Few of the inhabitants of Sairmeuse knew, except by name, the terrible duke whose arrival had thrown the whole village into commotion.
Some of the oldest residents had a faint recollection of having seen him long ago, before ‘89 indeed, when he came to visit his aunt, Mlle. Armande.
His duties, then, had seldom permitted him to leave the court.
If he had given no sign of life during the empire, it was because he had not been compelled to submit to the humiliations and suffering which so many of the emigrants were obliged to endure in their exile.
On the contrary, he had received, in exchange for the wealth of which he had been deprived by the revolution, a princely fortune.
Taking refuge in London after the defeat of the army of Conde, he had been so fortunate as to please the only daughter of Lord Holland, one of the richest peers in England, and he had married her.
She possessed a fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling, more than six million francs.
Still the marriage was not a happy one. The chosen companion of the dissipated and licentious Count d’Artois was not likely to prove a very good husband.
The young duchess was contemplating a separation when she died, in giving birth to a boy, who was baptized under the names of Anne-Marie-Martial.
The loss of his wife did not render the Duc de Sairmeuse inconsolable.
He was free and richer than he had ever been.
As soon asles convenancespermitted, he confided his son to the care of a relative of his wife, and began his roving life again.
Rumor had told the truth. He had fought, and that furiously, against France in the Austrian, and then in the Russian ranks.
And he took no pains to conceal the fact; convinced that he had only performed his duty. He considered that he had honestly and loyally gained the rank of general which the Emperor of all the Russias had bestowed upon him.
He had not returned to France during the first Restoration; but his absence had been involuntary. His father-in-law, Lord Holland, had just died, and the duke was detained in London by business connected with his son’s immense inheritance.
Then followed the “Hundred Days.” They exasperated him.
But “the good cause,” as he styled it, having triumphed anew, he hastened to France.
Alas! Lacheneur judged the character of his former master correctly, when he resisted the entreaties of his daughter.
This man, who had been compelled to conceal himself during the first Restoration, knew only too well, that the returnedemigreshad learned nothing and forgotten nothing.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was no exception to the rule.
He thought, and nothing could be more sadly absurd, that a mere act of authority would suffice to suppress forever all the events of the Revolution and of the empire.
When he said: “I do not admit that!” he firmly believed that there was nothing more to be said; that controversy was ended; and that whathadbeen was as if it had never been.
If some, who had seen Louis XVII. at the helm in 1814, assured the duke that France had changed in many respects since 1789, he responded with a shrug of the shoulders:
“Nonsense! As soon as we assert ourselves, all these rascals, whose rebellion alarms you, will quietly sink out of sight.”
Such was really his opinion.
On the way from Montaignac to Sairmeuse, the duke, comfortably ensconced in his berlin, unfolded his theories for the benefit of his son.
“The King has been poorly advised,” he said, in conclusion. “Besides, I am disposed to believe that he inclines too much to Jacobinism. If he would listen to my advice, he would make use of the twelve hundred thousand soldiers which our friends have placed at his disposal, to bring his subjects to a sense of their duty. Twelve hundred thousand bayonets have far more eloquence than the articles of a charter.”
He continued his remarks on this subject until the carriage approached Sairmeuse.
Though but little given to sentiment, he was really affected by the sight of the country in which he was born—where he had played as a child, and of which he had heard nothing since the death of his aunt.
Everything was changed: still the outlines of the landscape remained the same; the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and laughing as in days gone by.
“I recognize it!” he exclaimed, with a delight that made him forget politics. “I recognize it!”
Soon the changes became more striking.
The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the only street in the village.
This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and had always been rendered impassable by wet weather.
“Ah, ha!” murmured the duke, “this is an improvement!”
It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapidated, thatched hovels had given place to pretty and comfortable white cottages with green blinds, and a vine hanging gracefully over the door.
As the carriage passed the public square in front of the church, Martial observed the groups of peasants who were still talking there.
“What do you think of all these peasants?” he inquired of his father. “Do they have the appearance of people who are preparing a triumphal reception for their old masters?”
M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. He was not the man to renounce an illusion for such a trifle.
“They do not know that I am in this post-chaise,” he replied. “When they know——”
Shouts of “Vive Monsieur le Duc de Sairmeuse!” interrupted him.
“Do you hear that, Marquis?” he exclaimed.
And pleased by these cries that proved him in the right, he leaned from the carriage-window, waving his hand to the honest Chupin family, who were running after the vehicle with noisy shouts.
The old rascal, his wife, and his children, all possessed powerful voices; and it was not strange that the duke believed the whole village was welcoming him. He was convinced of it; and when the berlin stopped before the house of the cure, M. de Sairmeuse was persuaded that theprestigeof the nobility was greater than ever.
Upon the threshold of the parsonage, Bibiaine, the old housekeeper, was standing. She knew who these guests must be, for the cure’s servants always know what is going on.
“Monsieur has not yet returned from church,” she said, in response to the duke’s inquiry; “but if the gentlemen wish to wait, it will not be long before he comes, for the poor, dear man has not breakfasted yet.”
“Let us go in,” the duke said to his son. And guided by the housekeeper, they entered a sort of drawing-room, where the table was spread.
M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of the apartment in a single glance. The habits of a house reveal those of its master. This was clean, poor, and bare. The walls were whitewashed; a dozen chairs composed the entire furniture; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were only tin dishes.
This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a saint.
“Will these gentlemen take any refreshments?” inquired Bibiaine.
“Upon my word,” replied Martial, “I must confess that the drive has whetted my appetite amazingly.”
“Blessed Jesus!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, in evident despair. “What am I to do? I, who have nothing! That is to say—yes—I have an old hen left in the coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it, and clean it——”
She paused to listen, and they heard a step in the passage.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “here is Monsieur le Cure now!”
The son of a poor farmer in the environs of Montaignac, he owed his Latin and tonsure to the privations of his family.
Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as cold and impassive as the stones of his church.
By what immense efforts of will, at the cost of what torture, had he made himself what he was? One could form some idea of the terrible restraint to which he had subjected himself by looking at his eyes, which occasionally emitted the lightnings of an impassioned soul.
Was he old or young? The most subtle observer would have hesitated to say on seeing this pallid and emaciated face, cut in two by an immense nose—a real eagle’s beak—as thin as the edge of a razor.
He wore a white cassock, which had been patched and darned in numberless places, but which was a marvel of cleanliness, and which hung about his tall, attenuated body like the sails of a disabled vessel.
He was known as the Abbe Midon.
At the sight of the two strangers seated in his drawing-room, he manifested some slight surprise.
The carriage standing before the door had announced the presence of a visitor; but he had expected to find one of his parishioners.
No one had warned him or the sacristan, and he was wondering with whom he had to deal, and what they desired of him.
Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, but the old servant had taken flight.
The duke understood his host’s astonishment.
“Upon my word, Abbe!” he said, with the impertinent ease of agrand seigneurwho makes himself at home everywhere, “we have taken your house by storm, and hold the position, as you see. I am the Duc de Sairmeuse, and this is my son, the Marquis.”
The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly impressed by the exalted rank of his guests.
“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, in a more than reserved tone, “to receive a visit from the former master of this place.”
He emphasized this word “former” in such a manner that it was impossible to doubt his sentiments and his opinions.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “you will not find here the comforts to which you are accustomed, and I fear——”
“Nonsense!” interrupted the duke. “An old soldier is not fastidious, and what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, will suffice for us. And rest assured that we shall amply repay you in one way or another for any inconvenience we may cause you.”
The priest’s eye flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeable familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the man concealed beneath the priest.
“Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we have been vastly amused by Bibiaine’s anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in the coop——”
“That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis.”
The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master’s response. She seemed overwhelmed with despair.
“Blessed Virgin! Monsieur, what shall I do?” she clamored. “The chicken has disappeared. Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop is securely closed!”
“Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” interrupted the cure; “no one has stolen it from us. Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in the name of her sick daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl that she might make a good bouillon for the sick girl.”
This explanation changed Bibiaine’s consternation to fury.
Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, and gesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to her master:
“That is just the sort of man he is; he has less sense than a baby! Any miserable peasant who meets him can make him believe anything he wishes. Any great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do what they like with him. In that way they take the very shoes off his feet and the bread from his mouth. Bertrande’s daughter, messieurs, is no more ill than you or I!”
“Enough,” said the priest, sternly, “enough.” Then, knowing by experience that his voice had not the power to check her flood of reproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the passage.
M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of consternation.
Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their benefit? Evidently not, since their arrival had not been expected.
But the priest, whose character had been so plainly revealed by this quarrel with his domestic, was not a man to their taste.
At least, he was evidently not the man they had hoped to find—not the auxiliary whose assistance was indispensable to the success of their plans.
Yet they did not exchange a word; they listened.
They heard the sound as of a discussion in the passage. The master spoke in low tones, but with an unmistakable accent of command; the servant uttered an astonished exclamation.
But the listeners could not distinguish a word.
Soon the priest re-entered the apartment.
“I hope, gentlemen,” he said, with a dignity that could not fail to check any attempt at raillery, “that you will excuse this ridiculous scene. The cure of Sairmeuse, thank God! is not so poor as she says.”
Neither the duke nor Martial made any response.
Even their remarkable assurance was very sensibly diminished; and M. de Sairmeuse deemed it advisable to change the subject.
This he did, by relating the events which he had just witnessed in Paris, and by insisting that His Majesty, Louis XVIII., had been welcomed with enthusiasm and transports of affection.
Fortunately, the old housekeeper interrupted this recital.
She entered, loaded with china, silver, and bottles, and behind her came a large man in a white apron, bearing three or four covered dishes in his hands.
It was the order to go and obtain this repast from the village inn which had drawn from Bibiaine so many exclamations of wonder and dismay in the passage.
A moment later the cure and his guests took their places at the table.
Had the much-lamented chicken constituted the dinner the rations would have been “short.” This the worthy woman was obliged to confess, on seeing the terrible appetite evinced by M. de Sairmeuse and his son.
“One would have sworn that they had eaten nothing for a fortnight,” she told her friends, the next day.
Abbe Midon was not hungry, though it was two o’clock, and he had eaten nothing since the previous evening.
The sudden arrival of the former masters of Sairmeuse filled his heart with gloomy forebodings. Their coming, he believed, presaged the greatest misfortunes.
So while he played with his knife and fork, pretending to eat, he was really occupied in watching his guests, and in studying them with all the penetration of a priest, which, by the way, is generally far superior to that of a physician or of a magistrate.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked considerably younger.
The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his riper years, the great excesses of every kind in which he had indulged, had not impaired his iron constitution in the least.
Of herculean build, he was extremely proud of his strength, and of his hands, which were well-formed, but large, firmly knit and powerful, such hands as rightly belonged to a gentleman whose ancestors had given many a crushing blow with ponderous battle-axe in the crusades.
His face revealed his character. He possessed all the graces and all the vices of a courtier.
He was, at the same timespiritueland ignorant, sceptical and violently imbued with the prejudices of his class.
Though less robust than his father, Martial was a no less distinguished-looking cavalier. It was not strange that women raved over his blue eyes, and the beautiful blond hair which he inherited from his mother.
To his father he owed energy, courage, and, it must also be added, perversity. But he was his superior in education and in intellect. If he shared his father’s prejudices, he had not adopted them without weighing them carefully. What the father might do in a moment of excitement, the son was capable of doing in cold blood.
It was thus that the abbe, with rare sagacity, read the character of his guests.
So it was with great sorrow, but without surprise, that he heard the duke advance, on the questions of the day, the impossible ideas shared by nearly all theemigres.
Knowing the condition of the country, and the state of public opinion, the cure endeavored to convince the obstinate man of his mistake; but upon this subject the duke would not permit contradiction, or even raillery; and he was fast losing his temper, when Bibiaine appeared at the parlor door.
“Monsieur le Duc,” said she, “Monsieur Lacheneur and his daughter are without and desire to speak to you.”
This name Lacheneur awakened no recollection in the mind of the duke.
First, he had never lived at Sairmeuse.
And even if he had, what courtier of theancien regimeever troubled himself about the individual names of the peasants, whom he regarded with such profound indifference.
When agrand seigneuraddressed these people, he said: “Halloo! hi, there! friend, my worthy fellow!”
So it was with the air of a man who is making an effort of memory that the Duc de Sairmeuse repeated:
“Lacheneur—Monsieur Lacheneur——”
But Martial, a closer observer than his father, had noticed that the priest’s glance wavered at the sound of this name.
“Who is this person, Abbe?” demanded the duke, lightly.
“Monsieur Lacheneur,” replied the priest, with very evident hesitation, “is the present owner of the Chateau de Sairmeuse.”
Martial, the precocious diplomat, could not repress a smile on hearing this response, which he had foreseen. But the duke bounded from his chair.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is the rascal who has had the impudence—Let him come in, old woman, let him come in.”
Bibiaine retired, and the priest’s uneasiness increased.
“Permit me, Monsieur le Duc,” he said, hastily, “to remark that Monsieur Lacheneur exercises a great influence in this region—to offend him would be impolitic——”
“I understand—you advise me to be conciliatory. Such sentiments are purely Jacobin. If His Majesty listens to the advice of such as you, all these sales of confiscated estates will be ratified. Zounds! our interests are the same. If the Revolution has deprived the nobility of their property, it has also impoverished the clergy.”
“The possessions of a priest are not of this world, Monsieur,” said the cure, coldly.
M. de Sairmeuse was about to make some impertinent response, when M. Lacheneur appeared, followed by his daughter.
The wretched man was ghastly pale, great drops of perspiration stood out upon his temples, his restless, haggard eyes revealed his distress of mind.
Marie-Anne was as pale as her father, but her attitude and the light that burned in her eyes told of invincible energy and determination.
“Ah, well! friend,” said the duke, “so we are the owner of Sairmeuse, it seems.”
This was said with such a careless insolence of manner that the cure blushed that they should thus treat, in his own house, a man whom he considered his equal.
He rose and offered the visitors chairs.
“Will you take a seat, dear Monsieur Lacheneur?” said he, with a politeness intended as a lesson for the duke; “and you, also, Mademoiselle, do me the honor——”
But the father and the daughter both refused the proffered civility with a motion of the head.
“Monsieur le Duc,” continued Lacheneur, “I am an old servant of your house——”
“Ah! indeed!”
“Mademoiselle Armande, your aunt, accorded my poor mother the honor of acting as my godmother——”
“Ah, yes,” interrupted the duke. “I remember you now. Our family has shown great goodness to you and yours. And it was to prove your gratitude, probably, that you made haste to purchase our estate!”
The former ploughboy was of humble origin, but his heart and his character had developed with his fortunes; he understood his own worth.
Much as he was disliked, and even detested, by his neighbors, everyone respected him.
And here was a man who treated him with undisguised scorn. Why? By what right?
Indignant at the outrage, he made a movement as if to retire.
No one, save his daughter, knew the truth; he had only to keep silence and Sairmeuse remained his.
Yes, he had still the power to keep Sairmeuse, and he knew it, for he did not share the fears of the ignorant rustics. He was too well informed not to be able to distinguish between the hopes of theemigresand the possible. He knew that an abyss separated the dream from the reality.
A beseeching word uttered in a low tone by his daughter, made him turn again to the duke.
“If I purchased Sairmeuse,” he answered, in a voice husky with emotion, “it was in obedience to the command of your dying aunt, and with the money which she gave me for that purpose. If you see me here, it is only because I come to restore to you the deposit confided to my keeping.”
Anyone not belonging to that class of spoiled fools which surround a throne would have been deeply touched.
But the duke thought this grand act of honesty and of generosity the most simple and natural thing in the world.
“That is very well, so far as the principal is concerned,” said he. “Let us speak now of the interest. Sairmeuse, if I remember rightly, yielded an average income of one thousand louis per year. These revenues, well invested, should have amounted to a very considerable amount. Where is this?”
This claim, thus advanced and at such a moment, was so outrageous, that Martial, disgusted, made a sign to his father, which the latter did not see.
But the cure hoping to recall the extortioner to something like a sense of shame, exclaimed:
“Monsieur le Duc! Oh, Monsieur le Duc!”
Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.
“The income I have used for my own living expenses, and in educating my children; but most of it has been expended in improving the estate, which today yields an income twice as large as in former years.”
“That is to say, for twenty years, Monsieur Lacheneur has played the part of lord of the manor. A delightful comedy. You are rich now, I suppose.”
“I possess nothing. But I hope you will allow me to take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave to me.”
“Ah! she gave you ten thousand francs? And when?”
“On the same evening that she gave me the eighty thousand francs intended for the purchase of the estate.”
“Perfect! What proof can you furnish that she gave you this sum?”
Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless. He tried to reply, but he could not. If he opened his lips it would only be to pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults, and invectives.
Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward.
“The proof, Monsieur,” said she, in a clear, ringing voice, “is the word of this man, who, of his own free will, comes to return to you—to give you a fortune.”
As she sprang forward her beautiful dark hair escaped from its confinement, the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted a sublime expression to her face.
She was so beautiful that Martial regarded her with wonder.
“Lovely!” he murmured, in English; “beautiful as an angel!”
These words, which she understood, abashed Marie-Anne. But she had said enough; her father felt that he was avenged.
He drew from his pocket a roll of papers, and throwing them upon the table: “Here are your titles,” he said, addressing the duke in a tone full of implacable hatred. “Keep the legacy that your aunt gave me, I wish nothing of yours. I shall never set foot in Sairmeuse again. Penniless I entered it, penniless I will leave it!”
He quitted the room with head proudly erect, and when they were outside, he said but one word to his daughter:
“Well!”
“You have done your duty,” she replied; “it is those who have not done it, who are to be pitied!”
She had no opportunity to say more. Martial came running after them, anxious for another chance of seeing this young girl whose beauty had made such an impression upon him.
“I hastened after you,” he said, addressing Marie-Anne, rather than M. Lacheneur, “to reassure you. All this will be arranged, Mademoiselle. Eyes so beautiful as yours should never know tears. I will be your advocate with my father—”
“Mademoiselle Lacheneur has no need of an advocate!” a harsh voice interrupted.
Martial turned, and saw the young man, who, that morning, went to warn M. Lacheneur of the duke’s arrival.
“I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse,” he said, insolently.
“And I,” said the other, quietly, “am Maurice d’Escorval.”
They surveyed each other for a moment; each expecting, perhaps, an insult from the other. Instinctively, they felt that they were to be enemies; and the bitterest animosity spoke in the glances they exchanged. Perhaps they felt a presentiment that they were to be champions of two different principles, as well as rivals.
Martial, remembering his father, yielded.
“We shall meet again, Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, as he retired. At this threat, Maurice shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“You had better not desire it.”
The abode of the Baron d’Escorval, that brick structure with stone trimmings which was visible from the superb avenue leading to Sairmeuse, was small and unpretentious.
Its chief attraction was a pretty lawn that extended to the banks of the Oiselle, and a small but beautifully shaded park.
It was known as the Chateau d’Escorval, but that appellation was gross flattery. Any petty manufacturer who had amassed a small fortune would have desired a larger, handsomer, and more imposing establishment.
M. d’Escorval—and it will be an eternal honor to him in history—was not rich.
Although he had been intrusted with several of those missions from which generals and diplomats often return laden with millions, M. d’Escorval’s worldly possessions consisted only of the little patrimony bequeathed him by his father: a property which yielded an income of from twenty to twenty-five thousand francs a year.
This modest dwelling, situated about a mile from Sairmeuse, represented the savings of ten years.
He had built it in 1806, from a plan drawn by his own hand; and it was the dearest spot on earth to him.
He always hastened to this retreat when his work allowed him a few days of rest.
But this time he had not come to Escorval of his own free will.
He had been compelled to leave Paris by the proscribed list of the 24th of July—that fatal list which summoned the enthusiastic Labedoyere and the honest and virtuous Drouot before a court-martial.
And even in this solitude, M. d’Escorval’s situation was not without danger.
He was one of those who, some days before the disaster of Waterloo, had strongly urged the Emperor to order the execution of Fouche, the former minister of police.
Now, Fouche knew this counsel; and he was powerful.
“Take care!” M. d’Escorval’s friends wrote him from Paris.
But he put his trust in Providence, and faced the future, threatening though it was, with the unalterable serenity of a pure conscience.
The baron was still young; he was not yet fifty, but anxiety, work, and long nights passed in struggling with the most arduous difficulties of the imperial policy, had made him old before his time.
He was tall, slightly inclined toembonpoint, and stooped a little.
His calm eyes, his serious mouth, his broad, furrowed forehead, and his austere manners inspired respect.
“He must be stern and inflexible,” said those who saw him for the first time.
But they were mistaken.
If, in the exercise of his official duties, this truly great man had the strength to resist all temptations to swerve from the path of right; if, when duty was at stake, he was as rigid as iron, in private life he was as unassuming as a child, and kind and gentle even to the verge of weakness.
To this nobility of character he owed his domestic happiness, that rare and precious happiness which fills one’s existence with a celestial perfume.
During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign of Terror, M. d’Escorval had wrested from the guillotine a young girl named Victoire-Laure d’Alleu, a distant cousin of the Rhetaus of Commarin, as beautiful as an angel, and only three years younger than himself.
He loved her—and though she was an orphan, destitute of fortune, he married her, considering the treasure of her virgin heart of far greater value than the most magnificent dowry.
She was an honest woman, as her husband was an honest man, in the most strict and vigorous sense of the word.
She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d’Escorval’s worth made him eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the Imperial Court, which at that time surpassed all the pomp of the time of Louis XIV., had no attractions for her.
Grace, beauty, youth and accomplishments—she reserved them all for the adornment of her home.
Her husband was her God. She lived in him and through him. She had not a thought which did not belong to him.
The short time that he could spare from his arduous labors to devote to her were her happiest hours.
And when, in the evening, they sat beside the fire in their modest drawing-room, with their son Maurice playing on the rug at their feet, it seemed to them that they had nothing to wish for here below.
The overthrow of the empire surprised them in the heydey of their happiness.
Surprised them? No. For a long time M. d’Escorval had seen the prodigious edifice erected by the genius whom he had made his idol totter as if about to fall.
Certainly, he felt intense chagrin at this fall, but he was heart-broken at the sight of all the treason and cowardice which followed it. He was indignant and horrified at the risingen masseof the avaricious, who hastened to gorge themselves with the spoil.
Under these circumstances, exile from Paris seemed an actual blessing.
“Besides,” as he remarked to the baroness, “we shall soon be forgotten here.”
But even while he said this he felt many misgivings. Still, by his side, his noble wife presented a tranquil face, even while she trembled for the safety of her adored husband.
On this first Sunday in August, M. d’Escorval and his wife had been unusually sad. A vague presentiment of approaching misfortune weighed heavily upon their hearts.
At the same hour that Lacheneur presented himself at the house of the Abbe Midon, they were seated upon the terrace in front of the house, gazing anxiously at the two roads leading from Escorval to the chateau, and to the village of Sairmeuse.
Warned, that same morning, by his friends in Montaignac of the arrival of the duke, the baron had sent his son to inform M. Lacheneur.
He had requested him to be absent as short a time as possible; but in spite of this fact, the hours were rolling by, and Maurice had not returned.
“What if something has happened to him!” both father and mother were thinking.
No; nothing had happened to him. Only a word from Mlle. Lacheneur had sufficed to make him forget his usual deference to his father’s wishes.
“This evening,” she had said, “I shall certainly know your heart.”
What could this mean? Could she doubt him?
Tortured by the most cruel anxieties, the poor youth could not resolve to go away without an explanation, and he hung around the chateau hoping that Marie-Anne would reappear.
She did reappear at last, but leaning upon the arm of her father.
Young d’Escorval followed them at a distance, and soon saw them enter the parsonage. What were they going to do there? He knew that the duke and his son were within.
The time that they remained there, and which he passed in the public square, seemed more than a century long.
They emerged at last, however, and he was about to join them when he was prevented by the appearance of Martial, whose promises he overheard.
Maurice knew nothing of life; he was as innocent as a child, but he could not mistake the intentions that dictated this step on the part of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
At the thought that a libertine’s caprice should dare rest for an instant upon the pure and beautiful girl whom he loved with all the strength of his being—whom he had sworn should be his wife—all his blood mounted madly to his brain.
He felt a wild longing to chastise the insolent wretch.
Fortunately—unfortunately, perhaps—his hand was arrested by the recollection of a phrase which he had heard his father repeat a thousand times:
“Calmness and irony are the only weapons worthy of the strong.”
And he possessed sufficient strength of will to appear calm, while, in reality, he was beside himself with passion. It was Martial who lost his self-control, and who threatened him.
“Ah! yes, I will find you again, upstart!” repeated Maurice, through his set teeth as he watched his enemy move away.
For Martial had turned and discovered that Marie-Anne and her father had left him. He saw them standing about a hundred paces from him. Although he was surprised at their indifference, he made haste to join them, and addressed M. Lacheneur.
“We are just going to your father’s house,” was the response he received, in an almost ferocious tone.
A glance from Marie-Anne commanded silence. He obeyed, and walked a few steps behind them, with his head bowed upon his breast, terribly anxious, and seeking vainly to explain what had passed.
His attitude betrayed such intense sorrow that his mother divined it as soon as she caught sight of him.
All the anguish which this courageous woman had hidden for a month, found utterance in a single cry.
“Ah! here is misfortune!” said she, “we shall not escape it.”
It was, indeed, misfortune. One could not doubt it when one saw M. Lacheneur enter the drawing-room.
He advanced with the heavy, uncertain step of a drunken man, his eye void of expression, his features distorted, his lips pale and trembling.
“What has happened?” asked the baron, eagerly.
But the other did not seem to hear him.
“Ah! I warned her,” he murmured, continuing a monologue which had begun before he entered the room. “I told my daughter so.”
Mme. d’Escorval, after kissing Marie-Anne, drew the girl toward her.
“What has happened? For God’s sake, tell me what has happened!” she exclaimed.
With a gesture expressive of the most sorrowful resignation, the girl motioned her to look and to listen to M. Lacheneur.
He had recovered from that stupor—that gift of God—which follows cries that are too terrible for human endurance. Like a sleeper who, on waking, finds his miseries forgotten during his slumber, lying in wait for him, he regained with consciousness the capacity to suffer.
“It is only this, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the unfortunate man in a harsh, unnatural voice: “I rose this morning the richest proprietor in the country, and I shall lay down to-night poorer than the poorest beggar in this commune. I had everything; I no longer have anything—nothing but my two hands. They earned me my bread for twenty-five years; they will earn it for me now until the day of my death. I had a beautiful dream; it is ended.”
Before this outburst of despair, M. d’Escorval turned pale.
“You must exaggerate your misfortune,” he faltered; “explain what has happened.”
Unconscious of what he was doing, M. Lacheneur threw his hat upon a chair, and flinging back his long, gray hair, he said:
“To you I will tell all. I came here for that purpose. I know you; I know your heart. And have you not done me the honor to call me your friend?”
Then, with the cruel exactness of the living, breathing truth, he related the scene which had just taken place at the presbytery.
The baron listened petrified with astonishment, almost doubting the evidence of his own senses. Mme. d’Escorval’s indignant and sorrowful exclamations showed that every noble sentiment in her soul revolted against such injustice.
But there was one auditor, whom Marie-Anne alone observed, who was moved to his very entrails by this recital. This auditor was Maurice.
Leaning against the door, pale as death, he tried most energetically, but in vain, to repress the tears of rage and of sorrow which swelled up in his eyes.
To insult Lacheneur was to insult Marie-Anne—that is to say, to injure, to strike, to outrage him in all that he held most dear in the world.
Ah! it is certain that Martial, had he been within his reach, would have paid dearly for these insults to the father of the girl Maurice loved.
But he swore that this chastisement was only deferred—that it should surely come.
And it was not mere angry boasting. This young man, though so modest and so gentle in manner, had a heart that was inaccessible to fear. His beautiful, dark eyes, which had the trembling timidity of the eyes of a young girl, met the gaze of an enemy without flinching.
When M. Lacheneur had repeated the last words which he had addressed to the Duc de Sairmeuse, M. d’Escorval offered him his hand.
“I have told you already that I was your friend,” he said, in a voice faltering with emotion; “but I must tell you to-day that I am proud of having such a friend as you.”
The unfortunate man trembled at the touch of that loyal hand which clasped his so warmly, and his face betrayed an ineffable satisfaction.
“If my father had not returned it,” murmured the obstinate Marie-Anne, “my father would have been an unfaithful guardian—a thief. He has done only his duty.”
M. d’Escorval turned to the young girl, a little surprised.
“You speak the truth, Mademoiselle,” he said, reproachfully; “but when you are as old as I am, and have had my experience, you will know that the accomplishment of a duty is, under certain circumstances, a heroism of which few persons are capable.”
M. Lacheneur turned to his friend.
“Ah! your words do me good, Monsieur,” said he. “Now, I am content with what I have done.”
The baroness rose, too much the woman to know how to resist the generous dictates of her heart.
“And I, also, Monsieur Lacheneur,” she said, “desire to press your hand. I wish to tell you that I esteem you as much as I despise the ingrates who have sought to humiliate you, when they should have fallen at your feet. They are heartless monsters, the like of whom certainly cannot be found upon the earth.”
“Alas!” sighed the baron, “the allies have brought back others who, like these men, think the world created exclusively for their benefit.”
“And these people wish to be our masters,” growled Lacheneur.
By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear the remark made by M. Lacheneur. Had they overheard and questioned him, he would probably have disclosed some of the projects which were as yet in embryo in his own mind; and in that case what disastrous consequences might have been averted.
M. d’Escorval had regained his usual coolness.
“Now, my dear friend,” he inquired, “what course do you propose to pursue with these members of the Sairmeuse family?”
“They will hear nothing more from me—for some time, at least.”
“What! Shall you not claim the ten thousand francs that they owe you?”
“I shall ask them for nothing.”
“You will be compelled to do so. Since you have alluded to the legacy, your own honor will demand that you insist upon its payment by all legal methods. There are still judges in France.”
M. Lacheneur shook his head.
“The judges will not accord me the justice I desire. I shall not apply to them.”
“But——”
“No, Monsieur, no. I wish to have nothing to do with these men. I shall not even go to the chateau to remove my clothing nor that of my daughter. If they send it to us—very well. If it pleases them to keep it, so much the better. The more shameful, infamous and odious their conduct appears, the better I shall be satisfied.”
The baron made no reply; but his wife spoke, believing she had a sure means of conquering this incomprehensible obstinacy.
“I should understand your determination if you were alone in the world,” said she, “but you have children.”
“My son is eighteen, Madame; he possesses good health and an excellent education. He can make his own way in Paris, if he chooses to remain there.”
“But your daughter?”
“Marie-Anne will remain with me.”
M. d’Escorval thought it his duty to interfere.
“Take care, my dear friend, that your grief does not overthrow your reason,” said he. “Reflect! What will become of you—your daughter and yourself?”
The wretched man smiled sadly.
“Oh,” he replied, “we are not as destitute as I said. I exaggerated our misfortune. We are still landed proprietors. Last year an old cousin, whom I could never induce to come and live at Sairmeuse, died, bequeathing all her property to Marie-Anne. This property consisted of a poor little cottage near the Reche, with a little garden and a few acres of sterile land. In compliance with my daughter’s entreaties, I repaired the cottage, and sent there a few articles of furniture—a table, some chairs, and a couple of beds. My daughter designed it as a home for old Father Guvat and his wife. And I, surrounded by wealth and luxury, said to myself: ‘How comfortable those two old people will be there. They will live as snug as a bug in a rug!’ Well, what I thought so comfortable for others, will be good enough for me. I will raise vegetables, and Marie-Anne shall sell them.”
Was he speaking seriously?
Maurice must have supposed so, for he sprang forward.
“This shall not be, Monsieur Lacheneur!” he exclaimed.
“Oh——”
“No, this shall not be, for I love Marie-Anne, and I ask you to give her to me for my wife.”