He was walking up and down in the room with long strides, and, unwilling to listen, he went on,—
“But Master Galpin need not think of crowing over us yet. The end is not yet; they will not get rid of Dr. Seignebos so easily. I have said that Cocoleu was a wretched cheat, a miserable impostor, a false witness, and I shall prove it. Boiscoran can count upon me.”
He broke off here, and, placing himself before M. Folgat, he added,—
“And I say M. de Boiscoran may count upon me, because I have my reasons. I have formed very singular suspicions, sir,—very singular.”
M. Folgat, Dionysia, and the marchioness urged him to explain; but he declared that the moment had not come yet, that he was not perfectly sure yet.
And he left again, vowing that he was overworked, that he had forsaken his patients for forty-eight hours, and that the Countess Claudieuse was waiting for him, as her husband was getting worse and worse.
“What can the old man suspect?” Grandpapa Chandore asked again, an hour after the doctor had left.
M. Folgat might have replied that these probable suspicions were no doubt his own suspicions, only better founded, and more fully developed. But why should he say so, since all inquiry was prohibited, and a single imprudent word might ruin every thing? Why, also, should he excite new hopes, when they must needs wait patiently till it should seem good to M. Galpin to make an end to this melancholy suspense?
They heard very little nowadays of Jacques de Boiscoran. The examinations took place only at long intervals; and it was sometimes four or five days before Mechinet brought another letter.
“This is intolerable agony,” repeated the marchioness over and over again.
The end was, however, approaching.
Dionysia was alone one afternoon in the sitting-room, when she thought she heard the clerk’s voice in the hall. She went out at once and found him there.
“Ah!” she cried, “the investigation is ended!” For she knew very well that nothing less would have emboldened Mechinet to show himself openly at their house.
“Yes, indeed, madam!” replied the good man; “and upon M. Galpin’s own order I bring you this letter from M. de Boiscoran.”
She took it, read it at a single glance, and forgetting every thing, half delirious with joy, she ran to her grandfather and M. Folgat, calling upon a servant at the same time to run and fetch M. Magloire.
In less than an hour, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre arrived; and when Jacques’s letter had been handed to him, he said with some embarrassment,—
“I have promised M. de Boiscoran my assistance, and he shall certainly have it. I shall be at the prison to-morrow morning as soon as the doors open, and I will tell you the result of our interview.”
He would say nothing more. It was very evident that he did not believe in the innocence of his client, and, as soon as he had left, M. de Chandore exclaimed,—
“Jacques is mad to intrust his defence to a man who doubts him.”
“M. Magloire is an honorable man, papa,” said Dionysia; “and, if he thought he could compromise Jacques, he would resign.”
Yes, indeed, M. Magloire was an honorable man, and quite accessible to tender sentiments; for he felt very reluctant to go and see the prisoner, charged as he was with an odious crime, and, as he thought, justly charged,—a man who had been his friend, and whom, in spite of all, he could not help loving still.
He could not sleep for it that night; and noticed his anxious air as he crossed the street next morning on his way to the jail. Blangin the keeper was on the lookout for him, and cried,—
“Ah, come quick, sir! The accused is devoured with impatience.”
Slowly, and his heart beating furiously, the famous advocate went up the narrow stairs. He crossed the long passage; Blangin opened a door; he was in Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.
“At last you are coming,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, throwing himself on the lawyer’s neck. “At last I see an honest face, and hold a trusty hand. Ah! I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly, that I am surprised my mind has not given way. But now you are here, you are by my side, I am safe.”
The lawyer could not speak. He was terrified by the havoc which grief had made of the noble and intelligent face of his friend. He was shocked at the distortion of his features, the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes, and the convulsive laugh on his lips.
“Poor man!” he murmured at last.
Jacques misunderstood him: he stepped back, as white as the walls of his cell.
“You do not think me guilty?” he exclaimed.
An inexpressibly sad expression convulsed his features.
“To be sure,” he went on with his terrible convulsive laughter, “the charges must be overwhelming indeed, if they have convinced my best friends. Alas! why did I refuse to speak that first day? My honor!—what a phantom! And still, victimized as I am by an infamous conspiracy, I should still refuse to speak, if my life alone were at stake. But my honor is at stake. Dionysia’s honor, the honor of the Boiscorans. I shall speak. You, M. Magloire, shall know the truth, you shall see my innocence in a word.”
And, seizing M. Magloire’s hand, he pressed it almost painfully, as he added in a hoarse voice,—
“One word will explain the whole thing to you: I was the lover of the Countess Claudieuse!”
XIII.
If he had been less distressed, Jacques de Boiscoran would have seen how wisely he had acted in choosing for his defender the great advocate of Sauveterre. A stranger, M. Folgat, for instance, would have heard him silently, and would have seen in the revelation nothing but the fact without giving it a personal value. In M. Magloire, on the contrary, he saw what the whole country would feel. And M. Magloire, when he heard him declare that the Countess Claudieuse had been his mistress, looked indignant, and exclaimed,—
“That is impossible.”
At least Jacques was not surprised. He had been the first to say that they would refuse to believe him when he should speak; and this conviction had largely influenced him in keeping silence so long.
“It is impossible, I know,” he said; “and still it is so.”
“Give me proofs!” said M. Magloire.
“I have no proofs.”
The melancholy and sympathizing expression of the great lawyer changed instantly. He sternly glanced at the prisoner, and his eye spoke of amazement and indignation.
