“Have no fear, Madame,” replied Thibault, who had quite recovered his self-possession, “you have left me nothing to invent on that score.”
“Oh! the vile wretch!” she cried, “you see, I was right; he has got some malicious slander to report about me; he is determined to revenge himself because I would not return his sheep’s-eyes, to punish me because I was not willing to warn my husband that he was paying court to me.” During this speech of Madame Suzanne’s the lord of Vez had picked up his sword and advanced threateningly towards Thibault. But the Bailiff threw himself between them, and held back the Baron’s arm. It was fortunate for Thibault that he did so, for the latter did not move an inch to avoid the blow, evidently prepared at the last moment to utter some terrible wish which would avert the danger from him; but the Bailiff interposing, Thibault had no need to resort to this means of help.
“Gently, my lord!” said the Maître Magloire, “this man is not worthy our anger. I am but a plain citizen myself, but you see, I have only contempt for what he says, and I readily forgive him the way in which he has endeavoured to abuse my hospitality.”
Madame Magloire now thought that her moment had come for moistening the situation of affairs with her tears, and burst into loud sobs.
“Do not weep, dear wife!” said the Bailiff, with his usual kind and simple good-nature. “Of what could this man accuse you, even suppose he had something to bring against you! Of having deceived me? Well, I can only say, that made as I am, I feel I still have favours to grant you and thanks to render you, for all the happy days which I owe to you. Do not fear for a moment that this apprehension of an imaginary evil will alter my behaviour towards you. I shall always be kind and indulgent to you, Suzanne, and as I shall never shut my heart against you, so will I never shut my door against my friends. When one is small and of little account it is best to submit quietly and to trust; one need have no fear then but of cowards and evil-doers, and I am convinced, I am happy to say, that they are not so plentiful as they are thought to be. And, after all, by my faith! if the bird of misfortune should fly in, by the door or by the window, by Saint Gregory, the patron of drinkers, there shall be such a noise of singing, such a clinking of glasses, that he will soon be obliged to fly out again by the way he came in!”
Before he had ended, Madame Suzanne had thrown herself at his feet, and was kissing his hands. His speech, with its mingling of sadness and philosophy, had made more impression upon her than would have a sermon from the most eloquent of preachers. Even the lord of Vez did not remain unmoved; a tear gathered in the corner of his eye, and he lifted his finger to wipe it away, before holding out his hand to the Bailiff, saying as he did so:
“By the horn of Beelzebub! my dear friend, you have an upright mind and a kind heart, and it would be a sin indeed to bring trouble upon you; and if I have ever had a thought of doing you wrong, may God forgive me for it! I can safely swear, whatever happens, that I shall never have such another again.”
While this reconciliation was taking place between the three secondary actors in this tale, the situation of the fourth, that is of the principal character in it, was becoming more and more embarrassing.
Thibault’s heart was swelling with rage and hatred; himself unaware of the rapid growth of evil within him, he was fast growing, from a selfish and covetous man, into a wicked one. Suddenly, his eyes flashing, he cried aloud: “I do notknow what holds me back from putting a terrible end to all this!”
On hearing this exclamation, which had all the character of a menace in it, the Baron and Suzanne understood it to mean that some great and unknown and unexpected danger was hanging over everybody’s heads. But the Baron was not easily intimidated, and he drew his sword for the second time and made a movement towards Thibault. Again the Bailiff interposed.
“My lord Baron! my lord Baron!” said Thibault in a low voice, “this is the second time that you have, in wish at least, passed your sword through my body; twice therefore you have been a murderer in thought! Take care! one can sin in other ways besides sinning in deed.”
“Thousand devils!” cried the Baron, beside himself with anger, “the rascal is actually reading me a moral lesson! My friend, you were wanting a little while ago to spit him like a woodcock, allow me to give him one light touch, such as the matador gives the bull, and I will answer for it, that he won’t get up again in a hurry.”
“I beseech you on my knees, as a favour to your humble servant, my lord,” replied the Bailiff, “to let him go in peace; and deign to remember, that, being my guest, there should no hurt nor harm be done to him in this poor house of mine.”
“So be it!” answered the Baron, “I shall meet him again. All kinds of bad reports are about concerning him, and poaching is not the only harm reported of him; he has been seen and recognised running the forest along with a pack of wolves—and astonishingly tame wolves at that. It’s my opinion that the scoundrel does not always spend his midnights at home, but sits astride a broom-stick oftener than becomes a good Catholic; the owner of the mill at Croyolles has made complaint of his wizardries. However, we will not talk of it any more now; I shall have his hut searched, and if everything there is not as it should be, the wizard’s hole shall be destroyed, for I will not allow it to remain on his Highness’s territory. And now, take yourself off, and that quickly!”
The shoe-maker’s exasperation had come to a pitch during this menacing tirade from the Baron; but, nevertheless, he profited by the passage that was cleared for him, and went out of the room. Thanks to his faculty of being able to see in the dark, he walked straight to the door, opened it, and passed over the threshold of the house, where he had left behind so many fond hopes, now lost for ever, slamming the door after him with such violence that the whole house shook. He was obliged to call to mind the useless expenditure of wishes and hair of the preceding evening, to keep himself from asking that the whole house, and all within it, might be devoured by the flames. He walked on for ten minutes before he became conscious that it was pouring with rain—but the rain, frozen as it was, and even because it was so bitterly cold, seemed to do Thibault good. As the good Magloire had artlessly remarked, his head was on fire.
On leaving the Bailiffs house, Thibault had taken the first road he came to; he had no wish to go in one direction more than another, all he wanted was space, fresh air and movement. His desultory walking brought him first of all on to the Value lands; but even then he did not notice where he was until he saw the mill of Croyolles in the distance. He muttered a curse against its fair owner as he passed, rushed on like a madman between Vauciennes and Croyolles, and seeing a dark mass in front of him, plunged into its depths. This dark mass was the forest.
The forest-path to the rear of Ham, which leads from Croyolles to Préciamont, was now ahead of him, and into this he turned, guided solely by chance.
HEhad made but a few steps within the forest, when he found himself surrounded by his wolves. He was pleased to see them again; he slackened his pace; he called to them; and thewolves came crowding round him. Thibault caressed them as a shepherd might his sheep, as a keeper of the hounds his dogs. They were his flock, his hunting pack; a flock with flaming eyes, a pack with looks of fire. Overhead, among the bare branches, the screech-owls were hopping and fluttering, making their plaintive calls, while the other owls uttered their melancholy cries in concert. The eyes of these night-birds shone like winged coals flying about among the trees, and there was Thibault in the middle of it all, the centre of the devilish circle.
Even as the wolves came up to fawn upon him and crouch at his feet, so the owls appeared to be attracted towards him. The tips of their silent wings brushed against his hair; some of them alighted to perch upon his shoulder.
“Ah!” murmured Thibault, “I am not then the enemy of all created things; if men hate me, the animals love me.”
He forgot what place the animals, who loved him, held in the chain of created beings. He did not remember that these animals which loved him, were those which hated mankind, and which mankind cursed.
