“What is the matter?” inquired Blanche, eagerly. “Who has come?”
“Ah, madame—that is, mademoiselle, if you only knew——”
“Will you speak?”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is downstairs in the blue drawing-room; and he begs mademoiselle to grant him a few minutes’ conversation.”
Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at her feet, the murderess could not have been more terrified. Her first thought was that everything had been discovered; for what else could have brought Martial there? She almost decided to send word that she was not at home, or that she was extremely ill; when reason told her that she was perhaps alarming herself needlessly, and that in any case the worst was preferable to suspense. “Tell the marquis that I will be with him in a moment,” she at last replied.
She desired a few minutes solitude to compose her features, to regain her self-possession, if possible, and conquerthe nervous trembling that made her shake like a leaf. But in the midst of her uneasiness a sudden inspiration brought a malicious smile to her lip. “Ah!” she thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly natural. It may even be of service.” And yet as she descended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to herself: “Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible.”
It was certainly very extraordinary; and he himself had not come to Courtornieu without considerable hesitation. But it was the only means he had of procuring several important documents which were indispensable in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case. These documents, after the baron’s condemnation, had been left in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands. Now that the latter had gone out of his mind, it was impossible to ask him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to his wife for permission to search for them among her father’s papers. He had said to himself that morning: “I will carry the baron’s letters of licence to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to Courtornieu.”
He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full of hope; and found that Marie-Anne was dead. The discovery had been a terrible blow for Martial; and his conscience told him that he was not free from blame; that he had, at least, facilitated the perpetration of the crime. For it was indeed he who, by an abuse of influence, had caused Maurice’s arrest at Turin. But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity. Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him. And when Jean and Maurice upbraided him, his only revenge was to overwhelm them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss still printed on the dead girl’s brow, he said to himself: “For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron must be saved.”
By the expression of the servants’ faces as he leapt from the saddle in the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see Madame Blanche, he was again reminded of the sensation which this unexpected visit would necessarily cause. However, he cared little for it. He was passingthrough a crisis in which the mind can conceive no further misfortune, and becomes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well, for it was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and smiling. Her manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had seemed charming at the time.
At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked so sad and careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow seemingly stamped upon her features. “How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.
It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once realised that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his emotion, she perceived the profit she might derive from it. “I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” she replied, in a sad humble voice. “I shall never be consoled.”
She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart. For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or so heartless but his vanity is not flattered with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake. There is no man who is not moved by such a flattering idea; and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.
“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial. The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she felt ashamed. This simple gesture was the most eloquent of answers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He asked for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu’s papers with the view of finding the documents he required for M. d’Escorval’s case, and Blanche readily complied with his request. He then turned to take his leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences of too formal a promise he merely added: “Since you don’t forbid it, Blanche, I will return—to-morrow—another day.” However, as he rode back to Montaignac, his thoughts were busy. “She really lovesme,” he mused; “that pallor, that weariness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father exist no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be considered as dead.”
All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the market-place when Martial rode through the village. They have just heard of the murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the magistrate, relating as far as he could the circumstances of the crime. After a prolonged enquiry, it was eventually reported that a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been himself assassinated soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown.
However, this affair soon interested the district far less than the constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. Shortly afterwards it was rumoured that the Marquis and the Marchioness de Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a few weeks later, they left for Paris with an intention of residing there permanently. A day or two after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins also announced his determination of taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his friends endeavoured to dissuade him, assuring him that he would certainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he replied: “On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan’t want for anything so long as I live there.”
TIMEgradually heals all wounds; and its effacing fingers spare but few traces of events; which in their season may have absorbed the attention of many thousand minds. What remained to attest the reality of that fierce whirlwind of passion which had swept over the peaceful valley of the Oiselle? Only a charred ruin on La Reche, and a grave in the cemetery, on which was inscribed: “Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of twenty. Pray for her!” Recent as were the events of which that ruinand that grave stone seemed as it were the prologue and the epilogue, they were already relegated to the legendary past. The peasantry of Sairmeuse had other things to think about—the harvest, the weather, their sheep and cattle, and it was only a few old men, the politicians of the village, who at times turned their attention from agricultural incidents to remember the rising of Montaignac. Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, when they were gathered together at the local hostelry of the Boeuf Couronne, they would lay down their greasy cards and gravely discuss the events of the past year. And they never failed to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama at Montaignac had in common parlance, “come to a bad end.” The victors and the vanquished seemed to encounter the same fate. Lacheneur had been beheaded; Chanlouineau, shot; Marie-Anne, poisoned, and Chupin, the traitor, the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spy, stabbed to death. It was true that the Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would have seemed a mercy in comparison with such a total annihilation of intelligence. He had fallen below the level of a brute beast, which at least is endowed with instinct. Since his daughter’s departure he had been ostensibly cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give them much trouble, for whenever they wished to go out they complacently confined him, not in his room, but in the back cellar, so as to prevent his shrieks and ravings from being heard outside. If some folks supposed for awhile that the Sairmeuses would escape the fate of the others, they were grievously mistaken, for it was not long before the curse fell upon them as well.
One fine December morning, the Duke left the chateau to take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighbourhood. At nightfall, his horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and riderless. What had become of his master? A search was instituted at once, and all night long a score of men, carrying torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling at the top of their voices. Five days went by, and the search for the missing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear, came to the chateau to tell the steward that he had discovered the Duke de Sairmeuse’s body—lying all bloody and mangled at the foot of a precipice. It seemed strange that so excellenta rider should have met with such a fate; and there might have been some doubt as to its being an accident, had it not been for the explanation given by several of his grace’s grooms. “The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,” these men remarked. “She was always taking fright and shying at everything.”
