CHAPTER VII. SIMON FLEIX
For some minutes I forgot mademoiselle in paying those assiduousattentions to my mother which her state and my duty demanded; and whichI offered the more anxiously that I recognised, with a sinking heart,the changes which age and illness had made in her since my last visit.The shock of mademoiselle's words had thrown her into a syncope, fromwhich she did not recover for some time; and then rather through theassistance of our strange guide, who seemed well aware what to do, thanthrough my efforts. Anxious as I was to learn what had reduced herto such straits and such a place, this was not the time to satisfy mycuriosity, and I prepared myself instead for the task of effacing thepainful impression which mademoiselle's words had made on her mind.
On first coming to herself she did not remember them, but, content tofind me by her side--for there is something so alchemic in a mother'slove that I doubt not my presence changed her garret to a palace--shespent herself in feeble caresses and broken words. Presently, however,her eye falling on mademoiselle and her maid, who remained standing bythe hearth, looking darkly at us from time to time, she recalled, firstthe shock which had prostrated her, and then its cause, and raisingherself on her elbow, looked about her wildly. 'Gaston!' she cried,clutching my hand with her thin fingers, 'what was it I heard? It was ofyou someone spoke--a woman! She called you--or did I dream it?--a cheat!You!'
'Madame, madame,' I said, striving to speak carelessly, though thesight; of her grey hair, straggling and dishevelled, moved me strangely,'was it; likely? Would anyone dare to use such expressions of me is yourpresence? You must indeed have dreamed it!'
The words, however, returning more and more vividly to her mind, shelooked at me very pitifully, and in great agitation laid her arm on myneck, as though she would shelter me with the puny strength which justenabled her to rise in bed. 'But someone,' she muttered, her eyes on thestrangers, 'said it, Gaston? I heard it. What did it mean?'
'What you heard, madame,' I answered, with an attempt at gaiety, thoughthe tears stood in my eyes, 'was, doubtless, mademoiselle here scoldingour guide from Tours, who demanded three times the proper POURBOIRE. Theimpudent rascal deserved all that was said to him, I assure you.'
'Was that it?' she murmured doubtfully.
'That must have been what you heard, madame,' I answered, as if I feltno doubt.
She fell back with a sigh of relief, and a little colour came into herwan face. But her eyes still dwelt curiously, and with apprehension, onmademoiselle, who stood looking sullenly into the fire; and seeing thismy heart misgave me sorely that I had done a foolish thing in bringingthe girl there. I foresaw a hundred questions which would be asked, anda hundred complications which must ensue, and felt already the blush ofshame mounting to my cheek.
'Who is that?' my mother asked softly. 'I am ill. She must excuse me.'She pointed with her fragile finger to my companions.
I rose, and still keeping her hand in mine, turned so as to face thehearth. 'This, madame,' I answered formally, 'is Mademoiselle--, but hername I will commit to you later, and in private. Suffice it to say thatshe is a lady of rank, who has been committed to my charge by a highpersonage.'
'A high personage?' my mother repeated gently, glancing at me with asmile of gratification.
'One of the highest,' I said, 'Such a charge being a great honour to me,I felt that I could not better execute it madame, since we must lie inBlois one night, than by requesting your hospitality on her behalf.'
I dared mademoiselle as I spoke--I dared her with my eye to contradictor interrupt me. For answer, she looked at me once, inclining her head alittle, and gazing at us from under her long eyelashes. Then she turnedback to the fire, and her foot resumed its angry tapping on the floor.
'I regret that I cannot receive her better,' my mother answered feebly.'I have had losses of late. I--but I will speak of that at another time.Mademoiselle doubtless knows,' she continued with dignity, 'you and yourposition in the south too well to think ill of the momentary straits towhich she finds me reduced.'
I saw mademoiselle start, and I writhed under the glance of covertscorn, of amazed indignation, which she shot at me. But my mother gentlypatting my hand, I answered patiently, 'Mademoiselle will think onlywhat is kind, madame--of that I am assured. And lodgings are scarceto-night in Blois.'
'But tell me of yourself, Gaston,' my mother cried eagerly; and I hadnot the heart, with her touch on my hand, her eyes on my face, to tearmyself away, much as I dreaded what was coming, and longed to end thescene. 'Tell me of yourself. You are still in favour with the king of--Iwill not name him here?'
'Still, madame,' I answered, looking steadily at mademoiselle, though myface burned.
'You are still--he consults you, Gaston?'
'Still, madame.'
My mother heaved a happy sigh, and sank lower in the bed. 'And youremployments?' she murmured, her voice trembling with gratification.'They have not been reduced? You still retain them, Gaston?'
'Still, madame,' I answered, the perspiration standing on my brow, myshame almost more than I could bear.
'Twelve thousand livres a year, I think?'
'The same, madame.'
'And your establishment? How many do you keep now? Your valet, ofcourse? And lackeys--how many at present?' She glanced, with an eye ofpride, while she waited for my answer, first at the two silent figuresby the fire, then at the poverty-stricken room; as if the sight of itsbareness heightened for her the joy of my prosperity.
