you are present at the conference, you will tell me all.”
A wish thus expressed was a command. The marquis bowed and obeyed.
“She dismisses me,” he said to himself as he ascended the staircase, “nothing could be more evident; and that without much ceremony. Why the devil does she wish to get rid of me?”
Why? Because a single peal of the bell announced a visitor for Mlle. Blanche; because she was expecting a visit from her friend; and because she wished at any cost to prevent a meeting between Martial and Marie-Anne.
She did not love him, and yet an agony of jealousy was torturing her. Such was her nature.
Her presentiments were realized. It was, indeed, Mlle. Lacheneur who was awaiting her in the drawing-room.
The poor girl was paler than usual; but nothing in her manner betrayed the frightful anguish she had suffered during the past two or three days.
And her voice, in asking from her former friend a list of “customers,” was as calm and as natural as in other days, when she was asking her to come and spend an afternoon at Sairmeuse.
So, when the two girls embraced each other, their roles were reversed.
It was Marie-Anne who had been crushed by misfortune; it was Mlle. Blanche who wept.
But, while writing a list of the names of persons in the neighborhood with whom she was acquainted, Mlle. de Courtornieu did not neglect this favorable opportunity for verifying the suspicions which had been aroused by Martial’s momentary agitation.
“It is inconceivable,” she remarked to her friend, “that the Duc de Sairmeuse should allow you to be reduced to such an extremity.”
Marie-Anne’s nature was so royal, that she did not wish an unjust accusation to rest even upon the man who had treated her father so cruelly.
“The duke is not to blame,” she replied, gently; “he offered us a very considerable sum, this morning, through his son.”
Mlle. Blanche started as if a viper had stung her.
“So you have seen the marquis, Marie-Anne?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been to your house?”
“He was going there, when he met me in the grove on the waste.”
She blushed as she spoke; she turned crimson at the thought of Martial’s impertinent gallantry.
This girl who had just emerged from a convent was terribly experienced; but she misunderstood the cause of Marie-Anne’s confusion. She could dissimulate, however, and when Marie-Anne went away, Mlle. Blanche embraced her with every sign of the most ardent affection. But she was almost suffocated with rage.
“What!” she thought; “they have met but once, and yet they are so strongly impressed with each other. Do they love each other already?”
CHAPTER XIV
If Martial had faithfully reported to Mlle. Blanche all that he heard in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s cabinet, he would probably have astonished her a little.
He, himself, if he had sincerely confessed his impressions and his reflections, would have been obliged to admit that he was greatly amazed.
But this unfortunate man, who, in days to come, would be compelled to reproach himself bitterly for the excess of his fanaticism, refused to confess this truth even to himself. His life was to be spent in defending prejudices which his own reason condemned.
Forced by Mlle. Blanche’s will into the midst of a discussion, he was really disgusted with the ridiculous and intense greediness of M. de Courtornieu’s noble guests.
Decorations, fortune, honors, power—they desired everything.
They were satisfied that their pure devotion deserved the most munificent rewards. It was only the most modest who declared that he would be content with the epaulets of a lieutenant-general.
Many were the recriminations, stinging words, and bitter reproaches.
The Marquis de Courtornieu, who acted as president of the council, was nearly exhausted with exclaiming:
“Be calm, gentlemen, be calm! A little moderation, if you please!”
“All these men are mad,” thought Martial, with difficulty restraining an intense desire to laugh; “they are insane enough to be placed in a mad-house.”
But he was not obliged to render a report of the seance. The deliberations were soon fortunately interrupted by a summons to dinner.
Mlle. Blanche, when the young marquis rejoined her, quite forgot to question him about the doings of the council.
In fact, what did the hopes and plans of these people matter to her.
She cared very little about them or about the people themselves, since they were below her father in rank, and most of them were not as rich.
An absorbing thought—a thought of her future, and of her happiness, filled her mind to the exclusion of all other subjects.
The few moments that she had passed alone, after Marie-Anne’s departure, she had spent in grave reflection.
