The falling of a thunderbolt at his feet would have startled Norbert less than these words did. The Duke took, or affected to take, no notice of his son’s extreme agitation, and in a careless manner he continued,—
“I suppose, my son, that it is hardly necessary for me to tell you the young lady’s name. Mademoiselle Marie de Puymandour cannot fail to please you. She is excessively pretty, tall, dark, and with a fine figure. You saw her at Mass one day. What do you think of her?”
“Think!” stammered Norbert. “Really I——”
“Pshaw,” replied the old gentleman; “I thought that you had begun to use your eyes. And look here, Marquis, you must adopt a different style of dress. You can go over with me to Poitiers to-morrow, and one of the tailors there will make you some clothes suitable to your rank, for I don’t suppose that you wish to alarm your future wife by the uncouthness of your appearance.”
“But, father—”
“Wait a moment, if you please. I shall have a suite of apartments reserved for you and your bride, and you can pass your honeymoon here. Take care you do not prolong it for too lengthened a period; and when it is all over, we can break the young woman into all our ways.”
“But,” interrupted Norbert hastily, “suppose I do not fancy this young lady?”
“Well, what then?”
“Suppose I should beg you to save me from a marriage which will render me most unhappy?”
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “Why this is mere childishness,” said he. “The marriage is a most suitable one, and it is my desire that it should take place.”
“But, father,” again commenced Norbert.
“What! Are you opposing my will?” asked his father angrily. “Pray, do you hesitate?”
“No,” answered his son coldly, “I do not hesitate.”
“Very good, then. A man of no position can consult the dictates of his heart when he takes a wife, but with a nobleman of rank and station it is certainly a different matter, for with the latter, marriage should be looked upon as a mere business transaction. I have made excellent arrangements. Let me repeat to you the conditions. The Count will give two-thirds of his fortune, which is estimated at five millions—just think of that!—and when we get that, we shall be able to screw and save with better heart. Think of the restoration of our house, and the colossal fortune that our descendants will one day inherit, and realize all the beauties of a life of self-denial.”
While the Duke was uttering this string of incoherent sentences, he was pacing up and down the room, and now he halted immediately in front of his son. “You understand,” said he; “to-morrow you will go to Poitiers, and on Sunday we will dine at the house of your future father-in-law.”
In this fearful crisis Norbert did not know what to say or how to act.
“Father,” he once more commenced, “I have no wish to go to Poitiers to-morrow.”
“What are you saying? What in heaven’s name do you mean?”
“I mean that as I shall never love Mademoiselle de Puymandour, she will never be my wife.”
The Duke had never foreseen the chance of rebellion on the part of his son, and he could not bring his mind to receive such an unlooked-for event.
“You are mad,” said he at last, “and do not know what you are saying.”
“I know very well.”
“Think of what you are doing.”
“I have reflected.”
The Duke was making a violent effort to compose his ordinarily violent temper.
“Do you imagine,” answered he disdainfully, “that I shall be satisfied with an answer of this kind? I hope that you will submit to my wishes, for I think that, as the head of the family, I have conceived a splendid plan for its future aggrandizement; and do you think that, for the mere whim of a boy, I will be turned aside from my fixed determination?”
“No, father,” answered Norbert, “it is no boyish whim that makes me oppose your wishes. Tell me, have I not ever been a dutiful son to you? Have I ever refused to do what I was ordered? No; I have obeyed you implicitly. I am the son of the wealthiest man in Poitiers, and I have lived like a laborer’s child. Whatever your mandates were, I have never complained or murmured at them.”
“Well, and now I order you to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour.”
“Anything but that; I do not love her, and I shall never do so. Do you wish my whole life to be blighted? I entreat you to spare me this sacrifice!”
“My orders are given, and you must comply with them.”
“No,” answered Norbert quietly, “I will not comply with them.”
A purple flush passed across the Duke’s face, then it faded away, leaving every feature of a livid whiteness.
“Great heavens!” said he in a voice before which Norbert, at one time, would have quailed. “Whence comes the audacity that makes you venture to dispute my orders?”
“From the feeling that I am acting rightly.”
“How long is it that it has been right for children to disobey their parents’ commands?”
“Ever since parents began to issue unjust commands.”
This speech put the finishing stroke to the Duke’s rage. He made a step across the room, towards his son, raising the stick that he usually carried high in the air. For a moment he stood thus, and then, casting it aside, he exclaimed,—
“No, I cannot strike a Champdoce.”
Perhaps it was Norbert’s intrepid attitude that restrained the Duke’s frenzy, for he had not moved a muscle, but stood still, with his arms folded, and his head thrown haughtily back.
“No, this is an act of disobedience that I will not put up with,” exclaimed the old man in a voice of thunder, and, springing upon his son, he grasped him by the collar and dragged him up to a room on the second floor, and thrust him violently through the doorway.
“You have twenty-four hours in which to reflect whether you will be willing to accept the wife that I have chosen for you,” said he.
“I have already decided on that point,” answered Norbert quietly.
The Duke made no reply, but slammed the door, which was of massive oak, and secured by a lock of enormous proportions.
Norbert gazed round; the only other exit from the room was by means of a window some forty feet from the ground. The young man, however, imagined that some one would surely come to make up his bed for the night; that would give him two sheets; these he could knot together and thus secure a means of escape. He might not be able to see Diana at once, but he could easily send her a message by Daumon, warning her of what had taken place. Having arranged his plans, he threw himself into an armchair with a more easy mind than he had experienced for many months past. The decisive step had been taken, and the relations between his father and himself clearly defined, and thus he naturally considered great progress had been made, and the task before him seemed as nothing to what he had already performed.
“My father,” thought he, “must be half mad with passion.”
And Norbert was not wrong in his opinion. When the Duke, as usual, took his place at the table, at which the farm laborers ate their meals, not one of them had the courage to make a single observation. Every one knew what a serious altercation had taken place between father and son, and each one was devoured by the pangs of ungratified curiosity.
As soon as the meal was concluded, the Duke called an old and trustworthy servant, who had been in his employment for over thirty years.
“Jean,” said he, “your young master is locked in the yellow room. Here is the key. Take him something to eat.”
“Very good, your Grace.”
“Wait a little. You will spend the night in his room and keep a strict watch upon him. He may design to make his escape. If he attempts it, restrain him, if necessary, by physical force. Should he prove too strong for you, call to me; I shall be near, and will come to your aid.”
This unexpected precaution upon the Duke’s part upset all Norbert’s plans of escape. He endeavored to persuade Jean to allow him to go out for a couple of hours, giving his word of honor that he would return at the expiration of that time. Prayers and menaces, however, had no effect. Had the young man gazed from the window, he would have seen his father striding moodily up and down the courtyard, with the thought gnawing at his heart that perhaps after all these many years of waiting his plans might yet be frustrated.
“There is a woman at the bottom of all this,” said he to himself. “It is only woman’s wiles that in this brief space of time would effect so complete a change in a young man’s disposition. Besides, he would not have so obstinately declined to listen to the proposal I made him had not his affections been engaged elsewhere. Who can she be? and by what means shall I find her out?”
It would be absurd to question Norbert, and the Duke was excessively unwilling to institute any regular inquiry into the matter. He passed the whole night in gloomy indecision, but towards morning an inspiration came to him which he looked upon as a special interposition of Providence.
“Bruno,” he exclaimed with a mighty oath. “The dog will show me the place that his master frequents and perhaps lead me to the very woman who had bewitched him.”
The brilliant idea soothed him a great deal, and at one o’clock he took his seat as usual at the head of the table, and ordered food to be taken up to Norbert, but that none of the measures for his safe custody were to be relaxed.
When he thought the moment was a favorable one, he whistled to Bruno, and, though the dog rarely followed him, yet in the absence of his master, he condescended to accompany the Duke down the avenue to the front gates. Three roads branched off from here, but the dog did not hesitate for a moment, and took the one to the left, like an animal who knew his destination perfectly well. Bruno went ahead for nearly half an hour, until he reached the exact spot where Diana had met with her accident. He made a cast round, but finding nothing, sat down, clearly saying,—
“Let us wait.”
“This, then,” muttered the Duke, “is the place where the lovers have been in the habit of meeting each other.”
The place was a very lonely one, and, standing on the rising ground, commanded a view of the country for a long way round.
The Duke noticed this, and took up a position where the trunk of a giant oak almost concealed him from observation. He was delighted at his sagacity, and was almost in a good humor; for now that he had reflected, the danger did not seem by any means so great, for to whom could Norbert have lost his heart? To some little peasant girl, perhaps, who, thinking that the lad was an easy dupe, had tried to induce him to marry her. As these thoughts passed through the Duke’s brain, Bruno gave a joyous bark.
“Here she is,’ muttered he, as he emerged from his hiding place, and at that moment Diana de Laurebourg made her appearance; but as soon as she saw the Duke she uttered a faint cry of alarm. She was inclined to turn and fly, but her strength failed her, and, extending her hands, she grasped the boughs of a slender birch tree that grew close by, to prevent herself from falling. The Duke was quite as much astonished as the young lady. He had expected to see a peasant girl, and here was the daughter of the Marquis de Laurebourg. But anger soon succeeded to surprise; for though he might have had nothing to fear from the peasant, the daughter of the Marquis de Laurebourg was an utterly different antagonist. He could not rely upon aid from her family, as, for all he knew, they might be aiding and abetting her.
“Well, my child,” began he, “you do not seem very glad to see me.”
“Your Grace.”
“Yes, when you come out to meet the son, it is annoying to meet the father; but do not blame poor Norbert, for I assure you he is not in fault.”
Though Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had been startled at first, she was possessed of too strong a will to give in, and soon recovered her self-possession.
She never thought to screen herself by a denial of her reasons for being on the spot, for such a course she would have looked on as an act of treacherous cowardice.
“You are quite right,” answered she. “I came here to meet your son, and therefore you will pardon me if I take my leave of you.”
With a deep courtesy she was about to move away, when the Duke laid a restraining grip upon her arm.
“Permit me, my child,” said he, endeavoring to put on a kind and paternal tone,—“let me say a few words to you. Do you know why Norbert did not come to meet you?”
“He has doubtless some very good reason.”
“My son is locked up in a room, and my servants have my orders to prevent his making his escape by force, if necessary.”
“Poor fellow! He deserves the deepest commiseration.”
The Duke was much surprised at this piece of impertinence, as he considered it.
“I will tell you,” returned he in tones of rising anger, “how it comes that I treat my son, the heir to my rank and fortune, in this manner.”
He looked savagely angry as he spoke, but Diana answered negligently, “Pray go on; you quite interest me.”
“Well then, listen to me. I have chosen a wife for Norbert; she is as young as you are—beautiful, clever, and wealthy.”
“And of noble birth, of course.”
The sarcasm conveyed in this reply roused the Duke to fury.
“Fifteen hundred thousand francs as a marriage portion will outweigh a coat of arms, even though it should be a tower argent on a field azure.” The Duke paused as he made this allusion to the Laurebourg arms, and then continued, “In addition to this, she has great expectations; and yet my son is mad enough to refuse the hand of this wealthy heiress.”
“If you think that this marriage will cause your son’s happiness, you are quite right in acting as you have done.”
“Happiness! What has that to do with the matter, as long as it adds to the aggrandizement of our house and name? I have made up my mind that Norbert shall marry this girl; I have sworn it, and I never break my oath. I told him this myself.”
Diana suffered acutely, but her pride supported her, whilst her confidence in Norbert was so great that she had the boldness to inquire, “And what did he say to that?”
“Norbert will become a dutiful son once more when he is removed from the malignant influence which has been so injurious to him,” returned the Duke fiercely.
“Indeed.”
“He will obey me, when I show him that though he may not value his name and position, there are others who do so; and that many a woman would fight a brave battle for the honor of being the Duchess of Champdoce. Young lady, my son is a mere boy; but I have known the world, and when I prove to the poor fool that it was only grasping ambition which assumed the garb of love, he will renounce his folly and resume his allegiance to me. I will tell him what I think of the poverty-stricken adventuresses of high birth, whose only weapons are their youth and beauty, and with which they think that they can win a wealthy husband in the battle of life.”
“Continue, sir,” broke in Diana haughtily. “Insult a defenceless girl with her poverty! It is a noble act, and one worthy of a high-born gentleman like yourself!”
“I believed,” said the Duke, “that I was addressing the woman whose advice had led my son to break into open rebellion against my authority. Am I right or wrong? You can prove me to be mistaken by urging upon Norbert the necessity for submission.”
She made no reply, but bent her head upon her bosom.
“You see,” continued the Duke, “that I am correct, and that if you continue to act as you have done, I shall be justified in retaliating in any manner that I may deem fit. You have now been warned. Carry on this intrigue at your peril.”
He placed such an insulting emphasis upon the word “intrigue” that Diana’s anger rose to boiling point. At that instant, for the sake of vengeance, she would have risked her honor, her ambition, her very life itself.
Forgetting all prudence, she cast aside her mask of affected indifference, and, with her eyes flashing angry gleams of fire, and her cheeks burning, she said,—
“Listen to me. I, too, have sworn an oath, and it is that Norbert shall be my husband; and I tell you that he shall be so! Shut him up in prison, subject him to every indignity at the hands of your menials, but you will never break his spirit, or make him go back from his plighted word. If I bid him, he will resist your will even unto the bitter end. He and I will never yield. Believe me when I tell you, that before you attack a young girl’s honor, you had better pause; for one day she will be a member of your family. Farewell.”
Before the Duke could recover his senses, Diana was far down the path on her way homewards; and then he burst into a wild storm of menaces, oaths, and insults. He fancied that he was alone, but he was mistaken; for the whole of that strange scene had a hidden witness, and that witness was Daumon. He had heard of the treatment of the young Marquis from one of his servants at the Chateau, and his first thought had been to acquaint Diana with it. Unfortunately he saw no means of doing this. He dared not go to Laurebourg, and he would have died sooner than put pen to paper. He was in a position of the deepest embarrassment when the idea struck him of going to the lovers’ trysting place. The little cry that Diana had uttered upon perceiving the Duke had put him upon his guard. Bruno had found him out; but, as he knew him, merely fawned upon him. He was delighted at the fury of the Duke, whom he hated with cold and steady malignity; but the courage of Diana filled him with admiration. Her sublime audacity won his warmest praises, and he longed for her as an ally to aid him in his scheme of revenge. He knew that the girl would find herself in a terribly embarrassing position, and thus she would be sure to call upon him for advice before returning home.
“Now,” thought he, “if I wish to profit by her anger, I ought to strike while the iron is hot; and to do so, I should be at home to meet her.”
Without a moment’s delay, he dashed through the woods, striving to get home without the young girl’s perceiving him. His movements in the underwood caught the Duke’s eye.
“Who is there?” exclaimed he, moving towards the spot from whence the rustling came. There was no reply. Surely he had not been mistaken. Calling to Bruno, he strove to put him on the scent, but the dog showed no signs of eagerness. He sniffed about for a time, and seemed to linger near one special spot. The Duke moved towards it, and distinctly saw the impression of two knees upon the grass.
“Some one has been eavesdropping,” muttered he, much enraged at his discovery. “Who can it be? Has Norbert escaped from his prison?”
As he returned through the courtyard, he called one of the grooms to him.
“Where is my son?” asked he.
“Upstairs, your Grace,” was the answer.
The Duke breathed more freely. Norbert was still in security, and therefore could not have been the person who had been listening.
“But,” added the lad, “the young master is half frantic.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he declared that he would not remain in his room an instant longer; so old Jean called for help. He is awfully strong, and it took six of us to hold him. He said that if we would let him go, he would return in two hours, and that his honor and life were involved.”
The Duke listened with a sarcastic smile. He cared nothing about the frantic struggles of his son, for his heart had grown cold and hard from the presence of the fixed idea which had actuated his conduct for so many years, and it was with the solemn face of a man who was fulfilling a sacred duty that he ascended to the room in which his son was imprisoned. Jean threw open the door, and the Duke paused for a moment on the threshold. The furniture had been overturned, some of it broken, and there were evident signs of a furious struggle having taken place.
A powerful laborer stood near the window, and Norbert was lying on the bed, with his face turned to the wall.
“Leave us,” said the Duke, and the man withdrew at once.
“Get up, Norbert,” he added; “I wish to speak to you.”
His son obeyed him. Any one but the Duke would have been alarmed by the expression of the young man’s face.
“What is the meaning of all this?” asked the old nobleman in his most severe voice. “Are not my orders sufficient to insure obedience? I hear that absolute force has had to be used towards you during my absence. Tell me, my son, what plans you have devised during these hours of solitude, and what hopes you still venture to cherish.”
“I intend to be free, and I will be so.”
The Duke affected not to hear the reply, uttered as it was in a tone of derision.
“It was very easy for me to discover, from your obstinacy, that some woman had endeavored to entrap you, and by her insidious counsels inducing you to disobey your best friend.”
He paused, but there was no reply.
“This woman—this dangerous woman—I have been in search of, and as you can conceive, I easily found her. I went to the Forest of Bevron, and there I need not tell you I found Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I did so, certainly. I told her my opinion of those manoeuvring women who fascinate the dupes they intend to take advantage of—”
“Father!”
“Can it be possible that you, simple boy even as you are, could have been deceived by the pretended love of this wily young woman? It is not you, Marquis, that she loves, but our name and fortune; butIknow ifshedoes not that the law will imprison women who contrive to entrap young men who are under age.”
Norbert turned deadly pale.
“Did you really say that to her?” asked he, in a low, hoarse voice, utterly unlike his own. “You dare to insult the woman I love, when you knew that I was far away and unable to protect her! Take care, or I shall forget that you are my father.”
“He actually threatens me,” said the Duke, “my son threatens me;” and, raising the heavy stick he held in his hand, he struck Norbert a violent blow. By a fortunate movement the unhappy boy drew back, and so avoided the full force of the stroke, but the end of the stick struck him across the temple, inflicting a long though not a serious wound. In his blind rage Norbert was about to throw himself upon his father, when his eyes caught sight of the open door. Liberty and safety lay before him, and, with a bound, he was on the stairs, and before the Duke could shout for aid from the window, his son was tearing across the park with all the appearance and gesture of a madman.
In order to avoid being seen by Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, Daumon had to take a much longer route to regain his home than the one that Diana had followed. This, however, he could not help. As soon as he arrived at his home he ran hastily upstairs and took from a cleverly concealed hiding-place in the wainscoting of his bedroom a small bottle of dark green glass, which he hastily slipped into his pocket. When he had once more descended to his office, he again took it out and examined it carefully to see that it had in no way been tampered with; then, with a hard, cruel smile, he placed it upon his desk among his ledgers and account books. Diana de Laurebourg might pay him a visit as soon as she liked, for he was quite prepared for her, for he had slipped on his dressing-gown and placed his velvet skull cap upon his head, as if he had not quitted the house that day.
“Why on earth does she not come?” muttered he.
He began to be uneasy. He went to the window and glanced eagerly down the road; then he drew out his watch and examined the face of it, when all at once his ears detected a gentle tapping at the door of the office.
“Come in,” said he.
The door opened, and Diana entered slowly, without uttering a word, and took no notice of the servile obsequiousness of the Counsellor; indeed, she hardly seemed to notice his presence, and with a deep sigh she threw herself into a chair.
In his inmost heart Daumon was filled with the utmost delight; he now understood why Diana had taken so long in reaching his house; it was because her interview with the Duke had almost overcome her.
She soon, however, recovered her energy, and shook off the languor that seemed to cling to her limbs, and turning towards her host, said abruptly,—
“Counsellor, I have come to you for advice, which I sorely need. About an hour ago—”
With a gesture of sympathy Daumon interrupted her,—
“Alas!” said he; “spare me the recital, I know all.”
“You know——”
“Yes, I know that M. Norbert is a prisoner at the Chateau. Yes, mademoiselle, I know this, and I know, too, that you have just met the Duke de Champdoce in the Forest of Bevron. I know, moreover, all that you said to the old nobleman, for I have heard every word from a person who has just left.”
In spite of her strong nerves, Diana was unable to restrain a movement of dismay and terror.
“But who told you of this?” murmured she.
“A man who was out cutting wood. Ah! my dear young lady, the forest is not a safe place to tell secrets in, for you never know whether watchful eyes and listening ears are not concealed behind every tree. This man, and I am afraid some of his companions, heard every word that was spoken, and as soon as you left the Duke the man scampered off to tell the story. I made him promise not to say a word, but he is a married man and is sure to tell it to his wife. Then there are his companions; dear me! it is most annoying.”
“Then all is lost, and I am ruined,” murmured she.
But her despair did not last long, for she was by no means the woman to throw down her arms and sue for mercy. She grasped the arm of the Counsellor.
“The end has not come yet, surely? Speak! What is to be done? You must have some plan. I am ready for anything, now that I have nothing to lose. No one shall ever say that that cowardly villain, the Duke de Champdoce, insulted me with impunity. Tell me, will you help me?”
“In the name of heaven!” cried he, “do not speak so loud. You do not know the adversary that you have to contend with.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Yes, I do fear him; and what is more, I fear him very much. He is a determined man, and will gain his object at any cost or risk. Do you know that he did his best to crush me because I summoned him to court on behalf of one of my clients? So that now, when any one comes to me and wishes to proceed against the Duke, I am glad to decline to take up the matter.”
“And so,” returned the young girl in a tone of cold contempt, “after leading us to this compromising position, you are ready to abandon us at the most critical moment?”
“Can you think such a thing, mademoiselle?”
“You can act as you please, Counsellor; Norbert is still left to me; he will protect me.”
Daumon shook his head with an air of deep sorrow.
“How can we be sure that at this very moment the Marquis has not given in to all his father’s wishes?”
“No,” exclaimed the girl; “such a supposition is an insult to Norbert. He would sooner die than give in. He may be timid, but he is not a coward; the thoughts of me will give him the power to resist his father’s tyranny.”
Daumon allowed himself to fall into his great armchair as though overcome by the excitement of this interview.
“We can talk coolly enough here and with no one to threaten us; but the Marquis, on the other hand, is exposed to all his father’s violence and ill treatment, moral as well as physical, without any defence for aid from a soul in the world, and in such times as these the strongest will may give way.”
“Yes, I see it all; Norbert may give in, he may marry another woman, and I shall be left alone, with my reputation gone, and the scorn and scoff of all the neighborhood.”
“But, mademoiselle, you still have—”
“All I have left is life, and that life I would gladly give for vengeance.”
There was something so terribly determined in the young girl’s voice that again Daumon started, and this time his start was sincere and not simulated.
“Yes, you are right,” said he, “and there are many besides myself who have vowed to have revenge on the Duke, and their time will come, have no fear. A quiet shot in the woods in the dusk of the evening would settle many a long account. It has been tried, but the old man seems to have the luck of the evil one; and if the gun did not miss fire, the bullets flew wide of the mark. A judge might take a very serious view of such a matter, and term a crime what was merely an act of justice. Who can say whether the death of the Duke de Champdoce might not save him from the commission of many acts of tyranny and oppression and render many deserving persons happy?”
The face of Diana de Laurebourg turned deadly pale as she listened to these specious arguments.
“As things go,” continued Daumon, “the Duke may go on living to a hundred; he is wealthy and influential, and to a certain degree looked up to. He will die peacefully in his bed, there will be a magnificent funeral, and masses will be sung for the repose of his soul.”
While he spoke the Counsellor had taken the little bottle from beside his account books and was turning it over and over between his fingers.
“Yes,” murmured he, thoughtfully; “the Duke is quite likely to outlive us all, unless, indeed——”
He took the cork from the bottle, and poured a little of the contents into the palm of his hand. A few grains of fine white powder, glittering like crystal, appeared on the brown skin of the Counsellor.
“And yet,” he went on, in cold, sinister accents, “let him take but a small pinch of this, and no one need fear his tyranny again in this world. No one is much afraid of a man who lies some six feet under ground, shut up in a strong oak coffin, with a finely carved gravestone over his head.”
He stopped short, and fixed his keen eyes upon the agitated girl, who stood in front of him. For at least two minutes the man and the girl stood face to face, motionless, and without exchanging a word. Through the dead, weird silence, the pulsations of their hearts were plainly audible. It seemed as if before speaking again each wished to fathom the depths of guilt that lay in the other’s heart. It was a compact entered into by look and not by speech; and Daumon so well understood this, that at length, when he did speak, his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, as though he himself feared to listen to the utterance of his own thoughts.
“A man taking this feels no pain. It is like a heavy, stunning blow on the forehead—in ten seconds all is over, no gasp, no cry, but the heart ceases to beat forever; and, best of all, it leaves no trace behind it. A little of this, such a little, in wine or coffee, would be enough. It is tasteless, colorless, and scentless, its presence is impossible to be detected.”
“But in the event of apost-mortemexamination?”
“By skilful analysts in Paris or the larger towns, there would be a chance; but in a place like this, never! Never, in fact, anywhere, unless there had been previous grounds for suspicion. Otherwise only apoplectic symptoms would be observed; and even if it was traced there comes the question, By whom was it administered?”
He stopped short, for a word rose to his lips which he did not dare utter; he raised his hands to his mouth, coughed slightly, and went on,—
“This substance is not sold by chemists; it is very rarely met with, difficult to prepare, and terribly expensive. The smallest quantity might be met with in the first-class laboratories for scientific purposes, but it is most unlikely for any one in these parts to possess any of this drug, or even to know of its existence.”
“And yet you——”
“That is quite another matter. Years ago, when I was far away from here, it was in my power to render a great service to a distinguished chemist, and he made me a present of this combination of his skill. It would be impossible to trace this bottle; I have had it ten years, and the man who gave it to me is dead. Ten years? No, I am wrong, it is now twelve.”
“And in all these years has not this substance lost any of its destructive powers?”
“I tried it only a month ago. I threw a pinch of it into a basin of milk and gave it to a powerful mastiff. He drank the milk and in ten seconds fell stark and dead.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Diana, covering her face with her hand, and recoiling from the tempter.
A sinister smile quivered upon the thin lips of the Counsellor.
“Why do you say horrible?” asked he; “the dog had shown symptoms ofrabies, and had he bitten me, I might have expired in frightful torture. Was it not fair self-defence? Sometimes, however, a man is more dangerous than a dog. A man blights the whole of my life; I strike him down openly, and the law convicts me and puts me to death; but I do not contemplate doing so, for I would suppress such a man secretly.”
Diana placed her hands on the man’s mouth and stopped a further exposition of his ideas.
“Listen to me,” said she. But at this moment a heavy step was heard outside. “It is Norbert,” gasped she.
“Impossible! It is more likely his father.”
“It is Norbert,” cried Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, and snatching the little bottle from the Counsellor’s hands, she thrust it into her bosom. The door flew open, and Norbert appeared on the threshold. Diana and the Counsellor both uttered a shriek of terror. His livid countenance seemed to indicate that he had passed through some terrible scene; his gait was unsteady, his clothes torn and disordered, and his face stained with blood, which had flowed from a cut over his temple. Daumon imagined that some outrage had taken place.
“You have been wounded, Marquis?” said he.
“Yes, my father struck me.”
“Can it be possible?”
“Yes, he struck me.”
Mademoiselle Diana had feared this, and she trembled with the terror of her vague conjectures as she made a step towards her lover.
“Permit me to examine your wound,” said she.
She placed both her hands at the side of his head and stood on tip-toe, the better to inspect the cut. As she did so, she shuddered; an inch lower, and the consequences might have been fatal.
“Quick,” she said, “give me some rags and water.”
Norbert gently disengaged himself. “It is a mere nothing,” said he, “and can be looked after later on. Fortunately I did not receive the whole weight of the blow, which would otherwise have brought me senseless to the ground, and perhaps I should have been slain by my father’s hand.”
“By the Duke? and for what reason did he strike you?”
“Diana, he had grossly insulted you, and he dared to tell me of it. Had he forgotten that the blood of the race of Champdoce ran in my veins as well as in his?”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg burst into a passion of tears.
“I,” sobbed she, “I have brought all this upon you.”
“You? Why, it is to you that he owes his life. He dared to strike me as if I had been a lackey, but the thoughts of you stayed my hand. I turned and fled, and never again will I enter that accursed house. I renounce the Duke de Champdoce, he is no longer my father, and I will never look upon his face again. Would that I could forget that such a man existed; but, no, I would rather that I remembered him for the sake of revenge.”
Again the heart of Daumon overflowed with joy. All his deeply malignant spirit thrilled pleasantly as he heard these words.
“Marquis,” said he, “perhaps you will now believe with me that in all misfortunes there is an element of luck, for your father has committed an act of imprudence which will yet cost him dear. It is very strange that so astute a man as the Duke de Champdoce should have allowed his passion to carry him away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that you can be freed from the tyranny of your father whenever you like now. We now have all that is necessary for lodging a formal plaint in court. We have sequestration of the person, threats and bodily violence by the aid of third parties, and words and blows which have endangered life; our case is entirely complete. A surgeon will examine your wound, and give a written deposition. We can produce plenty of evidence, and the wound on the head will tell its own story. As a commencement we will petition that we may not be ordered back to our father’s custody, and it will further be set forth that our reason for this is that a father has assaulted a son with undue and unnecessary violence. We shall be sure to gain the day, and—”
“Enough,” broke in Norbert; “will the decision give me the right to marry whom I please without my father’s consent?”
Daumon hesitated. Under the circumstances, it seemed to him very likely that the court would grant Norbert the liberty he desired; he, however, thought it advisable not to say so, and answered boldly, “No, Marquis, it will not do so.”
“Well, then, the Champdoce family have never exposed their differences to the public, nor will I begin to do so,” said Norbert decisively.
The Counsellor seemed surprised at this determination.
“If, Marquis,” he began, “I might venture to advise you—”
“No advice is necessary, my mind is entirely made up, but I need some help, and in twenty-four hours I require a large sum of money—twenty thousand francs.”
“You can have them, Marquis, but I warn you that you will have to pay heavily for the accommodation.”
“That I care nothing for.”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was about to speak, but with a gesture of his hand Norbert arrested her.
“Do you not comprehend me, Diana?” said he; “we must fly, and that at once. We can find some safe retreat where we can live happily, where no one will harm us.”
“But this is mere madness!” cried Diana.
“You will be pursued,” remarked the Counsellor; “and most likely overtaken.”
“Can you not trust your life to me?” asked Norbert reproachfully. “I swear that I will devote everything to you, life, thought, and will. On my knees I entreat you to fly with me.”
“I cannot,” murmured she; “it is impossible.”
“Then you do not love me,” said he in desponding accents. “I have been a thrice-besotted fool to believe that your heart was mine, for you can never have loved me.”
“Hear him, merciful powers! he says that I, who am all his, do not love him.”
“Then why cast aside our only chance of safety?”
“Norbert, dearest Norbert!”
“I understand you too well; you are alarmed at the idea of the world’s censure, and——”
He paused, checked by the gleam of reproach that shone in Diana’s eyes.
“Must it be so?” said she; “must I condescend to justify myself? You talk to me of the world’s censure? Have I not already defied it, and has it not sat in judgment upon me? And what have I done, after all? Every act and word that has passed between us I can repeat to my mother without a blush rising to my cheek; but would any one credit my words? No, not a living soul. Most likely the world has come to a decision. My reputation is gone, is utterly lost, and yet I am spotless as the driven snow.”
Norbert was half-mad with anger.
“Who would dare to treat you with anything save the most profound respect?” said he.
“Alas! my dear Norbert,” replied she, “to-morrow the scandal will be even greater. While your father was talking to me with such brutal violence and contempt, he was overheard by a woodcutter and perhaps by some of his companions.”
“It cannot be.”
“No, it is quite true,” returned Daumon. “I had it from the man myself.”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg shot one glance at the Counsellor; it was only a glance, but he comprehended at once that she wished to be left alone with her lover.
“Pardon me,” said he, “but I think I have a visitor, and I must hinder any one from coming in here.”
He left the room as he spoke, closing the door noisily behind him.
“And so,” resumed Norbert when alone, “it seems that the Duke de Champdoce did not even take the ordinary precaution of assuring himself that you were in privacy before he spoke as he did, and was so carried away by his fury that he never thought that in casting dishonor upon you, he was heaping infamy on me. Does he think by these means to compel me to marry the heiress whom he has chose for me, the Mademoiselle de Puymandour?”
For the first time Diana learned the name of her rival.
“Ah!” moaned she between her sobs, “so it is Mademoiselle de Puymandour that he wants you to marry?”
“Yes, the same, or rather her enormous wealth; but may my hand wither before it clasps hers. Do you hear me, Diana?”
She gave a sad smile and murmured, “Poor Norbert!”
The heart of the young man sank; so melancholy was the tone of her voice.
“You are very cruel,” said he. “What have I done to deserve this want of confidence?”
Diana made no reply, and Norbert, believing that he understood the reason why she refused to fly with him, said, “Is it because you have no faith in me, that you will not accompany me in my flight?”
“No; I have perfect faith in you.”
“What is it, then? Do I not offer you fortune and happiness? Tell me what it is then.”
She drew herself up, and said proudly, “Up to this time, my conscience has enabled me to hold my own against all the scandalous gossip that has been flying about, but now it says, ‘Halt, Diana de Laurebourg! You have gone far enough.’ My burden is heavy, my heart is breaking, but I must draw back now. No, Norbert; I cannot fly with you.”
She paused for a moment, as though unable to proceed, and then went on with more firmness, “Were I alone and solitary in the world, I might act differently; but I have a family, whose honor I must guard as I would my own.”
“A family indeed, which sacrifices you to your elder brother.”
“It may be so, and therefore my task is all the greater. Whoever heard of virtue as something easy to practise?”
Norbert never remembered what an example of rebellion she had set.
“My heart and my conscience dictate the same course to me. The result must ever be fatal, when a young girl sets at defiance the rules and laws of society; and you would never care to look with respect on one upon whom others gazed with the eye of contempt.”
“What sort of an opinion have you of me, then?”
“I believe you to be a man, Norbert. Let us suppose that I fly with you, and that the next day I should hear that my father has been killed in a duel fought on my account; what then? Believe me, that when I tell you to fly by yourself, I give you the best advice in my power. You will forget me, I know; but what else can I hope for?”
“Forget you!” said Norbert angrily. “Can you forget me?”
His face was so close to hers that she felt the hot breath upon her cheek.
“Yes,” stammered she, with a violent effort, “I can.”
Norbert drew a pace back, that he might read her meaning more fully in her eyes.
“And if I go away,” asked he, “what will become of you?”
A sob burst from the young girl’s breast, and her strength seemed to desert her limbs.
“I,” answered she, in the calm, resigned voice of a Christian virgin about to be cast to the lions that roared in the arena, “I have my destiny. To-day is the last time that we shall ever meet. I shall return to my home, where everything will shortly be known. I shall find my father angry and menacing. He will place me in a carriage, and the next day I shall find myself within the walls of the hated convent.”
“But that life would be one long, slow agony to you. You have told me this before.”
“Yes,” answered she, “it would be an agony, but it would also be an expiation; and when the burden grows too heavy, I have this.”
And as she spoke, she drew the little bottle from its hiding-place in her bosom, and Norbert too well understood her meaning. The young man endeavored to take it from her, but she resisted. This contest seemed to exhaust her little strength, her beautiful eyes closed, and she sank senseless into Norbert’s arms. In an agony of despair, the young man asked himself if she was dying; and yet there was sufficient life in her to enable her to whisper, soft and low, these words, “My only friend—let me have it back, dear Norbert.” And then, with perfect clearness, she repeated all the deadly properties of the drug, and the directions for its use that the Counsellor had given to her.
On hearing the woman whom he loved with such intense passion confess that she would sooner die than live apart from him, Norbert’s brain reeled.
“Diana, my own Diana!” repeated he, as he hung over her.
But she went on, as though speaking through the promptings of delirium.
“The very day after such a fair prospect! Ah, Duke de Champdoce! You are a hard and pitiless man. You have robbed me of all I held dear in the world, blackened my reputation, and tarnished my honor, and now you want my life.”
Norbert uttered such a cry of anger, that even Daumon in the passage was startled by it. He placed Diana tenderly in the Counsellor’s arm-chair, saying,—
“No, you shall not kill yourself, nor shall you leave me.”
She smiled faintly, and held out her arms to him. Her magic spells were deftly woven.
“No,” cried he; “the poison which you had intended to use on yourself shall become my weapon of vengeance, and the instrument of punishment of the one who has wronged you.”
And with the gait of a man walking in his sleep, he left the Counsellor’s office.
Hardly had the young man’s footsteps died away, than Daumon entered the room. He had not lost a word or action in the foregoing scene, and he was terribly agitated; and he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Diana, whom he had supposed to be lying half-sensible in the arm-chair, standing at the window, gazing after Norbert, as he walked along the road leading from the Counsellor’s cottage.
“Ah! what a woman!” muttered he. “Gracious powers, what a wonderful woman!”
When Diana had lost sight of her lover, she turned round to Daumon. Her face was pale, and her eyelids swollen, but her eyes flashed with the conviction of success.
“To-morrow, Counsellor,” said she, “to-morrow I shall be the Duchess de Champdoce.”
Daumon was so overwhelmed that, accustomed as he was to startling events and underhand trickery, he could find no words to express his feelings.
“That is to say,” added Diana thoughtfully, “if all goes as it should to-night.”
Daumon felt a cold shiver creep over him, but summoning up all his self-possession, he said, “I do not understand you. What is this that you hope will be accomplished to-night?”
She turned so contemptuous and sarcastic a look on him, that the words died away in his mouth, and he at once saw his mistake in thinking that he could sport with the girl’s feelings as a cat plays with a mouse; for it was she who was playing with him, and she, a simple girl, had made this wily man of the world her dupe.
“Success is, of course, a certainty,” answered she coldly; “but Norbert is impetuous, and impetuous people are often awkward. But I must return home at once. Ah, me!” she added, as her self-control gave way for a moment, “will this cruel night never pass away, and give way to the gentle light of dawn? Farewell, Counsellor. When we meet again, all matters will be settled, one way or other.”
The Parthian dart which Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had cast behind her went true to the mark; the allusion to Norbert’s impetuosity and awkwardness rendered the Counsellor very unhappy. He sat down in his arm-chair, and, resting his head on his hands, and his elbows on his desk, he strove to review the position thoroughly. Perhaps by now all might be over. Where was Norbert, and what was he doing? he asked himself.
At the time that Daumon was reflecting, Norbert was on the road leading to Champdoce. He had entirely lost his head, but he found that his reason was clear and distinct. Those who have been accustomed to the treatment of maniacs know with what startling rapidity they form a chain of action, and the cloud that veiled Norbert’s brain appeared to throw out into stronger relief the murderous determination he had formed. He had already decided how the deed was to be done. The common wine of the country was always served to the laborers at the table, but the Duke kept a better quality for his own drinking, and the bottle containing this was after meals placed on a shelf in a cupboard in the dining-room. It was thus within every one’s reach, but not a soul in the household would have ventured to lay a finger upon it. Norbert’s thoughts fell upon this bottle, and in his mind’s eye he could see it standing in its accustomed place. He crossed the courtyard, and the laborers, engaged in their tasks, gazed at him curiously. He passed them, and entered the dining-room, which was untenanted. With a caution that was not to be expected from the agitation of his mind, he opened each door successively, in order to be certain that no eyes were gazing upon him. Then, with the greatest rapidity, he took down the bottle, drew the cork with his teeth, and dropped into the wine, not one, but two or three pinches of the contents of the little vial. He shook the bottle gently, to facilitate the dissolution of the powder. A few particles of the poison clung to the lip of the bottle; he wiped off these, not with a napkin, a pile of which lay on the shelf beside him, but with his own handkerchief. He replaced the bottle in its accustomed place, and seating himself by the fire, awaited the course of events.
At this moment the Duke de Champdoce was coming up the avenue at a rapid pace. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, this man perceived that one of his last acts had been insensate and foolish in the extreme. All the possibilities of the law to which Daumon had alluded struck the Duke with over-whelming force, and he at once saw that his violent conduct had given ample grounds upon which to base a plaint, with results which he greatly feared. If the court entertained the matter, his son would most likely be removed from his control. He knew that such an idea would never cross Norbert’s brain, but there were plenty of persons to suggest it to him. The danger of his position occurred to him, and at the same time he felt that he must frame his future conduct with extreme prudence. He had not given up his views regarding his son’s marriage with Mademoiselle de Puymandour. No; he would sooner have resigned life itself, but he felt that he must renounce violence, and gain his ends by diplomacy. The first thing to be done was to get Norbert to return home, and the father greatly doubted whether the son would do so. While thinking over these things, with a settled gloom upon his face, one of the servants came running up to him with the news of Norbert’s return.
“I hold him at last,” muttered he, and hastened on to the Chateau.
When the Duke entered the dining-room, Norbert did not rise from his seat, and the Duke was disagreeably impressed by this breach of the rules of domestic etiquette.
“On my word,” thought he, “it would appear that the young booby thinks that he owes me no kind of duty whatever.”
He did not, however, allow his anger to be manifest in his features; besides, the sight of the blood, with which his son’s face was still smeared, caused him to feel excessively uncomfortable.
“Norbert, my son,” said he, “are you suffering? Why have you not had that cut attended to?”
The young man made no reply, and the Duke continued,—
“Why have you not washed the blood away? Is it left there as a reproach to me? There is no need for that, I assure you; for deeply do I deplore my violence.”
Norbert still made no answer, and the Duke became more and more embarrassed. To give himself time for reflection, more than because he was thirsty, he took a glass, and filled it from his own special bottle.
Norbert trembled from head to foot as he saw this act.
“Come, my son,” continued the Duke, “just try if you cannot find some palliation for what your old father has done. I am ready to ask your forgiveness, and to apologize, for a man of honor is never ashamed to acknowledge when he has been in the wrong.”
He raised his glass, and raised it up to the light half mechanically. Norbert held his breath; the whole world seemed turning round.
“It is hard, very hard,” continued the Duke, “for a father thus to humiliate himself in vain before his son.”
It was useless for Norbert to turn away his head; he saw the Duke place the glass to his lips. He was about to drink, but the young man could endure it no longer, and with a bound he sprang forward, snatched the glass from his father’s hand, and hurled it from the window, shouting in a voice utterly unlike his own,—
“Do not drink.”
The Duke read the whole hideous truth in the face and manner of his son. His features quivered, his face grew purple, and his eyes filled with blood. He strove to speak, but only an inarticulate rattle could be heard; he then clasped his hands convulsively, swayed backwards and forwards, and then fell helplessly backwards, striking his head against an oaken sideboard that stood near. Norbert tore open the door.
“Quick, help!” cried he. “I have killed my father.”