A few days after this occurrence Jean Lacheneur left the neighbourhood. This singular fellow’s conduct had caused considerable comment. When Marie-Anne died, although he was her natural heir, he at first refused to have anything to do with her property. “I don’t want to take anything that came to her through Chanlouineau,” he said to every one right and left, thus slandering his sister’s memory, as he had slandered her when alive. Then, after a short absence from the district, and without any apparent reason, he suddenly changed his mind. He not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain possession of it. He excused his past conduct as best he could; but if he was to be believed, instead of acting in his own interest, he was merely carrying his sister’s wishes into effect, for he over and over again declared that whatever price her property might fetch not a sou of its value would go into his own pockets. This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal possession of the estate, he sold it, troubling himself but little as to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash. However, he reserved the sumptuous furniture of the room on the upper floor of the Borderie and burnt it—from the bed-stead to the curtains and the carpet—one evening in the little garden in front of the house. This singular act became the talk of the neighbourhood, and the villagers universally opined that Jean had lost his head. Those who hesitated to agree with this opinion, expressed it a short time afterwards, when it became known that Jean Lacheneur had engaged himself with a company of strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days. The young fellow had both good advice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and complete his studies; but in vain.
The priest and the baron no longer had to conceal themselves. Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the former at the parsonage and the latter atEscorval, as in days gone by. Acquitted at his new trial, re-installed in possession of his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a slight limp, the baron would have deemed himself a fortunate man had it not been for his great anxiety on his son’s account. Poor Maurice! The nails that secured Marie-Anne’s coffin ere it was lowered into the sod seemed to have pierced his heart; and his very life now seemed dependent on the hope of finding his child. Relying already on the Abbe Midon’s protection and assistance, he had confessed everything to his father, and had even confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was now an honoured guest at Escorval; and all three had promised him their best assistance. But the task was a difficult one and such chances of success as might have existed were greatly diminished by Maurice’s determination that Marie-Anne’s name should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. In this he acted very differently to Jean. The latter slandered his murdered sister right and left, while Maurice sedulously sought to prevent her memory being tarnished.
The Abbe Midon did not seek to turn Maurice from his idea. “We shall succeed all the same,” he said kindly, “with time and patience any mystery can be solved.” He divided the department into a certain number of districts; and one of the little band went day by day from house to house questioning the inmates, in the most cautious manner, for fear of arousing suspicion; for a peasant becomes intractable if his suspicions are but once aroused. However, weeks went by, and still the quest was fruitless. Maurice was losing all hope. “My child must have died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe re-assured him. “I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “By Marie-Anne’s absence I can tell pretty nearly the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”
“And yet there isn’t a nook or corner for miles round which we haven’t explored.”
“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest was now only striving to gain time, which as he knew full well is the sovereign balm for sorrow. Hisconfidence had been very great at first, but it had sensibly diminished since he had questioned an old woman, who had the reputation of being one of the greatest gossips of the community. On being skilfully catechised by the abbe, this worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there must be one in the neighbourhood, as this was the third time she had been questioned on the subject. Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in concealing it. He set the old gossip talking, and after two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two persons in addition to Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child. Who these persons were and what their aim was, were points which the abbe failed to elucidate. “Ah” thought he, “after all, rascals have their use on earth. If we only had a man like Chupin to set on the trail!”
The old poacher was dead, however, and his eldest son—the one who knew Blanche’s secret—was in Paris. Only the widow and the second son remained at Sairmeuse. They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was still burning in their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morn till night the mother and son toiled on, until the earth round their hut had been fully explored to the depth of six feet. However, a peasant passed by one day and made a remark which suddenly caused them to abandon their search. “Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I didn’t think you were such a fool as to persist in bird’s nesting after the chick was hatched and had flown. Your brother in Paris can no doubt tell you where the treasure was concealed.”
“Holy Virgin! you’re right!” cried the younger Chupin. “Wait till I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we’ll see.”
MARTIALDESAIRMEUSE’Sunexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than it had alarmed Blanche. In five minutes, more ideas passed through the dependent relative’s mind than duringthe last five years. In fancy she already saw the gendarmes at the chateau; her niece arrested, confined in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Assize Court. She might herself remain quiet if that were all there was to fear! But suppose she were compromised, suspected of complicity as well, dragged before the judges, and even accused of being the only culprit! At this thought her anxiety reached a climax, and finding the suspense intolerable, she ventured downstairs. She stole on tiptoe into the great ball room, and applying her ear to the keyhole of the door leading into the blue salon, she listened attentively to Blanche and Martial’s conversation. What she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her mind. When Martial left the room, she at once opened the door by which she had been standing, and entered the blue reception room, thus admitting as it were that she had been a listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not even have dreamed of committing such an audacious act. “Well,” she exclaimed, “Blanche, we were frightened for nothing.”
Blanche did not reply. The young marchioness was weighing in her mind the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity. “Perhaps the hour of my revenge is nigh,” she murmured, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be the Marchioness de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then—oh! then.”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In her secret heart she had but scant faith in this prediction, and cared very little whether it was realized or not. However, in that low tone which accomplices habitually employ, she ventured to add: “If what you say proves true, it will only be another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that—that what you did at the Borderie was a perfectly unnecessary act.”
Such had indeed been Blanche’s opinion; but now she shook her head, and gloomily replied: “You are wrong;what took place at the Borderie has brought my husband back to me again. I understand everything now. It is true that Marie-Anne was not his mistress; but he loved her. He loved her, and her repulses only increased his passion. It was for her sake that he abandoned me; and while she lived he would never have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of an emotion which she had awakened. His tenderness was only the expression of his grief. Whatever happens, I shall only have her leavings—the leavings of what she disdained!” The young marchioness spoke bitterly, her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot as she added: “So I shan’t regret what I have done! no, never—never!” As she spoke she felt herself again brave and determined.