Martial’s mind and person pleased her. In him were combined all the qualifications which any ambitious woman would desire in a husband—and she decided that he should be her husband. Probably she would not have arrived at this conclusion so quickly, had it not been for the feeling of jealousy aroused in her heart. But from the very moment that she could believe or suspect that another woman was likely to dispute the possession of Martial with her, she desired him.
From that moment she was completely controlled by one of those strange passions in which the heart has no part, but which take entire possession of the brain and lead to the worst of follies.
Let the woman whose pulse has never quickened its beating under the influence of this counterfeit of love, cast the first stone.
That she could be vanquished in this struggle for supremacy; that there could be any doubt of the result, were thoughts which never once entered the mind of Mlle. Blanche.
She had been told so often, it had been repeated again and again, that the man whom she would choose must esteem himself fortunate above all others.
She had seen her father besieged by so many suitors for her hand.
“Besides,” she thought, smiling proudly, as she surveyed her reflection in the large mirrors; “am I not as pretty as Marie-Anne?”
“Far prettier!” murmured the voice of vanity; “and you possess what your rival does not: birth, wit, the genius of coquetry!”
She did, indeed, possess sufficient cleverness and patience to assume and to sustain the character which seemed most likely to dazzle and to fascinate Martial.
As to maintaining this character after marriage, if it did not please her to do so, that was another matter!
The result of all this was that during dinner Mlle. Blanche exercised all her powers of fascination upon the young marquis.
She was so evidently desirous of pleasing him that several of the guests remarked it.
Some were even shocked by such a breach of conventionality. But Blanche de Courtornieu could do as she chose; she was well aware of that. Was she not the richest heiress for miles and miles around? No slander can tarnish the brilliancy of a fortune of more than a million in hard cash.
“Do you know that those two young people will have a joint income of between seven and eight hundred thousand francs!” said one old viscount to his neighbor.
Martial yielded unresistingly to the charm of his position.
How could he suspect unworthy motives in a young girl whose eyes were so pure, whose laugh rang out with the crystalline clearness of childhood!
Involuntarily he compared her with the grave and thoughtful Marie-Anne, and his imagination floated from one to the other, inflamed by the strangeness of the contrast.
He occupied a seat beside Mlle. Blanche at table; and they chatted gayly, amusing themselves at the expense of the other guests, who were again conversing upon political matters, and whose enthusiasm waxed warmer and warmer as course succeeded course.
Champagne was served with the dessert; and the company drank to the allies whose victorious bayonets had forced a passage for the King to return to Paris; they drank to the English, to the Prussians, and to the Russians, whose horses were trampling the crops under foot.
The name of d’Escorval heard, above the clink of the glasses, suddenly aroused Martial from his dream of enchantment.
An old gentleman had just risen, and proposed that active measures should be taken to rid the neighborhood of the Baron d’Escorval.
“The presence of such a man dishonors our country,” said he, “he is a frantic Jacobin, and admitted to be dangerous, since Monsieur Fouche has him upon his list of suspected persons; and he is even now under the surveillance of the police.”
This discourse could not have failed to arouse intense anxiety in M. d’Escorval’s breast had he seen the ferocity expressed on almost every face.
Still no one spoke; hesitation could be read in every eye.
Martial, too, had turned so white that Mlle. Blanche remarked his pallor and thought he was ill.
In fact, a terrible struggle was going on in the soul of the young marquis; a conflict between his honor and passion.
Had he not longed only a few hours before to find some way of driving Maurice from the country?
Ah, well! the opportunity he so ardently desired now presented itself. It was impossible to imagine a better one. If the proposed step was taken the Baron d’Escorval and his family would be forced to leave France forever!
The company hesitated; Martial saw it, and felt that a single word from him, for or against, would decide the matter.
After a few minutes of frightful uncertainty, honor triumphed.
He rose and declared that the proposed measure was bad—impolitic.
“Monsieur d’Escorval,” he remarked, “is one of those men who diffuse around them a perfume of honesty and justice. Have the good sense to respect the consideration which is justly his.”
As he had foreseen, his words decided the matter. The cold and haughty manner which he knew so well how to assume, his few but incisive words, produced a great effect.
“It would evidently be a great mistake!” was the general cry.