“There are things,” he said, “which it is rash to affirm when one is not able to support them with proof. Consider”—
“My situation forces me to tell all.”
“Why, then, did you wait so long?”
“I hoped I should be spared such a fearful extremity.”
“By whom?”
“By the countess.”
M. Magloire’s face became darker and darker.
“I am not often accused of partiality,” he said. “Count Claudieuse is, perhaps, the only enemy I have in this country; but he is a bitter, fierce enemy. To keep me out of the chamber, and to prevent my obtaining many votes, he stooped to acts unworthy of a gentleman. I do not like him. But in justice I must say that I look upon the countess as the loftiest, the purest, and noblest type of the woman, the wife, and the mother.”
A bitter smile played on Jacques’s lips.
“And still I have been her lover,” he said.
“When? How? The countess lived at Valpinson: you lived in Paris.”
“Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of September in Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran.”
“It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have been suspected even.”
“We managed to take our precautions.”
“And no one ever suspected any thing?”
“No one.”
But Jacques was at last becoming impatient at the attitude assumed by M. Magloire. He forgot that he had foreseen all the suspicions to which he found now he was exposed.
“Why do you ask all these questions?” he said. “You do not believe me. Well, be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen to me?”
M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, but across the chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,—
“I listen.”
Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson with anger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Never had all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as this cool, disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurred to him to order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemned to drain the bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; he must get out of this abyss.
“You are cruel, Magloire,” he said in a voice of ill-suppressed indignation, “and you make me feel all the horrors of my situation to the full. Ah, do not apologize! It does not matter. Let me speak.”
He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his hand repeatedly over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, in a calmer tone of voice,—
“It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and at Boiscoran, where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the Countess Claudieuse for the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, at that time, on very bad terms with each other, thanks to that unlucky little stream which crosses our estates; and a common friend, M. de Besson, had undertaken to reconcile them at a dinner to which he had invited both. My uncle had taken me with him. The countess had come with her husband. I was just twenty years old; she was twenty-six. When I saw her, I was overcome. It seemed to me that I had never in all my life met a woman so perfectly beautiful and graceful; that I had never seen so charming a face, such beautiful eyes, and such a sweet smile.
“She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I felt within me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, a fatal part in my life.
“This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could not keep from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said that I was a fool, and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by a woman, it would certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.
“He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing should ever again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson’s attempt at reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson; and I went back to Paris.
“Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of the dinner at M. de Besson’s house was still in my mind, when a month later, at a party at my mother’s brother’s, M. de Chalusse, I thought I recognized the Countess Claudieuse. It was she. I bowed, and, seeing that she recognized me, I went up to her, trembling, and she allowed me to sit down by her.
“She told me then that she had come up to Paris for a month, as she did every year, and that she was staying at her father’s, the Marquis de Tassar. She had come to this party much against her inclination, as she disliked going out. She did not dance; and thus I talked to her till the moment when she left.
“I was madly in love when we parted; and still I made no effort to see her again. It was mere chance again which brought us together.
“One day I had business at Melun, and, reaching the station rather late, I had but just time to jump into the nearest car. In the compartment was the countess. She told me—and that is all I ever recollected of the conversation—that she was on her way to Fontainebleau to see a friend, with whom she spent every Tuesday and Saturday. Usually she took the nine o’clock train.
“This was on a Tuesday; and during the next three days a great struggle went on in my heart. I was desperately in love with the countess, and still I was afraid of her. But my evil star conquered; and the next Saturday, at nine o’clock, I was at the station again.
“The countess has since confessed to me that she expected me. When she saw me, she made a sign; and, when they opened the doors, I managed to find a place by her side.”
M. Magloire had for some minutes given signs of great impatience; now he broke forth,—
“This is too improbable!”
At first Jacques de Boiscoran made no reply. It was no easy task for a man, tried as he had been of late, to stir up thus the ashes of the past; and it made him shudder. He was amazed at seeing on his lips this secret which he had so long buried in his innermost heart. Besides, he had loved, loved in good earnest; and his love had been returned. And there are certain sensations which come to us only once in life, and which can never again be effaced. He was moved to tears. But as the eminent advocate of Sauveterre repeated his words, and even added,—
“No, it is not credible!”
“I do not ask you to believe me,” he said gently: “I only ask you to hear me.”
And, overcoming with all his energy the kind of torpor which was mastering him, he continued,—
“This trip to Fontainebleau decided our fate. Other trips followed. The countess spent her days with her friend, and I passed the long hours in roaming through the woods. But in the evening we met again at the station. We took acoupe, which I had engaged beforehand, and I accompanied her in a carriage to her father’s house.
“Finally, one evening, she left her friend’s house at the usual hour; but she did not return to her father’s house till the day after.”
“Jacques!” broke in M. Magloire, shocked, as if he had heard a curse,—“Jacques!”
M. de Boiscoran remained unmoved.
“Oh!” he said, “I know you must think it strange. You fancy that there is no excuse for the man who betrays the confidence of a woman who has once given herself to him. Wait, before you judge me.”
And he went on, in a firmer tone of voice,—
“At that time I thought I was the happiest man on earth; and my heart was full of the most absurd vanity at the thought that she was mine, this beautiful woman, whose purity was high above all calumny. I had tied around my neck one of those fatal ropes which death alone can sever, and, fool that I was, I considered myself happy.
“Perhaps she really loved me at that time. At least she did not hesitate, and, overcome by the only real great passion of her life, she told me all that was in her innermost heart. At that time she did not think yet of protecting herself against me, and of making me her slave. She told me the secret of her marriage, which had at one time created such a sensation in the whole country.