But horrible fears assailed her when the enquiry into the circumstances of the murder commenced. Officials had been sent from Montaignac to investigate the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even some talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling all the mysteries of crime. This prospect quite terrified Aunt Medea; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great anxiety. “You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.
“Ah! I can’t control my fears.”
“If that is the case, don’t leave your room.”
“It would be more prudent, certainly.”
“You can say you are not well; your meals shall be served you upstairs.”
Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her heart, she was delighted. It had long been her dream and ambition to have her meals served in her own room, in bed in the morning and on a little table by the fire in the evening; but as yet she had never been able to realise this fancy. On two or three occasions, feeling slightly indisposed, she had asked to have her breakfast brought to her room, but her request had each time been harshly refused. “If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come downstairs, and take her place at the table as usual,” had been Blanche’s imperious reply.
It was hard, indeed, to be treated in this way in a chateau where there were always a dozen servants idling about. But now, in obedience to the young marchioness’s formal orders, the head cook himself came up every morninginto Aunt Medea’s room, to receive her instructions; and she was at perfect liberty to dictate each day’s bill of fare, and to order the particular dishes she preferred. This change in the dependent relative’s situation awakened many strange thoughts in her mind, and stifled such regret as she had felt for the crime at Borderie. Still both she and her niece followed the enquiry which had been set on foot with a keen interest. They obtained all the latest information concerning the investigation through the butler of the chateau, who seemed much interested in the case, and who had won the goodwill of the Montaignac police agents, by making them familiar with the contents of his wine cellar. It was from this major-domo that Blanche and her aunt learned that all suspicions pointed to the deceased Chupin, who had been seen prowling round about the Borderie on the very night the crime was committed. This testimony was given by the same young peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur of the old poacher’s doings. As regards the motive of the crime, fully a score of persons had heard Chupin declare that he should never enjoy any piece of mind as long as a single Lacheneur was left on earth. So thus it happened that the very incidents which might have ruined Blanche, saved her; and she really came to consider the old poacher’s death as a providential occurrence, for she at least had no reason to suspect that he had revealed her secret before expiring. When the butler told her that the magistrate and the police agents had returned to Montaignac, she could scarcely conceal her joy; and drawing a long breath of relief, she turned towards Aunt Medea with the remark: “Ah, now there’s nothing more to be feared.”
She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man; but the justice of God remained. A few weeks previously the thought of divine retribution would perhaps have made Blanche smile, for she then considered the punishment of providence as an imaginary evil, invented to hold timorous minds in check. On the morning that followed her crime, and after her long random talk with Aunt Medea, she almost shrugged her shoulders at the thought of Marie-Anne’s dying threats. She remembered her promise; and yet, despite all she had said, she did not intend to fulfil it. After careful consideration, she had come to the conclusion that in trying to find the missing child she would exposeherself to terrible risks; and on the other hand, she felt certain that the child’s father would discover it. So she dismissed the matter from her mind, and chiefly busied herself with what Martial had said during his visit, and the prospect that presented itself of a reconciliation.
But she was destined to realize the power of her victim’s threats that same night. Worn out with fatigue, she retired to her room at an early hour, and jumped into bed, exclaiming; “I must sleep!” But sleep had fled. Her crime was over in her thoughts; and rose before her in all its horror and atrocity. She knew that she was lying on her bed, at Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she were still in Chanlouineau’s house, first pouring out the poison, and then watching its effects, while concealed in the dressing-room. She was struggling against the idea; exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible memories, when she imagined she heard the key turn in the lock. Raising her head from the pillow with a start, she fancied she could perceive the door open noiselessly, and then Marie-Anne glided into the room like a phantom. She seated herself in an arm-chair near the bed, and while the tears rolled down her cheeks, she looked sadly, yet threateningly around her. The murderess hid her face under the counterpane. She shivered with terror, and a cold sweat escaped from every pore in her skin. For this seemed no mere apparition, but the frightful reality itself. Blanche did not submit to these tortures without resisting. Making a vigorous effort, she tried to reason with herself aloud, as if the sound of her voice would re-assure her. “I am dreaming!” she said. “The dead don’t return to life? To think that I’m childish enough to be frightened at phantoms which only exist in my own imagination.”
She said this, but the vision did not fade. When she shut her eyes the phantom still faced her—even through her closed eyelids, and through the coverlids drawn up over her face. Say what she would, she did not succeed in sleeping till daybreak. And, worst of all, night after night, the same vision haunted her, reviving the terror which she forgot during the day-time in the broad sunlight. For she would regain her courage and become sceptical again as soon as the morning broke. “How foolish it is to be afraid of something that does not exist!” she would remark, railing at herself. “To-night I willconquer this absurd weakness.” But when evening came all her resolution vanished, and scarcely had she retired to her room than the same fears seized hold of her, and the same phantom rose before her eyes. She fancied that her nocturnal agonies would cease when the investigation anent the murder was over—that she would forget both her crime and promise; but the enquiry finished, and yet the same vision haunted her, and she did not forget. Darwin has remarked that it is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse, and Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this assertion, made by the deepest thinker and closest observer of the age.
And yet her sufferings, atrocious as they were, did not induce her for one moment to abandon the plan she had formed on the occasion of Martial’s visit. She played her part so well that, moved with pity, if not with love, he returned to see her frequently, and at last, one day, besought her to allow him to remain. But even this triumph did not restore her peace of mind. For between her and her husband rose the dreadful vision of Marie-Anne’s distorted features. She knew only too well that Martial had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown her already intolerable sufferings came an incident which filled her with dismay. Alluding one evening to Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he said, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures. As he spoke his voice vibrated with still powerful passion, and Blanche, in terror asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit—and he might discover it. Now it was that she began to regret she had not kept her promise; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child. But to do this effectually it was essential she should be in a large city—in Paris, for instance—where she could procure discreet and skilful agents. Thus it was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. But with the Duke de Sairmeuse’s assistance she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, with a radiant face, she informed AuntMedea that she and her husband would leave Courtornieu at the end of the coming week.