Martial reseated himself; Mlle. Blanche leaned toward him.
“You have done well,” she murmured; “you know how to defend your friends.”
“Monsieur d’Escorval is not my friend,” replied Martial, in a voice which revealed the struggle through which he had passed. “The injustice of the proposed measure incensed me, that is all.”
Mlle. de Courtornieu was not to be deceived by an explanation like this. Still she added:
“Then your conduct is all the more grand, Monsieur.”
But such was not the opinion of the Duc de Sairmeuse. On returning to the chateau some hours later he reproached his son for his intervention.
“Why the devil did you meddle with the matter?” inquired the duke. “I would not have liked to take upon myself the odium of the proposition, but since it had been made——”
“I was anxious to prevent such an act of useless folly!”
“Useless folly! Zounds! Marquis, you carry matters with a high hand. Do you think that this d——d baron adores you? What would you say if you heard that he was conspiring against us?”
“I should answer with a shrug of the shoulders.”
“You would! Very well; do me the favor to question Chupin.”
CHAPTER XV
It was only two weeks since the Duc de Sairmeuse had returned to France; he had not yet had time to shake the dust of exile from his feet, and already his imagination saw enemies on every side.
He had been at Sairmeuse only two days, and yet he unhesitatingly accepted the venomous reports which Chupin poured into his ears.
The suspicions which he was endeavoring to make Martial share were cruelly unjust.
At the moment when the duke accused the baron of conspiring against the house of Sairmeuse, that unfortunate man was weeping at the bedside of his son, who was, he believed, at the point of death.
Maurice was indeed dangerously ill.
His excessively nervous organization had succumbed before the rude assaults of destiny.
When, in obedience to M. Lacheneur’s imperative order, he left the grove on the Reche, he lost the power of reflecting calmly and deliberately upon the situation.
Marie-Anne’s incomprehensible obstinacy, the insults he had received from the marquis, and Lacheneur’s feigned anger were mingled in inextricable confusion, forming one immense, intolerable misfortune, too crushing for his powers of resistance.
The peasants who met him on his homeward way were struck by his singular demeanor, and felt convinced that some great catastrophe had just befallen the house of the Baron d’Escorval.
Some bowed; others spoke to him, but he did not see or hear them.
Force of habit—that physical memory which mounts guard when the mind is far away—brought him back to his home.
His features were so distorted with suffering that Mme. d’Escorval, on seeing him, was seized with a most sinister presentiment, and dared not address him.
He spoke first.
“All is over!” he said, hoarsely, “but do not be worried, mother; I have some courage, as you shall see.”
He did, in fact, seat himself at the table with a resolute air. He ate even more than usual; and his father noticed, without alluding to it, that he drank much more wine than usual.
He was very pale, his eyes glittered, his gestures were excited, and his voice was husky. He talked a great deal, and even jested.
“Why will he not weep,” thought Mme. d’Escorval; “then I should not be so much alarmed, and I could try to comfort him.”
This was Maurice’s last effort. When dinner was over he went to his room, and when his mother, who had gone again and again to listen at his door, finally decided to enter his chamber, she found him lying upon the bed, muttering incoherently.
She approached him. He did not appear to recognize or even to see her. She spoke to him. He did not seem to hear. His face was scarlet, his lips were parched. She took his hand; it was burning; and still he was shivering, and his teeth were chattering as if with cold.
A mist swam before the eyes of the poor woman; she feared she was about to faint; but, summoning all her strength, she conquered her weakness and, dragging herself to the staircase, she cried:
“Help! help! My son is dying!”
With a bound M. d’Escorval reached his son’s chamber, looked at him and dashed out again, summoned a servant, and ordered him to gallop to Montaignac and bring a physician without a moment’s delay.
There was, indeed, a doctor at Sairmeuse, but he was the most stupid of men—a former surgeon in the army, who had been dismissed for incompetency. The peasants shunned him as they would the plague; and in case of sickness always sent for the cure. M. d’Escorval followed their example, knowing that the physician from Montaignac could not arrive until nearly morning.