“When her father, the Marquis de Brissac, had given up his place, he had soon begun to feel his inactivity weigh upon him, and at the same time he had become impatient at the narrowness of his means. He had ventured upon hazardous speculations. He had lost every thing he had; and even his honor was at stake. In his despair he was thinking of suicide, when chance brought to his house a former comrade, Count Claudieuse. In a moment of confidence, the marquis confessed every thing; and the other had promised to rescue him, and save him from disgrace. That was noble and grand. It must have cost an immense sum. And the friends of our youth who are capable of rendering us such services are rare in our day. Unfortunately, Count Claudieuse could not all the time be the hero he had been at first. He saw Genevieve de Tassar. He was struck with her beauty; and overcome by a sudden passion—forgetting that she was twenty, while he was nearly fifty—he made his friend aware that he was still willing to render him all the services in his power, but that he desired to obtain Genevieve’s hand in return.
“That very evening the ruined nobleman entered his daughter’s room, and, with tears in his eyes, explained to her his terrible situation. She did not hesitate a moment.
“‘Above all,’ she said to her father, ‘let us save our honor, which even your death would not restore. Count Claudieuse is cruel to forget that he is thirty years older than I am. From this moment I hate and despise him. Tell him I am willing to be his wife.’
“And when her father, overcome with grief, told her that the count would never accept her hand in this form, she replied,—
“‘Oh, do not trouble yourself about that! I shall do the thing handsomely, and your friend shall have no right to complain. But I know what I am worth; and you must remember hereafter, that, whatever service he may render you, you owe him nothing.’
“Less than a fortnight after this scene, Genevieve had allowed the count to perceive that he was not indifferent to her and a month later she became his wife.
“The count, on his side, had acted with the utmost delicacy and tact; so that no one suspected the cruel position of the Marquis de Tassar. He had placed two hundred thousand francs in his hands to settle his most pressing debts. In his marriage-contract he had acknowledged having received with his wife a dower of the same amount; and finally, he had bound himself to pay to his father-in-law and his wife an annual income of ten thousand francs. This had absorbed more than half of all he possessed.”
M. Magloire no longer thought of protesting. Sitting stiffly on his chair, his eyes wide open, like a man who asks himself whether he is asleep or awake, he murmured,—
“That is incomprehensible! That is unheard of!”
Jacques was becoming gradually excited. He went on,—
“This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of enthusiasm. But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was perfectly natural. ‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘Count Claudieuse has never had to regret the bargain he made. If he has been generous, I have been faithful. My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years of happiness to which he was not entitled. If he has received no love, he has had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasant than the reality.’
“When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughing heartily,—
“‘Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation. I reserved to myself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever it should come within my reach. That share is yours, Jacques; and do not fancy that I am troubled by remorse. As long as my husband thinks he is happy, I am within the terms of the contract.’
“That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more experience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved her with all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.
“A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams.
“The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her whole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.
“‘I must go back to Valpinson,’ she said; ‘for there is nothing I would not do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself. My life, your life, my daughter’s life—I would give them all, without hesitation, to protect my reputation.”
“This happened—ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as if engraven on bronze—on the 12th October.
“‘I cannot remain longer than a month,’ she said to me, ‘without seeing you. A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three o’clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red Men’s Cross-roads. I will be there.’
“And she left Paris. I was in such a state of depression, that I scarcely felt the pain of parting. The thought of being loved by such a woman filled me with extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from many an excess. Ambition was rising within me whenever I thought of her. I wanted to work, to distinguish myself, to become eminent in some way.
“‘I want her to be proud of me,’ I said to myself, ashamed at being nothing at my age but the son of a rich father.”
Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved his lips, as if about to make some objection. But he had pledged himself, in his own mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep his pledge.
“In the meantime,” Jacques went on, “the day fixed by the countess was drawing near. I went down to Boiscoran; and on the appointed day, at the precise hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men’s Cross-roads. I was somewhat behind time, and I was extremely sorry for it: but I did not know the forest very well, and the place chosen by the countess for the rendezvous is in the very thickest part of the old wood. The weather was unusually severe for the season. The night before, a heavy snow had fallen: the paths were all white; and a sharp wind blew the flakes from the heavily-loaded branches. From afar off, I distinguished the countess, as she was walking, up and down in a kind of feverish excitement, confining herself to a narrow space, where the ground was dry, and where she was sheltered from the wind by enormous masses of stone. She wore a dress of dark-red silk, very long, a cloak trimmed with fur, and a velvet hat to match her dress. In three minutes I was by her side. But she did not draw her hand from her muff to offer it to me; and, without giving me time to apologize for the delay, she said in a dry tone,—
“‘When did you reach Boiscoran?’
“‘Last night.’
“‘How childish you are!’ she exclaimed, stamping her foot. ‘Last night! And on what pretext?’
“‘I need no pretext to visit my uncle.’
“‘And was he not surprised to see you drop from the clouds at this time of the year?’
“‘Why, yes, a little,’ I answered foolishly, incapable as I was of concealing the truth.
“Her dissatisfaction increased visibly.
“‘And how did you get here?’ she commenced again. ‘Did you know this cross-road?’
“‘No, I inquired about it.’
“‘From whom?’
“‘From one of my uncle’s servants; but his information was so imperfect, that I lost my way.’
“She looked at me with such a bitter, ironical smile, that I stopped.