He did not pause to reflect that these animals loved him, because he had become among men, what they were among animals; a creature of the night! a man of prey! With all these animals together, he could not do an atom of good; but, on the other hand, he could do a great deal of harm. Thibault smiled at the thought of the harm he could do.
He was still some distance from home, and he began to feel tired. He knew there was a large hollow oak somewhere near, and he took his bearings and made for it; but he would have missed his way if the wolves, who seemed to guess his thoughts, had not guided him to it. While flocks of owls hopped along from branch to branch, as if to illuminate the way, the wolves trotted along in front to show it him. The tree stood about twenty paces back from the road; it was, as I have said, an old oak, numbering not years, but centuries. Trees which live ten, twenty, thirty times the length of a man’s life, do not count their age by days and nights, but by seasons. The autumn is their twilight, the winter, their night; the spring is their dawn, the summer their day. Man envies the tree, the butterfly envies man. Forty men could not have encircled the trunk of the old oak with their arms.
The hollow made by time, that daily dislodged one more little piece of wood with the point of its scythe, was as large as an ordinarily sized room; but the entrance to it barely allowed a man to pass through. Thibault crept inside; there he found a sort of seat cut out of the thickness of the trunk, as soft and comfortable to sit in as an arm chair. Taking his place in it, and bidding good night to his wolves and his screech owls, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, or at least appeared to do so.
The wolves lay down in a circle round the tree; the owls perched in the branches. With these lights spread around its trunk, with these lights scattered about its branches, the oak had the appearance of a tree lit up for some infernal revel.
It was broad daylight when Thibault awoke; the wolves had long ago sought their hiding-places, the owls flown back to their ruins. The rain of the night before had ceased, and a ray of sunlight, one of those pale rays which are a harbinger of spring, came gliding through the naked branches of the trees, and having as yet none of the short-lived verdure of the year to shine upon, lit up the dark green of the mistletoe.
From afar came a faint sound of music, gradually it grew nearer, and the notes of two violins and a hautboy could be distinguished.
Thibault thought at first that he must be dreaming. But as it was broad daylight, and he appeared to be in perfect possession of his senses, he was obliged to acknowledge that he was wide awake, the more so, that having well rubbed his eyes, to make quite sure of the fact, the rustic sounds came as distinctly as ever to his ear. They were drawing rapidly nearer; a bird sang, answering the music of man with the music of God; and at the foot of the bush where it sat and made its song, a flower,—only a snowdrop it is true—was shining like a star. The sky above was as blue as on an April day. What was the meaning of this spring-like festival, now, in the heart of winter?
The notes of the bird as it sang in salutation of this bright, unexpected day, the brightness of the flower that shone as if with its radiance to thank the sun for coming to visit it, the sounds of merry-making which told the lost and unhappyman that his fellow-creatures were joining with the rest of nature in their rejoicings under the azure canopy of heaven, all the aroma of joy, all this up-springing of happiness, brought no calmer thoughts back to Thibault, but rather increased the anger and bitterness of his feelings. He would have liked the whole world to be as dark and gloomy as was his own soul. On first detecting the sounds of the approaching rural band, he thought of running away from it; but a power, stronger than his will, as it seemed to him, held him rooted to the spot; so he hid himself in the hollow of the oak and waited. Merry voices and lively songs could be heard mingling with the notes of the violins and hautboy; now and again a gun went off, or a cracker exploded; and Thibault felt sure that all these festive sounds must be occasioned by some village wedding. He was right, for he soon caught sight of a procession of villagers, all dressed in their best, with long ribands of many colours floating in the breeze, some from the women’s waists, some from the men’s hats or button-holes. They emerged into view at the end of the long lane of Ham.
They were headed by the fiddlers; then followed a few peasants, and among them some figures, which by their livery, Thibault recognised as keepers in the service of the lord of Vez. Then came Engoulevent, the second huntsman, giving his arm to an old blind woman, who was decked out with ribands like the others; then the major-domo of the Castle of Vez, as representative probably of the father of the little huntsman, giving his arm to the bride.
And the bride herself—Thibault stared at her with wild fixed eyes; he endeavoured, but vainly, to persuade himself that he did not recognise her—it was impossible not to do so when she came within a few paces from where he was hiding. The bride was Agnelette.
Agnelette!
And to crown his humiliation, as if to give a final blow to his pride, no pale and trembling Agnelette dragged reluctantly to the altar, casting looks behind her of regret or remembrance, but an Agnelette as bright and happy as the bird that was singing, the snowdrop that flowered, the sunlight that was shining; an Agnelette, full of delighted pride in her wreath of orange flowers, her tulle veil and muslin dress; an Agnelette, in short, as fair and smiling as the virgin in the church at Villers-Cotterets, when dressed in her beautiful white dress at Whitsuntide.
She was, no doubt, indebted for all this finery to the Lady of the Castle, the wife of the lord of Vez, who was a true Lady Bountiful in such matters.
But the chief cause of Agnelette’s happiness and smiles was not the great love she felt towards the man who was to become her husband, but her contentment at having found what she so ardently desired, that which Thibault had wickedly promised to her without really wishing to give her,—someone who would help her to support her blind old grandmother.
The musicians, the bride and bridegroom, the young men and maidens, passed along the road within twenty paces of Thibault, without observing the head with its flaming hair and the eyes with their fiery gleam, looking out from the hollow of the tree. Then, as Thibault had watched them appear through the undergrowth, so he watched them disappear. As the sounds of the violins and hautboy has gradually become louder and louder, so now they became fainter and fainter, until in another quarter of an hour the forest was as silent and deserted as ever, and Thibault was left alone with his singing bird, his flowering snowdrop, his glittering ray of sunlight. But a new fire of hell had been lighted in his heart, the worst of the fires of hell; that which gnaws at the vitals like the sharpest serpent’s tooth, and corrodes the blood like the most destructive poison—the fire of jealousy.
On seeing Agnelette again, so fresh and pretty, so innocently happy, and, worse still, seeing her at the moment when she was about to be married to another, Thibault, who had not given a thought to her for the last three month, Thibault, who had never had any intention of keeping the promise which he made her, Thibault now brought himself to believe that he had never ceased to love her.
He persuaded himself that Agnelette was engaged to him by oath, that Engoulevent was carrying off what belonged to him, and he almost leaped from his hiding place to rush after her and reproach her with her infidelity. Agnelette, now no longer his, at once appeared to his eyes as endowed with all the virtues and good qualities, all in short that would make it advantageous to marry her,which, when he had only to speak the word and everything would have been his, he had not even suspected.
After being the victim of so much deception, to lose what he looked upon as his own particular treasure, to which he had imagined that it would not be too late to return at any time, simply because he never dreamed that anyone would wish to take it from him, seemed to him the last stroke of ill fortune. His despair was no less profound and gloomy that it was a mute despair. He bit his fists, he knocked his head against the sides of the tree, and finally began to cry and sob. But they were not those tears and sobs which gradually soften the heart and are often kindly agents in dispersing a bad humour and reviving a better one; no, they were tears and sobs arising rather from anger than from regret, and these tears and sobs had no power to drive the hatred out of Thibault’s heart. As some of his tears fell visibly adown his face, so it seemed that others fell on his heart within like drops of gall.