Abbe Midon had never frequented the medical schools, but since he had been a priest the poor so often asked advice of him that he applied himself to the study of medicine, and, aided by experience, he had acquired a knowledge of the art which would have won him a diploma from the faculty anywhere.
At whatever hour of the day or night parishioners came to ask his assistance, he was always ready—his only answer: “Let us go at once.”
And when the people of the neighborhood met him on the road with his little box of medicine slung over his shoulder, they took off their hats respectfully and stood aside to let him pass. Those who did not respect the priest honored the man.
For M. d’Escorval, above all others, Abbe Midon would make haste. The baron was his friend; and a terrible apprehension seized him when he saw Mme. d’Escorval at the gate watching for him. By the way in which she rushed to meet him, he thought she was about to announce some irreparable misfortune. But no—she took his hand, and, without uttering a word, she led him to her son’s chamber.
The condition of the poor youth was really very critical; the abbe perceived this at a glance, but it was not hopeless.
“We will get him out of this,” he said, with a smile that reawakened hope.
And with the coolness of an old practitioner, he bled him freely, and ordered applications of ice to his head.
In a moment all the household were busied in fulfilling the cure’s orders. He took advantage of the opportunity to draw the baron aside in the embrasure of a window.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“A disappointment in love,” M. d’Escorval replied, with a despairing gesture. “Monsieur Lacheneur has refused the hand of his daughter, which I asked in behalf of my son. Maurice was to have seen Marie-Anne to-day. What passed between them I do not know. The result you see.”
The baroness re-entered the room, and the two men said no more. A truly funereal silence pervaded the apartment, broken only by the moans of Maurice.
His excitement instead of abating had increased in violence. Delirium peopled his brain with phantoms; and the name of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse and Chanlouineau dropped so incoherently from his lips that it was impossible to read his thoughts.
How long that night seemed to M. d’Escorval and his wife, those only know who have counted each second beside the sick-bed of some loved one.
Certainly their confidence in the companion in their vigil was great; but he was not a regular physician like the other, the one whose coming they awaited.
Just as the light of the morning made the candles turn pale, they heard the furious gallop of a horse, and soon the doctor from Montaignac entered.
He examined Maurice carefully, and, after a short conference with the priest:
“I see no immediate danger,” he declared. “All that can be done has been done. The malady must be allowed to take its course. I will return.”
He did return the next day and many days after, for it was not until a week had passed that Maurice was declared out of danger.
Then he confided to his father all that had taken place in the grove on the Reche. The slightest detail of the scene had engraved itself indelibly upon his memory. When the recital was ended:
“Are you quite sure,” asked his father, “that you correctly understood Marie-Anne’s reply? Did she tell you that if her father gave his consent to your marriage, she would refuse hers?”
“Those were her very words.”
“And still she loves you?”
“I am sure of it.”
“You were not mistaken in Monsieur Lacheneur’s tone when he said to you: ‘Go, you little wretch! do you wish to render all my precautions useless?’”
“No.”
M. d’Escorval sat for a moment in silence.
“This passes comprehension,” he murmured at last. And so low that his son could not hear him, he added: “I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; this mystery must be explained.”
CHAPTER XVI
The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge was situated on a hill overlooking the water.
It was, as he had said, a small and humble dwelling, but it was rather less miserable than the abodes of most of the peasants of the district.
It was only one story high, but it was divided into three rooms, and the roof was covered with thatch.
In front was a tiny garden, in which a few fruit-trees, some withered cabbages, and a vine which covered the cottage to the roof, managed to find subsistence.
This garden was a mere nothing, but even this slight conquest over the sterility of the soil had cost Lacheneur’s deceased aunt almost unlimited courage and patience.
For more than twenty years the poor woman had never, for a single day, failed to throw upon her garden three or four basketfuls of richer soil, which she was obliged to bring more than half a league.
It had been more than a year since she died; but the little pathway which her patient feet had worn in the performance of this daily task was still distinctly visible.
This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took the following day, in the hope of wresting from Marie-Anne’s father the secret of his inexplicable conduct.
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the overpowering heat as he climbed the rough hill-side in the full glare of the noonday sun.