“‘And all that, you think, is very simple,’ she broke in. ‘Do you really imagine people will think it very natural that you should thus fall like a bombshell upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out for the Red Men’s Cross-roads in the forest? Who knows but you have been followed? Who knows but behind one of these trees there may be eyes even now watching us?’
“And as she looked around with all the signs of genuine fear, I answered,—
“‘And what do you fear? Am I not here?’
“I think I can even now see the look in her eyes as she said,—
“‘I fear nothing in the world—do you hear me? nothing in the world, except being suspected; for I cannot be compromised. I like to do as I do; I like to have a lover. But I do not want it to be known; because, if it became known, there would be mischief. Between my reputation and my life I have no choice. If I were to be surprised here by any one, I would rather it should be my husband than a stranger. I have no love for the count, and I shall never forgive him for having married me; but he has saved my father’s honor, and I owe it to him to keep his honor unimpaired. He is my husband, besides, and the father of my child: I bear his name, and I want it to be respected. I should die with grief and shame and rage, if I had to give my arm to a man at whom people might look and smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when they do not feel that all the scorn with which their unfortunate husbands are received in the great world falls back upon them. No. I do not love the count, Jacques, and I love you. But remember, that, between him and you, I should not hesitate a moment, and that I should sacrifice your life and your honor, with a smile on my lips, even though my heart should break, if I could, by doing so, spare him the shadow of a suspicion.’
“I was about to reply; but she said,—
“‘No more! Every minute we stay here increases the danger. What pretext will you plead for your sudden appearance at Boiscoran?’
“‘I do not know,’ I replied.
“‘You must borrow some money from your uncle, a considerable sum, to pay your debts. He will be angry, perhaps; but that will explain your sudden fancy for travelling in the month of November. Good-by, good-by!’
“All amazed, I cried,—
“‘What! You will not let me see you again, at least from afar?’
“‘During this visit that would be the height of imprudence. But, stop! Stay at Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle never stays away from high mass: go with him to church. But be careful, control yourself. A single imprudence, one blunder, and I should despise you. Now we must part. You will find in Paris a letter from me.’”
Jacques paused here, looking to read in M. Magloire’s face what impression his recital had produced so far. But the famous lawyer remained impassive. He sighed, and continued,—
“I have entered into all these details, Magloire, because I want you to know what kind of a woman the countess is, so that you may understand her conduct. You see that she did not treat me like a traitor: she had given me fair warning, and shown me the abyss into which I was going to fall. Alas! so far from being terrified, these dark sides of her character only attracted me the more. I admired her imperious air, her courage, and her prudence, even her total lack of principle, which contrasted so strangely with her fear of public opinion. I said to myself with foolish pride,—
“‘She certainly is a superior woman!’
“She must have been pleased with my obedience at church; for I managed to check even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her and bowed to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched her dress. I obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for six thousand francs, and he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the most generous man on earth: but he said at the same time,—
“‘I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of exploring the forest of Rochepommier.’
“This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the Countess Claudieuse. How well she had foreseen my uncle’s astonishment, when I had not even dreamed of it!
“‘She has a genius for prudence,’ I thought.
“Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also, as I soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her waiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she had told me at our meeting. This letter was followed by several others, which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in the upper corner.
“The first time I saw her again, I asked her,—
“‘What are these numbers?’
“‘My dear Jacques,’ she replied, ‘a woman ought always to know how many letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have had nine.’
“This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to be present at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her, at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in each other’s company. Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolary responsibility, and then I thought no more of it. I was at that time too busy otherwise. She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing, in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month of September, the month of her freedom, was drawing near. Should we be compelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous trips to Fontainebleau? Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?
“Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle’s liberality knew no end. I bought a house.”
At last in the midst of all of Jacques’s perplexities, there appeared a circumstance which might furnish tangible evidence.
M. Magloire started, and asked eagerly,—
“Ah, you bought a house?”
“Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Passy.”
“And you own it still?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have the title-papers?”
Jacques looked in despair.
“Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected with that house.”
The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker than they had brightened up just now.
“Ah!” he said,—“a tale, ah!”
“I was scarcely of age,” resumed Jacques, “when I wanted to purchase this house. I dreaded difficulties. I was afraid my father might hear of it; in fine, I wanted to be as prudent as the countess was. I asked, therefore, one of my English friends, Sir Francis Burnett, to purchase it in his name. He agreed; and he handed me, with the necessary bills of sale, also a paper in which he acknowledged my right as proprietor.”
“But then”—
“Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in my father’s house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at Passy. When the war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris before the siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteers from this department. During the two sieges, my house was successively occupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the regular troops. When I got back there, I found the four walls pierced with holes by the shells; but all the furniture had disappeared, and with it the papers.”
“And Sir Francis Burnett?”
“He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know what has become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote, replied,—the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he was dead.”
“And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of property which legally belongs to you?”
“No, not till now.”
“You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no owner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?”
“I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality is not the same. I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend. In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I am Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they will tell you, ‘Don’t know.’ Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and they will answer, ‘Oh, very well!’ and they will give you my portrait.”
M. Magloire shook his head as if he were not fully convinced.
“Then,” he asked again, “you declare that the Countess Claudieuse has been at this house?”
“More than fifty times in three years.”
“If that is so, she must be known there.”
“No.”
“But”—
“Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely occupied with their neighbors’ doings. Vine Street is quite a deserted street; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and going.”
“Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within? You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order when you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?”
“I had an English maid-servant.”
“Well, this girl must know the countess?”