In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change in the dependent relative’s tone and manner had, it is true, been a gradual one; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and now it showed itself continually. For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over chaperone no longer trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had been her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of independence in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been used to remain modestly in the background, but now she drew her chair forward, and unhesitatingly took part in the conversation. At table, she gave free expression to her preferences and dislikes; and on two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders. One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home. And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intentions of going; and as it rained she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done. All these little incidents could have been nothing separately, but taken together they plainly showed that the once humble chaperone’s character had changed. When her niece announced that she and Martial were about to leave the neighbourhood, Aunt Medea was greatly surprised, for the project had never been discussed in her presence. “What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“And where are you going to, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that’s decided. The capital’s the proper place for my husband, and, with his name, fortune, talents and the king’s favour, he will secure a high position there. He will re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently, so that we shall have a princely establishment.”
Aunt Medea’s expression plainly indicated that she was suffering all the torments of envy. “And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You—aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. “I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! won’t you have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “Whatdoyou wish, then?” she asked, sarcastically.
“I thought—I wondered—if you wouldn’t take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt, impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. “And what if I told you that I can’t remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”
Blanche flushed with impatience. “You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, roughly. And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added: “If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and bit her lips. “That is to say,” she said at last, “that you allow me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less from you. Thanks!” She raised her head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening fashion. “Very well! this decides me,” she continued. “I entreated you, and you brutally refused my request, so now I command you and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris—and I shall go. Ah! so it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like this; but I’ve endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now I rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is true you’vegiven me shelter—fed and lodged me, but you’ve taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I’ve had to endure? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me—your own flesh and blood? And I have had no wages, on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah, you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me—humiliated me—trampled me under foot!”
The rebellious chaperone paused again. The bitter rancour which had been accumulating in her heart for years fairly choked her; but after a moment, she resumed in a tone of irony: “You ask me whatIshould do in Paris? I should enjoy myself, like you. You will go to court, to the play—into society, won’t you? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilettes too. I have rarely seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Twice a-year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your own sake, and in order that your poor relation should do honour to your generosity. You dressed me in it, like you put your lacqueys in livery, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; and when I was buffeted on one cheek, I offered the other. For after all I must live—I must have food. And you, Blanche, how often haven’t you said to me so that I might do your bidding, ‘You must obey me, if you wish to remain at Courtornieu!’ And I obeyed you—I was forced to obey, as I didn’t know where else to go. Ah! you have abused my poverty in every way; but now my turn has come!”
Blanche was so amazed that she could scarcely articulate a syllable, and it was in a scarcely audible voice that at last she faltered: “I don’t understand you, aunt, I don’t understand you.”
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few moments before. “In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you that since you have made me your accomplice against my will, we must share everything in common. I share the danger; so Iwill share the pleasure. Suppose everything should be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes, I’ve no doubt you do, and that’s why you are seeking diversion. Very well! I desire diversion also, so I shall go to Paris with you.”
With a desperate effort, Blanche managed to regain some degree of self-possession. “And if I still said no?” she coldly queried.
“But you won’t say no.”
“And why not, if you please?”
“Because—”
“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head. “I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself. No. I shouldn’t do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No other threat could have had such influence over her. “You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she: “I promise it.” And then in a gentle voice, she added: “But it’s quite unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you have only yourself to blame. Why haven’t you ever said anything? I attributed your complaisance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman so quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine dresses. Confess that it was impossible. Had I known—But rest easy, aunt, I will atone for my neglect.” And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse. “Nonsense!” rejoined Blanche; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me, don’t you?” And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like two friends, united after a misunderstanding.
Neither of them, however, was in the least degree deceived by this mock reconciliation. “It will be best for me to keep on the alert,” thought the dependent relative. “God only knows with what joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie-Anne.”
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through Blanche’s mind. “I’m bound to this dangerous, perfidious creature for ever now,” she reflected. “I’m no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands me, I must obey, no matter what may be her fancy—and she hasforty years’ humiliation and servitude to avenge.” The prospect of such a life made the young marchioness tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some way of freeing herself from such intolerable thraldom. Would it be possible to induce Aunt Medea to live independently in her own house, served by her own servants? Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed for finery, to marry? A handsome marriage portion will always attract a husband. However, in either case, Blanche would require money—a large sum of money, which no one must be in a position to claim an account of. With this idea she took possession of over two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank notes and coin, belonging to her father, and put away in one of his private drawers. This sum represented the Marquis de Courtornieu’s savings during the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche could take it for her own use, without the slightest danger. “With this,” thought she, “I can enrich Aunt Medea whenever I please without having recourse to Martial.”
After these incidents there was a constant exchange of delicate attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had often commented on the haughty disdain with which Blanche treated her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that during the journey to Paris, Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marchioness’s own, and that instead of travelling in the cumbersome berline with the servants, she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and his wife.
Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change which had come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions which his wife lavished on her, and one day when he was alone with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone of good-natured raillery: “What’s the meaning of all this attachment? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan’t we?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed. “I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all theaffection and devotion she lavished on me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind was fully occupied. The agent he had despatched to Paris in advance, to purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, if it were possible, had written asking the marquis to hasten his journey, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. “Plague take the fellow!” angrily said Martial, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we’ve been waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his fingers. I shan’t find any pleasure in Paris, if I can’t own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second day of their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would travel all night. “Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I don’t feel the least tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me.” So they journeyed on without stopping, and the next morning at about nine o’clock they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. “I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.” Two hours afterwards he re-appeared with a radiant face. “My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me word that a man, on whom the conclusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it and welcome.” Then, in a tone of gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he added: “It only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won’t do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, then one of the most magnificent in Paris, with a monumental entrance facing the Rue de Grenelle St. Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required considerable repair. “It will take at least six months to restore everything,” said Martial, “perhapsmore; though in three months, possibly, a portion of it might be arranged very comfortably.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” observed Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as swiftly as possible.”