When he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while wiping the perspiration from his brow, he turned to look back on the road which he had traversed.
It was the first time he had visited the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape which stretched before him.
From this point, which is the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can survey the entire valley of the Oiselle, and discern, in the distance, the redoubtable citadel of Montaignac, built upon an almost inaccessible rock.
This last circumstance, which the baron was afterward doomed to recall in the midst of the most terrible scenes, did not strike him then. Lacheneur’s house absorbed all his attention.
His imagination pictured vividly the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only two days before, had relinquished the splendors of the Chateau de Sairmeuse to repair to this wretched abode.
He rapped at the door of the cottage.
“Come in!” said a voice.
The baron lifted the latch and entered.
The room was small, with un-white-washed walls, but with no other floor than the ground; no ceiling save the thatch that formed the roof.
A bed, a table and two wooden benches constituted the entire furniture.
Seated upon a stool, near the tiny window, sat Marie-Anne, busily at work upon a piece of embroidery.
She had abandoned her former mode of dress, and her costume was that worn by the peasant girls.
When M. d’Escorval entered she rose, and for a moment they remained silently standing, face to face, she apparently calm, he visibly agitated.
He was looking at Marie-Anne; and she seemed to him transfigured. She was much paler and considerably thinner; but her beauty had a strange and touching charm—the sublime radiance of heroic resignation and of duty nobly fulfilled.
Still, remembering his son, he was astonished to see this tranquillity.
“You do not ask me for news of Maurice,” he said, reproachfully.
“I had news of him this morning, Monsieur, as I have had every day. I know that he is improving; and that, since day before yesterday, he has been allowed to take a little nourishment.”
“You have not forgotten him, then?”
She trembled; a faint blush suffused throat and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied:
“Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”
“And yet you have told him that you approve your father’s decision!”
“I told him so, Monsieur, and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”
“But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, child; he has almost died.”
She raised her head proudly, sought M. d’Escorval’s eyes, and when she had found them:
“Look at me, Monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?”
M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but recovering himself, he took Marie-Anne’s hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said:
“So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he has nearly died, and still you reject him!”
“It must be so, Monsieur.”
“You say this, my dear child—you say this, and you undoubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have failed to find it. Explain to me, then, why this must be so, Marie-Anne. Who knows but you are frightened by chimeras, which my experience can scatter with a breath? Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an old friend? It may be that your father, in his despair, has adopted extreme resolutions. Speak, let us combat them together. Lacheneur knows how devotedly I am attached to him. I will speak to him; he will listen to me.”
“I can tell you nothing, Monsieur.”
“What! you are so cruel as to remain inflexible when a father entreats you on his knees—a father who says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold in your hands the happiness, the life, the reason of my son——‘”
Tears glittered in Marie-Anne’s eyes, but she drew away her hand.
“Ah! it is you who are cruel, Monsieur; it is you who are without pity. Do you not see what I suffer, and that it is impossible for me to endure further torture? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can say to my father. Why do you seek to impair my courage when I require it all to struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be folly. We are parted forever. Beseech Maurice to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are his father, must command him to do so. And you, too, Monsieur, in Heaven’s name, flee from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us will ruin you also.”
She spoke almost wildly. Her voice was so loud that it penetrated an adjoining room.
The communicating door opened and M. Lacheneur appeared upon the threshold.
At the sight of M. d’Escorval he uttered an oath. But there was more sorrow and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said:
“You, Monsieur, you here!”
The consternation into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval was so intense that it was with great difficulty he stammered out a response.
“You have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten our old friendship? I come to you——”
The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained overcast.
“Why did you not inform me of the honor that the baron had done me, Marie-Anne?” he said sternly.
She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied:
“Why, I have but just come, my dear friend.”
M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter, then at the baron.
“What did they say to each other while they were alone?” he was evidently wondering.
But, however great may have been his disquietude, he seemed to master it; and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room.
“It is my reception-room and my cabinet combined,” he said, smiling.
This room, which was much larger than the first, was as scantily furnished; but it contained several piles of small books and an infinite number of tiny packages.