“She has never caught a glimpse of her even.”
“Oh!”
“When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or when we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I have sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. The rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves.”
Evidently M. Magloire was suffering. He said,—
“You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from them is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you. That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there. She must be examined. Is she still in your service?”
“No, she left me when the war broke out.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to return to England.”
“Then we cannot hope to find her again?”
“I believe not.”
“We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?”
“Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had sprained my foot in coming down stairs.”
“So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse ever came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and no eye-witness?”
“I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for her private use; but they have disappeared during the war.”
“Ah, yes!” said M. Magloire, “always the war! It has to answer for every thing.”
Never had any of M. Galpin’s examinations been half as painful to Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed such distressing incredulity.
“Did I not tell you, Magloire,” he resumed, “that the countess had a genius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend money without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs to furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to keep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to his hands? I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not regret it. Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foresee that a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to denounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for evidence and witnesses against her?”
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead of replying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,—
“Go on, Jacques, go on!”
Jacques de Boiscoran tried to overcome the discouragement which well-nigh mastered him, and said,—
“It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse for the first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased and furnished for her; and during the five weeks which she spent in Paris, she came almost every day, and spent several hours there.
“At her father’s house she enjoyed absolute and almost uncontrolled independence. She left her daughter—for she had at that time but one child—with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free to go and to come as she liked.
“When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend in Fontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four or forty-eight hours over and above the time for the journey. I, for my part, was as perfectly free from all control. Ostensibly, I had gone to Ireland; in reality, I lived in Vine Street.
“These five weeks passed like a dream; and yet I must confess, the parting was not as painful as might have been supposed. Not that the bright prism was broken; but I always felt humiliated by the necessity of being concealed. I began to be tired of these incessant precautions; and I was quite ready to give up being Sir Francis Burnett, and to resume my identity.
“We had, besides, promised each other never to remain a month without seeing each other, at least for a few hours; and she had invented a number of expedients by which we could meet without danger.
“A family misfortune came just then to our assistance. My father’s eldest brother, that kind uncle who had furnished me the means to purchase my house in Passy, died, and left me his entire fortune. As owner of Boiscoran, I could, henceforth, live as much as I chose in the province; and at all events come there whenever I liked, without anybody’s inquiring for my reasons.”
XIV.
Jacques de Boiscoran was evidently anxious to have done with his recital, to come to that night of the fire at Valpinson, and to learn at last from the eminent advocate of Sauveterre what he had to fear or to hope. After a moment’s silence, for his breath was giving out, and after a few steps across his cell, he went on in a bitter tone of voice,—
“But why trouble you with all these details, Magloire? Would you believe me any more than you do now, if I were to enumerate to you all my meetings with the Countess Claudieuse, or if I were to repeat all her most trifling words?
“We had gradually learnt to calculate all our movements, and made our preparations so accurately, that we met constantly, and feared no danger. We said to each other at parting, or she wrote to me, ‘On such a day, at such an hour, at such a place;’ and however distant the day, or the hour, or the place, we were sure to meet. I had soon learned to know the country as well as the cleverest of poachers; and nothing was so useful to us as this familiarity with all the unknown hiding-places. The countess, on her side, never let three months pass by without discovering some urgent motive which carried her to Rochelle, to Angouleme, or to Paris; and I was there to meet her. Nothing kept her from these excursions; even when indisposed, she braved the fatigues of the journey. It is true, my life was well-nigh spent in travelling; and at any moment, when least expected, I disappeared for whole weeks. This will explain to you that restlessness at which my father sneered, and for which you, yourself, Magloire, used to blame me.”
“That is true,” replied the latter. “I remember.”
Jacques de Boiscoran did not seem to notice the encouragement.
“I should not tell the truth if I were to say that this kind of life was unpleasant to me. Mystery and danger always add to the charms of love. The difficulties only increased my passion. I saw something sublime in this success with which two superior beings devoted all their intelligence and cleverness to the carrying-on of a secret intrigue. The more fully I became aware of the veneration with which the countess was looked up to by the whole country, the more I learned to appreciate her ability in dissembling and her profound perversity; and I was all the more proud of her. I felt the pride setting my cheeks aglow when I saw her at Brechy; for I came there every Sunday for her sake alone, to see her pass calm and serene in the imposing security of her lofty reputation. I laughed at the simplicity of all these honest, good people, who bowed so low to her, thinking they saluted a saint; and I congratulated myself with idiotic delight at being the only one who knew the true Countess Claudieuse,—she who took her revenge so bravely in our house in Passy!
“But such delights never last long.
“It had not taken me long to find out that I had given myself a master, and the most imperious and exacting master that ever lived. I had almost ceased to belong to myself. I had become her property; and I lived and breathed and thought and acted for her alone. She did not mind my tastes and my dislikes. She wished a thing, and that was enough. She wrote to me, ‘Come!’ and I had to be instantly on the spot: she said to me, ‘Go!’ an I had to leave at once. At first I accepted these evidences of her despotism with joy; but gradually I became tired of this perpetual abdication of my own will. I disliked to have no control over myself, to be unable to dispose of twenty-four hours in advance. I began to feel the pressure of the halter around my neck. I thought of flight. One of my friends was to set out on a voyage around the world, which was to last eighteen months or two years, and I had an idea of accompanying him. There was nothing to retain me. I was, by fortune and position, perfectly independent. Why should I not carry out my plan?
