The calm continued for nearly a month; and though an occasional fit of gloom would fall upon Monsieur de Villardin, it disappeared on every occasion ere it had lasted many hours. So much, indeed, did the harmony of the family now seem restored, that Father Ferdinand, although he had agreed to fix his residence permanently in the house of his friend, took advantage of the tranquillity which he had so greatly tended to re-establish, in order to visit Rennes, and arrange his affairs in that city before he finally settled at Dumont.
The situation of Madame de Villardin, and her appearance, became every day more interesting; and although I could at times see a shade come over the countenance of her husband while, as he gazed upon her, some unworthy suspicion crossed his mind, yet, in general, he seemed to regard her with that increased tenderness and interest which every man must, or ought to feel towards a being they love, under such circumstances. The medical attendants of the Duchess had strongly enjoined her to take as much exercise on foot as possible; and, followed by a servant carrying a small garden seat, she continued her walks through the park, resting whenever she found herself tired, and proceeding again when she felt able. In many of these walks the Duke himself accompanied her, and still more frequently joined her at one of her halting places. All this bespoke renewed affection and confidence; and I too certainly hoped and believed that the demon which had caused so much unhappiness in our household was quelled for ever. Such was the state of affairs when one day, by the Duke's desire, I set out to visit Avranches and St. Malo, the latter of which places I had a strong desire to see. My little tour lasted four days; but nothing of any interest occurred in its course, except an accidental interview which I had at St. Malo with an acquaintance I certainly did not expect to see so soon again and in such a place. After having visited the port, and perambulated such of the fortifications as I was permitted to see, I retired to the house of one of those aubergistes, whose hospitable dwellings are ever ready to receive the money of successful captains just returned from the sea; and there, sitting down in the general receptacle of guests, I ordered my dinner, which was set before me by the servants with all the promptitude of men accustomed to deal with a hungry and impatient race.
Scarcely had I begun to eat, when a gaily-dressed personage entered, and placing himself nearly opposite to me, ordered his dinner also, in a tone of authority which was answered with due respect by the garçon, with, "Yes, captain--not a moment, captain--directly, captain." This new guest was a strong, square-built man, with a face that any one would have unscrupulously pronounced a frank, open countenance; but as soon as my eyes rested upon it--although his whole garb and appearance was perfectly naval--yet I thought that I had seen him filling the office of captain in the land service rather than the marine. He caught me gazing at him, and, as he did so, a slight frown curled his brow; but as I did not usually respect frowns particularly, I only smiled in return, and proceeded tranquilly to the discussion of my dinner. Before I had proceeded far, however, my acquaintance seemed to have made up his mind as to his conduct; and, taking a moment when the room was full of different persons, he exclaimed, after fixing his eyes upon me for a moment, "I think, monsieur, I have had the honour of meeting you before."
"I think so also," I replied, making an inclination of the head: "your face is familiar to me, though I really cannot tell where I have seen it."
"The same is my case," replied he, "in regard to you; but, at all events, you see that I have abandoned the profession of arms, which I followed till within the last six months, and have become a humble captain of a merchant vessel trading to the colonies."
"I admire the versatility of your talents," said I, assuming the same tone, though doubting greatly the truth of the tale he told me; "you must have acquired a knowledge of naval matters quickly; for now I remember you were, when last I saw you, a very distinguished, active, and expeditious officer in the service to which you were then attached."
"Oh, monsieur, you are too flattering," he replied; "and, in regard to my versatility, too, do me more honour than I deserve; for, to tell the truth, I was originally brought up in the navy. You doubt me," he added, in a lower tone, "and perhaps doubt the whole story, but it is true, nevertheless. I have, indeed," he continued aloud, "condescended to go into the merchant service, but it is only on condition that my ship be armed, and one of the finest on the water. I should be proud to show her to you, sir. We sail at high water, which will be in an hour; and if you will come with me to the port, you shall see us get under weigh."
I very well comprehended that it might not be quite agreeable to Captain Hubert, with whom I had made a somewhat interesting acquaintance in a certain forest near Rennes, to leave a person who knew his former pursuits so well as I did, to walk unwatched through the town of St. Malo, at least till such time as he himself had fairly sailed; the merchant service, it appeared, being his real occupation at the present moment. To put his mind at ease, therefore, as it certainly never entered into my head to betray him, I agreed to walk with him to the port; and, after he had concluded his dinner, which was interrupted by the applications of half a dozen clerks, and twice the number of seamen, all proving that his tale was true, we turned our steps towards the spot where his vessel was lying.
Near the door of the auberge I saw the servant who had accompanied me thither, and whom I had left to take care of himself. I now, however, made him a sign to follow, and we thus proceeded to the port, which was crowded with people of all kinds, every one busy on their own peculiar affairs, and seeming to think that there was nobody else in the world but themselves. Here the worthy captain pointed out to me his vessel, which, indeed, was of a goodly size, and, apparently, well armed; and it being now time that he should embark, he gave me a friendly invitation to go with him and take a hasty view of the interior. This honour, however, I declined; and, playfully catching me by the collar, he declared I should go, pushing me at the same time towards his boat with an air of jest, but at the same with sufficient force to hurry me on a step or two, before I was aware. The spectators laughed at the good-humoured captain's badinage; but I, who had seen more of his jests than pleased me, laid my hand upon my dagger, and beckoned the groom towards me, saying, at the same time, "Let go my collar, my good sir, while the matter is a joke! You know I am hasty."
"Oh, if you take it in that light," replied the other, seeing the groom running up, "you are, of course, free to do as you like. But, remember!" he added, in a low, deep voice, "Remember!"
"Pshaw!" I replied, in the same tone, "do not be afraid; I will not betray you."
"I trust you," he said; "I trust you;" and, springing into his boat, he was instantly rowed off to his ship, leaving me to congratulate myself on having escaped a trip to the colonies, where most likely I should have been treated more as the merchandise than the merchant.[3]
Amused with my adventure, I returned to my auberge, where I asked one or two questions concerning the worthy gentleman from whom I had just parted, and found, by the replies, that, since our former rencontre in the forest, he had already made one successful trip across the Atlantic, and had given every sort of satisfaction to the owners of his vessel. "All is well that ends well," I thought; but, however, it was no business of mine to interfere with a man's return to an honest profession, and therefore, of course, I held my peace concerning one, at least, of his previous occupations.
The next morning at an early hour, I set off on my return to Dumont, pleased with my whole expedition, and trusting, foolishly, to find everything in the same state of tranquillity which had reigned there when I left it. As I rode on, and entered the park by the gates near Juvigny, all appeared sunshine and brightness, and there was an aspect of calm serenity about the whole place which rendered it almost impossible to conceive that it was the abode of anything but happiness. About half way up the avenue I perceived Monsieur de Villardin approaching towards me, with his arms crossed on his breast, and a sort of staggering, uncertain step, which seemed to me extraordinary. I immediately dismounted, and, giving the horse to the groom, advanced on foot to meet the Duke, who evidently saw me, but suddenly turning away, he took a path into one of the side alleys; and seeing that he wished to be alone, I remounted my horse and rode on to the château. The first person I saw in the house was Gaspard de Belleville, who passed me in the vestibule, with a sort of grin upon his countenance, which made me fear that matters were not going so well as I could wish; for I had remarked that his smiles were not, in general, the precursors of anything very pleasant to myself.