He declared that he loved Agnelette; he lamented at having lost her; nevertheless, this furious man, with all his tender love, would gladly have been able to see her fall dead, together with her bridegroom, at the foot of the altar when the priest was about to join them. But happily, God, who was reserving the two children for other trials, did not allow this fatal wish to formulate itself in Thibault’s mind. They were like those who, surrounded by storm, hear the noise of the thunder and see the forked flashes of the lightning, and yet remain untouched by the deadly fluid.
Before long the shoe-maker began to feel ashamed of his tears and sobs; he forced back the former, and made an effort to swallow the latter.
He came out of his lair, not quite knowing where he was, and rushed off in the direction of his hut, covering a league in a quarter of an hour; this mad race, however, by causing him to perspire, somewhat calmed him down. At last he recognised the surroundings of his home; he went into his hut as a tiger might enter its den, closed the door behind him, and went and crouched down in the darkest corner he could find in his miserable lodging. There, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands, he sat and thought. And what thoughts were they which occupied this unhappy, desperate man? Ask of Milton what were Satan’s thoughts after his fall.
He went over again all the old questions which had upset his mind from the beginning, which had brought despair upon so many before him, and would bring despair to so many that came after him.
Why should some be born in bondage and others be born to power?
Why should there be so much inequality with regard to a thing which takes place in exactly the same way in all classes—namely birth?
By what means can this game of nature’s, in which chance for ever holds the cards against mankind, be made a fairer one?
And is not the only way to accomplish this, to do what the clever gamester does—get the devil to back him up? he had certainly thought so once.
To cheat? He had tried that game himself. And what had he gained by it? Each time he had held a good hand, each time he had felt sure of the game, it was the devil after all who had won.
What benefit had he reaped from this deadly power that had been given him of working evil to others?
None.
Agnelette had been taken from him; the owner of the mill had driven him away; the Bailiff’s wife had made game of him.
His first wish had caused the death of poor Marcotte, and had not even procured him a haunch of the buck that he had been so ambitious to obtain, and this had been the starting point of all his disappointed longings, for he had been obliged to give the buck to the dogs so as to put them off the scent of the black wolf.
And then this rapid multiplication of devil’s hairs was appalling! He recalled the tale of the philosopher who asked for a grain of wheat, multiplied by each of the sixty-four squares of the chess board—the abundant harvests of a thousand years were required to fill the last square. And he—how many wishes yet remained to him?—seven or eight at the outside. The unhappy man dared not look at himself either in the spring which lurked at the foot of one of the trees in the forest, or in the mirror that hung against the wall. He feared to render an exactaccount to himself of the time still left to him in which to exercise his power; he preferred to remain in the night of uncertainty than to face that terrible dawn which must rise when the night was over.
But still, there must be a way of continuing matters, so that the misfortunes of others should bring him good of some kind. He thought surely that if he had received a scientific education, instead of being a poor shoe-maker, scarcely knowing how to read or cypher, he would have found out, by the aid of science, some combinations which would infallibly have procured for him both riches and happiness.
Poor fool! If he had been a man of learning, he would have known the legend of Doctor Faust. To what did the omnipotence conferred on him by Mephistopheles lead Faust, the dreamer, the thinker, the pre-eminent scholar? To the murder of Valentine! to Margaret’s suicide! to the pursuit of Helen of Troy, the pursuit of an empty shadow!
And, moreover, how could Thibault think coherently at all of ways and means while jealousy was raging in his heart, while he continued to picture Agnelette at the altar, giving herself for life to another than himself.
And who was that other? That wretched little Engoulevent, the man who had spied him out when he was perched in the tree, who had found his boar-spear in the bush, which had been the cause of the stripes he had received from Marcotte.
Ah! if he had but known! to him and not to Marcotte would he have willed that evil should befall! What was the physical torture he had undergone from the blows of the strap compared to the moral torture he was enduring now!
And if only ambition had not taken such hold upon him, had not borne him on the wings of pride above his sphere, what happiness might have been his, as the clever workman, able to earn as much as six francs a day, with Agnelette for his charming little housekeeper! For he had certainly been the one whom Agnelette had first loved; perhaps, although marrying another man, she still loved him. And as Thibault sat pondering over these things, he became conscious that time was passing, that night was approaching.
However modest might be the fortune of the wedded pair, however limited the desires of the peasants who had followed them, it was quite certain that bride, bridegroom and peasants were all at this hour feasting merrily together.
And he, he was sad and alone. There was no one to prepare a meal for him; and what was there in his house to eat or drink? A little bread! a little water! and solitude! in place of that blessing from heaven which we call a sister, a mistress, a wife.
But, after all, why should not he also dine merrily and abundantly? Could he not go and dine wheresoever he liked? Had he not money in his pocket from the last game he had sold to the host of theBoule-d’Or? And could he not spend on himself as much as the wedded couple and all their guests together? He had only himself to please.
“And, by my faith!” he exclaimed, “I am an idiot indeed to stay here, with my brain racked by jealousy, and my stomach with hunger, when, with the aid of a good dinner and two or three bottles of wine, I can rid myself of both torments before another hour is over. I will be off to get food, and better still, to get drink!”
In order to carry this determination into effect, Thibault took the road to Ferté-Milon, where there was an excellent restaurant, known as theDauphin d’Or, able it was said to serve up dinners equal to those provided by his head cook for his Highness, the Duke of Orleans.
THIBAULT, on arriving at theDauphin d’Or, ordered himself as fine a dinner as he could think of. It would have been quite easy for him to have engaged a private room, but he would not then have enjoyed the personal sense of superiority. He wished the company of ordinary diners to see him eat his pullet, and his eel in its delicate sauce. Hewished the other drinkers to envy him his three different wines, drunk out of three different shaped glasses. He wished everybody to hear him give his orders in a haughty voice, to hear the ring of his money.
As he gave his first order, a man in a grey coat, seated in the darkest corner of the room with a half bottle of wine before him, turned round, as if recognising a voice he knew. And, as it turned out, this was one of Thibault’s acquaintances—it is scarcely necessary to add, a tavern acquaintance.
Thibault, since he had given up making shoes by day and, instead, had his wolves about at night, had made many such acquaintances. On seeing that it was Thibault, the other man turned his face away quickly, but not so quickly but that Thibault had time to recognise Auguste François Levasseur, valet to Raoul the Lord of Vauparfond.
“Halloa! François!” Thibault called out, “what are you doing sitting there in the corner, and sulking like a Monk in Lent, instead of taking your dinner openly and cheerfully as I am doing, in full view of everybody?”
François made no reply to this interrogation, but signed to Thibault to hold his tongue.
“I am not to speak? not to speak?” said Thibault, “and supposing it does not suit me to hold my tongue, supposing I wish to talk, and that I am bored at having to dine alone? and that it pleases me to say; ‘Friend François, come here; I invite you to dine with me?!’ You will not? no? very well, then I shall come and fetch you.” And Thibault rose from his seat, and followed by all eyes, went up to his friend and gave him a slap on the shoulder vigorous enough to dislocate it.