Two men were engaged in arranging and sorting these articles.
One was Chanlouineau.
M. d’Escorval did not remember that he had ever seen the other, who was a young man.
“This is my son, Jean, Monsieur,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.”
It was true. It had been, at least, ten years since the baron had seen Lacheneur’s son.
How time flies! He had left him a boy; he found him a man.
Jean was just twenty; but his haggard features and his precocious beard made him appear much older.
He was tall and well formed, and his face indicated more than average intelligence.
Still he did not impress one favorably. His restless eyes were always invading yours; and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.
As his father presented him, he bowed profoundly; but he was very evidently out of temper.
M. Lacheneur resumed:
“Having no longer the means to maintain Jean in Paris, I have made him return. My ruin will, perhaps, be a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good for the son of a peasant. Fools that we are, we send them there to teach them to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”
“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait, at least, until we are alone!”
“Monsieur d’Escorval is not a stranger.” Chanlouineau evidently sided with the son, since he made repeated signs to M. Lacheneur to be silent.
Either he did not see them, or he pretended not to see them, for he continued:
“I must have wearied you, Monsieur, by telling you again and again: ‘I am pleased with my son. He has a commendable ambition; he is working faithfully; he will succeed.’ Ah! I was a poor, foolish father! The friend who carried Jean the order to return has enlightened me, to my sorrow. This model young man you see here left the gaming-house only to run to public balls. He was in love with a wretched little ballet-girl in some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went upon the stage, with his face painted red and white.”
“To appear upon the stage is not a crime.”
“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues which one does not possess! Have I ever refused you money? No. Notwithstanding that, you have contracted debts everywhere, and you owe at least twenty thousand francs.”
Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.
“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight ago; now I have nothing. I can hope to obtain this sum only through the generosity of the Duc de Sairmeuse and his son.” These words from Lacheneur’s lips astonished the baron.
Lacheneur perceived it, and it was with every appearance of sincerity and good faith that he resumed:
“Does what I say surprise you? I understand why. My anger at first made me give utterance to all sorts of absurd threats. But I am calm now, and I realize my injustice. What could I expect the duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque, I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau to designate the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal—everything. I selected what I wished—furniture, clothing, linen. It is all to be brought here; and I shall be quite a grand seigneur.”
“Why not seek another house? This——”
“This pleases me, Monsieur. Its situation suits me perfectly.”
In fact, why should not the Sairmeuse have regretted their odious conduct? Was it impossible that Lacheneur, in spite of his indignation, should conclude to accept honorable separation? Such were M. d’Escorval’s reflections.
“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example, having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he has declared that he is going to send her plants to stock our small garden, and that they shall be renewed every month.”
Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This last remark was too much; it awakened a sinister suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind.
“Good God!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate some crime?”
He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased. On hearing the names of the marquis and of Marie-Anne, the robust farmer had turned livid. “It is decided,” said Lacheneur, with an air of the lost satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all; they have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be allowed to occupy the gamekeeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed for so long a time a fortune which did not belong to me, I am anxious to amass a fortune of my own.”
“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”
“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedler.”
M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. “Pedler?” he repeated.
“Yes, Monsieur. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”
“But this is absurd!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way.”
“You are wrong, Monsieur. I have considered the subject carefully; the profits are thirty per cent. And if besides, there will be three of us to sell goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to Chanlouineau.”
“What! Chanlouineau?”
“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”
“And his farm—who will take care of that?”
“He will employ day-laborers.”
And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lacheneur began arranging the little packages which were destined to fill the pack of the travelling merchant.
But the baron was not to be gotten rid of so easily, now that his suspicions had become almost a certainty.
“I must speak with you,” he said, brusquely.
M. Lacheneur turned.
“I am very busy,” he replied, with a very evident reluctance.
“I ask only five minutes. But if you have not the time to spare to-day, I will return to-morrow—day after to-morrow—and every day until I can see you in private.”
Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this interview, so, with the gesture of a man who resigns himself to a necessity, addressing his son and Chanlouineau, he said:
“Go outside for a few moments.”