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that one is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when one serves one’s self, and so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with the architect, interviewed the contractors, and hurried on the workmen. As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned before dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time in doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to divert her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears, a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie, and the clamours of conscience were sinking into faint whispers. Indeed, the past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant knocked at the door, and said: “There is a man downstairs who wishes to speak with madame.”
BLANCHEwas reclining on a sofa listening to a new book which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, and she did not even raise her head as the servant delivered his message. “A man?” she said, carelessly; “what man?” She was expecting no one; it must be one of the assistants or overseers employed by Martial.
“I can’t inform madame who he is,” replied the servant. “He is quite young; he is dressed like a peasant, and is, perhaps, seeking a place.”
“It is probably the marquis he wishes to see.”
“Madame will excuse me, but he particularly said that he wished to speak with her.”
“Ask his name and business, then. Go on, aunt,” sheadded: “we have been interrupted in the most interesting part.”
But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page before the servant returned. “The man says madame will understand his business when she hears his name.”
“And his name?”
“Chupin.”
It seemed as if a bomb-shell had burst into the room. Aunt Medea dropped her book with a shriek, and sank back, half fainting in her chair. Blanche sprang up with a face as colourless as her white cashmere morning dress, her eyes dazed, and her lips trembling. “Chupin,” she repeated, as if she almost hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him correctly; “Chupin!” Then angrily, she added: “Tell this man I won’t see him, I won’t see him, do you hear?” But before the servant had time to bow and retire, the young marchioness changed her mind. “One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him. Bring him up.”
The servant then withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in silent consternation. “It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche at last.
“No doubt; but what does he desire.”
“Money, probably.”
Aunt Medea raised her eyes to heaven. “God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings with his father!” said she.
“You are not going to despair in advance, are you, aunt? We shall know everything in a few minutes. Pray remain calm. Turn your back to us; look out of the window into the street and don’t let him see your face.”
Blanche was not deceived. This unexpected visitor was indeed Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret. Since his arrival in Paris, the young fellow had been running in every direction, inquiring everywhere and of everybody for the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s address. At last he obtained it; and he lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice. He was now awaiting the result of his application at the entrance down-stairs where he stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, and bade him follow. Chupin obeyed; but the servant, who was on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in hope of obtainingfrom this country youth some explanation of the surprise, not to say fright with which Madame de Sairmeuse had greeted the mention of his name. “I don’t say it to flatter you, my boy,” he remarked, “but your name produced a great effect on madame.” The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he felt on receiving this information. “How does she happen to know you?” continued the servant. “Are you both from the same place?”
“I am her foster-brother.”
The servant did not believe this reply for a moment, and as they had now reached the marchioness’s apartment, he opened the door and ushered Chupin into the room. The latter had prepared a little story beforehand, but he was so dazzled by the magnificence around him that for a moment he stood motionless with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His wonder was increased by a large mirror opposite the door, in which he could survey himself from head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the carpet, which he feared to crush with his heavy shoes.
After a moment, Blanche decided to break the silence. “What do you want of me,” she asked.
In a rambling fashion young Chupin then explained that he had been obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of the numerous enemies he had there, that he had been unable to find his father’s hidden treasure, and that he was consequently without resources.
“That’ll do,” interrupted Blanche, and then in far from a friendly manner, she remarked: “I don’t at all understand why you should apply to me. You and all the rest of your family have anything but an enviable reputation at Sairmeuse; still, as you are from that part of the country, I am willing to aid you a little on condition you don’t apply to me again.”
Chupin listened to this homily with a half cringing, half impudent air; but when Blanche had finished he raised his head, and proudly said: “I don’t ask for alms.”
“What do you ask for, then?”
“My dues.”
Blanche’s heart sank, and yet she had courage enough to glance disdainfully at Chupin, and reply: “What! do I owe you anything?”
“You don’t owe me anything personally, madame; but you owe a heavy debt to my deceased father. Whoseservice did he perish in? Poor old man! he loved you devotedly. His last words were about you. ‘A terrible thing has just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The young marchioness hated Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. If it hadn’t been for me she would have been lost. I am about to die, so let the whole blame rest on me; for it won’t hurt me when I’m under the sod, and it will save the young lady. And by-and-by she will reward you; so that as long as you keep the secret you will want for nothing.’ ” Great as was young Chupin’s impudence he paused abruptly, amazed by the air of perfect composure with which Blanche listened to him. In face of such wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his father’s story.
The marchioness’s self possession was indeed surprising. She felt that if she once yielded she would always be at this wretch’s mercy, as she already was at Aunt Medea’s. “In other words,” said she, calmly, “you accuse me of having murdered Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to denounce me if I don’t yield to your demands.” Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence. “Very well!” added Blanche; “since that’s the case you may go.”
It seemed, indeed, that by audacity she might win this dangerous game on which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing before her undecided what course to pursue, when Aunt Medea, who was listening by the window, turned in affright, exclaiming, “Blanche! your husband—Martial! He is coming!”
The game was lost. Blanche fancied her husband entering and finding Chupin there, conversing with him, and so discovering everything! Her brain whirled; she yielded. Hastily thrusting her purse into Chupin’s hand, she dragged him through an inner door to the servants’ staircase. “Take this,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will see you again. And not a word—not a word to my husband, remember!”
She had been wise to yield in time. When she returned to the drawing-room, she found Martial there. He was gazing on the ground, and held an open letter in his hand. But he raised his head when his wife entered the room, and she could detect signs of great emotion in his features. “What has happened?” she faltered.