“Pretend that you have made a mistake, Thibault, or you will lose me my place; do you not see that I am not in livery, but am only wearing my drab great-coat! I am here as proxy in a love affair for my master, and I am waiting for a letter from a lady to carry back to him.”
“That’s another matter altogether, and I understand now and am sorry for my indiscretion. I should like, however, to have dined in your company.”
“Well, nothing is easier; order your dinner to be served in a separate room, and I will give word to our host, that if another man dressed in grey like me comes in, he is to show him upstairs; he and I are old cronies, and understand one another.”
“Good,” said Thibault; and he therewith ordered his dinner to be taken up to a room on the first floor, which looked out upon the street.
François seated himself so as to be able to see the person he was expecting, while some distance off, as he came down the hill of Ferté-Milon. The dinner which Thibault had ordered was quite sufficient for the two; all that he did was to send for another bottle or so of wine. Thibault had only taken two lessons from Maître Magloire, but he had been an apt pupil, and they had done their work; moreover Thibault had something which he wished to forget, and he counted on the wine to accomplish this for him. It was good fortune, he felt, to have met a friend with whom he could talk, for, in the state of mind and heart in which he was, talking was as good a help towards oblivion as drinking. Accordingly, he was no sooner seated, and the door shut, and his hat stuck well down on to his head so that François might not notice the change in the colour of his hair, than he burst at once into conversation, boldly taking the bull by the horns.
“And now, friend François,” he said, “you are going to explain to me some of your words which I did not quite understand.”
“I am not surprised at that,” replied François, leaning back in his chair with an air of conceited impertinence, “we attendants on fashionable lords learn to speak court language, which everyone of course does not understand.”
“Perhaps not, but if you explain it to your friends, they may possibly understand.”
“Quite so! ask what you like and I will answer.”
“I look to your doing so the more, that I will undertake to supply you with what will help to loosen your tongue. First, let me ask, why do you call yourself agrey-coat? I thoughtgrey-coatanother name for a jack-ass.”
“Jack-ass yourself, friend Thibault,” said François, laughing at the shoe-maker’s ignorance. “No, agrey-coatis a liveried servant, who puts on a grey overall to hide his livery, while he stands sentinel behind a pillar, or mounts guard inside a doorway.”
“So you mean that at this moment then, my good François, you are on sentry go? And who is coming to relieve you?”
“Champagne, who is in the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert’s service.”
“I see; I understand exactly. Your master, the Lord of Vauparfond, is in love with the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert, and you are now awaiting a letter which Champagne is to bring from the lady.”
“Optimé!as the tutor to Monsieur Raoul’s young brother says.”
“My Lord Raoul is a lucky fellow!”
“Yes indeed,” said François, drawing himself up.
“And what a beautiful creature the Countess is!”
“You know her then?”
“I have seen her out hunting with his Highness the Duke of Orleans and Madame de Montesson.”
Thibault in speaking had saidout hunting.
“My friend, let me tell you that in society we do not sayhuntingandshooting, buthuntin’andshootin’.”
“Oh!” said Thibault, “I am not so particular to a letter as all that. To the health of my Lord Raoul!”
As François put down his glass on the table, he uttered an exclamation; he had that moment caught sight of Champagne.
They threw open the window and called to this third comer, and Champagne, with all the ready intuition of the well-bred servant, understood at once, and went upstairs. He was dressed, like François, in a long grey coat, and had brought a letter with him.
“Well,” asked François, as he caught sight of the letter in his hand, “and is there to be a meeting to-night?”
“Yes,” answered Champagne, with evident delight.
“That’s all right,” said François cheerfully.
Thibault was surprised at these expressions of apparent sympathy on the part of the servants with their master’s happiness.
“Is it your master’s good luck that you are so pleased about?” he asked of François.
“Oh, dear me no!” replied the latter, “but when my master is engaged, I am at liberty!”
“And do you make use of your liberty?”
“One may be a valet, and yet have one’s own share of good luck, and also know how to spend the time more or less profitably,” answered François, bridling as he spoke.
“And you, Champagne?”
“Oh, I,” replied the last comer, holding his wine up to the light, “yes, I too hope to make good use of it.”
“Well, then, here’s to all your love affairs! since everybody seems to have one or more on hand,” said Thibault.
“The same to yours!” replied the two other men in chorus.
“As to myself,” said the shoe-maker, a look of hatred to his fellow creatures passing over his face, “I am the only person who loves nobody, and whom nobody loves.”
His companion looked at him with a certain surprised curiosity.
“Ah! ah!” said François, “is the report that is whispered abroad about you in the country-side a true tale then?”
“Report about me?”
“Yes, about you,” put in Champagne.
“Oh, then they say the same thing about me at Mont-Gobert as they do at Vauparfond?”
Champagne nodded his head.
“Well, and what is it they do say?”
“That you are a were-wolf,” said François.
Thibault laughed aloud. “Tell me, now, have I a tail?” he said, “have I a wolf’s claws, have I a wolf’s snout?”
“We only repeat what other people say,” rejoined Champagne, “we do not say that it is so.”
“Well, anyhow, you must acknowledge,” said Thibault, “that were-wolves have excellent wine.”
“By my faith, yes!” exclaimed both the valets.
“To the health of the devil who provides it, gentlemen.”
The two men who were holding their glasses in their hand, put both glasses down on the table.
“What is that for?” asked Thibault.
“You must find someone else to drink that health with you,” said François, “I won’t, that’s flat!”
“Nor I,” added Champagne.
“Well and good then! I will drink all three glasses myself,” and he immediately proceeded to do so.
“Friend Thibault,” said the Baron’s valet, “it is time we separated.”
“So soon?” said Thibault.
“My master is awaiting me, and no doubt with some impatience ... the letter, Champagne?”
“Here it is.”
“Let us take farewell then of your friend Thibault, and be off to our business and our pleasures, and leave him to his pleasures and business.” And so saying, François winked at his friend, who responded with a similar sign of understanding between them.
“We must not separate,” said Thibault, “without drinking a stirrup-cup together.”
“But not in those glasses,” said François, pointing to the three from which Thibault had drunk to the enemy of mankind.
“You are very particular, gentlemen; better call the sacristan and have them washed in holy water.”
“Not quite that, but rather than refuse the polite invitation of a friend, we will call for the waiter, and have fresh glasses brought.”
“These three, then,” said Thibault, who was beginning to feel the effects of the wine he had drunk, “are fit for nothing more than to be thrown out of window? To the devil with you!” he exclaimed as he took up one of them and sent it flying. As the glass went through the air it left a track of light behind it, which blazed and went out like a flash of lightning. Thibault took up the two remaining glasses and threw them in turn, and each time the same thing happened, but the third flash was followed by a loud peal of thunder.
Thibault shut the window, and was thinking, as he turned to his seat again, how he should explain this strange occurrence to his companions; but his two companions had disappeared.