The feeling, indeed, that some disagreeable event had occurred was vague; but I had always found it the best plan to make instant inquiries into the situation of affairs around me, as soon as ever I had the slightest suspicion that anything had gone amiss. Without even proceeding to my own apartments, therefore, I directed my steps, at once, to the room of my domestic oracle, the major-domo, and entered unannounced. The old man was busy with papers and accounts; but the moment he saw me he threw them down upon the table, and, lifting up his hands with an air of affliction, he exclaimed, "It has all gone wrong again, sir; it has all gone wrong."
"Why, what, in Heaven's name, is the matter now, Jerome?" I demanded. "When I left you, all bade fair to continue tranquil and at peace."
"Ay! but there is some demon of mischief at work in the house," replied the old man, "whose machinations we don't understand. My lord is a thousand times worse than ever. Indeed, he hardly appears to me to be sane."
This news, as it may well be supposed, grieved me deeply; but, of course, my first thought was to discover the origin of the change that had taken place, in order, if possible, to counteract any evil that might have been produced either by accident or by design. "Tell me, good Jerome," I said, as the old man was going on with desultory lamentations and vague facts, "tell me exactly what has occurred since I went away, step by step, as nearly as you can remember it."
"Why, my son," he replied, "I have very little to tell, except what I have before said, that my lord seems nearly insane. However, let me see! The only thing that occurred worth noticing the day after you went away was, that in returning from Juvigny, where I had been visiting my nephew, late in the evening, I found Master Gaspard and Madame Suzette, my lady's maid, in one of the alleys of the park a great deal more intimate than I liked. I had seen something of the same kind before at the Prés Vallée, and then, though I did not choose to show myself in the matter, I took good care that my lady should know what was going on; and I know that she scolded Suzette severely, and threatened to discharge her if she behaved so lightly. However, there they were again, walking along together, certainly more like two lovers than a page of good birth and a lady's tiring-woman ought to be. Coming upon them suddenly, I passed by without their well seeing who I was; but I heard him say to her, speaking of some one else, 'Oh! he would take fire at it in a minute; anything of that kind would do very well.' This time I thought it my bounden duty to tell my lady myself what I had seen, and she was very angry indeed. The morning after that, as I was just going up the great staircase, I heard a terrible noise in my mistress's dressing-room, and the next moment my master passed me like a madman; while I saw Lise, the other maid, running out of my mistress's room as if for help. The moment she set eyes upon me, she called me to come up and help her; and I found my mistress lying upon the floor of her dressing-room, as if she were dead; while beside her there was a large roll of bright blue riband, which seemed to have fallen out of her hand. While we were lifting her up to put her on the couch, my lord rushed in again, and, giving a glance at her as if she had been a viper, snatched up the riband, and left us to bring her to herself as we best could. She did not recover for some time; and I thought it but right to call the doctor, who kept her to her bed all that day. In the meanwhile, I asked Lise to explain the cause of all this discomfort; and she told me that she knew but little, not having heard all that passed between my lady and my lord. When first she went into her mistress's dressing-room, she said, she found Suzette persuading her mistress to have her white mantle trimmed with that blue riband; and, though her mistress said it would look ugly, still she held it in her hand. In a minute or two afterwards, Suzette went away, and the Duchess asked Lise whether she thought the riband would look well on the mantle. Just while they were speaking, in came my lord, and Lise went on into the bed-room beyond; but, in a moment after, she heard a word or two about the riband, and my lord gave my lady some hard names which she would not repeat. Hearing some one fall, she ran in, she said, to see, and found the Duchess as I have told you she was when I came there. Ever since that time, my lord has been like one distracted; and though he saw his wife yesterday, he spoke not a word to her, but all the time he was in the room, he continued playing with the curls of Mademoiselle's hair, and thinking of something else."
Although I saw more deeply into the mystery than good old Jerome Laborde, and felt afraid, indeed, that he himself might unintentionally have contributed to bring about the change that we both deplored, yet there were many points of the whole business still dark and obscure even to myself. That the discovery of a riband in the hands of his wife, of the same colour, and probably the same shade, as that which suspended the locket to the neck of the unfortunate Count de Mesnil, had revived in the mind of Monsieur de Villardin, with more tremendous force than ever, those suspicions which the exhortations of Father Ferdinand and mv own direct testimony to the Duchess's conduct had crushed with difficulty, I did not in the least doubt. Nor had I more hesitation in concluding that Gaspard's hatred of myself, and desire to supplant me in the confidence of Monsieur de Villardin, together with the offence which the Duchess's rebuke in regard to the page had given Suzette, were sufficient motives for the lovers, or paramours, or whatever they might be, to combine in fostering the suspicions of Monsieur de Villardin against his wife, and thus revenging themselves upon her while they rendered themselves agreeable to him. But how they came by the knowledge necessary to make such schemes effectual was, I confess, a wonder to me. Could Monsieur de Villardin, I asked myself, could he have been weak enough to confide in Gaspard de Belleville the secret of his encounter with the Count de Mesnil, and the discovery of the locket and its contents? or could either Gaspard or Suzette have watched our proceedings on that occasion, or have overheard any of the conversations relating to it which had taken place between myself and the Duke? The first supposition I rejected at once, for it was impossible to believe that Monsieur de Villardin would trust to the ear of one, whom he himself suspected of having betrayed his confidence in former instances, a secret which, from the concealment and privacy that had attended the duel, might, in all probability, involve his own life. Neither could I, in calling to mind with the most scrupulous accuracy every circumstance relating to the transaction, believe that we had either been watched, or that any of our words had been overheard. The spot where the duel had taken place was so remote and private, everything in the house had been so much in its usual train when we returned, that, certainly, no one could have followed us from the château to the place of combat; and any conversations that had taken place upon the subject afterwards had always been carried on in low tones, and in places where it was almost impossible that they could be overheard.
All this perplexed me greatly; and, although good Jerome Laborde pressed eagerly for my opinion, I could neither give him insight into the past, nor advice concerning the future. All that I could suggest was, that, with the very first opportunity, he should send off notice of what had occurred to Father Ferdinand, who might boldly originate the subject in conversation with the Duke, without waiting till he was addressed upon it. This, of course, neither Jerome Laborde nor I dared attempt; though we naturally determined to do our best, should the occasion of serving the unhappy Duchess present itself.
The means of sending off speedily to Father Ferdinand were, luckily, found without difficulty; for, though we could not risk despatching a servant to him from the château, yet Jerome saw that another messenger might be procured by the intervention of Jacques Marlot.
Under these circumstances, I determined to write to the Priest myself; and, having done so, I committed the letter to the hands of the good major-domo, who undertook that it should go, at the latest, the next morning. All this occupied some time, and it was now growing late; but yet the Duke had not returned. Another hour elapsed; supper-time arrived; and, although one of the most regular men in his habits that I ever saw, still Monsieur de Villardin did not appear. The whole household became alarmed; and Madame de Villardin herself, whom some one foolishly informed of the facts, gave herself completely up to terror; and, weeping bitterly, came down to the hall in order to send out people to seek for her husband. At that moment, however, Monsieur de Villardin's step was heard in the vestibule; and immediately afterwards he entered the hall.
