Oliver had been gone a year, and that year had wrought great changes with her. All the town knew that a great fortune had come to her, and she was no longer the poor widow Munier, the relict of Jean Munier the tailor; she was Madame Munier.
After Oliver had been gone to Paris a week, there came a letter for her from him, and in the letter was money. Every week after came such another packet with more and more money—enough to lift her from poverty to opulence. She was no longer obliged to eat cabbage soup, or live in the poor little hut on the road. Just about that time Doctor Fouchette died, and, at Oliver's bidding, she took the house for herself. It was very pleasant to her, but there was one thing that she could not understand. Her rich American brother-in-law had distinctly told her that he and Oliver were to go to Paris to choose a house, and that she was then to be sent for to live with them. She had never been sent for, and that was what she did not understand. Yet the weekly letters from Paris compensated for much. In those letters Oliver often told her that he and his uncle were in business together, and were growing rich at such a rate as no one had ever grown rich before. They were in the diamond business, he said, and in a little while he hoped to come home with more money than an East Indian prince. Then, at last, a little while after the twelvemonth had gone by, came a letter saying that he would be home upon the next Wednesday, in the afternoon. So now Madame Munier was sitting at the parlor waiting for that coming.
A calash came rattling along the stony street, and as it passed, the good people came to the doors and windows and looked after it. It did not stop at the inn, but continued straight along until it came to the door of Madame Munier's house. Then it drew up to the foot-way, and a servant in livery sprang to the ground and opened the door. A young gentleman stepped out, carrying an oblong iron box by a handle in the lid.
In thirty minutes all Flourens knew that Oliver Munier had returned home; in sixty minutes they knew he was as rich as Crœsus.
As Oliver released himself from his mother's embrace, he looked around him. It was all very different from the little hut on the road that he had left twelve months ago, but he seemed dissatisfied. He shook his head.
"It will never do," said he.
"What will never do?" said his mother.
"This house, this furniture—all," said Oliver, with a wave of his hand.
His mother stared. "It is a fine house," said she, "and the furniture is handsome. What, then, would you have?"
"The house is small; it is narrow; it is mean," said Oliver.
His mother stared wider than ever. "It is the best house in Flourens," said she.
"Perhaps," said Oliver; "but it does not please me. It will serve for us so long as we remain here, but I hope soon to remove to a better place—one more suitable for people of our condition."
Madame Munier's eyes grew as round as teacups. She began to notice that Oliver's manners and speech were very different from what they had been before he left Flourens a year ago. She herself had never used the barbarous Flourennaise patois.
"Remove to a better place?" she repeated, mechanically. "To one more suitable for people of our condition?"
"Yes," said Oliver. "I have in my mind a château in Normandy of which I have heard. I think of buying it."
Madame Munier's wonder had reached as high as it could soar. She began to wonder whether Oliver had not gone mad.
He gave her scarcely any time to recover before he administered another and a greater shock.
"Mother," said he, suddenly, "the family returns to the château to-day?"
"Yes," said his mother; "they passed through the town about a half an hour before you came."
"I know," said Oliver; "I saw them upon the road. There were two ladies with monseigneur. Do you know who they were?"
"One of them was thin and wrinkled, with black eyes and heavy eyebrows?"
"Yes," said Oliver.
"The other, a young girl, rather pretty?"
"She is beautiful!" said Oliver.
"No doubt they were Madame the Marquise, and Mademoiselle Céleste, the daughter," said Madame Munier.
There was a little time of silence, and then Oliver gave his mother that second shock, a shock such as the poor woman never had in her life before.
"Mother," said he, "I love Mademoiselle Céleste."
Madame Munier opened her eyes and mouth as wide as she was able. "You what?" she cried.
"I love Mademoiselle Céleste," said Oliver: it was delicious to repeat those words.
Madame Munier looked slowly all about her, as though she had dropped from the moon, and knew not as yet where she was. "He loves Mademoiselle Céleste!" she repeated to herself.
"Yes," said Oliver; "I love her."
"He loves her!" said Madame Munier, mechanically. "He is mad!"
"'MAD!' SAID OLIVER, 'WHY AM I MAD?'"
"Mad!" said Oliver. "Why am I mad? Were I a beggar and she a princess I might still love her. Were I now as I was twelve months ago, poor, ignorant, dull, a witless, idle sot, satisfied to sit the day through on the bench in front of the inn yonder, I might still love her! Were we living in poverty as we were then—you and I—dwelling in that little stone hut, feeding upon stewed cabbage and onions, I might still love Céleste de Flourens! Love," cried Oliver—"love is universal; it is limitless; it is the right of every man, and no one can take it from him!"
Madame Munier listened; she thought that she had never heard any one talk so beautifully as Oliver. It put the matter in a new light.
"But I am no longer as I was then," continued Oliver. "I have seen much; I have passed through much; I have lived in Paris. But all would be of no importance were it not for another thing. Listen, mother! We are rich, you and I. We are the richest people in France—excepting one other; yes, the richest people in France! You think me crazy to love Céleste de Flourens! I tell you, I swear to you, I could to-morrow buy Flourens from one end to the other—the town, the château, and all. You do not believe me? Very well, you shall see! But as for this love of mine, it is not so hopeless nor so mad as you think. To-morrow you shall go in my coach, with my servant Henri, down to the château yonder."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," interrupted Madame Munier, sharply.
Oliver only smiled; he did not answer. A habit he had caught from his master during the last year was to contradict nobody. "To-morrow you shall go down to the château in my coach, with my servant Henri, and then you shall see how complaisant the marquis will be."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Madame Munier again. "I will not go down to the château."
Still Oliver did not seem to hear her. Going to the table, he chose a key, and unlocking the iron box, brought forth from it a curious old silver snuffbox, handsomely chased and enamelled with figures and flowers. "Do you see this box?" said he, holding it up between his thumb and finger.
"Yes," said Madame Munier, "I see it; but I will not go to the château."
"It is only a snuffbox," said Oliver. "It is a small thing; but what then? Within it is a charm—a key with which I hope to unlock the portals of a new world to us. It shall give us the entrée to the château."
"I shall not go to the château," said Madame Munier.
"Also," said Oliver, "I will give you a letter, which you will present, together with this snuffbox, to the marquis; and I shall sign the letter Oliver de Monnière."
"But that is not your name," said Madame Munier.
"Very well," said Oliver; "but it shall hereafter be our name—yours and mine—De Monnière. Remember it, mother—De Monnière."
"But what, then, is in the snuffbox?" said Oliver's mother.
"I will show you," said Oliver, and he opened the lid.
"Bah!" said his mother; "and is that all? Do you think that Monseigneur the Marquis will care for that thing?"
Oliver smiled. "Yes," said he, "he will care for this thing."
Oliver's mother had nearly forgotten herself. "I will not go to the château," said she.