Martial did not remark her troubled manner. “My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied.
“The Duke de Sairmeuse! Good heavens! how did it happen?”
“He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.”
“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”
“Yes, the very place.”
There was a moment’s silence. Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that the duke had but little love for him. Hence he was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death. “From this letter, which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I gather that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I—I——”
“Well?”
“I believe he was murdered.”
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale. “Murder!” she whispered.
“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. My father’s murderer is the same man who tried to kill the Marquis de Courtornieu——”
“Jean Lacheneur!”
Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.
“And will you not denounce him? Will you not demand justice?”
Martial’s face grew gloomy. “What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no material proofs to furnish, and justice requires unimpeachable evidence.” Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he added, despondingly, “The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they sowed. The blood of murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes.”
Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had her husband intended his words for her, he would scarcely have expressed himself differently. “Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy reverie; “Martial!”
But he did not seem to hear her, and it was in the sametone that he continued; “These Lacheneurs were happy and honoured before our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. But we did not understand it; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a fault for which we must atone. Who knows but what in Jean Lacheneur’s place I should have done exactly what he has done?” He was again silent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed: “I know Jean Lacheneur. I can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach. And no precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt, I don’t know; but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever overtakes our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.”
Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room. At last he paused before his wife. “I have just ordered post-horses,” he said. “You will excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once, but I shall not be absent more than a week.”
He left Paris a few hours later, and Blanche became a prey to the most intolerable anxiety. She suffered more than she had done during the days that immediately followed her crime. It was not against phantoms that she had to shield herself now; Chupin existed, and his voice, even if it were not as terrible as the voice of conscience, might make itself heard at any moment. If she had known where to find him, she would have gone to him, and endeavoured, by the payment of a large sum of money, to persuade him to leave France. But he had left the hotel without giving her his address. Then again Martial’s gloomy apprehensions combined to increase her fears, and the mere thought of Jean Lacheneur made her shrink with terror.She could not rid herself of the idea that Jean suspected her guilt, and was watching her, waiting for revenge. Her wish to find Marie-Anne’s child now became stronger than ever; it seemed to her that the abandoned infant might be a protection to her some day. However, where could she find an agent in whom she could confide? At last she remembered that she had heard her father speak of a detective named Chefteux as an exceedingly shrewd fellow, capable of anything, even of honesty if he were well paid. This man was really a perfect scoundrel, one of Fouche’s vilest instruments, who had served and betrayed all parties, and who, at last, after the most barefaced perjury, had been dismissed from the police force. He had then established a private enquiry office, and after some little search Blanche ascertained that he lived in the Place Dauphine. One morning, taking advantage of her husband’s absence, she donned her simplest dress, and, accompanied by Aunt Medea, repaired to Chefteux’s residence. He proved to be a middle-aged man of medium height and inoffensive mien, and he cleverly affected an air of good humour. He ushered his client into a neatly furnished drawing-room, and Blanche at once told him that she was a married woman; that she lived with her husband in the Rue St. Denis; and that one of her sisters who had lately died had been led astray by a man who had disappeared. A child was living, however, whom she was very anxious to find. In short, she narrated an elaborate story which she had prepared in advance, and which, after all, sounded very plausible. Chefteux, however, did not believe a word of it; for as soon as it was finished he tapped Blanche familiarly on the shoulder, and remarked: “In short, my dear, we had our little escapades before our marriage.”
Blanche shrank back as if some venomous reptile had touched her. To be treated in this fashion! she—a Courtornieu, now Duchess de Sairmeuse! “I think you are labouring under a wrong impression,” she haughtily replied.
He made haste to apologize; but while listening to the further details he asked for, he could not help remarking to himself; “What eyes! what a voice!—they can’t belong to a denizen of the Rue Saint-Denis!” His suspicions were confirmed by the reward of twenty thousand francs, which Blanche imprudently promised him in case of success,and by the five hundred francs which she paid in advance. “And where shall I have the honour of writing to you, madame?” he inquired.
“Nowhere,” replied Blanche. “I shall be passing by here from time to time, and I will call.”
When the two women left the house, Chefteux followed them. “For once,” thought he, “I believe that fortune smiles on me.” To discover his new client’s name and rank was but child’s play for Fouche’s former pupil; and indeed his task was all the easier since they had no suspicion whatever of his designs.
Blanche, who had heard his powers of discernment so highly praised, was confident of success, and all the way back to the hotel she was congratulating herself on the step she had taken. “In less than a month,” she said to Aunt Medea, “we shall have the child; and it will be a protection to us.”
But the following week she realised the extent of her imprudence. On visiting Chefteux again, she was received with such marks of respect that she at once saw she was known. Still, she would have made another attempt to deceive the detective, but he checked her. “First of all,” he said, with a good-humoured smile, “I ascertain the identity of the persons who honour me with their confidence. It is a proof of my ability, which I give gratis. But madame need have no fears. I am discreet by nature and by profession. Many ladies of the highest rank are in the position of Madame Duchesse.”
So Chefteux still believed that the Duchess de Sairmeuse was searching for her own child. She did not try to convince him to the contrary, for it was better he should believe this than suspect the truth.
Blanche’s position was now truly pitiable. She found herself entangled in a net, and each movement, far from freeing her, tightened the meshes round her. Three persons were acquainted with the secret which threatened her life and honour; and under these circumstances, how could she hope to prevent it from becoming more widely known? She was, moreover, at the mercy of three unscrupulous masters; and at a word, a gesture, or a look from them, her haughty spirit must bow in meek subservience. And her time, moreover, was no longer at her own disposal, for Martial had returned, and they had taken up their abodeat the Hotel de Sairmeuse, where the young duchess was compelled to live under the scrutiny of fifty servants, more or less interested in watching her, in criticising her acts, and discovering her thoughts. Aunt Medea, it is true, was of great assistance. Blanche purchased a new dress for her whenever she bought one for herself, took her about with her on all occasions, and the dependent relative expressed her satisfaction in the most enthusiastic terms, declaring her willingness to do anything for her benefactress. Nor did Chefteux give Blanche much more annoyance. Every three months he presented a memorandum of investigation expenses, which usually amounted to some ten thousand francs; and so long as she paid him it was plain he would be silent. He had given her to understand, however, that he should expect an annuity of twenty-four thousand francs; and once, when Blanche remarked that he must abandon the search if nothing had been discovered at the end of two years. “Never,” replied he; “I shall continue the search as long as I live.”