“Ah, why? The prism was not broken yet. I cursed the tyranny of the countess; but I still trembled when I heard her name mentioned. I thought of escaping from her; but a single glance moved me to the bottom of my heart. I was bound to her by the thousand tender threads of habit and of complicity,—those threads which seem to be more delicate than gossamer, but which are harder to break than a ship’s cable.
“Still, this idea which had occurred to me brought it about that I uttered for the first time the word ‘separation’ in her presence, asking her what she would do if I should leave her. She looked at me with a strange air and asked me, after a moment’s hesitation,—
“‘Are you serious? Is it a warning?’
“I dared not carry matters any farther, and, making an effort to smile, I said,—
“‘It is only a joke.’
“‘Then,’ she said, ‘let us not say any thing more about it. If you should ever come to that, you would soon see what I would do.’
“I did not insist; but that look remained long in my memory, and made me feel that I was far more closely bound than I had thought. From that day it became my fixed idea to break with her.”
“Well, you ought to have made an end of it,” said Magloire.
Jacques de Boiscoran shook his head.
“That is easily said,” he replied. “I tried it; but I could not do it. Ten times I went to her, determined to say, ‘Let us part;’ and ten times, at the last moment, my courage failed me. She irritated me. I almost began to hate her; but I could not forget how much I had loved her, and how much she had risked for my sake. Then—why should I not confess it?—I was afraid of her.
“This inflexible character, which I had so much admired, terrified me; and I shuddered, seized with vague and sombre apprehensions, when I thought what she was capable of doing. I was thus in the utmost perplexity, when my mother spoke to me of a match which she had long hoped for. This might be the pretext which I had so far failed to find. At all events, I asked for time to consider; and, the first time I saw the countess again, I gathered all my courage, and said to her,—
“‘Do you know what has happened? My mother wants me to marry.’
“She turned as pale as death; and looking me fixedly in the eyes, as if wanting to read my innermost thoughts, she asked,—
“‘And you, what do you want?’
“‘I,’ I replied with a forced laugh,—‘I want nothing just now. But the thing will have to be done sooner or later. A man must have a home, affections which the world acknowledges’—
“‘And I,’ she broke in; ‘what am I to you?’
“‘You,’ I exclaimed, ‘you, Genevieve! I love you with all the strength of my heart. But we are separated by a gulf: you are married.’
“She was still looking at me fixedly.
“‘In other words,’ she said, ‘you have loved me as a pastime. I have been the amusement of your youth, the poetry of twenty years, that love-romance which every man wants to have. But you are becoming serious; you want sober affections, and you leave me. Well, be it so. But what is to become of me when you are married?’
“I was suffering terribly.
“‘You have your husband,’ I stammered, ‘your children’—
“She stopped me.
“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I shall go back go live at Valpinson, in that country full of associations, where every place recalls a rendezvous. I shall live with my husband, whom I have betrayed; with daughters, one of whom—That cannot be, Jacques.’
“I had a fit of courage.
“‘Still,’ I said, ‘I may have to marry. What would you do?’
“‘Oh! very little,’ she replied. ‘I should hand all your letters to Count Claudieuse.’”
During the thirty years which he had spent at the bar, M. Magloire had heard many a strange confession; but never in his life had all his ideas been overthrown as in this case.
“That is utterly confounding,” he murmured.
But Jacques went on,—
“Was this threat of the countess meant in earnest? I did not doubt it; but affecting great composure, I said,—
“‘You would not do that.’
“‘By all that I hold dear and sacred in this world,’ she replied, ‘I would do it.’
“Many months have passed by since that scene, Magloire, many events have happened; and still I feel as if it had taken place yesterday. I see the countess still, whiter than a ghost. I still hear her trembling voice; and I can repeat to you her words almost literally,—
“‘Ah! you are surprised at my determination, Jacques. I understand that. Wives who have betrayed their husbands have not accustomed their lovers to be held responsible by them. When they are betrayed, they dare not cry out; when they are abandoned, they submit; when they are sacrificed, they hide their tears, for to cry would be to avow their wrong. Who would pity them, besides? Have they not received their well-known punishment? Hence it is that all men agree, and there are some of them cynical enough to confess it, that a married woman is a convenient lady-love, because she can never be jealous, and she may be abandoned at any time. Ah! we women are great cowards. If we had more courage, you men would look twice before you would dare speak of love to a married woman. But what no one dares I will dare. It shall not be said that in our common fault there are two parts, and that you shall have had all the benefit of it, and that I must bear all the punishment. What? You might be free to-morrow to console yourself with a new love; and I—I should have to sink under my shame and remorse. No, no! Such bonds as those that bind us, riveted by long years of complicity, are not broken so easily.
“‘You belong to me; you are mine; and I shall defend you against all and every one, with such arms as I possess. I told you that I valued my reputation more than my life; but I never told you that I valued life. On the eve of your wedding-day, my husband shall know all. I shall not survive the loss of my honor; but at least I shall have my revenge. If you escape the hatred of Count Claudieuse, your name will be bound up with such a tragic affair that your life will be ruined forever.’
“That was the way she spoke, Magloire, and with a passion of which I can give you no idea. It was absurd, it was insane, I admit. But is not all passion absurd and insane? Besides, it was by no means a sudden inspiration of her pride, which made her threaten me with such vengeance. The precision of her phrases, the accuracy of her words, all made me feel that she had long meditated such a blow, and carefully calculated the effect of every word.
“I was thunderstruck.
“And as I kept silence for some time, she asked me coldly,—
“‘Well?’
“I had to gain time, first of all.