He took but little notice of his wife, merely asking, "Why are you weeping, madam?" and after her reply, that she was apprehensive for his safety, he cast down his eyes and stood musing, in the middle of the hall, for two or three minutes, which seemed perfect ages to those who were the spectators of so painful a scene. Then, starting suddenly, he looked round frowningly upon myself and several of the servants, who were gazing upon him in surprise and sorrow, and sat down to table unwashed, and in his dusty dress.
He seemed, however, by this time to have recovered some kind of command over his demeanour, and appeared eager to prevent the servants, whose astonishment he saw that he had excited, from remarking that there was anything in his behaviour different from his ordinary habits. He spoke to Madame de Villardin frequently during supper, to which she sat down with him, using, as he addressed her, all those forms of cold courtesy and politeness, which none knew better how to employ than himself. To me, also, he spoke once or twice concerning my late expedition; and evidently strove, with a desperate effort, to appear attentive to my replies. It was in vain, however, that he did so; for he continually relapsed into deep thought, every two or three minutes rousing himself violently from his reveries, and then falling back again, whether he would or not, into a state of dreary abstraction.
The next morning, a new change seemed to have taken place in his mood, for he came down perfectly himself, collected, and firm. He was quick and stern, it is true, but that was a frame of mind in which we had all often remarked him, and thought there was now, perhaps, something more approaching towards fierceness in his manner than we had ever beheld; yet this demeanour was so much better than the state of the preceding evening, that it appeared a relief.
Several times during the course of the morning I hoped that he was going to speak to me on the subject of his new suspicions, for more than once he looked earnestly, I may call it wildly, in my face; and once, when he had done so during a longer space than ever, he suddenly broke off, and turned away, muttering, "No, no! myself alone!"
I eagerly watched his conduct to Madame de Villardin during dinner, and saw that it was certainly very different from that of the night before--keen and rapid, but no longer harsh and abstracted. Yet though the Duchess herself seemed delighted with the change, and did all she could to soften him still farther, there appeared to me something not natural in his manner, which alarmed me, and I determined to walk down to Juvigny in order to make sure that the letter had been despatched to Father Ferdinand, for whose coming I prayed more fervently than I had ever done for the presence of any other man in my life. The reply was satisfactory--a messenger having been sent off to Rennes at an early hour; and I felt certain, though it might be late the next day before the Confessor could arrive, that he would not suffer two suns to rise ere he was in the château.
So far relieved was the mind of Madame de Villardin by the alteration in her husband's conduct, which she apparently trusted would now return to its ordinary course, that she began to resume her usual habits; and, accompanied by her little girl, took her stated walk in the cool of the evening; for it was now the month of May, and as warm as June. The Duke was shut up in his library all day, and, I supposed, alone; but in descending the back staircase--which, leading from my apartments in the wing, passed one of the library doors, and thence to the court behind the château--I encountered Suzette, the Duchess's woman, coming out from a conference with Monsieur de Villardin; and I felt sure, from that moment, that no internal change of feeling had taken place in his bosom, though he might assume, by a great effort, a different demeanour to those around him. To the hour of supper he was this night exact: and though his conversation was evidently forced, and perhaps a little rambling, yet it was fluent and courteous.
After supper, I, as usual, retired to my own apartments, and, full of painful thoughts, turned to the window, and gazed out upon the park as it lay before me, sleeping in the calm moonlight. I had not been there a moment, when a figure appeared upon the terrace, which I instantly recognised as that of Monsieur de Villardin. With a quick and irregular pace he descended the flight of steps that led into the garden, crossed it towards the park, and in a minute after was lost to my view in one of the dark alleys. Never did I feel so tempted to play the spy; but though I was conscious that the motive was not an evil one, yet my mind revolted from the thought, and casting off my clothes, I went to bed.
The next morning and day passed much in the same manner; but, about half an hour before dusk, while Madame de Villardin was preparing for her evening walk, the Duke himself set out on foot before her, saying to his wife, as he left the saloon, in which I happened to be at the time, "As you are not going to take Laura with you to-night, if you come down the walk by the water side, I will meet you. Our young friend here will accompany you!"
Madame de Villardin's joy at these words almost overflowed at her eyes; and though she had never said she was not about to take her little girl with her as the Duke implied, yet she determined to follow his words exactly, and leaving Mademoiselle to play in the flower-garden, under the superintendence of Suzette, she set out about ten minutes after her husband, accompanied by myself alone. She walked but slowly, and rested about half way down the walk; but although the sun was below the horizon, and the light was growing faint, yet the air was so warm and the sky so clear, one could have walked on for hours with far more pleasure than in the full glare of day.
Ere we had again proceeded a dozen yards, we saw Monsieur de Villardin come into the alley as if from the bank of the river; and offering his arm to his wife, he took the garden-seat which I was carrying, and walked on down the alley in silence. A minute or two after, however, as we approached one of the little wooden bridges, he paused, and asked Madame de Villardin whether she was able to walk on a little further on the other side of the river. "I have just now seen a wounded chevreuil," he said, "and wish to put it out of its agony;" and then turning to me, he bade me run back to the house, and bring his carbine, which I should find charged in his dressing-room.
His voice faltered, I observed, as he spoke, and the moment he had done, he turned towards the little bridge which might lie at about fifty or sixty yards from the spot where we stood. A feeling of awe and agitation came over me not to be described, for I had a sort of instant conviction that all was not right; and though I took a few steps towards the château, I paused again almost immediately, not knowing how to act or what to do. Never in my existence did I feel such a painful state of uncertainty; and gazing after Monsieur de Villardin and his fair wife, as they advanced slowly towards the bridge, my mind in a moment ran over a thousand vague apprehensions, probable and improbable, which only left the conviction that something fearful was about to occur, though of what nature I could not divine.
"His carbine!" I thought; "long before I can get back, it will be too dark for him to shoot anything thirty yards from him!" and I resolved to follow, and, pretending I had forgotten what he had said, to ask where the weapon was to be found. When I turned--though, as I have said, it was quite dusk--I could see the figures of Monsieur and Madame de Villardin approaching the river; and walking fast to come up with them, I was within twenty yards of the bridge when they began to cross it. Scarcely, however, had they taken two steps upon the wood-work when I heard a crash, a scream, a plunge, and both figures at once disappeared.