In addition to these two there was Chupin, who proved a constant terror. Blanche had been compelled to give him twenty thousand francs, to begin with. He declared that his younger brother had come to Paris in pursuit of him, accusing him of having stolen their father’s hoard, and demanding his share with his knife in his hand. There had been a battle, and it was with his head bound up in blood-stained linen, that Chupin made his appearance before Blanche. “Give me the sum that the old man buried,” said he, “and I will allow my brother to think I stole it. It is not very pleasant to be regarded as a thief, when one’s an honest man, but I will bear it for your sake. If you refuse, however, I shall be compelled to tell him where I’ve obtained my money, and how.” Naturally enough Blanche complied with this demand, for how could she do otherwise?
If her tormentor possessed all his father’s vices, depravity, and cold-blooded perversity, he had certainly not inherited the parental intelligence or tact. Instead of taking the precautions which his interests required, he seemed to find a brutal pleasure in compromising the duchess. He was a constant visitor at the Hotel de Sairmeuse. He called at all hours, morning, noon, and night, without in the least troubling himself about Martial. And the servantswere amazed to see their haughty mistress unhesitatingly leave everything to receive this suspicious-looking character, who smelt so strongly of tobacco and alcohol. One evening, while a grand entertainment was progressing at the Hotel de Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, half drunk, and imperiously ordered the servants to go and tell Madame Blanche that he was there, waiting for her. She hastened to him in her magnificent evening dress, her face white with rage and shame beneath her tiara of diamonds. And when, in her exasperation, she refused to give the wretch what he demanded: “So that’s to say I’m to starve while you are revelling here!” he exclaimed. “I am not such a fool. Give me some money at once, or I will tell everything I know on the spot!” What could she do? She was obliged to yield, as she had always done before. And yet he grew more and more insatiable every day. Money filtered through his fingers as fast as water filters through a sieve. But he did not think of raising his vices to the height of the fortune which he squandered. He did not even provide himself with decent clothing, and from his appearance he might have been supposed to be a penniless beggar. One night he was arrested for fomenting a row in a low drinking den, and the police, surprised at finding so much gold in such a beggarly-looking rascal’s possession, accused him of being a thief. But he mentioned the name of the Duchess de Sairmeuse, and on the following morning—Martial fortunately was in Vienna at the time—an inspector of police presented himself at the mansion in the Rue de Grenelle, and Blanche had to undergo the humiliation of confessing that she had given a large sum of money to this man, whose family she had known, and who, she added, had once rendered her an important service.
Sometimes her pertinaceous tormentor changed his tactics. For instance, he declared that he disliked coming to the Hotel de Sairmeuse, as the servants treated him as if he were a mendicant; so whenever he required money he would write. And effectively, every week or so, there came a letter bidding Blanche bring such a sum, to such a place, and at such an hour. And the proud duchess was always punctual at the rendezvous. Soon afterwards the rascal met, heaven knows where! a certain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy, and althoughshe was much older than himself, he wished to marry her. It was Blanche who paid for the wedding feast. Then Chupin again announced his desire of establishing himself in business, having resolved, he said, to live by his own exertions. So he purchased a wine merchant’s stock, which the duchess paid for, and which he drank in no time. Next, his wife gave birth to a child, and Madame de Sairmeuse must pay for the baptism as she had paid for the wedding, only too happy that Chupin did not require her to stand as god-mother to little Polyte, which idea he had at first entertained. On two occasions Blanche accompanied her husband to Vienna and to London, where he went on important diplomatic missions. She remained abroad during three years, and during all that time she received at least one letter every week from Chupin. Ah! many a time she envied her victim’s lot! What was Marie-Anne’s death compared with the life she led! Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie-Anne’s by minutes; and she said to herself, again and again, that the tortures of poison could not be so intolerable as was her agony.
ITmay be asked how it was that Martial had failed to discover or to suspect this singular state of affairs; but a moment’s reflection will explain his ignorance. The head of a family, whether he dwells in an attic or in a palace, is always the last to know what is going on in his own home. He does not even suspect circumstances, with which every one else is fully acquainted; and, in Martial’s case, the life he led was scarcely likely to lead him to the truth; for after all, he and his wife were virtually strangers to one another. His manner towards her was perfect, full of deference and chivalrous courtesy; but they had nothing in common except a name and certain interests. Each lived his own life. They met only at dinner, or at the entertainments they gave—which were considered the most brilliant of Parisian society. The duchess had her own apartments, her private servants, carriages, horses, and table. At five-and-twenty, Martial, the last descendant of the great house of Sairmeuse—a man on whom destiny had apparently lavished every blessing—who wasyoung, who possessed unbounded wealth, and a brilliant intellect, found himself literally overburdened withennui. Marie-Anne’s death had destroyed all his hopes of happiness; and realizing the emptiness of his life, he sought to fill the void with bustle and excitement. He threw himself headlong into politics, striving to find some relief from his despondency in the pleasures of power and satisfied ambition.