They obeyed, and as soon as the door had closed behind them, Lacheneur said:
“I know very well, Monsieur, the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of changing my resolution. Do not ask my motives; I shall not reveal them; but rest assured that they are sufficient.”
“Are we not your friends?”
“You, Monsieur!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in tones of the most lively affection, “you! ah! you know it well! You are the best, the only friends, I have here below. I should be the basest and the most miserable of men if I did not guard the recollection of all your kindnesses until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends; yes, I am devoted to you—and it is for that very reason that I answer: no, no, never!”
There could no longer be any doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp:
“Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, hoarsely, “what do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you dreaming?”
“I swear to you——”
“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my experience. I divine your intentions—you hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget it, it is only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your power to reassure them. You accept their advances—you kneel before them—why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you have lulled their suspicions to rest, and then you can strike them more surely——”
He paused; the communicating door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared upon the threshold.
“Father,” said she, “here is the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
This name, which Marie-Anne uttered in a voice of such perfect composure, in the midst of this excited discussion, possessed such a powerful significance, that M. d’Escorval stood as if petrified.
“He dares to come here!” he thought. “How can it be that he does not fear the walls will fall and crush him?”
M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He suspected her of a ruse which would force him to reveal his secret. For a second, the most furious passion contracted his features.
But, by a prodigious effort of will, he succeeded in regaining his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out, he said:
“Deign to excuse me, Monsieur, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a moment.”
Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice; but, rather, a respectful deference, and a feeling of profound gratitude.
Having said this, he closed the door and turned to M. d’Escorval.
The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own senses; and yet he understood the meaning of it only too well.
“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.
“Almost every day—not at this hour, usually, but a trifle later.”
“And you receive him? you welcome him?”
“Certainly, Monsieur. How can I be insensible to the honor he confers upon me? Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to discuss. We are now occupied in legalizing the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can, also, give him much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the property.”
“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”
Lacheneur’s eye did not waver.
“To whom else could they be addressed?” he inquired.
This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could not have received a heavier blow.
“Take care, Lacheneur,” he said, sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and Monsieur de Sairmeuse, who desires to make her——”
“Who desires to make her his mistress—is that what you mean? Oh, say the word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”
M. d’Escorval shuddered.
“In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you make your daughter’s honor and reputation your stake in the game you are playing.”
This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no longer.
“Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath, “yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be, the instrument of my plans. A man situated as I am is free from the considerations that restrain other men. Fortune, friends, life, honor—I have been forced to sacrifice all. Perish my daughter’s virtue—perish my daughter herself—what do they matter, if I can but succeed?”
He was terrible in his fanaticism; and in his mad excitement he clinched his hands as if he were threatening some invisible enemy; his eyes were wild and bloodshot.
The baron seized him by the coat as if to prevent his escape.
“You admit it, then?” he said. “You wish to revenge yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and you have made Chanlouineau your accomplice?”
But Lacheneur, with a sudden movement, freed himself.
“I admit nothing,” he replied. “And yet I wish to reassure you——”
He raised his hand as if to take an oath, and in a solemn voice, he said:
“Before God, who hears my words, by all that I hold sacred in this world, by the memory of my sainted wife who lies beneath the sod, I swear that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I had no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me without injuring themselves.”
Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth. His hearer felt it; still he pretended to doubt. He thought by retaining his own self-possession, and exciting the anger of this unfortunate man still more, he might, perhaps, discover his real intentions. So it was with an air of suspicion that he said:
“How can one believe this assurance after the avowal you have just made?”
Lacheneur saw the snare; he regained his self-possession as if by magic.
“So be it, Monsieur, refuse to believe me. But you will wring from me only one more word on this subject. I have said too much already. I know that you are guided solely by friendship for me; my gratitude is great, but I cannot reply to your question. The events of the past few days have dug a deep abyss between you and me. Do not endeavor to pass it. Why should we ever meet again? I must say to you, what I said only yesterday to Abbe Midon. If you are my friend, you will never come here again—never—by night or by day, or under any pretext whatever. Even if they tell you that I am dying, do not come. This house is fatal. And if you meet me, turn away; shun me as you would a pestilence whose touch is deadly!”