I darted forward to the spot where the bridge had stood, but nothing now remained of it but some broken fragments attached to the piles, which, driven into the high bank, had served as the foundation. The growing obscurity of the twilight, the trees that overhung the banks, the height of the banks themselves, which at that spot rose full twenty feet above the stream, the rushing and rippling of the current, which, there, considerably confined by its bed, hurried on towards a sharp turn which it took about fifty yards below; all served to prevent me seeing distinctly what were the objects on the surface of the water. Fragments of the bridge there certainly were; but I saw neither Madame de Villardin nor her husband, though the whirling of a part of the woodwork in one of the eddies of the river made me for a moment think I beheld the struggles of a living creature. I paused but for a single instant to calculate what were best to do; and then, seeing that there was nothing else to be done, I leaped from the high bank at once into the stream, and as soon as I rose after the first plunge, I struck rapidly down the current, in order, by exceeding its own speed, to come up with whatever objects it was carrying down. Almost at the turn of the river, where the water, in circling round the point, drifted strongly against the bank, which was here again less steep, at least on one side, I saw, amongst some broken pieces of wood, a larger object, impeded in its course down the stream by some projecting stones and roots of trees, and the next moment I grasped the arm of Monsieur de Villardin. He seemed perfectly insensible; but, springing to the shore, I dragged him up the bank, and laid him upon the turf. Still he made no movement; but, as I confess, that from various feelings which I need not explain, I felt more interested in the fate of Madame de Villardin than even in his own, I left him at once, and again plunging into the stream, I swam rapidly round the little peninsula I have mentioned.
The river here was more open, and whatever light was in the sky was reflected clearly from its bosom; but by this time all the fragments of the bridge had drifted out of sight, and in vain lifting my head as high as I could, I attempted to discover any object floating upon the water. Still darting on as fast as my utmost efforts could impel me along the current, I endeavoured to regain the time lost in drawing Monsieur de Villardin on shore; and after a moment, a faint and very distant cry for help caught my ear and encouraged me to strike on. The cry, however, was never repeated; and after swimming till I was perfectly exhausted, I was obliged to abandon the attempt in despair, and landed about a mile below the dwelling of good Jacques Marlot. Thither I directed my steps as fast as possible; and finding the door locked, I knocked for several moments so violently as to bring him himself, with a face of terror, to the gateway. Telling him what had occurred, I besought him to rouse all the servants of the farm and the cotters in the neighbourhood, and dividing into two parties, one on either bank, to search the whole course of the stream with torches and lanterns.
In the meanwhile, I hurried back, and calling the woodcutter at the nearest gate of the park, made him hasten on with me to the spot where I had left Monsieur de Villardin, answering as well as I could the eager questions which he put to me, as we went, concerning the events which had occurred.
We found the Duke exactly where I had left him; but, though he had not moved in the slightest degree, it was evident that he was still alive, for he was breathing loud and hard, like a person in a deep sleep. Taking him up in our arms, we carried him as quickly as we could to the château, when we were instantly surrounded by the whole household; and by the lights which were now brought, we perceived that a severe blow on the head was more probably the cause of his insensibility than the short time he had remained in the water.
Leaving him in the hands of the physician, who for the last month had inhabited the château, attending upon Madame de Villardin, I set out, with the greater part of the household, all furnished with torches; and for three hours continued our search for the body of the unhappy lady, from the spot where the bridge had broken to a village nearly six miles farther down the stream. Our search, however, was in vain; and all feeling that a good mistress, a kind friend, and a gentle lady, was lost to us for ever, we returned, sad and sorrowful, to the château.
The sound of our steps crossing the terrace was heard within the château as we returned from our ineffectual search; and on entering the vestibule, the first object on which my eye fell was the form of Father Ferdinand, advancing to meet me. The natural clear brown of his complexion had now given way to a deadly paleness; and I saw by the haggard anxiety of the noble old man's eye, the tremulous eagerness of his lip, and the agitation that pervaded his whole frame, how deep and heartfelt was the interest which he took in the fate of those to whom he was attached.
"Have you found her?" he cried; "have you found her?"
A mournful silence was the only reply; and the Priest, clasping his hand over his eyes, remained for a moment or two apparently in prayer. When the hand was withdrawn, however, it was clear that tears had mingled with his orisons; and turning away from the gaze of the domestics, he took me by the hand and led me towards the library. There, closing the door, he cast himself into a seat, and gave way to a burst of feeling, which certainly did not lower him in my estimation.
"This is, indeed, terrible," he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. "This is, indeed, most terrible; and even I, who am too well accustomed to witness scenes of death, and crime, and sorrow, am overpowered by this."
"Is Monsieur de Villardin dead, then?" I exclaimed, misunderstanding him. "Is he dead?"
"No, no," replied the Priest, "he is still alive, and likely to live; but I fear me," he added, "is likely to live only to wretchedness and remorse. Tell me, tell me, my son, how did all this happen? for it seems you were the only one present at the time this fatal catastrophe occurred."
To answer his question was more difficult than it would seem at first sight; for it required no small care to avoid mingling the dark suspicions that were in my own mind with the facts that I myself had seen, especially as I perceived that the Priest himself entertained many doubts of the event which had occurred having been purely accidental. All that he could positively know, indeed, must have been obtained from such information as the physician and the domestics had gleaned from the broken account I had given on first returning to the château; but it was evident to me that his own knowledge of foregone facts had led his mind to dark suspicions, for which he now sought, in his conversation with me, either confirmation or disproof. I replied, however, as cautiously as I could, telling him the simple facts as they had happened, but abstaining scrupulously from all remarks. My manner, beyond doubt, was embarrassed, for I would fain have spoken freely with the Priest, and fully believed, even at the time, that I might do so without danger; but I imagined that I had no right to give utterance to the slightest unascertained particular, and therefore evinced a backwardness to explain more than was absolutely necessary, which he instantly remarked.
"Are you deceiving me, my son?" he asked, gravely.
"No, indeed, Father," I answered; "I am telling you the simple truth; but for reasons of my own, you must let me do so without comment, and draw your own deductions from what you yourself know."
"Well, then," he said, after musing a moment, "you say that you were turning back to ask him where his carbine was placed when you saw the accident that occurred. Tell me now, my son, did your never-failing memory and attention abandon you in the present instance; or had you not forgotten, in reality, where he had told you that the weapon was to be found?"
"I had not forgotten," I replied, "and only turned back with that excuse, because I did not wish to leave him just at that moment."
"Then you must have apprehended something," said the Priest; "tell me what it was, and why you did so. You may do so safely, my son; for I pledge my word that your reply never passes my lips."
Thus pressed home, I replied, "Certainly I did apprehend something, good Father; but my apprehensions were quite vague and unformed, pointing to no particular object, and having no very definite cause."
"Then why did you entertain fears at all," demanded Father Ferdinand, "if you had seen nothing to excite them?"
"I had seen much to excite fears of every kind," I answered; "the whole demeanour of Monsieur de Villardin, his altered habits, his look, the fierceness of his manner, the wildness of his eye, all made me fear that he was hardly sane, and that surely was excuse sufficient for general apprehensions."
"It was," said the Priest, "it was; and your conduct was so just and proper in writing to me at first, that I will not believe you conceal anything from me now."
"Father Ferdinand, I will tell you the truth," I rejoined, as he was about to proceed; "I conceal from you no fact of any kind; but I do retain in my own bosom all those deductions which I have made from the same events that I have detailed to you."
"It matters little," he said, "it matters little! The truth of all I shall soon know from this unhappy man, if ever he recover the use of his reason, and in the meantime I will draw my own conclusions."
"Has he been roused from the stupor into which he had fallen?" I asked.
"Completely," answered the Confessor; "but he is now in a state of raving delirium, which is still more fearful. Of course, however, you are at liberty to go and see him; and I do not know that it will not be better for you and me, and old Jerome Laborde, with whom all secrets are safe, to take upon ourselves the entire tendance of the Duke during his illness, than to suffer others, on whose discretion we cannot rely, to wait upon him. Men in delirium often say fearful things, which, whether true or false--whether the breakings forth of long suppressed remorse, or the mere dreamings of a disordered imagination--make deep impression on the hearers, and are often transmitted to others with all the evidence of truth. We had better, perhaps, watch him alone. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," I replied, "and will be guided in all things by your counsel, Father. Would that you had come before to direct us!"
"Would I had!--would I had!" replied the Priest, sadly. "But it was impossible. I set out from Rennes as soon as I received your letter, and travelled even with far more haste than beseemed my age and my profession."
We now repaired to the chamber of Monsieur de Villardin, and made arrangements with the physician--in whom the Confessor appeared to place full confidence--for carrying into execution what had been already proposed. It was at once determined that we should each watch six hours at a time by the couch of the sick man, whose ravings were certainly of a nature to be kept secret as far as possible. Now he would call upon the Count de Mesnil--now use harsh and cruel words, as if towards his wife--now speak of a cunningly devised scheme to end it all at once--now talk of a bloody grave beneath the oak; and, in short, he would let drop a thousand wild and whirling words, which, with all their incoherence, might very well have led to the discovery of much that he would willingly have concealed, and to the suspicion of other acts, of which, perhaps, he was innocent, though he never gave his mind time to remain long enough upon the fearful facts that busied it, to pour forth anything like a coherent tale in regard to either of them.
As the physician had now done his part, and as I bore on my face sufficient traces of fatigue and anxiety, the Confessor took upon himself the first six hours' watch, saying, that while he sat up he would write to the uncle of Madame de Villardin, whose domains were situated in the Orleanois.
I certainly never remember to have been more fatigued, and willingly took advantage of the good Priest's proposal. As I retired with the medical man, however, I asked him eagerly what was the state in which he had found the Duke when we brought him home; and, in reply, he explained to me that though his skull was not fractured, yet a severe concussion of the brain had taken place, from his head having struck, in the fall, either some projecting rock, or some piece of the broken bridge. From the ravings which had since come on, he feared, he said, that there was a tendency to inflammation; and on my pressing to know what would be the result, he shook his head doubtingly, saying, that the result was in the hands of God alone; he himself could not venture to give an opinion on the subject.
I did not sleep more than four or five hours, and on rising, proceeded towards the apartments of Monsieur de Villardin, in order to take my place by his bedside. I found old Jerome Laborde already there, however; who, having been made aware of the arrangements of the preceding night, had come about half an hour before to relieve the Priest. By this time, the Duke had fallen into a quiet sleep, from which I augured well; and leaving the old major-domo to hold out his watch, I descended to the saloon, feeling most oppressively that deep and shadowy gloom which always seems to fall over a house where such a sudden and fatal event has taken place as that which distinguished the foregoing evening. The low voice in which every one spoke when they met, the stealthy pace with which every one moved about the mansion, the stillness which pervaded the whole place, expressed the sense of awe that was felt by every bosom, and had something awful in itself.
All this struck me much as I descended the stairs; but on entering the saloon, there was something more painful still to be encountered. The little Laura de Villardin was playing near one of the windows with some trinkets of her mother's, but the moment I entered, she ran up to me with open arms, and holding up her fair face towards me, exclaimed, "Oh! tell me--tell me, where is mamma? Suzette says she is dead, and I shall never see her again. What doesdeadmean? Where is she gone to?"
It was impossible to hear such questions calmly; and for the first time since my father's death, I wept like a child. Suzette herself now entered the saloon, and for a moment her eyes and mine met. Whether what I felt towards her was very visibly expressed in my glance or not, I cannot tell, but she turned extremely red, and casting down her eyes, caught the little girl by the arm and drew her rudely out of the room. In truth, I was not sorry to be spared more questions; and taking my hat, I walked forth into the park.
The morning was as warm and bright as that of the preceding day; and a feeling of painful curiosity impelled me directly towards the spot where the accident had occurred on the night before. I followed the exact path which I had pursued with Madame de Villardin, and as I turned from the lateral alley where we had met the Duke, into the short path which led to the broken bridge, I suddenly saw the form of Father Ferdinand standing at the very point to which I was directing my steps. He turned round as I approached, and without any apparent surprise beckoned me towards him. I walked on at once; and for two or three minutes after I had come up, we stood gazing together in silence upon all that remained of the wooden arch which had there spanned across the river, and which I myself had passed over on horseback not five days before. Very little of it was now to be seen, for full twelve feet of the centre had fallen into the river and had been carried away; but enough still remained attached to the piles at the sides to show, in some degree, the manner of the accident, though not the cause. The nails which had fixed the cross supports to the rafters had either given way or had been drawn out; and the two main beams which upheld the whole, having been deprived of everything that strengthened them, had broken at the side nearest the château, and, dragged down by their own weight from the piles on the other bank of the river, had fallen with the rest of the wood-work into the current, and been carried away.
A part, however, of one of them remained, as I have said, attached to the side where we stood; and after contemplating the whole for some time in silence, the Priest laid his hand upon my arm, as he saw my eyes fixed upon the broken beams, and he asked, in a tone half stern, half sorrowful, "Do you remark nothing there, my son?"
I stooped down and looked more closely, but still kept silence; and he added, "Then I will ask you, in plainer terms, do you not perceive the marks of a saw?"
"I am afraid I do," replied I, rising up.
"It is enough," he said, and with his foot pushed the fragments of the beams over into the water, which was easily accomplished, as all that held them had already been nearly wrenched out by the breaking down of the rest of the bridge. Father Ferdinand and myself gazed at each other for several moments with sad and bitter hearts, and then, feeling that nothing more need be said between us, we each turned on our way without another word. Father Ferdinand took the path back to the château, but I walked on towards Juvigny, in the sad hope of hearing from good Jacques Marlot that the body of Madame de Villardin had been found. On my arrival, however, I learned that Madame Marlot herself, who, it seems, was in a delicate situation, had been so agitated and alarmed by all the disturbance and anxiety of the preceding night, as to be obliged to keep her bed that morning; and the large-nosed Bretonne servante, who gave me these tidings, added, that her master was gone over to the gate of the convent, and that I should certainly meet him there if I walked that way.
I did as she suggested, and met Jacques Marlot returning from the convent; but he informed me that no trace had been discovered of the body of Madame de Villardin; and as his wife was ill, I turned back towards the château. As I passed by the bridge again, I found Gaspard de Belleville, and one or two of the servants, examining the spot where the fatal event had occurred; and it was not difficult for me to perceive that the whole household looked upon the page and myself as irreconcilable enemies, by the manner in which the servants drew away from his side when I approached. As I had most scrupulously avoided mentioning even his name to any one when not absolutely called upon to do so, it must have been from Gaspard himself that the domestics had learned that any degree of enmity existed between us. At all events, their having discovered the fact was by no means to his advantage; for as my good will was of more value in the family than his, from the circumstances in which I stood in regard to the Duke, my favour was of course more courted, and it often happened that it was courted at his expense.
As I wished to be asked no questions upon the subject, I passed on, without noticing any one, and after an hour or two spent in the melancholy rooms of the château, I went to take the place of good Jerome Laborde. While I watched by Monsieur de Villardin, he woke from the sleep into which he had fallen; but so far from my anticipations of amendment being realized, he appeared infinitely more delirious than ever. His words, however, were now so incoherent and wild, that the most suspicious ear could have drawn no meaning from them; and thus luckily they continued through the rest of his illness. For nearly a fortnight he remained in the same condition, but at the end of that period a material change for the better began to manifest itself, and the ravings to which he had been subject ceased entirely; though by this time he was reduced to a state of infant weakness.
Innumerable visiters had presented themselves at the château, as the tidings spread through the country; and all who could hope to obtain anything by his death were most assiduous and tender in their inquiries. Shortly before he recovered his reason, also, the Count de Loris, the uncle of his late wife--warned of Madame de Villardin's death by a letter from Father Ferdinand, with whom he was well acquainted--appeared at the château, and took up his abode there for the time; but as he had never heard of any dissensions between his niece and her husband, and care was taken not to make him aware of the painful state in which they had lived for the last five or six months, the good old Count expressed, and I believe felt, as much anxiety in regard to Monsieur de Villardin as if he had been his own son. His manners were simple and kind to all around him, and when informed by Father Ferdinand of the share I had borne in several of the late events, he embraced me tenderly, and after thanking me repeatedly, made me relate every particular in regard to the accident which had befallen his unhappy niece. The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as I proceeded, and when I had ended, he said, "If ever I can serve you, young gentleman, let me know. I am a man of few words, but I mean what I say."
I gave him full credit for doing so, and I only did him justice. After the delirium had left Monsieur de Villardin, his health continued to improve every hour; but still it was the most painful convalescence that ever I beheld. He scarcely spoke a word to any one, and his eyes roamed round those that surrounded his bed with a searching and anxious glance, that was terrible to those who understood the feelings in which it arose. When he began to speak again, it was but one word at a time, and even then he confined himself to the name of any object that he wanted at the moment.
As soon as the physician judged it prudent, Monsieur de Loris was brought into his bed-chamber, and took his hand affectionately; but the Duke turned his head away, and pressed his eyes upon the pillows, as if to avoid the sight and all its concomitant ideas. The good old Count went on to comfort him in a kindly tone, but not knowing the truth, he followed the most painful track he could pursue, and by addressing a man who had destroyed his own happiness as he would have done one who suffered alone under the bereaving hand of fate, he poured gall and wormwood into all the consolations he offered.
The shock, however, though terrible, was not without a good effect, for it seemed to rouse the unhappy Duke from the dull despair that overwhelmed him, and, at all events, it broke the first dreadful feelings of returning to scenes which had each its own peculiar associations of agony to pour forth upon him.
Still, the day that he first came forth from his own chamber was full of misery. The sun was shining through all the windows, checkering the staircases and saloons with gay and gladsome light. Under the directions of Father Ferdinand, everything had been removed which had peculiarly belonged to the Duchess, and alterations had been made, in various ways, to break in every direction the chain of associations which we knew could alone prove painful. Monsieur de Villardin's eye, however, still wandered wildly over every object around, and I do not know that it was not really more distressing to him to miss all the objects he expected to see, than it would have been to find them in their accustomed places.
I heard him mutter to himself, "They are all gone!--they are all gone!" and sinking into the fauteuil in which he had been accustomed to sit when in the saloon, he covered his eyes with his hands, and remained musing for several minutes. At that moment the door of the room was gently opened, and Mademoiselle de Villardin, warned and persuaded by every means in our power to be careful of what she said and did, was led in by Monsieur de Loris. The Duke heard the door open, and withdrawing his hand from his eyes, saw his child for the first time since the death of her mother. He had scarcely been able to reach the saloon with the assistance of two people, but when his eyes fell upon his daughter, he started up without aid, sprang forward, and catching her to his heart, burst into a passionate fit of tears.
Father Ferdinand and myself supported him to a seat, but still he held his little girl in his arms, and weeping bitterly, every now and then drew back her head from his bosom to gaze upon her face, which that day bore--or seemed to me to bear--a more striking likeness to her mother than ever I had before remarked. She on her part was silent, but wept too, mingling the tears with which she bedewed her father's bosom with kisses pressed upon his cheek. The physician would fain have put an end to such a scene, but when he proposed to remove the young lady, the Duke turned round, saying mildly, but firmly, "She must remain! It does me good!"
I believe most sincerely that it did, and certainly from that moment his health improved much more rapidly than it had previously done. Each day he regained strength, and gradually, by walking out upon the terrace, and driving forth in a carriage, he acquired sufficient vigour to mount his horse, and thenceforward might be considered well, at least in body.
It was necessary, indeed, that he should recover strength, for there were still many painful things to do which could not be much longer postponed. M. de Loris had now been nearly a month at the château, and was of course anxious to return to his own dwelling; yet, as his niece had brought to Monsieur de Villardin, at her marriage, an estate called Virmont, in the Orleanois, which had been settled upon her with all the peculiar forms and agreements that enter into a French marriage contract, it became necessary to make some arrangements in regard to this property, which of course reverted entirely to her daughter. M. de Loris felt that to speak long upon such a subject would be inflicting much pain upon both the Duke and himself, and therefore he had procrastinated for some days, when, suddenly, one morning, as we were driving out in the neighbourhood, Monsieur de Villardin, who had been agitated by the same feelings, began the conversation himself, and concluded it in fewer words than it otherwise would have required.
"Monsieur de Loris," he said, with a degree of calmness which showed how he had tutored his mind to the point, "I have long thought of speaking to you in regard to Virmont. Although, of course, I am my beloved child's only guardian and protector, yet, under present circumstances, I do not choose to hold the property which is now hers any longer, even as her guardian. It is contiguous to your own land, and I have therefore to request that you would kindly take charge of it, manage the rents, invest them to the best advantage, and make the whole over to Laura when she marries or becomes of age."
The Count made some opposition, although he acknowledged that the confidence of the Duke was highly grateful and flattering to him.
Monsieur de Villardin sighed deeply, but replied, "You must, my dear Count, allow me to have my will in this respect. Accept the trust, I beseech you; and as we may all feel very sure that my remaining years will be few, I have named you in some papers that I drew up yesterday for a still more important charge, which I must entreat you to undertake. It is that of one of the guardians to my child when I am dead."
The reply was such as might be expected, but the conversation ended in Monsieur de Loris accepting both the offices which Monsieur de Villardin put upon him. A few days after, the necessary papers were brought, drawn up in legal form, and having been read in silence by both parties, were duly signed. The next morning the Count de Loris left us, pouring upon Monsieur de Villardin expressions of affection and esteem, every one of which went home to his heart like a dagger. The Duke seemed relieved when he was gone; but there seemed still another painful task to be performed; at least I judged so from the anxious expression of his eyes, as he sometimes turned them upon the face of the Confessor.
At length, one morning, after walking for half an hour upon the terrace, he turned to Father Ferdinand, who at the moment was coming forth into the garden to take his customary stroll with me, and said, "Now, good Father, I am ready, if you can do me the favour."
"It is one that must never be refused, my son," replied the Priest; "I follow you:" and they turned towards the château. Both had become somewhat paler as they spoke; and in about two hours afterwards I was joined by the Priest, with a countenance on which strong and terrible emotions had left traces which could not be mistaken. He tried to appear calm, indeed, and succeeded in a certain degree, by speaking for some time of indifferent things. At length, when he had obtained command of himself, he said, "In the letter which you wrote to me when I was at Rennes, and which brought me so suddenly back to the château, you said, my son, that you really doubted the sanity of Monsieur de Villardin, from the extraordinary change that had come over him. Now tell me truly, I beseech you, was that an expression hazarded without attaching to it its full meaning; or was it your real conviction at the time that the mind of your friend was unhealthily affected? It is of much consequence that I should know."
"I will tell you, my good Father, most sincerely,"--I replied, seeing that the feelings of the Confessor were, in truth, most deeply interested; "Indeed I will give you an answer that will show you I speak without reserve. Did I not believe, then, that during the four or five days preceding the dreadful accident which lately happened, the mind of Monsieur de Villardin was decidedly deranged, I would not stay in his house another hour."
"It is enough, my son, it is enough," replied the Priest. "So thinks the physician,--and so he thinks himself," added the Confessor, in a lower tone; giving what he said more the appearance of a reflection addressed to himself than to me. "And yet," he continued, "his mind must have been dreadfully worked upon by others: at least, it would seem so from all that I can hear in the house."
"The more reason, Father," I replied, "for supposing that their irritating suggestions had affected his brain. People seldom go mad without some cause, unless they are very madly disposed indeed."
The Priest mused; and, after a long pause, he replied, "Well, well, let us always lean to the side of charity. We are all too fallible to judge rigidly."
I saw that the fear of approaching, even in the slightest degree, the facts which had been confided to him under the seal of confession, prevented Father Ferdinand from speaking with me more candidly upon a subject which occupied so great a part in the thoughts of both at that time. Of course I did not press the topic, and the conversation turned to other matters.
What I had said to him was, nevertheless, true; for certainly had I not believed that, for several days before the death of Madame de Villardin, the Duke himself had been positively insane, I would, without hesitation, have restored to him all his gifts, and would have quitted for ever a man to whom I could not help attaching, in my own mind, the darkest of suspicions. But his whole previous conduct had so firmly impressed me with the idea, that at no period between my return from St. Malo and the death of his unhappy wife, had he possessed the complete command of his own reason, that I felt him to be more an object of pity than of censure. Even more--regarding his conduct in this light, and looking upon him as one whose happiness had been cast away for ever, under the influence of mental disease, all that had occurred proved a strong, though mournful tie, which bound me to him more firmly than ever; and when I remembered the promise which I had so shortly before made to this unhappy lady who was now no more, I determined that no time nor circumstances should ever induce me to quit entirely the child that she had left, till I saw her hand given to some one who would have the right and power to protect her. I say that my determination was not to quit herentirely, because the conduct of Monsieur de Villardin towards me, since his recovery had been such, that I knew not whether he either desired my longer abode with him, or whether it was to be upon such terms as I could now alone endure.
Although no son could have attended upon a father with more care and anxiety than I had done upon him, yet he had scarcely addressed ten words to me since his convalescence began. Those that he had spoken, indeed, had always been kind and affectionate; and I had often caught his eyes fixed upon me with a look of intense interest,--mournful, perhaps painful, but still full of regard and feeling. Nevertheless, the strangeness of his silence, which I ought to have attributed to other causes, made me anxious and unhappy; and, as I was not a person to express any of that loud indignation for ill-requited kindness, which is sure to pile contempt upon ingratitude, I frequently thought of asking his permission, calmly and tranquilly, but firmly and urgently, to return to Paris, and to mingle in the scenes of strife and turmoil which were again beginning to agitate the unquiet capital of France.
I was saved, however, from the pain which such a request would have occasioned to us both. On the day following that in the course of which I had reason to believe he had relieved his bosom of the load that weighed upon his heart, and had poured forth both his sorrows and his faults to the ears of the Confessor, he beckoned me immediately after breakfast towards his library, and led the way thither himself. I followed, and closed the door; and as soon as I had done so, he put his hand upon my shoulder, and gazing in my face with an expression of deep grief, he said, "Why--why, my dear boy, did you save my life?--why--why did you preserve me to daily sorrow and continual regret?"
Although I was seldom destitute of a reply, his question might have been a painful one to answer, had not my conversations with Father Ferdinand given me altogether a new view of human life from that which I had formerly entertained.
"My lord," I answered, boldly, "every man, I have heard, has something to repent of in this world, and it is always better to have time here, where repentance avails us, than to go where it is a punishment instead of a penance."
"You say true,--you say true," replied the Duke; "and I thank you for the life you have preserved, as well as for the kindness and the courage which prompted and enabled you to preserve it." He paused for a moment thoughtfully, and then proceeded: "You have thought me cold, unkind, ungrateful, since I have recovered life and health; but it has not been so. I have felt all that you have done for me; I have seen all that you have felt for me; and I have a thousand times longed to thank you for the whole; but ever, when I was about to speak, all the horrible memories which are in your heart and in mine, have risen up before me, and compelled me to silence. I have scarcely had courage even to address you, much less to speak with you on subjects connected with the terrible past."
Such an explanation was more than sufficient, and the pain of it once over, all further difficulty or reserve between us was at an end. He spoke some time longer with me in the library; and though he alluded but vaguely and remotely to the past, yet he did speak of it more than once with that sort of lingering tendency which a man always has to return, in conversation with others, to any subject that occupies all his thoughts when alone. At length, taking a key from the table, he said, "I have a fearful task before me, but one which I promised to execute myself. Nevertheless, I confess my heart so plays the coward with me that I am afraid to enter those rooms alone. You must go with me, at least as far as the ante-room, and wait for me there till my task is concluded."
Although he did not mention what rooms he meant, yet as I had heard from the old major-domo that Father Ferdinand had, with his own hands, closed and sealed the apartments of Madame de Villardin immediately after his arrival at the château, I easily divined that it was to those chambers that the Duke now alluded. I instantly prepared to follow, but still ventured to ask whether he had not better desire the good Priest to accompany him in the sad duty he was about to perform.
He shook his head gloomily, and replied, "No, no, I must go alone;" and then, with a pale cheek and wavering steps, took his way up the great staircase. His hand shook so fearfully that he could scarcely remove the seal, and turn the key in the lock of Madame de Villardin's chamber door; and sitting down in the ante-room he paused for several minutes, in order to gain strength for the undertaking. At length he started up abruptly, exclaiming, "Now!" and entering her bed-room, which communicated with a dressing-room on the other side, he closed the door behind him. Full of sad thoughts, I stood gazing out of the lattice for some time; but at the end of about a quarter of an hour, I heard the ante-room door open, and turning my head round without any noise, perceived Madame Suzette stealing quietly in, and looking about her. As soon as she perceived me she halted; and, with as much abhorrence as ever I felt towards any loathsome reptile in my life, I walked forward, and taking her by the arm, turned her quietly but firmly towards the door.
Thinking, probably, that I was there alone, she seemed about to take some noisy notice of my unceremonious ejection of her pretty person; but, pointing sternly towards the bed-chamber, I whispered, "The Duke is there;" and, glad to get off unobserved, she tripped away as quietly and speedily as possible. I kept my silent and now undisturbed watch in the ante-room for nearly two hours, and all seemed so still and quiet within the chamber beyond, that I began at length to feel alarmed lest the excitement and agitation which Monsieur de Villardin had evidently experienced when he entered, should have overpowered him in the course of his undertaking.
He came forth, however, just as I was about to open the door, and was evidently calmer and more firm than when he had left me, though I should say that the expression of deep, stern grief, which had now become habitual to his countenance, was, if anything, a shade deeper than before.
"Did I not hear another step than yours about an hour ago?" were the first words he spoke. I replied in the affirmative, and told him at once who it was that had intruded. He looked at me for a moment or two with a sort of inquiring glance, as if he sought to read something in my heart ere he himself spoke.
"Suzette!" he said, thoughtfully; "I have been thinking of keeping her here to take charge of Laura."
My feelings burst forth whether I would or not, and I exclaimed, "What! give the care of the daughter to her who calumniated the mother!"
The retort was so sudden and so unexpected that the Duke started; and gazed at me for a moment, with a look in which I thought I could trace no slight anger at my rash exclamation. I had spoken the truth, however, though I had spoken it too boldly and unadvisedly, and I was not to be abashed while such a conviction was at my heart; but casting down my eyes, I waited calmly for the rebuke that I doubted not was to follow. But Monsieur de Villardin paused, and for several moments uttered not a word; till at length, grasping my arm, he said in a low, but emphatic tone,--
"However you made the discovery, young man, you say true. She did calumniate her mistress! For though there is still much to be accounted for, which, probably, will never in this world receive an explanation, yet I were worse than base to doubt the proofs of virtue and of love with which those cabinets have furnished me. I heap coals of fire upon my own head by yielding to the conviction; I inflict the tortures of hell already on my heart by making the acknowledgment; but I own before you, who probably have seen more deeply into my weakness and my madness than any human being, that I did that beloved girl false and shameful wrong, and that from my soul I believe her--now that it is too late--to have been as pure as purity itself."
He trembled as he spoke with the very energy of his feelings, though every tone was as low as a lover's whisper, and when he had concluded, he sank down into a seat, and gazed at vacancy, giving way, I am sure, to all that longing, burning thirst to recal the past, which every one at some time feels amidst the errors and the faults of life.
It was long ere he recovered himself; but when he did so, he called my attention to a letter that he held in his hand, saying, that it concerned me as well as himself. The handwriting was that of Madame de Villardin, and the epistle covered two sheets of paper, one of which he gave me to peruse, after having made an ineffectual effort to read it to me himself. I remember the contents almost word for word, and put down here that part which most interested me at the time.
"I mean not to reproach you, my lord," it went on, after a broken sentence at the top of the page; "far, far from it; and I only thus assert my innocence of even one evil thought; I only thus attempt to prove that I could not have been guilty; I only thus depict all that I have suffered, in order that you may love our children when I am dead, and grant me, in dying, a few not very burdensome requests. I repeat again, that without knowing why, I am convinced that I shall not survive many months. Nor does this conviction arise in the common terror of women in my present situation. On the contrary, I fear not to die; and now that I am deprived of your affection, I have nothing to attach me to the world but the dear child that we both love, and the one which is yet unborn. Still I feel that death is not far from me; and therefore these lines, which will never meet your eye till I am dead, may well be looked upon as my dying words. Oh then, my lord, I beseech you to love the children that I leave you with tender and equal affection; and should a regret at any time cross your mind for sorrows inflicted on their mother, make me atonement by your affection for them. If ever the spirits of the dead be permitted to watch over those they loved while living, my soul shall follow you and our children through existence, and every kind word or deed towards them shall be received as wiping away some unmerited reproach or some harsh act towards myself.
"My next request is, that you would yourself confirm and sanction an engagement which I caused the young Englishman, who has since saved our daughter from a watery grave, to enter into in regard to our children. Your fate, my lord, is, of course, uncertain; and how long you may be permitted to guard and protect them no one can tell. I have heard much of this young gentleman and his history, both from yourself and from others, and I have myself seen that he is always prompt to succour and defend, and that his knowledge of the world, in all its changes and disguises, is extraordinary for one so young. As it is more than probable that he will grow up with our children as an elder brother, I have made him promise that he will never wholly leave them, but will always come forward to give them aid and assistance, wherever you may be, whenever they may need his help. In making this request to him I felt sure that I could not be doing wrong, as the person whom I besought to undertake the task, and whom I entreated, while you acted towards my children as a father, to act towards them as a brother, is one in whom you yourself seem to place the fullest confidence; but I have since been confirmed in what I have done by the opinion of our excellent friend and spiritual guide, Father Ferdinand, who not only assures me that this young gentleman's goodness of heart and rectitude of judgment may be depended on, but undertakes boldly that in case of my death, you shall sanction my conduct, induce him to repeat his promise, and give him every opportunity of executing it, both during your life and after your death.
"My requests, I think, are now all made, except that you would bestow upon my servants the sums which I have written down upon the paper attached to this letter, and that you would assign to the convent of Ursulines at Juvigny the thousand crowns of revenue which, with your consent, I promised them on the birth of our daughter, and which has never been formally made over to them. Besides this, I trust that you will give a thousand livres to the church of St. Peter at Rennes, to be expended in masses for my soul; and as my last request, I beseech you to think of me kindly, and when I am dead, to do that justice to my memory which you have not done to my faith and honour while living."
I could well conceive, as I read these words, how poignantly they must have gone home to the heart of Monsieur de Villardin; and even as I read them in silence before him, I could see from his eye,--which was fixed upon my face, scanning its expression from line to line,--that he again mentally ran over all which that paper contained, and inflicted on his own heart every gentle word as the most severe of punishments.
"Do you undertake the task?" he demanded, when I had done.
"I have already done so, my lord," I replied; "and I never forget my word."
"Your task may become a strange and a difficult one," he said, musing; "but never mind," he added, abruptly, and at the same time rising, "whatever comes of it, so it shall be. I on my part promise, before Heaven and before you, on my hope of pardon, and on my honour as a man, to give you every means of executing what you have undertaken, and to take such measures as will secure you the same opportunity should I die. She said right," he continued, holding out his hand to me; "she said right, poor girl; you do possess my confidence most fully; none ever possessed it so much; and would to God, would to God, that you had possessed it more! Oh, had I but trusted your words! oh God! oh God! that it should now be all beyond recall!" and he groaned bitterly under the torture of remorse.
"Tell me," he cried, after a long pause, "tell me! do you know of any cause which that woman--that Suzette had to hate her mistress?"
"Personally I know of none," I answered; "but, if I mistake not, good old Jerome Laborde could assign sufficient reasons for all her malice."