The twenty-four hours which Blanche had spent in measuring the extent of her terrible misfortune, the duke had spent in raving and swearing.
He had not even thought of going to bed.
After his fruitless search for his son he returned to the chateau, and began a continuous tramp to and fro in the great hall.
He was almost sinking from weariness when his son’s letter was handed him.
It was very brief.
Martial did not vouchsafe any explanation; he did not even mention the rupture between his wife and himself.
“I cannot return to Sairmeuse,” he wrote, “and yet it is of the utmost importance that I should see you.
“You will, I trust, approve my determinations when I explain the reasons that have guided me in making them.
“Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you.”
Had he listened to the prompting of his impatience, the duke would have started at once. But how could he thus abandon the Marquis de Courtornieu, who had accepted his hospitality, and especially Blanche, his son’s wife?
He must, at least, see them, speak to them, and warn them of his intended departure.
He attempted this in vain. Mme. Blanche had shut herself up in her own apartments, and remained deaf to all entreaties for admittance. Her father had been put to bed, and the physician who had been summoned to attend him, declared the marquis to be at death’s door.
The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself to the prospect of another night of suspense, which was almost intolerable to a character like his.
“To-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape, without telling them I am going to see Martial,” he thought.
He was spared this trouble. The next morning, at about nine o’clock, while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de Courtornieu and his daughter were awaiting him in the drawing-room.
Much surprised, he hastened down.
When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea.
Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins.
“We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to make our adieux.”
“What! you are going? Will you not——”
The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying.
“Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?”
The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so intense that he could not even find an oath.
“Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!”
“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, sadly, but without bitterness. “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures. I also forgive him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!”
She took her father’s arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.
“You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose—”
“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!”
This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered.
With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim:
“Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?”
His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was:
“What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us—that means that he has some crushing blow in store for us.”
This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to cope successfully with the perfidious marquis.
“But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial at once.”
So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the carriage was ready, he announced his determination to drive himself.
As he urged the horses furiously on he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to consider the situation calmly.
He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. “I think you must certainly have gone mad, Marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can offer.”
But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had prepared himself for it.
“Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,” he replied. “Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?”
“Marquis!”
“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy on the part of the Marquis de Courtornieu.”
The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and his vices, this haughty man possessed the characteristic of the old French nobility—fidelity to his word and undoubted valor.
He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he thought it a contemptible act to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.
“This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this scoundrel has attempted to bring dishonor upon our name; and if I desire to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, since I married her only out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, save one who can never be mine, are alike to me.”
Such utterances were not at all calculated to reassure the duke.
“This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.”
An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips.
“I believe, on the contrary, that I have saved them,” he replied.
“It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this whole affair of the insurrection has been abominable, and you have good reason to bless the opportunity of freeing yourself from the responsibility of it which this quarrel gives you. With a little address, you can throw all the odium upon the Marquis de Courtornieu, and keep for yourself only the prestige of valuable service rendered.”
The duke’s face brightened.
“Zounds, Marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.”
Martial remained thoughtful.
“It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu whom I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter—my wife.”
One must have lived in the country to know with what inconceivable rapidity news flies from mouth to mouth.
Strange as it may seem, the news of the scene at the chateau reached Father Poignot’s farm-house that same evening.
It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois left the house, promising to re-cross the frontier that same night.
Abbe Midon had decided to say nothing to M. d’Escorval of his son’s return, and to conceal Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The baron’s condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale.
About ten o’clock the baron fell asleep, and the abbe and Mme. d’Escorval went downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. As they were sitting there Poignot’s eldest son entered in a state of great excitement.
After supper he had gone with some of his acquaintances to admire the splendors of the fete, and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of the evening to his father’s guests.
“It is inconceivable!” murmured the abbe.
He knew but too well, and the others comprehended it likewise, that these strange events rendered their situation more perilous than ever.
“I cannot understand how Maurice could commit such an act of folly after what I had just said to him. The baron’s most cruel enemy has been his own son. We must wait until to-morrow before deciding upon anything.”
The next day they heard of the meeting at the Reche. A peasant who, from a distance, had witnessed the preliminaries of the duel which had not been fought, was able to give them the fullest details.
He had seen the two adversaries take their places, then the soldiers run to the spot, and afterward pursue Maurice, Jean and Bavois.
But he was sure that the soldiers had not overtaken them. He had met them five hours afterward, harassed and furious; and the officer in charge of the expedition declared their failure to be the fault of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, who had detained them.
That same day Father Poignot informed the abbe that the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were at variance. It was the talk of the country. The marquis had returned to his chateau, accompanied by his daughter, and the duke had gone to Montaignac.
The abbe’s anxiety on receiving this intelligence was so poignant that he could not conceal it from Baron d’Escorval.
“You have heard something, my friend,” said the baron.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Some new danger threatens us.”
“None, I swear it.”
The priest’s protestations did not convince the baron.
“Oh, do not deny it!” he exclaimed. “Night before last, when you entered my room after I awoke, you were paler than death, and my wife had certainly been crying. What does all this mean?”
Usually, when the cure did not wish to reply to the sick man’s questions, it was sufficient to tell him that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery; but this time the baron was not so docile.
“It will be very easy for you to restore my tranquillity,” he said. “Confess now, that you are trembling lest they discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not allow them to take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest.”
“I cannot take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale.
“And why?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand upon my feet, they will shoot me down. Would it be a crime to save me from such suffering? You are my best friend; swear to render me this supreme service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?”
The abbe made no response; but his eye, voluntarily or involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the box of medicine standing upon the table near by.
Did he wish to be understood as saying:
“I will do nothing; but you will find a poison there.”
M. d’Escorval understood it in this way, for it was with an accent of gratitude that he murmured:
“Thanks!”
Now that he felt that he was master of his life he breathed more freely. From that moment his condition, so long desperate, began to improve.
“I can defy all my enemies from this hour,” he said, with a gayety which certainly was not feigned.
Day after day passed and the abbe’s sinister apprehensions were not realized; he, too, began to regain confidence.
Instead of causing an increase of severity, Maurice’s and Jean Lacheneur’s frightful imprudence had been, as it were, the point of departure for a universal indulgence.
One might reasonably have supposed that the authorities of Montaignac had forgotten, and desired to have forgotten, if that were possible, Lacheneur’s conspiracy, and the abominable slaughter for which it had been made the pretext.
They soon heard at the farm that Maurice and the brave corporal had succeeded in reaching Piedmont.
No allusion was made to Jean Lacheneur, so it was supposed that he had not left the country; but they had no reason to fear for his safety, since he was not upon the proscribed list.
Later, it was rumored that the Marquis de Courtornieu was ill, and that Mme. Blanche did not leave his bedside.
Soon afterward, Father Poignot, on returning from Montaignac, reported that the duke had just passed a week in Paris, and that he was now on his way home with one more decoration—another proof of royal favor—and that he had succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the conspirators, who were now in prison.
It was impossible to doubt this intelligence, for the Montaignac papers mentioned this fact, with all the circumstances on the following day.
The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change entirely to the rupture between the duke and the marquis, and this was the universal opinion in the neighborhood. Even the retired officers remarked:
“The duke is decidedly better than he is supposed to be, and if he has been severe, it is only because he was influenced by that odious Marquis de Courtornieu.”
Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who had shaken off his wonted apathy, and was working these changes and using and abusing his ascendancy over the mind of his father.
“And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is thus working. What does this careless egotist care for these obscure peasants, whose names he does not even know? If he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to protect you, and those whom you love!”
With these thoughts in her mind, she could not but feel her aversion to Martial diminish.
Was not such conduct truly heroic in a man whose dazzling offers she had refused? Was there not real moral grandeur in the feeling that induced Martial to reveal a secret which might ruin the political fortunes of his house, rather than be suspected of an unworthy action? And still the thought of thisgrande passionwhich she had inspired in so truly great a man never once made her heart quicken its throbbing.
Alas! nothing was capable of touching her heart now; nothing seemed to reach her through the gloomy sadness that enveloped her.
She was but the ghost of the formerly beautiful and radiant Marie-Anne. Her quick, alert tread had become slow and dragging, often she sat for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
Abbe Midon, who was greatly disquieted on her account, often attempted to question her.
“You are suffering, my child,” he said, kindly. “What is the matter?”
“I am not ill, Monsieur.”
“Why do you not confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”
She shook her head sadly and replied:
“I have nothing to confide.”
She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish.
Faithful to the promise she had made Maurice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror, the approach of the moment when she could no longer keep her secret. Her agony was frightful; but what could she do!
Fly? but where should she go? And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour?
She had almost determined on flight when circumstances—providentially, it seemed to her—came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The guests were unable to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store was almost exhausted.
Abbe Midon was wondering what they were to do, when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favor, and of the money concealed beneath the hearth-stone in the best chamber.
“I might go to the Borderie at night,” suggested Marie-Anne, “enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it here. I have a right to do so, have I not?”
But the priest did not approve this step.
“You might be seen,” said he, “and who knows—perhaps arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could you give?”
“What shall I do, then?”
“Act openly; you are not compromised. Make your appearance in Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just returned from Piedmont; go to the notary, take possession of your property, and install yourself at the Borderie.”
Marie-Anne shuddered.
“Live in Chanlouineau’s house,” she faltered. “I alone!”
“Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can see only advantages in your installation at the Borderie. It will be easy to communicate with you; and with ordinary precautions there can be no danger. Before your departure we will decide upon a place of rendezvous, and two or three times a week you can meet Father Poignot there. And, in the course of two or three months you can be still more useful to us. When people have become accustomed to your residence at the Borderie, we will take the baron there. His convalescence will be much more rapid there, than here in this cramped and narrow loft, where we are obliged to conceal him now, and where he is really suffering for light and air.”
So it was decided that Father Poignot should accompany Marie-Anne to the frontier that very night; there she would take the diligence that ran between Piedmont and Montaignac, passing through the village of Sairmeuse.
It was with the greatest care that the abbe dictated to Marie-Anne the story she was to tell of her sojourn in foreign lands. All that she said, and all her answers to questions must tend to prove that Baron d’Escorval was concealed near Turin.
The plan was carried out in every particular; and the next day, about eight o’clock, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly astonished to see Marie-Anne alight from the diligence.
“Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter has returned!”
The words flew from lip to lip with marvellous rapidity, and soon all the inhabitants of the village were gathered at the doors and windows.
They saw the poor girl pay the driver, and enter the inn, followed by a boy bearing a small trunk.
In the city, curiosity has some shame; it hides itself while it spies into the affairs of its neighbors; but in the country it has no such scruples.
When Marie-Anne emerged from the inn, she found a crowd awaiting her with open mouths and staring eyes.
And more than twenty people making all sorts of comments, followed her to the door of the notary.
He was a man of importance, this notary, and he welcomed Marie-Anne with all the deference due an heiress of an unencumbered property, worth from forty to fifty thousand francs.
But jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to understand that he, being a man of experience, had divined that love alone had dictated Chanlouineau’s last will and testament.
Marie-Anne’s composure and resignation made him really angry.
“You forget what brings me here,” she said; “you do not tell me what I have to do!”
The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at consolation.
“Pestet!” he thought, “she is in a hurry to get possession of her property—the avaricious creature!”
Then aloud:
“The business can be terminated at once, for the justice of the peace is at liberty to-day, and he can go with us to break the seals this afternoon.”
So, before evening, all the legal requirements were complied with, and Marie-Anne was formally installed at the Borderie.
She was alone in Chanlouineau’s house—alone! Night came on and a great terror seized her heart. It seemed to her that the doors were about to open, that this man who had loved her so much would appear before her, and that she would hear his voice as she heard it for the last time in his grim prison-cell.
She fought against these foolish fears, lit a lamp, and went through this house—now hers—in which everything spoke so forcibly of its former owner.
Slowly she examined the different rooms on the lower floor, noting the recent repairs which had been made and the conveniences which had been added, and at last she ascended to that room above which Chanlouineau had made the tabernacle of his passion.
Here, everything was magnificent, far more so than his words had led her to suppose. The poor peasant who made his breakfast off a crust and a bit of onion had lavished a small fortune on the decorations of this apartment, designed as a sanctuary for his idol.
“How he loved me!” murmured Marie-Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare thought of which had awakened the jealousy of Maurice.
But she had neither the time nor the right to yield to her feelings. Father Poignot was doubtless, even then, awaiting her at the rendezvous.
She lifted the hearth-stone, and found the sum of money which Chanlouineau had named.
The next morning, when he awoke, the abbe received the money.
Now, Marie-Anne could breathe freely; and this peace, after so many trials and agitations, seemed to her almost happiness.
Faithful to the abbe’s instructions, she lived alone; but, by frequent visits, she accustomed the people of the neighborhood to her presence.
Yes, she would have been almost happy, could she have had news of Maurice. What had become of him? Why did he give no sign of life? What would she not have given in exchange for some word of counsel and of love from him?
The time was fast approaching when she would require a confidant; and there was no one in whom she could confide.
In this hour of extremity, when she really felt that her reason was failing her, she remembered the old physician at Vigano, who had been one of the witnesses to her marriage.
“He would help me if I called upon him for aid,” she thought.
She had no time to temporize or to reflect; she wrote to him immediately, giving the letter in charge of a youth in the neighborhood.
“The gentleman says you may rely upon him,” said the messenger on his return.
That very evening Marie-Anne heard someone rap at her door. It was the kind-hearted old man who had come to her relief.
He remained at the Borderie nearly a fortnight.
When he departed one morning, before daybreak, he took away with him under his large cloak an infant—a boy—whom he had sworn to cherish as his own child.
To quit Sairmeuse without any display of violence had cost Blanche an almost superhuman effort.
The wildest anger convulsed her soul at the very moment, when, with an assumption of melancholy dignity, she murmured those words of forgiveness.
Ah! had she obeyed the dictates of her resentment!
But her indomitable vanity aroused within her the heroism of a gladiator dying on the arena, with a smile upon his lips.
Falling, she intended to fall gracefully.
“No one shall see me weep; no one shall hear me complain,” she said to her despondent father; “try to imitate me.”
And on her return to the Chateau de Courtornieu, she was a stoic.
Her face, although pale, was as immobile as marble, beneath the curious gaze of the servants.
“I am to be called mademoiselle as in the past,” she said, imperiously. “Anyone forgetting this order will be dismissed.”
A maid forgot that very day, and uttered the prohibited word, “madame.” The poor girl was instantly dismissed, in spite of her tears and protestations.
All the servants were indignant.
“Does she hope to make us forget that she is married and that her husband has deserted her?” they queried.
Alas! she wished to forget it herself. She wished to annihilate all recollection of that fatal day whose sun had seen her a maiden, a wife, and a widow.
For was she not really a widow?
Only it was not death which had deprived her of her husband, but an odious rival—an infamous and perfidious creature lost to all sense of shame.
And yet, though she had been disdained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was no longer free.
She belonged to the man whose name she bore like a badge of servitude—to the man who hated her, who fled from her.
She was not yet twenty; and this was the end of her youth, of her life, of her hopes, and even of her dreams.
Society condemned her to solitude, while Martial was free to rove wheresoever fancy might lead him.
Now she saw the disadvantage of isolating one’s self. She had not been without friends in her school-girl days; but after leaving the convent she had alienated them by her haughtiness, on finding them not as high in rank, nor as rich as herself. She was now reduced to the irritating consolations of Aunt Medea, who was a worthy person, undoubtedly, but her tears flowed quite as freely for the loss of a cat, as for the death of a relative.
But Blanche bravely resolved that she would conceal her grief and despair in the recesses of her own heart.
She drove about the country; she wore the prettiest dresses in hertrousseau; she forced herself to appear gay and indifferent.
But on going to attend high mass in Sairmeuse the following Sunday, she realized the futility of her efforts.
People did not look at her haughtily, or even curiously; but they turned away their heads to laugh, and she overheard remarks upon the maiden widow which pierced her very soul.
They mocked her; they ridiculed her!
“Oh! I will have my revenge!” she muttered.
But she had not waited for these insults before thinking of vengeance; and she had found her father quite ready to assist her in her plans.
For the first time the father and the daughter were in accord.
“The Duc de Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to aid in the escape of a prisoner and to insult a man like me. Fortune, favor, position—he shall lose all! I hope to see him ruined and dishonored at my feet. You shall see that day! you shall see that day!” said the marquis, vehemently.
But, unfortunately for him and his plans, he was extremely ill for three days, after the scene at Sairmeuse; then he wasted three days more in composing a report, which was intended to crush his former ally.
This delay ruined him, since it gave Martial time to perfect his plans and to send the Duc de Sairmeuse to Paris skilfully indoctrinated.
And what did the duke say to the King, who accorded him such a gracious reception?
He undoubtedly pronounced the first reports false, reduced the Montaignac revolution to its proper proportions, represented Lacheneur as a fool, and his followers as inoffensive idiots.
Perhaps he led the King to suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu might have provoked the outbreak by undue severity. He had served under Napoleon, and possibly had thought it necessary to make a display of his zeal. There have been such cases.
So far as he himself was concerned, he deeply deplored the mistakes into which he had been led by the ambitious marquis, upon whom he cast most of the responsibility for the blood which had been shed.
The result of all this was, that when the Marquis de Courtornieu’s report reached Paris, it was answered by a decree depriving him of the office ofgrand prevot.
This unexpected blow crushed him.
To think that a man as shrewd, as subtle-minded, as quick-witted, and adroit as himself—a man who had passed through so many troubled epochs, who had served with the same obsequious countenance all the masters who would accept his services—to think that such a man should have been thus duped and betrayed!
“It must be that old imbecile, the Duc de Sairmeuse, who has manoeuvred so skilfully, and with so much address,” he said. “But who advised him? I cannot imagine who it could have been.”
Who it was Mme. Blanche knew only too well.
She recognized Martial’s hand in all this, as Marie-Anne had done.
“Ah! I was not deceived in him,” she thought; “he is the great diplomatist I believed him to be. At his age to outwit my father, an old politician of such experience and acknowledged astuteness! And he does all this to please Marie-Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. “It is the first step toward obtaining pardon for the friends of that vile creature. She has unbounded influence over him, and so long as she lives there is no hope for me. But, patience.”
She was patient, realizing that he who wishes to surely attain his revenge must wait, dissimulate,preparean opportunity, but not force it.
What her revenge should be she had not yet decided; but she already had her eye upon a man whom she believed would be a willing instrument in her hands, and capable of doing anything for money.
But how had such a man chanced to cross the path of Mme. Blanche? How did it happen that she was cognizant of the existence of such a person?
It was the result of one of those simple combinations of circumstances which go by the name of chance.
Burdened with remorse, despised and jeered at, and stoned whenever he showed himself upon the street, and horror-stricken whenever he thought of the terrible threats of Balstain, the Piedmontese innkeeper, Chupin left Montaignac and came to beg an asylum at the Chateau de Sairmeuse.
In his ignorance, he thought that thegrand seigneurwho had employed him, and who had profited by his treason, owed him, over and above the promised reward, aid and protection.
But the servants shunned him. They would not allow him a seat at the kitchen-table, nor would the grooms allow him to sleep in the stables. They threw him a bone, as they would have thrown it to a dog; and he slept where he could.
He bore all this uncomplainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being able to purchase comparative safety at such a price.
But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy of forgetfulness and conciliation in his pocket, he would no longer tolerate the presence of this man, who was the object of universal execration.
He ordered the dismissal of Chupin.
The latter resisted, swearing that he would not leave Sairmeuse unless he was forcibly expelled, or unless he received the order from the lips of the duke himself.
This obstinate resistance was reported to the duke. It made him hesitate; but the necessity of the moment, and a word from Martial, decided him.
He sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse again under any pretext whatever, softening the harshness of expulsion, however, by the offer of a small sum of money.
But Chupin sullenly refused the money, gathered his belongings together, and departed, shaking his clinched fist at the chateau, and vowing vengeance on the Sairmeuse family. Then he went to his old home, where his wife and his two boys still lived.
He seldom left the house, and then only to satisfy his passion for hunting. At such times, instead of hiding and surrounding himself with every precaution, as he had done, before shooting a squirrel or a few partridges, in former times, he went boldly to the Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and brought it home openly, almost defiantly.
The rest of the time he spent in a state of semi-intoxication, for he drank constantly and more and more immoderately. When he had taken more than usual, his wife and his sons generally attempted to obtain money from him, and if persuasions failed they resorted to blows.
For he had never given them the reward of his treason. What had he done with the twenty thousand francs in gold which had been paid him? No one knew. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but they tried in vain to wrest his secret from him.
All the people in the neighborhood were aware of this state of affairs, and regarded it as a just punishment for the traitor. Mme. Blanche overheard one of the gardeners telling the story to two of his assistants:
“Ah, the man is an old scoundrel!” he said, his face crimson with indignation. “He should be in the galleys, and not at large among respectable people.”
“He is a man who would serve your purpose,” the voice of hatred whispered in Blanche’s ear.
“But how can I find an opportunity to confer with him?” she wondered. Mme. Blanche was too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his house, but she remembered that he hunted occasionally in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might be possible for her to meet him there.
“It will only require a little perseverance and a few long walks,” she said to herself.
But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperon, two long weeks of almost continued walking.
“Another freak!” groaned the poor relative, overcome with fatigue; “my niece is certainly crazy!”
But one lovely afternoon in May Blanche discovered what she sought.
It was in a sequestered spot near the lake. Chupin was tramping sullenly along with his gun and glancing suspiciously on every side! Not that he feared the game-keeper or a verbal process, but wherever he went, he fancied he saw Balstain walking in his shadow, with that terrible knife in his hand.
Seeing Mme. Blanche he tried to hide himself in the forest, but she prevented it by calling:
“Father Chupin!”
He hesitated for a moment, then he paused, dropped his gun, and waited.
Aunt Medea was pale with fright.
“Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “why do you call that terrible man?”
“I wish to speak with him.”
“What, Blanche, do you dare——”
“I must!”
“No, I cannot allow it.Imust not——”
“There, that is enough,” said Blanche, with one of those imperious glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite enough.”
Then, in gentler tones:
“I must talk with this man,” she added.
“You, Aunt Medea, will remain at a little distance. Keep a close watch on every side, and if you see anyone approaching, call me, whoever it may be.”
Aunt Medea, submissive as she was ever wont to be, obeyed; and Mme. Blanche advanced toward the old poacher, who stood as motionless as the trunks of the giant trees around him.
“Well, my good Father Chupin, what sort of sport have you had to-day?” she began, when she was a few steps from him.
“What do you want with me?” growled Chupin; “for you do want something, or you would not trouble yourself about such as I.”
It required all Blanche’s determination to repress a gesture of fright and of disgust; but, in a resolute tone, she replied:
“Yes, it is true that I have a favor to ask you.”
“Ah, ha! I supposed so.”
“A mere trifle which will cost you no trouble and for which you shall be well paid.”
She said this so carelessly that one would really have supposed the service was unimportant; but cleverly as she played her part, Chupin was not deceived.
“No one asks trifling services of a man like me,” he said coarsely.
“Since I have served the good cause, at the peril of my life, people seem to suppose that they have a right to come to me with their money in their hands, when they desire any dirty work done. It is true that I was well paid for that other job; but I would like to melt all the gold and pour it down the throats of those who gave it to me.
“Ah! I know what it costs the humble to listen to the words of the great! Go your way; and if you have any wickedness in your head, do it yourself!”
He shouldered his gun and was moving away, when Mme. Blanche said, coldly:
“It was because I knew your wrongs that I stopped you; I thought you would be glad to serve me, because I hate the Sairmeuse.”
These words excited the interest of the old poacher, and he paused.
“I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuse now—but——”
“But what!”
“In less than a month you will be reconciled. And you will pay the expenses of the war and of the reconciliation? That old wretch, Chupin——”
“We shall never be reconciled.”
“Hum!” he growled, after deliberating awhile. “And if I should aid you, what compensation will you give me?”
“I will give you whatever you desire—money, land, a house——”
“Many thanks. I desire something quite different.”
“What? Name your conditions.”
Chupin reflected a moment, then he replied:
“This is what I desire.Ihave enemies—I do not even feel safe in my own house. My sons abuse me when I have been drinking; my wife is quite capable of poisoning my wine; I tremble for my life and for my money. I cannot endure this existence much longer. Promise me an asylum in the Chateau de Courtornieu, and I am yours. In your house I shall be safe. But let it be understood, I will not be ill-treated by the servants as I was at Sairmeuse.”
“It shall be as you desire.”
“Swear it by your hope of heaven.”
“I swear.”
There was such an evident sincerity in her accent that Chupin was reassured. He leaned toward her, and said, in a low voice:
“Now tell me your business.”
His small gray eyes glittered with a demoniac light; his thin lips were tightly drawn over his sharp teeth; he was evidently expecting some proposition to murder, and he was ready.
His attitude showed this so plainly that Blanche shuddered.
“Really, what I ask of you is almost nothing,” she replied. “I only wish you to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes; my husband. I wish to know what he does, where he goes, and what persons he sees. I wish to know how each moment of his time is spent.”
“What! seriously, frankly, is this all that you desire of me?” Chupin asked.
“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided. It depends upon circumstances what action I shall take.”
“You can rely upon me,” he responded; “but I must have a little time.”
“Yes, I understand. To-day is Saturday; will you be ready to report on Thursday?”
“In five days? Yes, probably.”
“In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at this same hour.”
A cry from Aunt Medea interrupted them.
“Someone is coming!” Mme. Blanche exclaimed. “Quick! we must not be seen together. Conceal yourself.”
With a bound the old poacher disappeared in the forest.
A servant had approached Aunt Medea, and was speaking to her with great animation.
Blanche hastened toward them.
“Ah! Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the servant, “we have been seeking you everywhere for three hours. Your father, monsieur le marquis—mon Dieu! what a misfortune! A physician has been summoned.”
“Is my father dead?”
“No, Mademoiselle, no; but—how can I tell you? When the marquis went out this morning his actions were very strange, and—and—when he returned——”
As he spoke the servant tapped his forehead with the end of his forefinger.
“You understand me, Mademoiselle—when he returned, reason had fled!”
Without waiting for her terrified aunt, Blanche darted in the direction of the chateau.
“How is the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant whom she met.
“He is in his room on the bed; he is more quiet now.”
She had already reached his room. He was seated upon the bed, and two servants were watching his every movement. His face was livid, and a white foam had gathered upon his lips. Still, he recognized his daughter.
“Here you are,” said he. “I was waiting for you.”
She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, although she was neither tender-hearted nor impressionable.
“My father!” she faltered. “Good heavens! what has happened?”
He uttered a discordant laugh.
“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; have I not seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month—for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees. I was returning slowly, thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to bar my passage.
“‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired——”
The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and persistent look that is said to exercise such power over those who have lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said, almost roughly:
“Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.”
Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name.
But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative.
“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who confronted me. I am sure of it, and the proof is, that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with theemigres. My property had been confiscated; and every moment I was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house. He concealed me; he furnished me with a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head—I sentenced him to death. That is the reason why I have seen him again. I must rejoin him; he told me so—I am a dying man!”
He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and, lying there, rigid and motionless, one might readily have supposed it was a corpse, whose outlines could be vaguely discerned through the bed-coverings.
Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances.
Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur.
Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said:
“It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?”
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been killed.”
“How do you know this?”
“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.”
The worthyvalet de chambrewas certainly more agitated than the daughter.
“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”
The servant shook his head.
“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man—Chupin.”
“No, it could not have been he.”
“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.”
Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from him.
She was silent. In a few moments the physician arrived.
He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face—he was almost compelled to use force to do it—examined the patient with evident anxiety, then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. All was bustle and confusion.
When the physician left the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him.
“Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look.
With considerable hesitation, he replied:
“People sometimes recover from such attacks.”
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lostprestigewas now afforded her. If she desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must improvise for herself an entirely different reputation. If she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once.
Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching and delicate attentions upon a sick father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment. It was only with great difficulty that they could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the sick-room.
But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slow the day appointed for the meeting was in coming!
It came at last, however, and after intrusting her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape.
The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place.
“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche.
“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.”
“What! you have not watched the marquis?”
“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow. But what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize him! He is always busy now. He is up at cock-crow and he goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he receives all who call upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove in with him. He has reinstated five or six of them, and he has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”
He paused and for more than a minute Blanche was silent. She was confused and agitated by the question that rose to her lips. What humiliation! But she conquered her embarrassment, and turning away her head to hide her crimson face, she said:
“But he certainly has a mistress!”
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh.
“Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an audacious familiarity that made Blanche shudder. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie-Anne?”
Blanche felt that denial was useless.
“Yes,” she answered; “it is Marie-Anne that I mean.”
“Ah, well! she has been neither seen nor heard from. She must have fled with another of her lovers, Maurice d’Escorval.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs only Jean remains, and he lives like the vagabond that he is, by poaching and stealing. Day and night he rambles through the woods with his gun on his shoulder. He is frightful to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me, my account will be settled then and there.”
Blanche turned pale. It was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis then. She did not doubt it in the least.
“Very well!” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, probably. I must know. Endeavor to discover her retreat before Monday, when I will meet you here again.”
“I will try,” Chupin answered.
He did indeed try; he exerted all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was fettered by the precautions which he took against Balstain and against Jean Lacheneur. On the other hand, no one in the neighborhood would have consented to give him the least information.
“Still no news!” he said to Mme. Blanche at each interview.
But she would not yield. Jealousy will not yield even to evidence.
Blanche had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, hence it must be so, all proofs to the contrary notwithstanding.
But one morning she found her spy jubilant.
“Good news!” he cried, as soon as he saw her; “we have caught the minx at last.”