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I cannot understand your passion. This marriage which I mentioned has never existed as yet, except in my mother’s imagination.’
“‘True?’ she asked.
“‘I assure you.’
“She examined me with suspicious eyes. At last she said,—
“‘Well, I believe you. But now you are warned: let us think no more of such horrors.’
“She might think no more of them, but I could not.
“I left her with fury in my heart.
“She had evidently settled it all. I had for lifetime this halter around my neck, which held me tighter day by day and, at the slightest effort to free myself, I must be prepared for a terrible scandal; for one of those overwhelming adventures which destroy a man’s whole life. Could I ever hope to make her listen to reason? No, I was quite sure I could not.
“I knew but too well that I should lose my time, if I were to recall to her that I was not quite as guilty as she would make me out; if I were to show her that her vengeance would fall less upon myself than upon her husband and her children; and that, although she might blame the count for the conditions of their marriage, her daughters, at least, were innocent.
“I looked in vain for an opening out of this horrible difficulty. Upon my honor, Magloire, there were moments when I thought I would pretend getting married, for the purpose of inducing the countess to act, and of bringing upon myself these threats which were hanging over me. I fear no danger; but I cannot bear to know it to exist, and to wait for it with folded hands: I must go forth and meet it.
“The thought that the countess should use her husband for the purpose of keeping me bound shocked me. It seemed to me ridiculous and ignoble that she should make her husband the guardian of her love. Did she think I was afraid of her?
“In the meantime, my mother had asked me what was the result of my reflections on the subject of marriage; and I blushed with shame as I told her that I was not disposed to marry as yet, as I felt too young to accept the responsibility of a family. It was so; but, under other circumstances, I should hardly have put in that plea. I was thus hesitating, and thinking how and when I should be able to make an end of it, when the war broke out. I felt naturally bound to offer my services. I hastened to Boiscoran. They had just organized the volunteers of the district; and they made me their captain. With them I joined the army of the Loire. In my state of mind, war had nothing fearful for me: every excitement was welcome that made me forget the past. There was, consequently, no merit in my courage. Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, and then the months, without my hearing a word about the Countess Claudieuse, I began secretly to hope that she had forgotten me; and that, time and absence doing their work, she was giving me up.
“When peace was made, I returned to Boiscoran; and the countess gave no more signs of life now than before. I began to feel reassured, and to recover possession of myself, when one day M. de Chandore invited me to dinner. I went. I saw Miss Dionysia.
“I had known her already for some time; and the recollection of her had, perhaps, had its influence upon my desire to quit the countess. Still I had always had self-control enough to avoid her lest I should draw some fatal vengeance upon her. When I was brought in contact with her by her grandfather, I had no longer the heart to avoid her; and, on the day on which I thought I read in her eyes that she loved me I made up my mind, and I resolved to risk every thing.
“But how shall I tell you what I suffered, Magloire, and with what anxiety I asked every evening when I returned to Boiscoran,—
“‘No letter yet?’
“None came; and still it was impossible that the Countess Claudieuse should not have heard of my marriage. My father had called on M. de Chandore, and asked him for the hand of his grand-daughter for me. I had been publicly acknowledged as her betrothed; and nothing was now to be done but to fix the wedding-day.
“This silence frightened me.”
Exhausted and out of breath, Jacque de Boiscoran paused here, pressing both of his hands on his chest, as if to check the irregular beating of his heart.
He was approaching the catastrophe.
And yet he looked in vain to the advocate for a word or a sign of encouragement. M. Magloire remained impenetrable: his face remained as impassive as an iron mask.
At last, with a great effort, Jacques resumed,—
“Yes, this calm frightened me more than a storm would have done. To win Dionysia’s love was too great happiness. I expected a catastrophe, something terrible. I expected it with such absolute certainty, that I had actually made up my mind to confess every thing to M. de Chandore. You know him, Magloire. The old gentleman is the purest and brightest type of honor itself. I could intrust my secrets to him with as perfect safety as I formerly intrusted Genevieve’s name to the night winds.
“Alas! why did I hesitate? why did I delay?
“One word might have saved me; and I should not be here, charged with an atrocious crime, innocent, and yet condemned to see how you doubt the truth of my words.
“But fate was against me.
“After having for a week postponed my confession every day to the next, one evening, after Dionysia and I had been talking of presentiments, I said to myself, ‘To-morrow it shall be done.’
“The next morning, I went to Boiscoran much earlier than usual, and on foot, because I wanted to give some orders to a dozen workmen whom I employed in my vineyards. I took a short cut through the fields. Alas! not a single detail has escaped from my memory. When I had given my orders, I returned to the high road, and there met the priest from Brechy, who is a friend of mine.
“‘You must,’ he said, ‘keep me company for a little distance. As you are on your way to Sauveterre, it will not delay you much to take the cross-road which passes by Valpinson and the forest of Rochepommier.’
“On what trifles our fate depends!
“I accompanied the priest, and only left him at the point where the high-road and the cross-road intersect. As soon as I was alone, I hastened on; and I was almost through the wood, when, all of a sudden, some twenty yards before me, I saw the Countess Claudieuse coming towards me. In spite of my emotion, I kept on my way, determined to bow to her, but to pass her without speaking. I did so, and had gone on a little distance, when I heard her call me,—
“‘Jacques!’
“I stopped; or, rather, I was nailed to the spot by that voice which for a long time had held such entire control over my heart. She came up to me, looking even more excited than I was. Her lips trembled, and her eyes wandered to and fro.
