If Martial had faithfully reported to Mlle. Blanche all that he heard in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s cabinet, he would probably have astonished her a little.
He, himself, if he had sincerely confessed his impressions and his reflections, would have been obliged to admit that he was greatly amazed.
But this unfortunate man, who, in days to come, would be compelled to reproach himself bitterly for the excess of his fanaticism, refused to confess this truth even to himself. His life was to be spent in defending prejudices which his own reason condemned.
Forced by Mlle. Blanche’s will into the midst of a discussion, he was really disgusted with the ridiculous and intense greediness of M. de Courtornieu’s noble guests.
Decorations, fortune, honors, power—they desired everything.
They were satisfied that their pure devotion deserved the most munificent rewards. It was only the most modest who declared that he would be content with the epaulets of a lieutenant-general.
Many were the recriminations, stinging words, and bitter reproaches.
The Marquis de Courtornieu, who acted as president of the council, was nearly exhausted with exclaiming:
“Be calm, gentlemen, be calm! A little moderation, if you please!”
“All these men are mad,” thought Martial, with difficulty restraining an intense desire to laugh; “they are insane enough to be placed in a mad-house.”
But he was not obliged to render a report of theseance. The deliberations were soon fortunately interrupted by a summons to dinner.
Mlle. Blanche, when the young marquis rejoined her, quite forgot to question him about the doings of the council.
In fact, what did the hopes and plans of these people matter to her.
She cared very little about them or about the people themselves, since they were below her father in rank, and most of them were not as rich.
An absorbing thought—a thought of her future, and of her happiness, filled her mind to the exclusion of all other subjects.
The few moments that she had passed alone, after Marie-Anne’s departure, she had spent in grave reflection.
Martial’s mind and person pleased her. In him were combined all the qualifications which any ambitious woman would desire in a husband—and she decided that he should beherhusband. Probably she would not have arrived at this conclusion so quickly, had it not been for the feeling of jealousy aroused in her heart. But from the very moment that she could believe or suspect that another woman was likely to dispute the possession of Martial with her, she desired him.
From that moment she was completely controlled by one of those strange passions in which the heart has no part, but which take entire possession of the brain and lead to the worst of follies.
Let the woman whose pulse has never quickened its beating under the influence of this counterfeit of love, cast the first stone.
That she could be vanquished in this struggle for supremacy; that there could be any doubt of the result, were thoughts which never once entered the mind of Mlle. Blanche.
She had been told so often, it had been repeated again and again, that the man whom she would choose must esteem himself fortunate above all others.
She had seen her father besieged by so many suitors for her hand.
“Besides,” she thought, smiling proudly, as she surveyed her reflection in the large mirrors; “am I not as pretty as Marie-Anne?”
“Far prettier!” murmured the voice of vanity; “and you possess what your rival does not: birth, wit, the genius of coquetry!”
She did, indeed, possess sufficient cleverness and patience to assume and to sustain the character which seemed most likely to dazzle and to fascinate Martial.
As to maintaining this characteraftermarriage, if it did not please her to do so, that was another matter!
The result of all this was that during dinner Mlle. Blanche exercised all her powers of fascination upon the young marquis.
She was so evidently desirous of pleasing him that several of the guests remarked it.
Some were even shocked by such a breach of conventionality. But Blanche de Courtornieu could do as she chose; she was well aware of that. Was she not the richest heiress for miles and miles around? No slander can tarnish the brilliancy of a fortune of more than a million in hard cash.
“Do you know that those two young people will have a joint income of between seven and eight hundred thousand francs!” said one old viscount to his neighbor.
Martial yielded unresistingly to the charm of his position.
How could he suspect unworthy motives in a young girl whose eyes were so pure, whose laugh rang out with the crystalline clearness of childhood!
Involuntarily he compared her with the grave and thoughtful Marie-Anne, and his imagination floated from one to the other, inflamed by the strangeness of the contrast.
He occupied a seat beside Mlle. Blanche at table; and they chatted gayly, amusing themselves at the expense of the other guests, who were again conversing upon political matters, and whose enthusiasm waxed warmer and warmer as course succeeded course.
Champagne was served with the dessert; and the company drank to the allies whose victorious bayonets had forced a passage for the King to return to Paris; they drank to the English, to the Prussians, and to the Russians, whose horses were trampling the crops under foot.
The name of d’Escorval heard, above the clink of the glasses, suddenly aroused Martial from his dream of enchantment.
An old gentleman had just risen, and proposed that active measures should be taken to rid the neighborhood of the Baron d’Escorval.
“The presence of such a man dishonors our country,” said he, “he is a frantic Jacobin, and admitted to be dangerous, since Monsieur Fouche has him upon his list of suspected persons; and he is even now under the surveillance of the police.”
This discourse could not have failed to arouse intense anxiety in M. d’Escorval’s breast had he seen the ferocity expressed on almost every face.
Still no one spoke; hesitation could be read in every eye.
Martial, too, had turned so white that Mlle. Blanche remarked his pallor and thought he was ill.
In fact, a terrible struggle was going on in the soul of the young marquis; a conflict between his honor and passion.
Had he not longed only a few hours before to find some way of driving Maurice from the country?
Ah, well! the opportunity he so ardently desired now presented itself. It was impossible to imagine a better one. If the proposed step was taken the Baron d’Escorval and his family would be forced to leave France forever!
The company hesitated; Martial saw it, and felt that a single word from him, for or against, would decide the matter.
After a few minutes of frightful uncertainty, honor triumphed.
He rose and declared that the proposed measure was bad—impolitic.
“Monsieur d’Escorval,” he remarked, “is one of those men who diffuse around them a perfume of honesty and justice. Have the good sense to respect the consideration which is justly his.”
As he had foreseen, his words decided the matter. The cold and haughty manner which he knew so well how to assume, his few but incisive words, produced a great effect.
“It would evidently be a great mistake!” was the general cry.
Martial reseated himself; Mlle. Blanche leaned toward him.
“You have done well,” she murmured; “you know how to defend your friends.”
“Monsieur d’Escorval is not my friend,” replied Martial, in a voice which revealed the struggle through which he had passed. “The injustice of the proposed measure incensed me, that is all.”
Mlle. de Courtornieu was not to be deceived by an explanation like this. Still she added:
“Then your conduct is all the more grand, Monsieur.”
But such was not the opinion of the Duc de Sairmeuse. On returning to the chateau some hours later he reproached his son for his intervention.
“Why the devil did you meddle with the matter?” inquired the duke. “I would not have liked to take upon myself the odium of the proposition, but since it had been made——”
“I was anxious to prevent such an act of useless folly!”
“Useless folly! Zounds! Marquis, you carry matters with a high hand. Do you think that this d——d baron adores you? What would you say if you heard that he was conspiring against us?”
“I should answer with a shrug of the shoulders.”
“You would! Very well; do me the favor to question Chupin.”
It was only two weeks since the Duc de Sairmeuse had returned to France; he had not yet had time to shake the dust of exile from his feet, and already his imagination saw enemies on every side.
He had been at Sairmeuse only two days, and yet he unhesitatingly accepted the venomous reports which Chupin poured into his ears.
The suspicions which he was endeavoring to make Martial share were cruelly unjust.
At the moment when the duke accused the baron of conspiring against the house of Sairmeuse, that unfortunate man was weeping at the bedside of his son, who was, he believed, at the point of death.
Maurice was indeed dangerously ill.
His excessively nervous organization had succumbed before the rude assaults of destiny.
When, in obedience to M. Lacheneur’s imperative order, he left the grove on the Reche, he lost the power of reflecting calmly and deliberately upon the situation.
Marie-Anne’s incomprehensible obstinacy, the insults he had received from the marquis, and Lacheneur’s feigned anger were mingled in inextricable confusion, forming one immense, intolerable misfortune, too crushing for his powers of resistance.
The peasants who met him on his homeward way were struck by his singular demeanor, and felt convinced that some great catastrophe had just befallen the house of the Baron d’Escorval.
Some bowed; others spoke to him, but he did not see or hear them.
Force of habit—that physical memory which mounts guard when the mind is far away—brought him back to his home.
His features were so distorted with suffering that Mme. d’Escorval, on seeing him, was seized with a most sinister presentiment, and dared not address him.
He spoke first.
“All is over!” he said, hoarsely, “but do not be worried, mother; I have some courage, as you shall see.”
He did, in fact, seat himself at the table with a resolute air. He ate even more than usual; and his father noticed, without alluding to it, that he drank much more wine than usual.
He was very pale, his eyes glittered, his gestures were excited, and his voice was husky. He talked a great deal, and even jested.
“Why will he not weep,” thought Mme. d’Escorval; “then I should not be so much alarmed, and I could try to comfort him.”
This was Maurice’s last effort. When dinner was over he went to his room, and when his mother, who had gone again and again to listen at his door, finally decided to enter his chamber, she found him lying upon the bed, muttering incoherently.
She approached him. He did not appear to recognize or even to see her. She spoke to him. He did not seem to hear. His face was scarlet, his lips were parched. She took his hand; it was burning; and still he was shivering, and his teeth were chattering as if with cold.
A mist swam before the eyes of the poor woman; she feared she was about to faint; but, summoning all her strength, she conquered her weakness and, dragging herself to the staircase, she cried:
“Help! help! My son is dying!”
With a bound M. d’Escorval reached his son’s chamber, looked at him and dashed out again, summoned a servant, and ordered him to gallop to Montaignac and bring a physician without a moment’s delay.
There was, indeed, a doctor at Sairmeuse, but he was the most stupid of men—a former surgeon in the army, who had been dismissed for incompetency. The peasants shunned him as they would the plague; and in case of sickness always sent for the cure. M. d’Escorval followed their example, knowing that the physician from Montaignac could not arrive until nearly morning.
Abbe Midon had never frequented the medical schools, but since he had been a priest the poor so often asked advice of him that he applied himself to the study of medicine, and, aided by experience, he had acquired a knowledge of the art which would have won him a diploma from the faculty anywhere.
At whatever hour of the day or night parishioners came to ask his assistance, he was always ready—his only answer: “Let us go at once.”
And when the people of the neighborhood met him on the road with his little box of medicine slung over his shoulder, they took off their hats respectfully and stood aside to let him pass. Those who did not respect the priest honored the man.
For M. d’Escorval, above all others, Abbe Midon would make haste. The baron was his friend; and a terrible apprehension seized him when he saw Mme. d’Escorval at the gate watching for him. By the way in which she rushed to meet him, he thought she was about to announce some irreparable misfortune. But no—she took his hand, and, without uttering a word, she led him to her son’s chamber.
The condition of the poor youth was really very critical; the abbe perceived this at a glance, but it was not hopeless.
“We will get him out of this,” he said, with a smile that reawakened hope.
And with the coolness of an old practitioner, he bled him freely, and ordered applications of ice to his head.
In a moment all the household were busied in fulfilling the cure’s orders. He took advantage of the opportunity to draw the baron aside in the embrasure of a window.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“A disappointment in love,” M. d’Escorval replied, with a despairing gesture. “Monsieur Lacheneur has refused the hand of his daughter, which I asked in behalf of my son. Maurice was to have seen Marie-Anne to-day. What passed between them I do not know. The result you see.”
The baroness re-entered the room, and the two men said no more. A truly funereal silence pervaded the apartment, broken only by the moans of Maurice.
His excitement instead of abating had increased in violence. Delirium peopled his brain with phantoms; and the name of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse and Chanlouineau dropped so incoherently from his lips that it was impossible to read his thoughts.
How long that night seemed to M. d’Escorval and his wife, those only know who have counted each second beside the sick-bed of some loved one.
Certainly their confidence in the companion in their vigil was great; but he was not a regular physician like the other, the one whose coming they awaited.
Just as the light of the morning made the candles turn pale, they heard the furious gallop of a horse, and soon the doctor from Montaignac entered.
He examined Maurice carefully, and, after a short conference with the priest:
“Isee no immediate danger,” he declared. “All that can be done has been done. The malady must be allowed to take its course. I will return.”
He did return the next day and many days after, for it was not until a week had passed that Maurice was declared out of danger.
Then he confided to his father all that had taken place in the grove on the Reche. The slightest detail of the scene had engraved itself indelibly upon his memory. When the recital was ended:
“Are you quite sure,” asked his father, “that you correctly understood Marie-Anne’s reply? Did she tell you that if her father gave his consent to your marriage, she would refuse hers?”
“Those were her very words.”
“And still she loves you?”
“I am sure of it.”
“You were not mistaken in Monsieur Lacheneur’s tone when he said to you: ‘Go, you little wretch! do you wish to render all my precautions useless?’”
“No.”
M. d’Escorval sat for a moment in silence.
“This passes comprehension,” he murmured at last. And so low that his son could not hear him, he added: “I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; this mystery must be explained.”
The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge was situated on a hill overlooking the water.
It was, as he had said, a small and humble dwelling, but it was rather less miserable than the abodes of most of the peasants of the district.
It was only one story high, but it was divided into three rooms, and the roof was covered with thatch.
In front was a tiny garden, in which a few fruit-trees, some withered cabbages, and a vine which covered the cottage to the roof, managed to find subsistence.
This garden was a mere nothing, but even this slight conquest over the sterility of the soil had cost Lacheneur’s deceased aunt almost unlimited courage and patience.
For more than twenty years the poor woman had never, for a single day, failed to throw upon her garden three or four basketfuls of richer soil, which she was obliged to bring more than half a league.
It had been more than a year since she died; but the little pathway which her patient feet had worn in the performance of this daily task was still distinctly visible.
This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took the following day, in the hope of wresting from Marie-Anne’s father the secret of his inexplicable conduct.
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the overpowering heat as he climbed the rough hill-side in the full glare of the noonday sun.
When he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while wiping the perspiration from his brow, he turned to look back on the road which he had traversed.
It was the first time he had visited the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape which stretched before him.
From this point, which is the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can survey the entire valley of the Oiselle, and discern, in the distance, the redoubtable citadel of Montaignac, built upon an almost inaccessible rock.
This last circumstance, which the baron was afterward doomed to recall in the midst of the most terrible scenes, did not strike him then. Lacheneur’s house absorbed all his attention.
His imagination pictured vividly the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only two days before, had relinquished the splendors of the Chateau de Sairmeuse to repair to this wretched abode.
He rapped at the door of the cottage.
“Come in!” said a voice.
The baron lifted the latch and entered.
The room was small, with un-white-washed walls, but with no other floor than the ground; no ceiling save the thatch that formed the roof.
A bed, a table and two wooden benches constituted the entire furniture.
Seated upon a stool, near the tiny window, sat Marie-Anne, busily at work upon a piece of embroidery.
She had abandoned her former mode of dress, and her costume was that worn by the peasant girls.
When M. d’Escorval entered she rose, and for a moment they remained silently standing, face to face, she apparently calm, he visibly agitated.
He was looking at Marie-Anne; and she seemed to him transfigured. She was much paler and considerably thinner; but her beauty had a strange and touching charm—the sublime radiance of heroic resignation and of duty nobly fulfilled.
Still, remembering his son, he was astonished to see this tranquillity.
“You do not ask me for news of Maurice,” he said, reproachfully.
“I had news of him this morning, Monsieur, as I have had every day. I know that he is improving; and that, since day before yesterday, he has been allowed to take a little nourishment.”
“You have not forgotten him, then?”
She trembled; a faint blush suffused throat and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied:
“Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”
“And yet you have told him that you approve your father’s decision!”
“I told him so, Monsieur, and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”
“But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, child; he has almost died.”
She raised her head proudly, sought M. d’Escorval’s eyes, and when she had found them:
“Look at me, Monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?”
M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but recovering himself, he took Marie-Anne’s hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said:
“So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he has nearly died, and still you reject him!”
“It must be so, Monsieur.”
“You say this, my dear child—you say this, and you undoubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have failed to find it. Explain to me, then, why this must be so, Marie-Anne. Who knows but you are frightened by chimeras, which my experience can scatter with a breath? Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an old friend? It may be that your father, in his despair, has adopted extreme resolutions. Speak, let us combat them together. Lacheneur knows how devotedly I am attached to him. I will speak to him; he will listen tome.”
“Ican tell you nothing, Monsieur.”
“What! you are so cruel as to remain inflexible when a father entreats you on his knees—a father who says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold in your hands the happiness, the life, the reason of my son——‘”
Tears glittered in Marie-Anne’s eyes, but she drew away her hand.
“Ah! it is you who are cruel, Monsieur; it is you who are without pity. Do you not see what I suffer, and that it is impossible for me to endure further torture? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can say to my father. Why do you seek to impair my courage when I require it all to struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be folly. We are parted forever. Beseech Maurice to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are his father, must command him to do so. And you, too, Monsieur, in Heaven’s name, flee from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us will ruin you also.”
She spoke almost wildly. Her voice was so loud that it penetrated an adjoining room.
The communicating door opened and M. Lacheneur appeared upon the threshold.
At the sight of M. d’Escorval he uttered an oath. But there was more sorrow and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said:
“You, Monsieur, you here!”
The consternation into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval was so intense that it was with great difficulty he stammered out a response.
“You have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten our old friendship? I come to you——”
The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained overcast.
“Why did you not inform me of the honor that the baron had done me, Marie-Anne?” he said sternly.
She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied:
“Why, I have but just come, my dear friend.”
M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter, then at the baron.
“What did they say to each other while they were alone?” he was evidently wondering.
But, however great may have been his disquietude, he seemed to master it; and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room.
“It is my reception-room and my cabinet combined,” he said, smiling.
This room, which was much larger than the first, was as scantily furnished; but it contained several piles of small books and an infinite number of tiny packages.
Two men were engaged in arranging and sorting these articles.
One was Chanlouineau.
M. d’Escorval did not remember that he had ever seen the other, who was a young man.
“This is my son, Jean, Monsieur,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.”
It was true. It had been, at least, ten years since the baron had seen Lacheneur’s son.
How time flies! He had left him a boy; he found him a man.
Jean was just twenty; but his haggard features and his precocious beard made him appear much older.
He was tall and well formed, and his face indicated more than average intelligence.
Still he did not impress one favorably. His restless eyes were always invading yours; and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.
As his father presented him, he bowed profoundly; but he was very evidently out of temper.
M. Lacheneur resumed:
“Having no longer the means to maintain Jean in Paris, I have made him return. My ruin will, perhaps, be a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good for the son of a peasant. Fools that we are, we send them there to teach them to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”
“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait, at least, until we are alone!”
“Monsieur d’Escorval is not a stranger.” Chanlouineau evidently sided with the son, since he made repeated signs to M. Lacheneur to be silent.
Either he did not see them, or he pretended not to see them, for he continued:
“I must have wearied you, Monsieur, by telling you again and again: ‘I am pleased with my son. He has a commendable ambition; he is working faithfully; he will succeed.’ Ah! I was a poor, foolish father! The friend who carried Jean the order to return has enlightened me, to my sorrow. This model young man you see here left the gaming-house only to run to public balls. He was in love with a wretched little ballet-girl in some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went upon the stage, with his face painted red and white.”
“To appear upon the stage is not a crime.”
“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues which one does not possess! Have I ever refused you money? No. Notwithstanding that, you have contracted debts everywhere, and you owe at least twenty thousand francs.”
Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.
“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight ago; now I have nothing. I can hope to obtain this sum only through the generosity of the Duc de Sairmeuse and his son.” These words from Lacheneur’s lips astonished the baron.
Lacheneur perceived it, and it was with every appearance of sincerity and good faith that he resumed:
“Does whatI saysurprise you? I understand why. My anger at first made me give utterance to all sorts of absurd threats. But I am calm now, and I realize my injustice. What could I expect the duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque, I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau to designate the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal—everything. I selected what I wished—furniture, clothing, linen. It is all to be brought here; and I shall be quite agrand seigneur.”
“Why not seek another house? This——”
“This pleases me, Monsieur. Its situation suits me perfectly.”
In fact, why should not the Sairmeuse have regretted their odious conduct? Was it impossible that Lacheneur, in spite of his indignation, should conclude to accept honorable separation? Such were M. d’Escorval’s reflections.
“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example, having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he has declared that he is going to send her plants to stock our small garden, and that they shall be renewed every month.”
Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This last remark was too much; it awakened a sinister suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind.
“Good God!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate some crime?”
He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased. On hearing the names of the marquis and of Marie-Anne, the robust farmer had turned livid. “It is decided,” said Lacheneur, with an air of the lost satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all; they have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be allowed to occupy the gamekeeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed for so long a time a fortune which did not belong to me, I am anxious to amass a fortune of my own.”
“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”
“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedler.”
M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. “Pedler?” he repeated.
“Yes, Monsieur. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”
“But this is absurd!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way.”
“You are wrong, Monsieur. I have considered the subject carefully; the profits are thirty per cent. And if besides, there will be three of us to sell goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to Chanlouineau.”
“What! Chanlouineau?”
“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”
“And his farm—who will take care of that?”
“He will employ day-laborers.”
And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lacheneur began arranging the little packages which were destined to fill the pack of the travelling merchant.
But the baron was not to be gotten rid of so easily, now that his suspicions had become almost a certainty.
“Imust speak with you,” he said, brusquely.
M. Lacheneur turned.
“Iam very busy,” he replied, with a very evident reluctance.
“Iask only five minutes. But if you have not the time to spare to-day, I will return to-morrow—day after to-morrow—and every day until I can see you in private.”
Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this interview, so, with the gesture of a man who resigns himself to a necessity, addressing his son and Chanlouineau, he said:
“Go outside for a few moments.”
They obeyed, and as soon as the door had closed behind them, Lacheneur said:
“I know very well, Monsieur, the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of changing my resolution. Do not ask my motives; I shall not reveal them; but rest assured that they are sufficient.”
“Are we not your friends?”
“You, Monsieur!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in tones of the most lively affection, “you! ah! you know it well! You are the best, the only friends, I have here below. I should be the basest and the most miserable of men if I did not guard the recollection of all your kindnesses until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends; yes, I am devoted to you—and it is for that very reason that I answer: no, no, never!”
There could no longer be any doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp:
“Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, hoarsely, “what do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you dreaming?”
“I swear to you——”
“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my experience. I divine your intentions—you hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget it, it is only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your power to reassure them. You accept their advances—you kneel before them—why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you have lulled their suspicions to rest, and then you can strike them more surely——”
He paused; the communicating door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared upon the threshold.
“Father,” said she, “here is the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
This name, which Marie-Anne uttered in a voice of such perfect composure, in the midst of this excited discussion, possessed such a powerful significance, that M. d’Escorval stood as if petrified.
“He dares to come here!” he thought. “How can it be that he does not fear the walls will fall and crush him?”
M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He suspected her of a ruse which would force him to reveal his secret. For a second, the most furious passion contracted his features.
But, by a prodigious effort of will, he succeeded in regaining his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out, he said:
“Deign to excuse me, Monsieur, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a moment.”
Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice; but, rather, a respectful deference, and a feeling of profound gratitude.
Having said this, he closed the door and turned to M. d’Escorval.
The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own senses; and yet he understood the meaning of it only too well.
“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.
“Almost every day—not at this hour, usually, but a trifle later.”
“And you receive him? you welcome him?”
“Certainly, Monsieur. How can I be insensible to the honor he confers upon me? Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to discuss. We are now occupied in legalizing the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can, also, give him much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the property.”
“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”
Lacheneur’s eye did not waver.
“To whom else could they be addressed?” he inquired.
This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could not have received a heavier blow.
“Take care, Lacheneur,” he said, sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and Monsieur de Sairmeuse, who desires to make her——”
“Who desires to make her his mistress—is that what you mean? Oh, say the word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”
M. d’Escorval shuddered.
“In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you make your daughter’s honor and reputation your stake in the game you are playing.”
This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no longer.
“Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath, “yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be, the instrument of my plans. A man situated as I am is free from the considerations that restrain other men. Fortune, friends, life, honor—I have been forced to sacrifice all. Perish my daughter’s virtue—perish my daughter herself—what do they matter, if I can but succeed?”
He was terrible in his fanaticism; and in his mad excitement he clinched his hands as if he were threatening some invisible enemy; his eyes were wild and bloodshot.
The baron seized him by the coat as if to prevent his escape.
“You admit it, then?” he said. “You wish to revenge yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and you have made Chanlouineau your accomplice?”
But Lacheneur, with a sudden movement, freed himself.
“I admit nothing,” he replied. “And yet I wish to reassure you——”
He raised his hand as if to take an oath, and in a solemn voice, he said:
“Before God, who hears my words, by all that I hold sacred in this world, by the memory of my sainted wife who lies beneath the sod, I swear that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I had no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me without injuring themselves.”
Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth. His hearer felt it; still he pretended to doubt. He thought by retaining his own self-possession, and exciting the anger of this unfortunate man still more, he might, perhaps, discover his real intentions. So it was with an air of suspicion that he said:
“How can one believe this assurance after the avowal you have just made?”
Lacheneur saw the snare; he regained his self-possession as if by magic.
“So be it, Monsieur, refuse to believe me. But you will wring from me only one more word on this subject. I have said too much already. I know that you are guided solely by friendship for me; my gratitude is great, but I cannot reply to your question. The events of the past few days have dug a deep abyss between you and me. Do not endeavor to pass it. Why should we ever meet again? I must say to you, what I said only yesterday to Abbe Midon. If you are my friend, you will never come here again—never—by night or by day, or under any pretext whatever. Even if they tell you that I am dying, do not come. This house is fatal. And if you meet me, turn away; shun me as you would a pestilence whose touch is deadly!”
The baron was silent. This was in substance what Marie-Anne had said to him, only under another form.
“But there is still a wiser course that you might pursue. Everything here is certain to augment the sorrow and despair which afflicts your son. There is not a path, nor a tree, nor a flower which does not cruelly remind him of his former happiness. Leave this place; take him with you, and go far away.”
“Ah! how can I do this? Fouche has virtually imprisoned me here.”
“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice. You were a friend of the Emperor, hence you are regarded with suspicion; you are surrounded by spies. Your enemies are watching for an opportunity to ruin you. The slightest pretext would suffice to throw you into prison—a letter, a word, an act capable of being misconstrued. The frontier is not far off; go, and wait in a foreign land for happier times.”
“That is something which I will not do,” said M. d’Escorval, proudly.
His words and accent showed the folly of further discussion. Lacheneur understood this only too well, and seemed to despair.
“Ah! you are like Abbe Midon,” he said, sadly; “you will not believe. Who knows how much your coming here this morning will cost you? It is said that no one can escape his destiny. But if some day the hand of the executioner is laid upon your shoulder, remember that I warned you, and do not curse me.”
He paused, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy produced no impression upon the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M. d’Escorval; but he nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had selected at the chateau were on their way.
M. d’Escorval could do no more. To speak with Marie-Anne was impossible: Chanlouineau and Jean would not let him go out of their sight.
He reluctantly departed, and oppressed by cruel forebodings, he descended the hill which he had climbed an hour before so full of hope.
What should he say to Maurice?
He had reached the little grove of pines when a hurried footstep behind him made him turn.
The Marquis de Sairmeuse was following him, and motioned him to stop. The baron paused, greatly surprised; Martial, with that air of ingenuousness which he knew so well how to assume, and in an almost brusque tone, said:
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will excuse me for having followed you, when you hear what I have to say. I am not of your party; I loathe what you adore; but I have none of the passion nor the malice of your enemies. For this reason I tell you that if I were in your place I would take a journey. The frontier is but a few miles away; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have crossed it. A word to the wise is—salvation!”
And without waiting for any response, he turned and retraced his steps.
M. d’Escorval was amazed and confounded.
“One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive me away!” he murmured. “But I have good reason to distrust the disinterestedness of this young man.”
Martial was already far off. Had he been less preoccupied, he would have perceived two figures in the wood. Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevitable Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.