“Cowards!” he muttered. Then he looked for a glass, but found none left.
“Hum! that’s awkward,” he said. “I must drink out of the bottle, that’s all!”
And suiting the action to the word, Thibault finished up his dinner by draining the bottle, which did not help to steady his brain, already somewhat shaky.
At nine o’clock, Thibault called the innkeeper, paid his account, and departed.
He was in an angry disposition of enmity against all the world; the thoughts from which he had hoped to escape possessed him more and more. Agnelette was being taken farther and farther from him as the time went by; everyone, wife or mistress, had someone to love them. This day which had been one of hatred and despair to him, had been one full of the promise of joy and happiness for everybody else; the lord of Vauparfond, the two wretched valets, François and Champagne, each of them had a bright star of hope to follow; while he, he alone, went stumbling along in the darkness. Decidedly there was a curse upon him. “But,” he went on thinking to himself, “if so, the pleasures of the damned belong to me, and I have a right to claim them.”
As these thoughts went surging through his brain, as he walked along cursing aloud, shaking his fist at the sky, he was on the way to his hut and had nearly reached it, when he heard a horse coming up behind him at a gallop.
“Ah!” said Thibault, “here comes the Lord of Vauparfond, hastening to the meeting with his love. I should laugh, my fine Sir Raoul, if my Lord of Mont-Gobert managed just to catch you! You would not get off quite so easily as if it were Maître Magloire; there would be swords out, and blows given and received!”
Thus engaged in thinking what would happen if the Comte de Mont-Gobert were to surprise his rival, Thibault, who was walking in the road, evidently did not get out of the way quickly enough, for the horseman, seeing a peasant of some kind barring his passage, brought his whip down upon him in a violent blow, calling out at the same time: “Get out of the way, you beggar, if you don’t wish to be trampled under the horse’s feet!”
Thibault, still half drunk, was conscious of a crowd of mingled sensations, of the lashing of the whip, the collision with the horse, and the rolling through cold water and mud, while the horseman passed on.
He rose to his knees, furious with anger, and shaking his fist at the retreating figure:
“Would the devil,” he exclaimed, “I might just for once have my turn at being one of you great lords, might just for twenty-four hours take your place, Monsieur Raoul de Vauparfond, instead of being only Thibault, the shoe-maker, so that I might know what it was to have a fine horse to ride, instead of trampingon foot; might be able to whip the peasants I met on the road, and have the opportunity of paying court to these beautiful women, who deceive their husbands, as the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert does!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when the Baron’s horse shied, throwing the rider over its head.
THIBAULTwas delighted at seeing what had happened to the young Baron, whose hand, anything but light, had so shortly before made use of his whip on Thibault’s shoulders, which still smarted with the blow. The latter now ran at full speed to see how far Monsieur Raoul de Vauparfond was injured; he found a body lying insensible, stretched across the road, with the horse standing and snorting beside it.
But Thibault could hardly believe his senses on perceiving that the figure lying in the road was not the same as had, but five minutes previously, ridden past him and given him the lash with the whip. In the first place, this figure was not in the dress of a gentleman, but clothed like a peasant, and, what was more, the clothes he had on seemed to Thibault to be the same as he himself had been wearing only a moment before. His surprise increased more and more and amounted almost to stupefaction on further recognising, in the inert, unconscious figure, not only his own clothes, but his own face. His astonishment naturally led him to turn his eyes from this second Thibault to his own person, when he became aware that an equally remarkable change had come over his costume. Instead of shoes and gaiters, his legs were now encased in an elegant pair of hunting boots, reaching to the knee, as soft and smooth as a pair of silk stockings, with a roll over the instep, and finished off with a pair of fine silver spurs. The knee-breeches were no longer of corduroy, but of the most beautiful buckskin, fastened with little gold buckles. His long coarse olive-coloured coat was replaced by a handsome green hunting-coat, with gold lace facings, thrown open to display a waistcoat of fine white jean, while over the artistically pleated shirt hung the soft wavy folds of a cambric cravat. Not a single article of dress about him but had been transformed, even to his old lantern-shaped hat, which was now a three-cornered one, trimmed with gold lace to match the coat. The stick also, such as workmen carry partly for walking and partly for self-defence, and which he had been holding in his hand a minute before, had now given place to a light whip, with which he gave a cut through the air, listening with a sense of aristocratic pleasure to the whistling sound it made. And finally, his slender figure was drawn in at the waist by a belt, from which hung a hunting-knife, half-sword, half-dagger.
Thibault was pleased beyond measure at finding himself clothed in such a delightful costume, and with a feeling of vanity, natural under the circumstances, he was overcome with the desire to ascertain without delay how the dress suited his face. But where could he go to look at himself, out there in the midst of pitch darkness? Then, looking about him, he saw that he was only a stone’s throw from his own hut.
“Ah! to be sure!” he said, “nothing easier, for I have my glass there.”
And he made haste towards his hut, intending, like Narcissus, to enjoy his own beauty in peace and all to himself. But the door of the hut was locked, and Thibault felt vainly for the key. All he could find in his pockets was a well-filled purse, a sweet-meat box containing scented lozenges, and a little mother-of-pearl and gold penknife. What could he have done then with his door-key? Then suddenly a bright thought occurred to him—possibly the key was in the pocket of that other Thibault who was lying out there in the road. He went back and felt in the breeches pocket, where he discovered the key at once, in company with a few sous. Holding the rough clumsy thing in the tips of his fingers, he returned to open the door. The inside of the hut was even
Image not available: THE BARON’S HORSE SHIED, THROWING THE RIDER OVER ITS HEADTHE BARON’S HORSE SHIED, THROWING THE RIDER OVER ITS HEAD
darker that the night outside, and Thibault groped about to find the steel, the tinder and flint, and the matches, and then proceeded to try and light the candle, which consisted of an end stuck into an empty bottle. In a second or two this was accomplished, but in the course of the operation Thibault was obliged to take hold of the candle with his fingers.
“Pah!” he said, “what pigs these peasants are! I wonder how theycanlive in this dirty sort of way!”
However, the candle was alight, which was the chief matter, and Thibault now took down his mirror, and bringing it to the light, looked at himself in it. His eye had scarcely caught sight of the reflected image, than he uttered a cry of astonishment, it was no longer himself that he saw, or rather, although it was still Thibault in spirit, it was no longer Thibault in body. His spirit had entered into the body of a handsome young man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, with blue eyes, pink fresh cheeks, red lips, and white teeth; in short, it had entered into the body of the Baron Raoul de Vauparfond. Then Thibault re-called the wish that he had uttered in his moment of anger after the blow from the whip and his collision with the horse. His wish had been that for four and twenty hours he might be the Baron de Vauparfond, and the Baron de Vauparfond be Thibault, which now explained to him what had at first seemed inexplicable, why the unconscious man now lying in the road was dressed in his clothes and had his face.
“But I must not forget one thing,” he said, “that is, that although I seem to be here, I am not really here, but lying out there, so I must be careful to see that during the twenty-four hours, during which I shall be imprudent enough to be away from myself, no irreparable harm comes to me. Come now, Monsieur de Vauparfond, do not be so fastidious; carry the poor man in, and lay him gently on his bed here.” And, although with his aristocratic instincts Monsieur de Vauparfond found the task very repugnant to him, Thibault, nevertheless, courageously took up his own body in his arms and carried himself from the road to the bed. Having thus placed the body in safety, he blew out the light, for fear that any harm should come to this other self before he came to; then, carefully locking the door, he hid the key in the hollow of a tree, where he was in the habit of leaving it when not wishing to take it with him.
The next thing to do was to get hold of the horse’s bridle and mount into the saddle. Once there, Thibault had a preliminary moment of some uneasiness, for, having travelled more on foot than on horseback, he was not an accomplished rider, and he naturally feared that he might not be able to keep his seat when the horse began to move. But it seemed, that, while inheriting Raoul’s body, he also inherited his physical qualities, for the horse, being an intelligent beast, and perfectly conscious of the momentary want of assurance on the part of his rider, made an effort to throw him, whereupon Thibault instinctively gathered up the reins, pressed his knees against the horse’s sides, dug his spurs into them, and gave the animal two or three cuts of the whip, which brought it to order on the spot.
Thibault, perfectly unknown to himself, was a past master in horsemanship. This little affair with the horse enabled Thibault more fully to realise his duality. As far as the body was concerned, he was the Baron Raoul de Vauparfond from top to toe; but as far as the spirit was concerned, he was still Thibault. It was, therefore, certain that the spirit of the young lord who had lent him his body was now sleeping in the form of the unconscious Thibault which he had left behind in the hut.
The division of substance and spirit between himself and the Baron, however, left him with a very vague idea of what he was going, or would have, to do. That he was going to Mont-Gobert in answer to the Countess’s letter, so much he knew. But what was in the letter? At what hour was he expected? How was he to gain admission to the Castle? Not one of these questions could he answer, and it only remained for him to discover what to do, step by step, as he proceeded. Suddenly it flashed across him that probably the Countess’s letter was somewhere on his person. He felt about his dress, and, sure enough, inside the side pocket of his coat was something, which by its shape, seemed to be the article he wanted. He stopped his horse, and putting his hand into his pocket, drew out a little scented leather case lined with white satin. In one side of the case were several letters, in the other only one; no doubt the latterwould tell him what he wanted to know, if he could once get to read it. He was now only a short distance from the village of Fleury, and he galloped on hoping that he might find a house still lighted up. But villagers go to bed early, in those days even earlier than they do now, and Thibault went from one end of the street to the other without seeing a single light. At last, thinking he heard some kind of movement in the stables of an Inn, he called. A stable boy sallied out with a lantern, and Thibault, forgetting for the moment that he was a lord, said: “Friend, could you show me a light for a moment? You would be doing me a service.”
“And that’s what you go and call a chap out of bed for?”—answered the stable-boy rudely. “Well, you are a nice sort of young’un, you are!” and turning his back on Thibault he was just going to re-enter the stable, when Thibault, perceiving that he had gone on a wrong tack, now raised his voice, calling out:
“Look here, sirrah, bring your lantern here and give me a light, or I’ll lay my whip across your back!”
“Ah! pardon, my lord!” said the stable-boy. “I did not see who it was I was speaking to.” And he immediately stood on tip-toe holding the lantern up as Thibault directed him:
Thibault unfolded the letter and read:
“My dear Raoul,
“The goddess Venus has certainly taken us under her protection. A grand hunt of some kind is to take place to-morrow out in the direction of Thury; I know no particulars about it, all I do know is, thatheis going away this evening. You, therefore, start at nine o’clock, so as to be here at half-past ten. Come in by the way you know; someone whom you know will be awaiting you, and will bring you, you know where. Last time you came, I don’t mean to upbraid you, but it did seem to me you stayed a long time in the corridors.
“Jane.”
“Devil take it!” muttered Thibault.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” said the stable-boy.
“Nothing, you lout, except that I do not require you any longer and you can go.”
“A good journey to you, my lord!” said the stable-boy, bowing to the ground, and he went back to his stable.
“Devil take it!” repeated Thibault, “the letter gives me precious little information, except that we are under the protection of the Goddess Venus, thathegoes away this evening, that the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert expects me at half-past ten, and that her Christian name is Jane. As for the rest, I am to go in bythe way I know, I shall be awaited bysomeone I know, and takenwhere I know.” Thibault scratched his ear, which is what everybody does, in every country of the world, when plunged into awkward circumstances. He longed to go and wake up the Lord of Vauparfond’s spirit, which was just now sleeping in Thibault’s body on Thibault’s bed; but, apart from the loss of time which this would involve, it might also cause considerable inconvenience, for the Baron’s spirit, on seeing its own body so near to it, might be taken with the desire of re-entering it. This would give rise to a struggle in which Thibault could not well defend himself without doing serious harm to his own person; some other way out of the difficulty must therefore be found. He had heard a great deal about the wonderful sagacity of animals, and had himself, during his life in the country, had occasion more than once to admire their instinct, and he now determined to trust to that of his horse. Riding back into the main road, he turned the horse in the direction of Mont-Gobert, and let it have its head. The horse immediately started off at a gallop; it had evidently understood. Thibault troubled himself no further, it was now the horse’s affair to bring him safely to his destination. On reaching the corner of the park wall the animal stopped, not apparently because it was in doubt as to which road to take, but something seemed to make it uneasy, and it pricked its ears. At the same time, Thibault also fancied that he caught sight of two shadows; but they must have been only shadows, for although he stood up in his stirrups and looked all around him, he could see absolutely nothing. They were probably poachers he thought, who had reasons like himself for wishing to get inside the park. There being no longer anything to bar his passage, he had only, as before, to let the horse go its own way, and he accordingly did so. The horse followed the walls of the park at a quick trot, carefully choosing the soft edge of the road, and not uttering a single neigh; the intelligent animal seemed as ifit knew that it must make no sound or at least as little sound as possible.
In this way, they went along the whole of one side of the park, and on reaching the corner, the horse turned as the wall turned, and stopped before a small breach in the same. “It’s through here, evidently,” said Thibault, “that we have to go.”
The horse answered by sniffing at the breach, and scraping the ground with its foot; Thibault gave the animal the rein, and it managed to climb up and through the breach, over the loose stones which rolled away beneath its hoof. Horse and rider were now within the park. One of the three difficulties had been successfully overcome: Thibault had got in by theway he knew; it now remained to find the personwhom he knew, and he thought it wisest to leave this also to his horse. The horse went on for another five minutes, and then stopped at a short distance from the Castle, before the door of one of those little huts of rough logs and bark and clay, which are built up in parks, as painters introduce buildings into their landscapes, solely for the sake of ornament.
On hearing the horse’s hoofs, someone partly opened the door, and the horse stopped in front of it.
A pretty girl came out, and asked in a low voice, “Is it you, Monsieur Raoul?”
“Yes, my child, it is I,” answered Thibault, dismounting.
“Madame was terribly afraid that drunken fool of a Champagne might not have given you the letter.”
“She need not have been afraid; Champagne brought it me with the most exemplary punctuality.”
“Leave your horse then and come.”
“But who will look after it?”
“Why Cramoisi, of course, the man who always does.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure,” said Thibault, as if these details were familiar to him, “Cramoisi will look after it.”
“Come, come,” said the maid, “we must make haste or Madame will complain again that we loiter in the corridors.” And as she spoke these words, which recalled a phrase in the letter which had been written to Raoul, she laughed, and showed a row of pearly white teeth, and Thibault felt that he should like to loiter in the park, before waiting to get into the corridors.
Then the maid suddenly stood still a moment with her head bent, listening.
“What is it?” asked Thibault.
“I thought I heard the sound of a branch creaking under somebody’s foot.”
“Very likely,” said Thibault, “no doubt Cramoisi’s foot.”
“All the more reason that you should be careful what you do ... at all events out here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you not know that Cramoisi is the man I am engaged to?”
“Ah! to be sure! But when I am alone with you, my dear Rose, I always forget that.”
“I am called Rose now, am I! I never knew such a forgetful man as you are, Monsieur Raoul.”
“I call you Rose, my pretty one, because the rose is the queen of flowers, as you are the queen of waiting-maids.”
“In good truth, my Lord,” said the maid, “I have always found you a lively, witty gentleman, but you surpass yourself this evening.”
Thibault drew himself up, flattered by this remark—really a letter addressed to the Baron, but which it had fallen to the shoe-maker to unseal.
“Let us hope your mistress will think the same!” he said.
“As to that,” said the waiting maid, “any man can make one of these ladies of fashion think him the cleverest and wittiest in the world, simply by holding his tongue.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I will remember what you say.”
“Hush!” said the woman to Thibault, “there is Madame behind the dressing-room curtains; follow me now staidly.”
For they had now to cross an open space that lay between the wooded part of the park and the flight of steps leading up to the Castle. Thibault began walking towards the latter.
“Now, now,” said the maid, catching hold of him by the arm, “what are you doing, you foolish man?”
“What am I doing? well, I confess Suzette, I don’t know in the least what Iamdoing!”
“Suzette! so that’s my name now, is it? I think Monsieur does me the honour of calling me in turn by the name of all his mistresses. But come, this way! You are not dreaming I suppose of going through the great reception rooms. That wouldgive a fine opportunity to my lord the Count, truly!”
And the maid hurried Thibault towards a little door, to the right of which was a spiral staircase.
Half-way up, Thibault put his arm round his companion’s waist, which was as slender and supple as a snake.
“I think we must be in the corridors, now, eh?” he asked, trying to kiss the young woman’s pretty cheek.
“No, not yet,” she answered; “but never mind that.”
“By my faith,” he said, “if my name this evening were Thibault instead of Raoul, I would carry you up with me to the garrets, instead of stopping on the first floor!”
At that moment a door was heard grating on its hinges.
“Quick, quick, Monsieur!” said the maid, “Madame is growing impatient.”
And drawing Thibault after her, she ran up the remaining stairs to the corridor, opened a door, pushed Thibault into a room, and shut the door after him, firmly believing that it was the Baron Raoul de Vauparfond or, as she herself called him, the most forgetful man in the world, whom she had thus secured.
THIBAULTfound himself in the Countess’s room. If the magnificence of Bailiff Magloire’s furniture rescued from the lumber-room of his Highness the Duke of Orleans, had astonished Thibault, the daintiness, the harmony, the taste of the Countess’s room filled him with intoxicating delight. The rough child of the forest had never seen anything like it, even in dreams; for one cannot even dream of things of which we have no idea.
Double curtains were drawn across the two windows, the one set of white silk trimmed with lace, the other of pale china blue satin, embroidered with silver flowers. The bed and the toilet table were draped to match the windows, and were nearly smothered in clouds of Valenciennes lace. The walls were hung with very light rose-coloured silk, over which thick folds of Indian muslin, delicate as woven air, undulated like waves of mist at the slightest breath of air from the door. The ceiling was composed of a medallion painted by Boucher, and representing the toilet of Venus; she was handing her cupids the various articles of a woman’s apparel, and these were now all distributed, with the exception of the goddess’s girdle.
The central medallion was surrounded by a series of panels, on which were painted supposed views of Cnidos, Paphos, and Amathus. All the furniture,—chairs, armchairs, settees, sociables,—was covered with China satin similar to that of the curtains; over the groundwork of the carpet, of the colour of pale green water, were scattered bouquets of blue corn-flowers, pink poppies, and white daisies. The tables were of rose-wood; the corner-pieces of Indian lacquer; and the whole room was softly lighted by pink wax candles held in two candelabra. A vague and indescribably delicate perfume pervaded the air, one could not say from what sweet essence, for it was scarcely even a perfume, but rather an emanation, the same kind of odorous exhalation whereby Æneas, in the Æneid, recognised the presence of his mother.
Thibault pushed into the room by the waiting-maid, made one step forward, and then stopped. He had taken everything in at a glance, inhaled everything at a breath. For a second there passed before his mind’s eye like a vision,—Agnelette’s little cottage, Madame Polet’s dining-room, the bed-chamber of the Bailiff’s wife; but they disappeared as quickly to give place to this delicious paradise of love into which he had been transported as by magic. He could scarcely believe that what he looked upon was real. Were there really men and women in the world, so blessed by fortune as to live in such surroundings as these? Had he not been carried to some wizard’s castle, to some fairy’s palace? And those who enjoyed such favour as this, what special good had they done? what special evil had they done, who were deprived of these advantages? Why,instead of wishing to be the Baron for four and twenty hours, had he not wished to be the Countess’s lap-dog all his life? How would he bear to be Thibault again after having seen all this? He had just reached this point in his reflections, when the dressing-room door opened and the Countess herself appeared, a fit bird for such a nest, a fit flower for such a sweet scented garden.
Her hair, fastened only by four diamond pins, hung down loosely to one side, while the rest was gathered into one large curl that hung over the other shoulder and fell into her bosom. The graceful lines of her lithe and well-formed figure, no longer hidden by puffings of dress, were clearly indicated beneath her loose pink silk gown, richly covered with lace; so fine and transparent was the silk of her stockings, that it was more like pearl-white flesh than any texture, and her tiny feet were shod in little slippers made of cloth of silver, with red heels. But not an atom of jewellery—no bracelets on the arms, no rings on the fingers; just one row of pearls round the throat, that was all—but what pearls! worth a king’s ransom!
As this radiant apparition came towards him, Thibault fell on his knees; he bowed himself, feeling crushed at the sight of this luxury, of this beauty, which to him seemed inseparable.
“Yes, yes, you may well kneel—kneel lower, lower yet—kiss my feet, kiss the carpet, kiss the floor, but I shall not any the more forgive you ... you are a monster!”
“In truth, Madame, if I compare myself with you, I am even worse than that!”
“Ah! yes, pretend that you mistake my words and think I am only speaking of your outward appearance, when you know I am speaking of your behaviour ... and, indeed, if your perfidious soul were imaged in your face, you would verily and indeed be a monster of ugliness. But yet it is not so, for Monsieur, for all his wickedness and infamous doings, still remains the handsomest gentleman in all the country round. But, come now, Monsieur, ought you not to be ashamed of yourself?”
“Because I am the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood?” asked Thibault, detecting by the tone of the lady’s voice that his crime was not an irremediable one.
“No, Monsieur, but for having the blackest soul and the falsest heart ever hidden beneath such a gay and golden exterior. Now, get up, and come and give an account of yourself to me.”
And the Countess so speaking held out a hand to Thibault which offered pardon at the same time that it demanded a kiss.
Thibault took the soft, sweet hand in his own and kissed it; never had his lips touched anything so like satin. The Countess now seated herself on the settee and made a sign to Raoul to sit down beside her.
“Let me know something of your doings, since you were last here,” said the Countess to him.
“First tell me, dear Countess,” replied Thibault, “when I last was here.”
“Do you mean you have forgotten? One does not generally acknowledge things of that kind, unless seeking for a cause of quarrel.”
“On the contrary, dear friend, it is because the recollection of that last visit is so present with me, that I think it must have been only yesterday we were together, and I try in vain to recall what I have done, and I assure you I have committed no other crime since yesterday but that of loving you.”
“That’s not a bad speech; but you will not get yourself out of disgrace by paying compliments.”
“Dear Countess,” said Thibault, “supposing we put off explanations to another time.”
“No, you must answer me now; it is five days since I last saw you; what have you been doing all that time?”
“I am waiting for you to tell me, Countess. How can you expect me, conscious as I am of my innocence, to accuse myself?”
“Very well then! I will not begin by saying anything about your loitering in the corridors.”
“Oh, pray, let us speak of it! how can you think, Countess, that knowing you, the diamond of diamonds, was waiting for me, I should stop to pick up an imitation pearl?”
“Ah! but I know how fickle men are, and Lisette is such a pretty girl!”
“Not so, dear Jane, but you must understand that she being our confidante, and knowing all our secrets, I cannot treat her quite like a servant.”
“How agreeable it must be to be able to say to one’s-self ‘I am deceiving the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert and I am the rival of Monsieur Cramoisi!’ ”
“Very well then, there shall be no more loiterings in the corridors, no more kisses for poor Lisette, supposing of course there ever have been any!”
“Well, after all, there is no great harm in that.”
“Do you mean that I have done something even worse?”
“Where had you been the other night, when you were met on the road between Erneville and Villers-Cotterets?”
“Someone met me on the road?”
“Yes, on the Erneville Road; where were you coming from?”
“I was coming home from fishing.”
“Fishing! what fishing?”
“They had been drawing the Berval ponds.”
“Oh! we know all about that; you are such a fine fisher, are you not, Monsieur? And what sort of an eel were you bringing back in your net, returning from your fishing at two o’clock in the morning!”
“I had been dining with my friend, the Baron, at Vez.”
“At Vez? ha! I fancy you went there mainly to console the beautiful recluse, whom the jealous Baron keeps shut up there a regular prisoner, so they say. But even that I can forgive you.”
“What, is there a blacker crime still,” said Thibault, who was beginning to feel quite reassured, seeing how quickly the pardon followed on the accusation; however serious it appeared at first.
“Yes, at the ball given by his Highness the Duke of Orleans.”
“What ball?”
“Why, the one yesterday! it’s not so very along ago, is it?”
“Oh, yesterday’s ball? I was admiring you.”
“Indeed; but I was not there.”
“Is it necessary for you to be present, Jane, for me to admire you; cannot one admire you in remembrance as truly as in person? and if, when absent, you triumph by comparison, the victory is only so much the greater.”
“I daresay, and it was in order to carry out the comparison to its utmost limits that you danced four times with Madame de Bonneuil; they are very pretty, are they not, those dark women who cover themselves with rouge, and have eyebrows like the Chinese mannikins on my screens and moustaches like a grenadier.”
“Do you know what we talked about during those four dances.”
“It is true then, that you danced four times with her?”
“It is true, no doubt, since you say so.”
“Is that a proper sort of answer?”
“What other could I give? could anyone contradict what was said by so pretty a mouth? not I certainly, who would still bless it, even though it were pronouncing my sentence of death.”
And, as if to await this sentence, Thibault fell on his knees before the Countess, but at that moment, the door opened, and Lisette rushed in full of alarm.
“Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur,” she cried “save yourself! here comes my master the Count!”
“The Count!” exclaimed the Countess.
“Yes, the Count in person, and his huntsman Lestocq, with him.”
“Impossible!”
“I assure you, Madame, Cramoisi saw them as plain as I see you; the poor fellow was quite pale with fright.”
“Ah! then the meet at Thury was all a pretence, a trap to catch me?”
“Who can tell, Madame? Alas! alas! men are such deceiving creatures!”
“What is to be done?” asked the Countess.
“Wait for the Count and kill him,” said Thibault resolutely, furious at again seeing his good fortune escaping from him, at losing what above all things it had been his ambition to possess.
“Kill him! kill the Count? are you mad, Raoul? No, no, you must fly, you must save yourself.... Lisette! Lisette! take the Baron through my dressing-room.” And in spite of his resistance, Lisette by dint of pushing got him safely away. Only just in time! steps were heard coming up the wide main staircase. The Countess, with a last word of love to the supposed Raoul, glided quickly into her bedroom, while Thibault followed Lisette. She led him rapidly along the corridor, where Cramoisi was keeping guard at the other end; then into a room, and through this into another, and finally into a smaller one which led into a little tower; here, the fugitives came again on to a staircase corresponding with the one by which they had gone up, but whenthey reached the bottom they found the door locked. Lisette, with Thibault still following, went back up a few steps into a sort of office in which was a window looking over the garden; this she opened. It was only a few feet from the ground, and Thibault jumped out, landing safely below.
“You know where your horse is,” called Lisette “jump on its back, and do not stop till you get to Vauparfond.”
Thibault would have liked to thank her for all her kindly warnings, but she was some six feet above him and he had no time to lose. A stride or two brought him to the clump of trees under which stood the little building which served as stable for his horse. But was the horse still there? He heard a neigh which reassured him: only the neigh sounded he thought more like a cry of pain. Thibault went in, put out his hand, felt the horse, gathered up the reins, and leaped on to its back without touching the stirrups; Thibault, as we have already said, had suddenly become a consummate horseman. But the horse no sooner felt the weight of the rider on its back than the poor beast began to totter on its legs. Thibault dug his spurs in savagely, and the horse made a frantic effort to stand. But in another instant, uttering one of those pitiful neighs which Thibault had heard when he approached the stable, it rolled helplessly over on its side. Thibault quickly disengaged his leg from under the animal, which, as the poor thing struggled to rise, he had no difficulty in doing, and he found himself again on his feet. Then it became clear to him, that in order to prevent his escape, Monsieur le Comte de Mont-Gobert had hamstrung his horse.