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘it is no longer a fancy: this time you marry Miss Chandore.’
“The time for half-measures had passed.
“‘Yes,’ I replied.
“‘Then it is really true,’ she said again. ‘It is all over now. I suppose it would be in vain to remind you of those vows of eternal love which you used to repeat over and over again. Look down there under that old oak. They are the same trees, this is the same landscape, and I am still the same woman; but your heart has changed.’
“I made no reply.
“‘You love her very much, do you?’ she asked me.
“I kept obstinately silent.
“‘I understand,’ she said, ‘I understand you but too well. And Dionysia? She loves you so much she cannot keep it to herself. She stops her friends to tell them all about her marriage, and to assure them of her happiness. Oh, yes, indeed, very happy! That love which was my disgrace is her honor. I was forced to conceal it like a crime: she can display it as a virtue. Social forms are, after all, very absurd and unjust; but a fool is he who tries to defy them.’
“Tears, the very first tears I had ever seen her shed, glittered in her long silky eyelashes.
“‘And to be nothing more to you,—nothing at all! Ah, I was too cautious! Do you recollect the morning after your uncle’s death, when you, now a rich man, proposed that we should flee? I refused; I clung to my reputation. I wanted to be respected. I thought it possible to divide life into two parts,—one to be devoted to pleasure; the other, to the hypocrisy of duty. Poor fool that I was! And still I discovered long ago that you were weary of me. I knew you so well! Your heart was like an open book to me, in which I read your most secret thoughts. Then I might have retained you. I ought to have been humble, obliging, submissive. Instead of that, I tried to command.
“‘And you,’ she said after a short pause,—‘are you happy?’
“‘I cannot be completely happy as long as I know that you are unhappy. But there is no sorrow which time does not heal. You will forget’—
“‘Never!’ she cried.
“And, lowering her voice, she added,—
“‘Can I forget you? Alas! my crime is fearful; but the punishment is still more so.’
“People were coming down the road.
“‘Compose yourself,’ I said.
“She made an effort to control her emotion. The people passed us, saluting politely. And after a moment she said again,—
“‘Well, and when is the wedding?’
“I trembled. She herself insisted upon an explanation.
“‘No day has as yet been fixed,’ I replied. ‘Had I not to see you first? You uttered once grave threats.’
“‘And you were afraid?’
“‘No: I was sure I knew you too well to fear that you would punish me for having loved you, as if that had been a crime. So many things have happened since the day when you made those threats!’
“‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘many things indeed! My poor father is incorrigible. Once more he has committed himself fearfully; and once more my husband has been compelled to sacrifice a large sum to save him. Ah, Count Claudieuse has a noble heart; and it is a great pity I should be the only one towards whom he has failed to show generosity. Every kindness which he shows me is a new grievance for me; but, having accepted them all, I have forfeited the right to strike him, as I had intended to do. You may marry Dionysia, Jacques; you have nothing to fear from me.’
“Ah! I had not hoped for so much, Magloire. Overcome with joy, I seized her hand, and raising it to my lips, I said,—
“‘You are the kindest of friends.’
“But promptly, as if my lips had burnt her hand, she drew it back, and said, turning very pale,—
“‘No, don’t do that!’
“Then, overcoming her emotion to a certain degree, she added,—
“‘But we must meet once more. You have my letters, I dare say.’
“‘I have them all.’
“‘Well, you must bring them to me. But where? And how? I can hardly absent myself at this time. My youngest daughter—our daughter, Jacques—is very ill. Still, an end must be made. Let us see, on Thursday—are you free then? Yes. Very well, then come on Thursday evening, towards nine o’clock, to Valpinson. You will find me at the edge of the wood, near the towers of the old castle, which my husband has repaired.’
“‘Is that quite prudent?’ I asked.
“‘Have I ever left any thing to chance?’ she replied, ‘and would I be apt, at this time, to be imprudent? Rely on me. Come, we must part, Jacques. Thursday, and be punctual!’
“Was I really free? Was the chain really broken? And had I become once more my own master?
“I thought so, and in my almost delirious joy I forgave the countess all the anxieties of the last year. What do I say? I began to accuse myself of injustice and cruelty. I admired her for sacrificing herself to my happiness. I felt, in the fulness of my gratitude, like kneeling down, and kissing the hem of her dress.
“It had become useless now to confide my secret to M. de Chandore. I might have gone back to Boiscoran. But I was more than half-way; I kept on; and, when I reached Sauveterre, my face bore such evident trances of my relief, that Dionysia said to me,—
“‘Something very pleasant must have happened to you, Jacques.’
“Oh, yes, very pleasant! For the first time, I breathed freely as I sat by her side. I could love her now, without fearing that my love might be fatal to her.
“This security did not last long. As I considered the matter, I thought it very singular that the countess should have chosen such a place for our meeting.
“‘Can it be a trap?’ I asked, as the day drew nearer.
“All day long on Thursday I had the most painful presentiments. If I had known how to let the countess know, I should certainly not have gone. But I had no means to send her word; and I knew her well enough to be sure that breaking my word would expose me to her full vengeance. I dined at the usual hour; and, when I had finished, I went up to my room, where I wrote to Dionysia not to expect me that evening, as I should be detained by a matter of the utmost importance.
“I handed the note to Michael, the son of one of my tenants, and told him to carry it to town without losing a minute. Then I tied up all of the countess’s letters in a parcel, put it in my pocket, took my gun, and went out. It might have been eight o’clock; but it was still broad daylight.”