It is only just to say that Blanche had remained superior to circumstances; and that she had played the part of a happy, contented woman with consummate skill. Her frightful sufferings and anxiety never marred the haughty serenity of her features. She soon won a place as one of the queens of Parisian society; and plunged into dissipation with a sort of frenzy. Was she endeavouring to divert her mind? Did she hope to overpower thought by excessive fatigue? To Aunt Medea alone did Blanche reveal her secret heart. “I am like a culprit who has been bound to the scaffold, and abandoned there by the executioner to live, as it were, till the axe falls of its own accord.” And the axe might fall at any moment. A word, a trifle, an unlucky chance—she dared not say “a decree of providence,” and Martial would know everything. Such, in all its unspeakable horror, was the position of the beautiful and envied Duchess de Sairmeuse. “She must be perfectly happy,” said the world; but she felt herself sliding down the precipice to the awful depths below. Like a shipwrecked mariner clinging to a floating spar, she scanned the horizon with a despairing eye, and could only see the threatening clouds that betokened the coming tempest. Once it happened that six weeks went by without any news coming from Chupin. A month and a half! What had become of him? To Madame Blanche this silence was as ominous as the calm that precedes the storm. A line in a newspaper solved the mystery, however. Chupin was in prison. After drinking more heavily than usual one evening, he had quarrelled with his brother, and killed him by a blow on the head with an iron bar. Lacheneur’s blood was being visited on his betrayer’s children. Chupin was tried, condemned to twenty year’s hard labour, and sent to Brest. But this sentence afforded the duchess no relief. The culprit had written to her from his Paris prison; and he found the means to write to herfrom Brest. He confided his letters to comrades, whose terms of imprisonment had expired, and who came to the Hotel de Sairmeuse demanding an interview with the duchess. And she received them. They told her all the miseries they had endured “out there;” and usually ended by requesting some slight assistance.
One morning, a man whose desperate manner quite frightened her, brought the duchess this laconic note. “I am tired of starving here; I wish to make my escape. Come to Brest; you can visit the prison, and we will decide on some plan. If you refuse to do this, I shall apply to the duke, who will obtain my pardon in exchange for what I will tell him.” Blanche was dumb with horror. It was impossible, she thought, to sink lower than this.
“Well!” said the returned convict, harshly. “What answer shall I take to my comrade?”
“I will go—tell him I will go!” she said, driven to desperation. And in fact she made the journey, and visited the prison, but without finding Chupin. There had been a revolt the previous week, the troops had fired on the prisoners, and Chupin had been killed. Still the duchess dared not rejoice, for she feared that her tormentor had told his wife the secret of his power.
Indeed the widow—the Aspasie Clapard already mentioned, promptly made her appearance at the house in the Rue de Grenelle; but her manner was humble and supplicating. She had often heard her dear dead husband say that madame was his benefactress, and now she came to beg a little aid to enable her to open a small wine-shop. Her son Polyte—ah! such a good son! just eighteen years old, and such a help to his poor mother—had found a little house in a good situation for business, and if they only had three or four hundred francs—— Blanche cut the story short by handing her supplicant a five hundred franc note. “Either that woman’s humility is a mask,” thought the duchess, “or her husband has told her nothing.”
Five days later Polyte Chupin presented himself. They needed three hundred francs more before they could commence business, he said, and he came on behalf of his mother to entreat the kind lady to advance them that amount. But being determined to discover exactly how she was situated, with regard to the widow, the duchess curtly refused, and the young fellow went off without aword. Evidently the mother and son were ignorant of the facts. Chupin’s secret had died with him.
This happened early in January. Towards the close of February, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an absurd costume, in spite of all the attempts which her niece made to dissuade her. Her passion for dress killed her. Her illness lasted only three days; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were terrible. Constrained by fear of death to examine her own conscience, she saw plainly enough that profiting by her niece’s crime had been as culpable as if she had actually aided her in committing it. Aunt Medea had been very devout in former years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and intensified. Her faith returned, followed by a train of terrors. “I am lost, I am lost!” she cried, tossing to and fro on her bed; writhing and shrieking as if she already saw hell opening to engulf her. She called on the Holy Virgin and all the saints to protect her. She entreated heaven to grant her time for repentance and expiation; and she even begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession.
Paler than the dying woman, but still implacable, Blanche watched over her, aided by one of her maids in whom she had most confidence. “If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought. “I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will betray me.”
But it did not last long. The patient’s delirium was followed by such utter prostration that it seemed as if each moment would be her last. But towards midnight she revived a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she faltered, “You have had no pity on me, Blanche. You have deprived me of all hope in the life to come. Heaven will punish you. You will die like a dog yourself, and alone without a word of Christian counsel or encouragement. I curse you!” And she expired, just as the clock was striking two.
The time when Blanche would have given almost anything to know that Aunt Medea was under the ground had long since passed away. Now the poor old woman’s death deeply affected her. She had lost an accomplice who had often consoled her, and she had gained nothing in return. Every one who was intimately acquainted withthe Duchesse de Sairmeuse noticed her dejection, and was astonished by it. “Is it not strange,” remarked her friends, “that the duchess—such a very superior woman—should grieve so much for that absurd relative of hers.” But Blanche’s dejection was due in great measure to the sinister prophecies faltered by her dying aunt, to whom for self-protection she had denied the last consolations of religion. And as her mind reviewed the past she shuddered as the Sairmeuse peasants had done, when thinking of the fatality which pursued those who had shed, or helped to shed so much innocent blood. What misfortunes had overtaken them all—from Chupin’s sons to her father, the Marquis de Courtornieu, in whose mind not one spark of reason had gleamed for ten long years before his death. The Baron and the Baroness d’Escorval, and old Corporal Bavois had departed this life within a month of each other the previous year, mourned by every one, so that of all the people of diverse condition who had been connected with the troubles of Montaignac, Blanche knew of only four who were still alive. Maurice d’Escorval, who having studied the law was now an investigating magistrate attached to the tribunal of the Seine; the Abbe Midon, who had come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself.