"Yes, madame, for my wife, whom I regret; that is to say, I did regret her profoundly and weep bitterlyfor her; but it was for the very purpose of putting an end to my grief that I welcomed with joy this new love which has taken possession of my heart, my senses, my——"
"What do you take me for, monsieur?"
Chamoureau was embarrassed; that seemed to him an artful question.
"Why, madame," he stammered, looking down at his trousers, "I take you for a lady of the best society—ex—exceedingly well-bred—er—with much wit—in short—er—created to attract the homage of all mankind."
"You don't say all you think; you met me at the Opéra ball, and you said to yourself: 'A woman who comes to the masquerade is sure to be an easy victim. She began to talk to me, consequently she won't make a long resistance.'"
"Oh! madame, I beg your pardon——"
"Monsieur Chamoureau, it is my duty to inform you that you are entirely mistaken in your conjectures. I will not be your mistress, monsieur. In fact, I do not propose to be anyone's mistress. Oh! I won't pretend that I am of the most rigid virtue. I have had a very stormy youth, I don't deny it; but now I am growing old, I must be prudent——"
"You, growing old, madame! what a mockery!"
"I am past thirty, monsieur; at that age one must think of the future; one must think about obtaining a name, a position in society. Do you understand, monsieur?"
"I think that I understand you, charming creature; but if you will deign to accept my name, my hand, my office, I will place them all at your feet by becoming your husband."
"Your offer touches me, monsieur, but between ourselves, marriage is a business matter, and a matter of the greatest importance! What is your fortune, monsieur? How much is this office worth that you lay at my feet?"
Chamoureau drew himself up, did a little mental reckoning, then replied:
"With what I already have and my office, I do not exaggerate when I place my income at four to four thousand five hundred francs."
The fair Sainte-Suzanne threw herself back on the couch with a mocking laugh. Our widower, disquieted by that laugh, waited until it subsided before he said timidly:
"Don't you think that a neat income?"
"Oh, no! frankly, it isn't neat enough for me. I have ten thousand francs a year, and I would not accept any man for a husband who did not bring me at least twice that. I am fully decided as to that. Let us forget this nonsense, my dear Monsieur Chamoureau; let us think no more about your love, which is not old enough to have taken very deep root yet; but come to see me sometimes as a friend. In that capacity, I shall be glad to receive you, but, you understand, only as a friend."
"Forget my love! Ah! fascinating woman! Why, you do not know that you have bewitched me, that you have turned my head, that I fairly dote on you! You do not know——"
"I beg pardon, Monsieur Chamoureau, but I do know that I have visits to pay to-day, and that it is time for me to think about dressing. Permit me therefore to bid you adieu."
Sorely vexed to be thus summarily dismissed, Chamoureau rose, grasped the seat of his trousers with his left hand, took his hat in his right hand, bowed very slightly, so that his coat might not split more, and walked out backwards.
But once outside, he pulled his hat over his ears, muttering:
"Much satisfaction there is in spending money for this! Oh! these women!—And I have got to take a cab again!"
Honorine Dalmont, with her young friend Agathe, occupied a modest apartment on Rue des Martyrs. Their only servant was a woman who came in to do their housework, and went away again after preparing their dinner.
Madame Dalmont's slender fortune would not allow her to live more expensively in Paris, where living is so dear, and it was in the hope of being less straitened and of being able to obtain more of the comforts of life, that she had formed the plan of going into the country—a plan which had keenly delighted her friend Agathe.
For women who go into society, who follow the fashions, who pass their evenings at theatres or concerts or balls, or at fashionable receptions, it seems a terrible penance to go to the country to live. To them it is equivalent to ceasing to exist, it means the renunciation of all the pleasures of life, it means, in short, condemning themselves to die of ennui.
But it is not so with those who, although they dwell in Paris, pass their lives in their own homes, seldom go out, and know nothing of that splendid capital save the uproar, the crowd, the vehicles which constantly threaten them with destruction out of doors, and the tumultuous throng that blocks the popular promenades on Sundays and holidays. To them there is nothing painful about leaving the great city. On the contrary, when they turn their backs on the tumult, the confusion, the incessant whirl of business and pleasure in which they have no part, they breathe more freely; they feel more at liberty to raise their heads, they find in nature something that they had lost; they have their places there, whereas in Paris they were nothing at all!
Honorine's past life had been uneventful. The daughter of respectable people who had not succeededin business—there are many respectable people who do not make a fortune—she had nevertheless received a careful education. She had learned music and drawing; she was blessed by nature with that fortunate temperament which enables one to learn quickly and without much difficulty that which others often spend long years in studying.
Honorine, who was a very intelligent girl, would have liked to marry an artist, but circumstances did not permit her to choose. She was fain to be content with a simple government clerk, an honest fellow who had nothing poetic in his nature, but who attended punctually at his desk and performed his duties promptly.
Honorine longed to become a mother; that would at least afford some occupation for her heart, which longed for someone to adore; for, with the best will in the world, she could only esteem her husband.
After she had been married two years, she had a son; but she was denied the joy of rearing him; he died at the age of twenty months, when he was just beginning to stammer his mother's name and to take his first tottering steps. Honorine's grief was so intense that it affected her health. From that moment she began to lose her color, and her lungs seemed to be impaired. Another child alone could have consoled her for the loss of the first; for the heart is of all the organs most amenable to homœopathic treatment; but she had no other child, and a few months later her husband died suddenly of inflammation of the lungs.
At twenty-one, Honorine was left alone—a widow and an orphan, for her parents had died long before.
Then it was that she made the acquaintance of Madame Montoni, the mother of Agathe, at that time a child of nine.
Madame Montoni, who lived in the strictest retirement, happened to occupy an apartment in the same house as Madame Dalmont; she had seen her grief when she lost her child, and had been deeply moved by it. When she learned that she had lost her husband suddenly, she hastened to offer her consolation and attentions.
Honorine received her advances gratefully. Being without experience and entirely unacquainted with business, she was in danger of being deprived of the small property which her husband had left her, and which was claimed by collateral relations. But Madame Montoni had strength, courage and resolution; she took all the necessary steps, and the young widow was enabled to enjoy in peace the two thousand francs a year which her husband had left her.
As for Madame Montoni herself, she supported herself and her child with her hands. She made those pretty pieces of fancy work which bring in so little, and require so much time and care. Luckily she was very skilful. But she often passed whole nights over her embroidery frame, in order that she might buy a new dress for her daughter.
Honorine had tried to assist her new friend a little; but Madame Montoni was proud; she would acceptnothing from her to whom she had, however, rendered material service.
Incessant toil exhausts vitality. Moreover, Agathe's mother had in the depths of her heart a mortal sorrow which was crushing her; she had confided it to Honorine, who could only weep with her. There are sorrows which admit of no consolation.
Little Agathe used often to ask her mother:
"Why don't we ever see papa? what can have become of him? When I was a little girl, I remember he used to come to see me often; he used to take me out to ride and to dine at restaurants; you used to be very bright then, mamma; you didn't work all day long; and then papa always brought me nice presents, and you too; and he used to kiss me a lot and tell me he loved me with all his heart. And then he stopped coming all of a sudden, and then you cried every day, yes, every day.—Is my papa dead?"
When Madame Montoni heard that question she always wept and strained the child to her heart as she replied:
"Alas! dear child! I don't know what to tell you! I have no idea what has become of your father; I do not know if he still lives, and that is the cause of this grief that is wearing my life away!—Adhémar loved me so dearly! and he adored you! How can I believe that he could have determined to abandon us for no reason whatever?—that he, who promised me such a lovely future,—certain happiness—would have left us suddenlywithout means, without resource, without support—oh, no! no! he would not have done that! Your father must be dead! My Adhémar certainly has ceased to live, since we are so unhappy!"
"How long ago did you last see him?" inquired Honorine one day, when she had become the confidante of the mother and daughter.
"Alas! my Agathe was just six years old when her father came to see us the last time."
"Why, didn't papa live with you?"
Madame Montoni blushed and turned her face away.
"No, my child, he couldn't; his business prevented him."
"My papa was very nice-looking, wasn't he, mamma?"
"Oh! yes, my child! he was as handsome as he was noble and generous; a little hasty only, and quick to lose his temper; that was the only fault I ever discovered in Adhémar. The last time he came to see us, he said to me: 'In a few days we will start for Italy; it is your native land, Julia, and I want to see it with you; then we will return to France and I will leave you no more.'"
"And you have never seen him since?"
"No; and no news of him, no letter! nothing from him! nothing!"
"But you must have made inquiries, have tried to learn something?"
"When a week had passed without my seeing Adhémar—ordinarily he never let more than two days pass without coming to us—I decided to go to the hotel wherehe had told me that he lived; it was one of the finest hotels in Paris. I asked for Monsieur Adhémar de—I asked for Monsieur Adhémar, and the concierge assured me that he had left the hotel six days before.
"'He can't have gone away,' I said; 'if he has, where has he gone?'
"As that man knew nothing, I went to the hotel-keeper himself, who said to me:
"'Madame, I am quite as surprised as you are at the absence of Monsieur de—of Monsieur Adhémar. I know that he intended to go to Italy, he had spoken of it several times; but when he left the house six days ago, he said simply: "I am going into the country; I shall return to-morrow morning."'
"'And he has not returned since?'
"'No, madame.'
"'Where was he going in the country?'
"'Mon Dieu! he didn't tell me; he had received a letter that morning—probably an invitation.'
"'And he went away alone?'
"'Alone, yes, madame. But he will surely return; he has left his linen here, and property of much greater value than the amount of his bill, for he paid every week. He's a young man of orderly habits, and he will return, madame; he is bound to return. The probability is that he's enjoying himself in the country and so is making a longer stay there than he intended.'
"'I will return in a few days then,' I said, as I went away. And I did in fact go there again the second dayafter. But Adhémar had not been seen! So it went on for a month; until at last I had to abandon all hope."
"But his family—didn't you know them?"
"I knew from Adhémar that his family lived in the neighborhood of Toulouse; they were uncles and aunts, all proud of their rank and titles, and they did not condescend to answer the letters I wrote them. At last, someone who was going to that part of the country was obliging enough to make inquiries of several persons, and they told him that Monsieur Adhémar had not been seen by his relations, but that they took little interest in his fate, for they knew that, heedless of his name and his birth, he had contracted in Paris a liaison unworthy of him; and if he did not break off that liaison, he would never be received again by his noble family. That is all that I learned concerning him whom I loved better than my life. Ah! if it had not been for my daughter, his disappearance would have killed me; but what would have become of my little Agathe, without friends or kindred on earth? I felt that I must live for her, for her whom her father loved so dearly! And that is what I did; I lived, but I have never been comforted!—Alas! suppose that he died far away from us—unable to embrace us once more, to bid us a last farewell, and above all, to ensure the future welfare of his daughter! Poor Adhémar! think what his anguish must have been, his despair, at the thought that he left us here in misery! Oh! that idea haunts me incessantly and intensifies the bitterness of my regrets."
This conversation was often renewed between the new friends, for Madame Montoni was never tired of talking of her Agathe's father. In those soothing outpourings of her soul, she concealed nothing from Honorine, whereas she kept one thing secret from her daughter.
Several years passed; Madame Montoni, exhausted by toil and grief, soon lost her little remaining strength. Feeling that she must soon say farewell to life, she placed in Honorine's hand the hand of her daughter, then twelve years of age, and said to little Agathe:
"Honorine will take my place with you; love her as you loved your mother. Heaven has at least vouchsafed that I should leave with you a sister, a friend! Some day, my daughter, she will tell you what your mother has never dared to tell you; and you will forgive your mother, because she loved you dearly and has suffered much for your sake. Now I am going to join my Adhémar, your father, and from above we will both watch over our child. But if fate has decreed that he is not dead, and that you are to see him again some day, oh! tell him that, until my last hour, his image was always here—in my heart!"
Agathe's tears and Honorine's prayers were powerless to suspend the decree of destiny! Madame Montoni closed her eyes forever.
"Death's rigors have no like;Vain our entreaties all;His tyrant hand will strike;Our plaints on deaf ears fall."
"Death's rigors have no like;Vain our entreaties all;His tyrant hand will strike;Our plaints on deaf ears fall."
After Madame Montoni's death, Honorine took Agathe with her, and from that moment they were never separated.
That which at first was only the affection of a guardian soon became sisterly affection; for, by the time she was fifteen, Agathe had become a sister to her companion, who was then but twenty-seven; time abolished the distance that it had at first set between them. The girl's tastes and pleasures were no longer those of a child, but were identical with those of the young woman, who was overjoyed to find a congenial companion in her to whom at first she had been only a second mother.
But Agathe had not forgotten the last words her own mother had said to her. There was a secret which Madame Montoni had confided to Honorine, but which she had not dared to disclose to her daughter. How could that kind and loving mother have feared to tell her daughter anything? Might she not always have felt quite certain that that daughter would never blame any act of hers?
That was what Agathe said to herself, and yet she dared not ask Honorine to reveal that secret, for she was reluctant to offend even her mother's shade.
"As she did not confide it to me while she was alive," thought the girl, "perhaps it is not right for me to try to learn it now that she is no more."
But one evening, after a long conversation between the two friends, in which they had talked about the strange disappearance of Agathe's father, the girl exclaimed:
"If I only owned something that belonged to my father! I have many things that my mother possessed, which I treasure beyond words; but I have nothing of my father's, absolutely nothing! that is very cruel."
"But suppose I should tell you," rejoined Honorine, "that I have something of your father's to give you—something which your poor mother gave me to keep until I should give it to you?"
"Mon Dieu! is it possible? you have something that belonged to my father, and you have not given it to me in all the time since my mother died? Oh! Honorine, then you did not want to make me very happy!"
"My dear Agathe, when I give you this object which was confided to me, I must also tell you the secret which your mother dreaded to tell you—because she did not wish to blush before you."
"Blush before me!—my dear mother!—why, that is absurd! Come, speak, Honorine, speak; do not conceal anything from me now."
"I will speak; indeed, it seems to me necessary that you should know the truth, that you should learn your father's name at last; otherwise you might stand by his side some day, and not know it."
"My father's name! Why, his name was Montoni, of course, as my mother's was Madame Montoni."
Honorine sadly shook her head.
"No," she murmured. "And that is the whole secret: your mother did not bear his name—for they were not married."
"Not married! Oh! poor mother! poor mother! And that was what she dared not tell me! Am I any less her child on that account?"
"Now, Agathe, listen to the story of your mother's love, as she herself told it to me.
"She was born in Italy, but she left that country when she was very young, with her parents, who settled in Switzerland. They died just as she reached her sixteenth year. She lived then with an old Swiss woman, who treated her very badly and reduced her almost to the condition of a servant. She was keeping a flock of goats, which she drove to pasture on the mountains, when she fell in with a young foreigner who was travelling in Switzerland for pleasure. He was a Frenchman, named Adhémar de Hautmont; he was rich and of noble birth; but he was young, handsome, attractive and susceptible; and it seems that your mother, although a goatherd, was exceedingly pretty. In a word, the two young people were attracted to each other, fell in love and exchanged their vows; and your poor mother had no one to watch over her but the goats that she herself guarded!
"This liaison had lasted two months, and young Adhémar could not make up his mind to part from Julia. It became much harder when she told him that she bore within her a pledge of his love. At that, the young Frenchman said to her:
"'You cannot stay in this region, exposed to the cruel treatment of a woman who is harsh enough with younow, and will be much more so when she learns of your misstep. You must go with me; I will take you to France, to Paris, and you shall live there; I will take care that you lack nothing when I am obliged to leave you and go back to my family. And then I shall not be away long; as they allow me to travel often, for my education, instead of visiting Germany, Spain and England, I will pass my time with you until the moment when I can call you my wife and then I shall never have to leave you again.'
"You can imagine that your mother joyfully assented to her young lover's plan. So they left Switzerland together and came to Paris; young Adhémar installed his Julia in a small apartment, simple and retired, but provided with everything that she required. Then, having supplied her with all the money she was likely to need in his absence, he started for Toulouse; for he was not yet of age, and he had everything to fear from his family if they should learn that he had abducted from Switzerland a young girl who was with child by him.
"But everything went well; Adhémar calculated carefully the length of his absences, and he loved his Julia so dearly that he found a way to come to her when he was supposed to be far away in some foreign country.
"Then you came into the world, and when your father pressed you to his heart, he swore again that he would have no other wife than your mother.
"Several years passed. Some of those talkative people who take delight in interfering in everything, andwho had seen Monsieur Adhémar de Hautmont in Paris when his relations thought that he was in Vienna, did not fail to inform them that the young man was in Paris and had a mistress there. The relations ordered Adhémar to return to Toulouse, but he was then of age and master of his actions, and he paid no attention to the commands which they attempted to impose on him. But he had one great-uncle, who was very old and very rich, and who was very fond of him; this uncle was expected to leave him his whole fortune. Your father often said to his sweetheart:
"'I don't dare to marry you while he is alive, for it might make him angry with me and deprive us of a large fortune hereafter. But when he is dead, there will be nothing to delay our union'; and your mother, who was very, very happy because your father still loved her as much as ever, replied: 'Do just as you think best, my dear; my daughter and I will always be content, so long as we have your love; to us that is the greatest of blessings.'
"At last, a few days before his disappearance, your father learned that his great-uncle had become more indulgent; that he seemed disposed to forgive his nephew his secret love-affair. Adhémar instantly set about procuring from his native place all the documents that he required for his marriage, saying to your mother:
"'As soon as the ceremony is at an end, we will start for Italy with our little Agathe. We will pass a year there and then return to France, where my family, knowingthat you are my wife, will understand that there is nothing for them to do but to forgive me, and to love you when they know you.'
"That, my dear Agathe, is the whole story of your mother's love. Many women bear their lover's name without right, and assume in society the title of lawful wife; your mother would never have stooped to do that. The name of Montoni was her father's; it is the only one she has left you. Poor Agathe! why did fate decree that, just when you were on the point of obtaining a noble name, when a brilliant future opened out before you, he to whom you were to owe it all should suddenly disappear?"
"Dear Honorine," said Agathe, "the name and wealth are not what I regret, but my father's love, my father's kisses—But what is it that you have to give me?"
"The letters he wrote to your mother when he was away from her, which she always preserved with care."
"Oh! what joy! my father's letters! Give them to me! give them to me!"
Honorine took from her desk a small package which she had kept in safety there, and handed it to Agathe.
She received with a trembling hand the only heritage her father had left her; she hastily opened one of the letters, put her lips to it and wet it with her tears as she faltered:
"My poor father!"
Then she wiped her eyes, so that she could read, and said to Honorine:
"See—what a pretty hand my father wrote! Ah! I can read this easily; listen:
"'My beloved Julia, the time seems very long when I am far from you; the days are endless; and what people call amusements—cards, hunting, concerts and balls—all seem very dull to me and are not worth a glance from you or a smile from my little Agathe, who, I love to believe, is still as fresh and rosy as ever, and strong and well. When shall I be able to embrace you both! My child was beginning to stammer a few words. You told me that on my return she would give me that sweet title of father, which I shall be so happy to hear from her lips. In a fortnight I shall start; I shall pass two days in England, then hasten to you. Patience, my Julia, patience; the time will come when I shall leave you no more, when you will be my wife before men as you now are before God. Be careful of your health; do not tire yourself by carrying your child; I told you to hire a servant, and I trust that you have done so.A bientôt, and thenà toujours, your'Adhémar, Comte de Hautmont.'"
"'My beloved Julia, the time seems very long when I am far from you; the days are endless; and what people call amusements—cards, hunting, concerts and balls—all seem very dull to me and are not worth a glance from you or a smile from my little Agathe, who, I love to believe, is still as fresh and rosy as ever, and strong and well. When shall I be able to embrace you both! My child was beginning to stammer a few words. You told me that on my return she would give me that sweet title of father, which I shall be so happy to hear from her lips. In a fortnight I shall start; I shall pass two days in England, then hasten to you. Patience, my Julia, patience; the time will come when I shall leave you no more, when you will be my wife before men as you now are before God. Be careful of your health; do not tire yourself by carrying your child; I told you to hire a servant, and I trust that you have done so.A bientôt, and thenà toujours, your
'Adhémar, Comte de Hautmont.'"
Agathe read the letter almost at a breath; then she looked up at Honorine and said:
"My dear friend, a man doesn't write thus to a person whom he means to abandon some day. Ah! it must be that my father is dead, as he never returned to us."
The package contained sixteen letters, all of which gave eloquent expression to Adhémar de Hautmont's love forJulia Montoni and for their child. Agathe read them all with deep emotion, then exclaimed:
"Ah! thank you, dear mother; this is indeed a treasure that you left for me; and it is much more precious than money. Henceforth, when I want to reward myself, I will read over these letters and imagine that I am between my father and my mother."
Now that we are fully acquainted with the antecedents of Honorine and Agathe, we may go with them to inspect the little house at Chelles.
It was the middle of March. There were no leaves on the trees as yet, but there was plenty of sunshine; it was already soft and penetrating and announced the return of spring, of that lovely season of the year when everything seems to be born again—even those persons who are on the downward path.
Ah! why do not men grow green again like trees and shrubs? To be sure, their springtime lasts more than three months, but so few of them know how to make use of it! they do not appreciate it until they have thrown it away, and then they regret it in vain; decidedly the trees are wiser than mankind.
Honorine and her young companion dressed in haste in order to arrive early at the railroad station at the farther end of the Boulevard de Strasbourg, whence they were to take a train for Chelles. The two women were ready in a very short time. Agathe, whose quick and cheerful imagination saw something everywhere to give her pleasure, took the keenest delight in going into the country, although the season was not far enough advanced for the fields to have resumed their robes of green. It was a great diversion to her even to take a short journey by rail.
When one rarely indulges in any amusement, one is not surfeited with all the different forms of distraction; and the shortest walk is a pleasure to one who rarely goes out. This is a compensation to those persons who do not often have an opportunity for enjoyment; little is required to satisfy them, whereas ennui sometimes besets those who are always holiday-making. There are compensations everywhere.
In an hour the two friends had reached their destination. When one arrives at the Chelles station from Paris, the village or hamlet is at the left on a low hill; it is distant about ten minutes' walk; but then it rarely happens that the railways take you just where you want to go. When you arrive at a station, you almost always find yourself in the open fields. You look about in search of the place at which you are supposed to have arrived, and you are surprised to see, instead of houses, fields of cabbages, turnips or potatoes.
Agathe, overjoyed to be in the country, leaped and frolicked about like a child.
"Oh! how good the fresh air feels!" she cried. "One can run about here without dread of those horrid omnibuses that are always behind you or in front of you in Paris! And when everything is in leaf and flower, when the trees give shade, when there are poppies among the wheat, lilies of the valley in the woods, and violets in the hedgerows—oh! then it will be perfectly enchanting! Honorine, don't you think that you'll like it—doesn't all this delight you?"
"Yes, yes, I am very fond of the country."
"Well, why do you sigh then? why do you look so sad when you say it?"
"Because I am thinking of my poor little boy. If he had lived, he would be seven years old now. Can't you understand, Agathe, how happy it would make me to have him by my side, to take him by the hand, or to watch him running along the road like you? He was such a pretty boy! I am sure he would have grown to be very fine-looking—my poor little Léon!"
"Mon Dieu! Honorine, if you are going to mourn over that, you will be sad and sigh—and the doctor said that would make you sick."
"It's over, Agathe—you are right; I do not mean to disturb your joy; but, you see, when I think of the new life we are going to lead here, of the sweet peaceful life that is to be ours, when we have left Paris, oh! then I can't help thinking of my son, who always had a placein my dreams of happiness and of the future. You have no idea, Agathe, of a mother's love, and you cannot understand the incurable wound that the loss of that child has made in my heart! But it's all over now, poor love! Now you are sad, too. Come, let us turn our thoughts to finding the house that's for sale; we are to apply to——"
"Monsieur Ledrux, gardener and florist, to see Monsieur Courtivaux's house."
"That's it. We will inquire of the first peasant we meet; in the country everybody knows everybody else."
When the two young women reached the village they soon met a laboring man, to whom they said:
"Can you direct us to the house of Monsieur Ledrux, gardener and florist, please?"
"Ledrux! Well! is it a Ledrux Cailleux or a Ledrux Leblond, or just plain Ledrux? There's lots of Ledruxes hereabout, you see, and we give each of 'em a nickname to tell 'em apart. It's like the Thomases and the Gaillots, there's a swarm of 'em! there's some families where they've had heaps of children."
"The Monsieur Ledrux whom we wish to find is a gardener and florist."
"Oh! but everybody's a gardener round here; you see, we don't go after our neighbor when we want to trim our trees or vines."
"But they told us that Ledrux——"
"Then it must be plain Ledrux; yes, he takes care of orange trees for the folks that go to Paris for the winter.You want to take this road here in front of you and go straight ahead till you turn to the left; and then, on the corner of a lane, you'll see a little house with only two windows in front—and that's where plain Ledrux lives."
"Much obliged, monsieur."
And the two ladies walked on, Agathe saying:
"How funny it is that people in the country should all have the same name!"
"That speaks well for them; it proves that the members of these families have never left their native place to seek fortune elsewhere. My father often used to say to me: 'My child, you may always have confidence in old families, in old business houses, and in old servants.'"
"Here's the lane, and I see the little house with two windows."
"I trust that it's where our Ledrux lives."
They reached the house and found a small gate which opened by turning a knob; they passed through the gate and found themselves in a large and well-kept garden, cleanly raked, where numerous boxes of pomegranates, laurel-bushes and rhododendrons were taking their first breath of the spring air. But they saw nobody.
"Let us go in," said Honorine.
"Let's call," said Agathe; "he must be either in the house or in the garden.—Monsieur Ledrux!"
"Monsieur Ledrux!"
"Perhaps we ought to say: 'plain Monsieur Ledrux.'"
"What a child you are! It seems to me that if he were in the house he would hear us, for it isn't large,and the gate rang a bell when we opened it. Let us look around the garden."
"See, there's a man at the further end of the garden; he sees us."
The master of the house was a little old man, thin and wrinkled, tanned by the sun, but whose face was at once kindly and shrewd. He came toward them humming between his teeth, which promised well for his disposition.
Honorine walked forward quickly to meet the singer.
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but we were told to apply to you to show us a house that is for sale in this neighborhood."
"What's that! a house for sale?"
"Monsieur Courtivaux's."
"Ah! you want to see Monsieur Courtivaux's house, do you?"
"We do."
"Do you think of buying it?"
"Why, we may buy it if it suits us."
"Ah, yes! that's so; you must see it first. I'll show it to you."
"We are sorry to give you so much trouble."
"Oh! it ain't very far. And then, you can't go there alone, for you don't know where it is. Wait a bit, while I go and fetch the keys."
And the little old man walked away, humming: "Tutu—turlututu—lututu!"
"You see, my dear love, we came to the right place."
"Yes; and this old peasant seems a merry old fellow; I like him already."
"We will take him for our gardener."
Père Ledrux returned, still humming.
"Are you looking at my garden?"
"Yes; it's extremely well kept."
"Oh! it'll be much prettier when the orange trees are put out; but it's too early yet."
"Aren't you afraid for the pomegranates and laurels?"
"Oh, no! we shan't have any more hard frosts, and they ain't so delicate."
"You have some very fine espaliers."
"Well! that's because they're well looked out for; but they have to be. Trees, you see, are just exactly like people; if we didn't give 'em a bit of a touch-up now and then, what would we look like?"
They left the garden, crossed one broad street, then another bordered by garden walls.
"Chelles is a large place!" said Honorine.
"Oh, yes; it ain't so small! Bless me! this used to be a famous country; it used to have a name of its own. Oh! you ought to hear Monsieur Antoine Beaubichon, the doctor here, talk about it; he's a scholar and knows a lot—to say nothing of a brother of his in Paris, who's very famous too for his knowledge of business and teaches you how to manage books."
"I know the history of this village," said Honorine with a smile; "I know that the Abbey of Chelles wasvery famous; that under the first race of French kings religious establishments were founded here. King Chilperic often resided here, and was assassinated here."
"I say! I say! madame knows as much as our doctor!" exclaimed Père Ledrux, opening his eyes.
"One need only read history to learn that."
"But I am very ignorant, my dear friend; do tell me how King Chilperic was assassinated here."
"It's a very old story, my dear Agathe; it happened in the year 584, and between ourselves, all the narratives that we have of those days are somewhat apocryphal. But this is the way the story runs:
"A mayor of the palace—there were prime ministers then, called mayors of the palace; this one, whose name was Landry, was, if history is to be believed, the lover of Queen Frédégonde. Now the king, happening one day to enter his consort's chamber when he was not expected, found her leaning over and washing her head; he amused himself by striking her from behind with his staff. A strange amusement for a king! but in those days there was very little refinement.
"The queen, not seeing who it was who had entered the room, thought that none but her favorite would venture to use such freedom, so she said: 'Why do you strike me, Landry?'
"But, on turning her head, she saw the king, her spouse, instead of her lover; she was stupefied with terror. As for Chilperic, he went off hunting, without a word.
"When the king had gone, Frédégonde sent for the mayor of the palace and told him everything that had happened. As they both feared torture and the death they had merited by their treacherous conduct, they resolved to kill King Chilperic. He did not return from the hunt until nightfall, and when he arrived at Chelles and was dismounting from his horse, cutthroats in Frédégonde's pay stabbed him again and again with knives; he died on the spot.
"The queen, after causing the report to be spread abroad that the crime was instigated by King Childebert, had the courage to attend the obsequies of her deceased husband, which she caused to be celebrated with great pomp at Paris.
"That, my dear Agathe, is what history tells us; it is not a moral tale, far from it! and unhappily that sort of thing was too common in those days, which cannot have been the 'good old days' that so many poets have extolled. I will not tell you anything more about Chelles, for in truth it would be even less edifying than what I have just told you."
"My faith!" exclaimed Père Ledrux, who had refrained from humming while the young woman was speaking; "you do know a lot, all the same; and you tell it plainer than the doctor, because he uses such long words—words I don't know; so that he always has to tell us a story seven or eight times to make me understand it."
"But the house—we don't seem to get to it?"
"Here we are, madame. Look, when we pass this wall which makes an elbow. There! do you see that building with green blinds? that's Monsieur Courtivaux's house."
"Oh! my dear friend, just look! how lovely it is! There's a railing in front, and vases of flowers on the pilasters; it's all very fine!"
Madame Dalmont smiled at her young companion's enthusiasm, but the aspect of the house pleased her greatly as well, and the nearer they approached, the better pleased they were.
There was an iron fence in front, through which they could see a pretty lawn, which stretched in front of the house and formed a charming carpet of verdure.
"Oh! Honorine, see what lovely turf! Why, monsieur, how is it possible to have such green turf so early?"
"Pardi, mamzelle—for I see that you're the unmarried one—there's green turf here all winter, even under the snow. The folks in Paris don't believe it, but grass grows all the time, you see."
The peasant opened the gate; two paths skirted the lawn and led to the house; and on both sides were tall trees, whose branches extended over the grass, so that, in summer, their foliage protected it from the sun's heat.
Agathe walked beside Honorine, saying every instant in an undertone:
"Oh! how lovely it is! see those fine trees, and those lilac bushes, with great buds already, and those syringas! Oh! how lovely it must be in summer!"
"There's a dozen boxes that we put round the lawn," said the gardener, "six oranges and six pomegranates; but I carried 'em home because I take care of 'em; in another month I'll put 'em in place. Oh, my! then it looks nice; it's a pretty sight, I tell you."
The house consisted of two stories and attics. The ground floor was about three feet from the ground, so that one had to ascend a flight of steps to the front door. The peasant opened the door and they found themselves in a handsome hall in which there were four doors. One opened into a dainty salon, very comfortably furnished; couches filled a large portion of the space; they and the chairs were covered with light blue material, and the wall paper was of the same shade.
Agathe uttered a cry of delight.
"A blue salon! my favorite color and yours too, Honorine; if they had asked us what we liked they could not have suited us better!"
"There's just a crumb of dust on the furniture," said the gardener, "but you understand—when a house ain't occupied, the dust collects in a jiffy! I come here every day myself to feed the hens and rabbits, but you can understand that I don't have time to clean the rooms."
"What! are there hens and rabbits here, too?"
"To be sure! Monsieur Courtivaux was very fond of rabbits; he used to have one killed every week to eat."
"That's a curious way of loving animals!" said Madame Dalmont; "for my part, I could never make up my mind to kill a poor creature that I had fondled."
"Oh! nor I to eat one!" said Agathe.
"And then I am not wild for rabbit as food; and so, Monsieur Ledrux, if I buy the house, I will begin by making you a present of all there are here."
The peasant seemed greatly pleased by that promise; he put his hand to a little round hat which had lost both its color and its brim, and which did duty as a cap, and murmured:
"Madame is very good; I won't refuse 'em. Bless me! there's two females that breed; but still, if you don't like rabbit, I can understand your getting rid of 'em. They smell bad in the first place, and they ruin everything if you're unlucky enough to let 'em get into the garden. My word! what a wreck!—And what about the hens? if madame don't like them any better, I could take care of them too; they ain't very clean, the little devils; they go pecking round everywhere."
"Oh! hens are very different," said Honorine; "they give one fresh eggs, which are always very pleasant."
"Besides, it must be such fun to hunt for the eggs—to see if there are many of them. I'll take care of the hens, my dear friend. And then, they don't kill those poor creatures."
"Oh! yes they do; there's folks who fix 'em up with rice or little onions; and they're good too. And then you sometimes have some that won't lay or that fight with the others; them you don't keep—you eat 'em!"
"Ah! Monsieur Ledrux, you are very pitiless to everything that can be eaten! However, we will see, and whenone of our hens maltreats her companions, why, you shall carry her off, that's all; but I don't propose to have any inhabitant of my poultry yard killed on my premises."
"All right; if that's your idea, never fear, I'll carry off the poor layers; madame can do as she pleases. Well, well! here I am saying 'madame' and 'mademoiselle'; but it seems to me that you can't be mother and daughter; one of you's too young, and the other too old."
"That's so, it would be hard; but Agathe is only my friend. I am a widow; I have no—I have no child of my own; we two are all alone."
"Do you think of living here all the year round if you should buy the house?"
"Yes, to be sure, all the year; we shall settle down here."
"Well, I tell you, that'll suit me. Two nice little women in the place—they brighten things up, and they're pleasant to look at."
"Let us finish inspecting the house."
On the ground floor there were, besides the salon, a beautiful dining-room, pantry, bath-room and kitchen.
On the first floor there were four pleasant bedrooms and two dressing-rooms; above that, two servants'-rooms and a loft.
The whole house was furnished very comfortably.
Agathe jumped for joy as they entered each room.
"Look," she cried, "this will be your room, Honorine; see how comfortable you will be here. There's a nice little dressing-room connected with it, and such aview! Oh! do come and look out of the window, my dear friend; it's magnificent! What a glorious panorama! how far you can see! and when everything is green, when these fields are studded with flowers, oh! how lovely it must be! Below us, on this side, there's a little yard, and beyond is the garden, isn't it, monsieur?"
"Yes, mamzelle, that's the garden, and a well-kept garden too, I flatter myself; and there'll be plenty of fruit this year! if we don't have a miserable frost during the April moon."
"Well, let us go to see the garden," said Honorine, "so far, I like the house very much."
They left the house at the rear by a door opening into a small yard. There were the outhouses, the hencoop and the rabbit-hutches. A lattice separated the yard from the garden, which was about a third of an acre in extent and prettily laid out.
Agathe's joyous exclamations redoubled at each arbor, each clump of shrubbery, but her enthusiasm reached its height when, at the end of a path, she spied a mound on which was a pretty little summer-house, standing at a corner of the garden wall. The slope leading to the summer-house was bordered by eglantine and honeysuckle. The building had three windows from which there was an extensive view of the surrounding country; for, as we have said, Chelles stood on a hill and overlooked its whole neighborhood.
"Oh! we'll come here very often!" cried Agathe; "we'll sit at the window and work, won't we, Honorine?"
"Yes, I like this place extremely, I confess. What perfect tranquillity one must enjoy here!"
"And in addition it's sure to be very cool in summer, because of these tall lindens all about. It's a lovely place to come to indulge in a chat and to drink a glass with a friend."
Honorine smiled as she replied:
"We shall hardly come here to drink a glass perhaps; but we may breakfast here sometimes and bring our work here very often. Yes, in two months I should think that this view would be very lovely."
"Oh! in another month the lilacs and syringas will begin to put out leaves," said Ledrux. "And then by that time you'll be having lilies of the valley and violets and tulips and narcissus and hyacinths; there's plenty of them in the garden. You can smell 'em when you walk here.—On the whole, the house pleases you, don't it?"
"Yes, very much; and you too, eh, Agathe?"
"Oh! my dear friend, I am enchanted with it; I would like to stay here now, and not go back to Paris at all! This place seems like a little paradise."
"I suppose they've told you the price Monsieur Courtivaux asks—twenty thousand francs?—But, bless me! very likely he'll take off a little something."
"Yes, we saw his agent. We shall see him again to-morrow to close the bargain."
"Oh! yes, my dear; we mustn't wait till the house is sold to someone else."
"Look you," said the gardener; "as long as this place suits you and you're going to give me the rabbits, if anybody else should come to look at the house these next few days, I'll just tell 'em right out that it's sold; then they won't try to buy it. Ha! ha! Bless my soul! we must be a little sly and help each other a bit."
"Thanks, Père Ledrux, and when we are living here, you must come now and then to look after our garden, trim our trees, and——"
"Pardi! just as often as you say; I shall be at your service, if you pay me! that's my business! Oh! we can settle about that. I ain't stiff myself; when people treat me well, I do the same by them!"
Honorine, who had been looking out over the country, turned to her young friend and said:
"Yes, this house pleases me as much as it does you, Agathe; there is only one reason that might prevent our taking it."
"What is that, my dear?"
"That it is rather isolated, rather far away from other houses; and we are two lone women—Suppose we should be attacked here, who would there be to defend us?"
"Oh! upon my word! Are you so timid as that, Honorine?"
"Without being very timid, I am not very brave."
"Somebody attack you—here at Chelles!" cried Père Ledrux with a laugh. "Well, that is a good one, on my word! As if there was any brigands in this region!In the first place, they won't steal your rabbits, for you give 'em to me. That's the only thing that does get stolen now and then; oh! yes, there's the hens. But you mustn't let 'em go out. It's a nuisance. But when you come to everything else, there ain't the least danger. This house is on the edge of the open country, to be sure, but there's some very nice places out in the country itself. Look; do you see over here to your right, beyond the mill; it's quite a longish way, on the other side of the Marne; but when the sun's shining on it, you can see it quite plain. First, there's the little village of Gournay, where you go to getmatelotes. The fish is fresh, they catch it before your eyes. Then, farther on, where the land rises, is Noisy-le-Grand. Do you see, over in that direction, a big square house, with terraced grounds? there's a little tower that stands by itself in one corner, with a lightning rod. You can't see the lightning rod from here, but if you've got good eyes, you ought to see the tower."
"Yes, I can see it," said Agathe; "the house is like a little château. To whom does it belong?"
"Who does it belong to? Well, we know and we don't know. That is to say, no one knows much about who the man is that owns it; to tell the truth, there's two masters to that place—a man and a dog!"
"What do you say? a dog owns that great house? Why, then it must be a dog after the pattern of Puss in Boots."
"Puss in Boots? I say, who's he? I never saw him."
"Come, Monsieur Ledrux, tell us what you mean. Who lives in that house with a tower?"
"A very strange kind of man, and his dog. And the master's so fond of his dog, and the beast is so fond of his master, that they're just like two friends, who both do exactly what the other wants him to. When the dog happens to want to go in one direction, why then the master goes in that direction; he lets the animal lead him. And it seems that it's a good thing for him that he does, because the beast is so uncommon intelligent that no one ever saw his like; so that—But who's that going along the road yonder? I believe it's Doctor Antoine Beaubichon.—I beg pardon, excuse me, mesdames, but someone gave me a message for him, and I must find out if he's got it. I'll go out by the little gate yonder, that opens into the road, and I'll come right back. But I must find out whether the doctor's been told to go to Gournay to see the wine-dealer's sick child."
As he spoke, the peasant left the window of the summer-house, from which he had seen someone on the road, and, opening a small gate at the end of the garden, he was soon in the fields.
Père Ledrux was no sooner out of the garden than he began to shout at the top of his lungs:
"Holà! Monsieur Antoine! Monsieur le Docteur Antoine!"
A short, stout individual, wrapped in a brown overcoat as long as a surplice, and with a low-crowned, very broad-brimmed hat on his head, which made him appear still shorter, halted in the middle of a cross-road and looked up in the air, saying:
"Who's calling me?" as if he thought that the voice he had heard came from a balloon.
"Pardi! it's me calling you; it ain't a bird, it's me, Ledrux—this way."
"Ah! it's you, is it, Père Ledrux? What are you doing here?"
"As you see, I'm calling you and waiting to ask you if your servant Claudine gave you my message. You wasn't at home this morning when I went to your house to tell you to go to Gournay to see the wine-dealer's child; she's got the scarlet fever, they say."
"Scarlatina—yes, yes. Claudine told me and I am coming from Gournay, as you see."
"Good! then you've cured the child?"
"Not yet; but it isn't anything serious."
"Have you been to Gournay on foot?"
"Yes, the weather was fine, and it does one good to walk; I'm getting too fat."
"But your nag'll get too fat too, if you don't use him! Ha! ha! You'd better lend him to me, I'll give him plenty of work!"
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm showing Monsieur Courtivaux's house to some ladies from Paris; they're very nice, and they act as if they meant to buy it. Look, there they are, both of 'em, at the window in the little summer-house. That's where I saw you from."
Honorine and Agathe were, in fact, still standing at the window. They were looking across the fields, but their eyes turned most frequently toward the house with the turret. The few words that the gardener had said concerning its proprietors had aroused their curiosity to the highest pitch; indeed, as they proposed to take up their abode at Chelles, in the somewhat isolated house in which they then were, it was quite natural that they should desire to know their neighbors.
Doctor Antoine raised his head to look at the ladies; he removed his broad-brimmed hat, disclosing his almost bald head and his cheerful, ruddy face, and made them a low bow, which they instantly acknowledged.
"Look you," said the doctor to the gardener, "as the garden gate is open, I can shorten my walk home materially by going through the garden."
"I should say so; it will shorten it by half."
"That being so, I will go that way; and suppose I should pay my respects to these ladies at the same time? What do you say, Ledrux?"
"It seems to me that it can't do 'em any harm, even if it don't do 'em any good!"
"That's so; and then—we shall know each other; and when they come here to live, if they happen to be sick, why, they'll send for me."
"Sure enough! especially as you're the only doctor in the neighborhood."
"Yes; but you see that they sent for me from Gournay; that proves that everybody doesn't take the one who is nearest."
"Ah! you're a shrewd one, you are! you always have an eye to the main chance!"
"There's no law against looking after one's business."
"Nenni!all the more as it ain't safe to depend on other folks for that. Ha! ha! ha! tutu—turlututu."
During their conversation the two men had entered the garden. Père Ledrux closed the little gate, and the two friends, who had left the summer-house, soon found themselves face to face with Doctor Antoine, who bowed again, saying:
"Mesdames, as an inhabitant—and physician—of this district, I shall consider myself very happy if we are tohave the good fortune to claim you as neighbors, as Ledrux has led me to hope; for he tells me that you propose to buy this estate."
"Yes, monsieur, we both like the house very much. It is well arranged and pleasantly located; the garden is large enough for us. But just as the gardener caught sight of you, I was talking with him of the isolation of this house. We have no man in our family. I expect to employ a servant, but it will be some young peasant girl! So you will understand, monsieur, that we must not incur any risks."
"I have lived at Chelles many years, mesdames, and I feel justified in assuring you that it is not a region of thieves."
"I believe it, monsieur, but is the neighborhood as safe as the place itself? Naturally, when one lives in the country, one goes out to walk——"
"And very wisely; it is good for the health."
"But it would be very unpleasant if one had to dread disagreeable accidents on such walks."
"The whole neighborhood is quite thickly settled; and on my word, except——"
"Except? go on, monsieur."
"Still, I can't say anything definite. When one doesn't really know—But one thing is certain,—that the fellow is neither good-humored nor sociable. So far as that goes, he's a wretched neighbor. I say 'neighbor,' but he's quite a distance from here. Besides, he won't annoy you; you'll very seldom meet him, for as soon as hesees anybody coming he goes another way; he's a wolf, a bear, a veritable bear-cub, and an ill-licked one!"
While the doctor was speaking, the gardener pulled him gently by the coat-tail, whispering:
"What in the devil's the need of saying all that? you'll scare the ladies, and take away their desire to live in this house! What you're doing ain't very clever for a doctor!"
"Well, monsieur, where does this wolf, this bear live? you must tell us so that we may at least avoid walking in the direction of his den."
"The person to whom I refer by that designation, mesdames, lives on the estate yonder at the right, toward Noisy-le-Grand; quite a handsome house, with a tower."
"Then it's the man with the dog," said Agathe.
"Exactly, mademoiselle, it's the man with the dog. Do you know him already?"
"The gardener was just telling us about him when he left us to call you, monsieur, and the little that he had told us had aroused our curiosity keenly. It would be very kind of you, therefore, monsieur le docteur, to tell us everything that is known about this man; for, frankly, if he is really an ogre, we shall not be at all pleased to have him for a neighbor."
"Oho! an ogre!" cried Père Ledrux with a laugh; "that's a good one, and no mistake. An ogre! they eat children, ogres do! I never heard tell that Monsieur Paul or his dog had eaten a child, no matter how small."
"I never intended to imply that he was an ogre," rejoined the doctor. "God forbid that I should attribute such depraved tastes to the man! I simply form conjectures based on what I have heard. And what I have seen is not calculated to give me a very pleasant opinion of him."
Talking thus, the party had returned to the house.
"I'll just take a look at the rabbits," said the gardener, "if you'll rest a bit in the salon."
"Very gladly," said Honorine; "and if monsieur le docteur has the time, perhaps he will tell us what he knows about the proprietor of the house with the turret, whom you call Paul, I believe?"
"Yes, mesdames, Paul; no one knows him by any other name; and as he is always accompanied by his dog, a Newfoundland almost as big as a donkey, they are commonly referred to in the neighborhood as 'Paul and his dog.'"
The two young women entered the blue salon, accompanied by Doctor Antoine Beaubichon, who seated himself respectfully at some little distance from them, and began his story:
"Almost nine years ago the estate called the Tower was offered for sale; but no purchaser appeared. Why was it that no purchaser appeared? People attributed it to a certain circumstance, and that circumstance, mesdames, is too interesting to be passed over in silence. It was like this. Not far from the small park of the Tower, at the beginning of a ravine close to the roadleading to Noisy-le-Grand, in a very lonely spot, a cross has been erected in memory of a person who, not very long ago—I forget just when it was, but no matter—in memory of a person who was assassinated at that spot. Indeed, it is said that the victim is buried at the foot of the cross; and as country folk are always superstitious and love to frighten one another, the people of Noisy-le-Grand, Gournay, and even those of Chelles to some extent, declare that it isn't safe to pass the cross in the ravine at night, because strange noises, groans, are heard there, and you are likely to meet the ghost of the person who was killed there after the Tower was offered for sale."
"Oh! mon Dieu! why, this is horrible, monsieur le docteur," said Honorine; "it's a regular ghost story."
"Pray go on, monsieur," said Agathe; "it interests me deeply; but you haven't told us who it was that was murdered. Was it a man or a woman?"
"It was a man, mademoiselle, a young man, who was found dead in that ravine. How it happened has never been known, nor were the assassins ever discovered."
"Was it somebody who lived hereabout?"
"No, for no one recognized him; and the strangest thing was that he had not been robbed; they found a gold watch on him and a large amount of money."
"But perhaps the miscreants who committed the crime heard someone coming, and, being afraid of being captured, ran away before they had had time to rob their victim."
"The result is that they have set up a cross on that spot, and that the villagers make a long détour rather than go through the ravine at night, for they are sure that they would meet the ghost."
"Bah! turlututu! that's a pretty story!" said Père Ledrux, showing his face at the door of the salon. "What's this, doctor! are you telling these ladies all these old stories so that they'll be afraid to come here to live? Why, it's all fiddle-faddle. I've been through the ravine lots of times at night, right by the cross, and I never met anybody, not the first hobgoblin! The old women say to each other over the fire: 'What can we think up to give us a good fright?' And they invent those old nurse's tales!"
"I am simply telling what everyone says, Ledrux; I am informing these ladies concerning thechroniqueof the place, nothing more."
"The colic of the place don't know what it's saying; anybody can walk anywhere in our neighborhood at all hours; there ain't any danger.—I'll go and take a look at the hens; I think there's one of 'em bothering the others."
"Mesdames," continued the doctor when the peasant had gone, "I hope that you do not think me capable of trying to frighten you; for I should be delighted to have you come here to live."
"We think it so little, monsieur, that we beg you to continue your story; it gives us the greatest pleasure to listen to you."
The doctor rose to bow again to the ladies; then resumed his seat, blew his nose and continued:
"You see, while I don't pretend to be very strong-minded, I don't believe in ghosts, for the reason that I never saw one; if I had seen one, I should believe in them; and in that regard my opinion coincides with that of my brother Désiré Beaubichon, professor of bookkeeping in Paris,—a very learned man, of whom you ladies may have heard?"
"No, monsieur, never."
"Nature swarms with curious facts, which the most learned are not always able to explain; and from Apollonius of Tyana, the greatest magician of ancient times, down to Cagliostro, who also was able to evoke the devil, many people, who were not fools by any means, have believed in ghosts. For my part, I declare that I should much rather believe everything than nothing!—I return to the Tower.
"The property is quite extensive, in addition to the buildings, wherein a large number of people can be accommodated, for it is like a small château—there are more than twelve sleeping-rooms. Then there are the garden and a small park—about twelve acres in all. I believe that the price asked was fifty thousand francs, but as I have had the honor to tell you, they could find no purchaser; the nearness of the cross in the ravine, and all the stories that were in circulation frightened the ladies who came to see the property. So that there was great surprise throughout the region when the notary atNoisy-le-Grand said to his neighbors one morning: 'the Tower is sold!'
"The news flew from mouth to mouth: 'the Tower is sold!'
"'Bah! it isn't possible!'
"'Yes, it's a fact; monsieur le notaire himself told it.'
"'Well, to whom is it sold?'
"'To Monsieur Paul.'
"'Paul who? Paul what?'
"To all such questions the notary, upon whom secrecy had been enjoined, answered:
"'To Monsieur Paul; the purchaser has given no other name, but he pays cash for the property, and is at liberty to take possession whenever he chooses.'
"'Paul is it!' said the country folk; 'after all, a man may have no other name than Paul and be a perfectly honorable man; we have had merchants and manufacturers who were called simply Jean or Pierre. If this Paul is an agreeable man, a jovial companion, he'll be a welcome addition to the neighborhood. And then, it's probable that he has a wife and children; as he has bought that big house, he must have people to put in it. Perhaps he will give a party, a ball to his new neighbors, to become acquainted with them; then we shall find out what sort of man he is.'
"That, madame, was what the people said here in Chelles and in the neighborhood. But time passed and no one arrived; the estate of the Tower showed no sign of life, assumed no festal air.
"'For heaven's sake, isn't the new owner going to occupy his house?' people began to say. 'In that case, why did he buy it?'
"But one morning Jeannette the poulterer informed her neighbors:
"'Well, the gentleman who's bought the Tower has arrived; he's been in the house a fortnight. What do you suppose his household consists of?—a dog! nothing but a great dog that's always at his master's heels. But I suppose he found out that his dog couldn't get his dinner and do his housework, so he's hired old Mère Lucas, from the village of Couberon, who's almost blind and a little deaf, and she takes care of his house.'
"You can understand, mesdames, that everybody was amazed to learn that the only occupants of that enormous house were a man, a dog and a half-blind and deaf old woman.
"'The gentleman has come on ahead,' people thought; 'his family is probably going to join him here.' But no one came. And then, the new owner, instead of showing himself to his neighbors and trying to become acquainted with them, never went out to walk, or at all events not in any frequented part of the country; and people said: 'Have you seen the owner of the Tower?'—'No.'—'Nor I; where in the devil does the man keep himself?'—'Doesn't he ever leave his house or his grounds? he must live like a hermit, then?'
"One day, however, one of the townspeople met him and lost no time in letting everybody know that thisMonsieur Paul was a tall, well-built man, neither young nor old, that is to say, with a full beard which covered a large part of his face and made it impossible to guess his age; but that he had a savage, repellent, disagreeable manner; that he was dressed very simply, in hunting costume: jacket, long leather gaiters and a cap with a broad vizor which concealed all the upper part of his face. He had a gun in his hand and a large dog at his heels.
"People said: 'He is probably very fond of hunting and passes all his time at it; hunters aren't very good-natured, so we must overlook his peculiarities. But the hunting season doesn't last forever, and no doubt the man with the big dog will become more sociable; let us wait.'
"They waited in vain. However, they saw Monsieur Paul occasionally, walking in the fields with his faithful companion. But when anyone approached, he quickly turned in the other direction to avoid meeting them.
"One day, however, Madame Droguet, one of the largest land-owners in the neighborhood—Madame Droguet, having watched to see which roads the master of the Tower usually chose for his walks, said to her friends:
"'I am determined to see our new neighbor and to speak to him; in short, I propose to find out what that man has to say for himself; if he's a foreigner, I can tell by his accent what country he comes from. The fact is, I propose to find out what we are to think abouthim, and it won't take me long to see whether he's acomme il fautperson or an ill-bred one.'