She had no suspicion of my trouble, my misery, or that the last questionalmost filled the cup too full. Hitherto all had been easy, but thisseemed to choke me. I stammered and lost my voice. Mademoiselle, herhead bowed, was gazing into the fire. Fanchette was staring at me, herblack eyes round as saucers, her mouth half-open. 'Well, madame,'I muttered at length, 'to tell you the truth, at present, you mustunderstand, I have been forced to--'
'What, Gaston?' Madame de Bonne half rose in bed. Her voice was sharpwith disappointment and apprehension; the grasp of her fingers on myhand grew closer.
I could not resist that appeal. I flung away the last rag of shame.'To reduce my establishment somewhat,' I answered, looking a miserabledefiance at mademoiselle's averted figure. She had called me a liar anda cheat--here in the room! I must stand before her a liar and a cheatconfessed. 'I keep but three lackeys now, madame.'
Still it is creditable,' my mother muttered thoughtfully, her eyesshining. 'Your dress, however, Gaston--only my eyes are weak--seems tome--'
'Tut, tut! It is but a disguise,' I answered quickly.
'I might have known that,' she rejoined, sinking back with a smile anda sigh of content. 'But when I first saw you I was almost afraid thatsomething had happened to you. And I have been uneasy lately,' shewent on, releasing my hand, and beginning to play with the coverlet,as though the remembrance troubled her. 'There was a man here a whileago--a friend of Simon Fleix there--who had been south to Pau and Nerac,and he said there was no M. de Marsac about the Court.'
'He probably knew less of the Court than the wine-tavern,' I answeredwith a ghastly smile.
'That was just what I told him,' my mother responded quickly andeagerly. 'I warrant you I sent him away ill-satisfied.'
'Of course,' I said; 'there will always be people of that kind. Butnow, if you will permit me, madame, I will make such arrangements formademoiselle as are necessary.'
Begging her accordingly to lie down and compose herself--for even soshort a conversation, following on the excitement of our arrival,had exhausted her to a painful degree--I took the youth, who had justreturned from stabling our horses, a little aside, and learning that helodged in a smaller chamber on the farther side of the landing, securedit for the use of mademoiselle and her woman. In spite of a certainexcitability which marked him at times, he seemed to be a quick, readyfellow, and he willingly undertook to go out, late as it was, andprocure some provisions and a few other things which were sadly needed,as well for my mother's comfort as for our own. I directed Fanche
tte toaid him in the preparation of the other chamber, and thus for a while Iwas left alone with mademoiselle. She had taken one of the stools, andsat cowering over the fire, the hood of her cloak drawn about her head;in such a manner that even when she looked at me, which she did fromtime to time, I saw little more than her eyes, bright with contemptuousanger.
'So, sir,' she presently began, speaking in a low voice, and turningslightly towards me, 'you practise lying even here?'
I felt so strongly the futility of denial or explanation that I shruggedmy shoulders and remained silent under the sneer. Two more days--twomore days would take us to Rosny, and my task would be done, andMademoiselle and I would part for good and all. What would it matterthen what she thought of me? What did it matter now?
For the first time in our intercourse my silence seemed to disconcertand displease her. 'Have you nothing to say for yourself?' she mutteredsharply, crushing a fragment of charcoal under her foot, and stoopingto peer at the ashes. 'Have you not another lie in your quiver, M. deMarsac?' De Marsac!' And she repeated the title, with a scornful laugh,as if she put no faith in my claim to it.
But I would answer nothing--nothing; and we remained silent untilFanchette, coming in to say that the chamber was ready, held the lightfor her mistress to pass out. I told the woman to come back and fetchmademoiselle's supper, and then, being left alone with my mother, whohad fallen asleep, with a smile on her thin, worn face, I began towonder what had happened to reduce her to such dire poverty.
I feared to agitate her by referring to it; but later in the evening,when her curtains were drawn and Simon Fleix and I were left together,eyeing one another across the embers like dogs of different breeds--witha certain strangeness and suspicion--my thoughts recurred to thequestion; and determining first to learn something about my companion,whose pale, eager face and tattered, black dress gave him a certainindividuality, I asked him whether he had come from Paris with Madame deBonne.
He nodded without speaking.
I asked him if he had known her long.
'Twelve months,' he answered. 'I lodged on the fifth, madame on thesecond, floor of the same house in Paris.'
I leaned forward and plucked the hem of his black robe. 'What is this?'I said, with a little contempt. 'You are not a priest, man.'
'No,' he answered, fingering the stuff himself, and gazing at me in acurious, vacant fashion. 'I am a student of the Sorbonne.'
I drew off from him with a muttered oath, wondering--while I looked athim with suspicious eyes--how he came to be here, and particularly howhe came to be in attendance on my mother, who had been educated fromchildhood in the Religion, and had professed it in private all her life.I could think of no one who, in old days, would have been less welcomein her house than a Sorbonnist, and began to fancy that here should liethe secret of her miserable condition.
'You don't like, the Sorbonne?' he said, reading my thoughts; whichwere, indeed, plain enough.
'No more than I love the devil!' I said bluntly.
He leaned forward and, stretching out a thin, nervous hand, laid iton my knee. 'What if they are right, though?' he muttered, his voicehoarse. 'What if they are right, M. de Marsac?'
'Who right?' I asked roughly, drawing back afresh.
'The Sorbonne.' he repeated, his face red with excitement, his eyespeering uncannily into mine. 'Don't you see,' he continued, pinchingmy knee in his earnestness, and thrusting his face nearer and nearerto mine, 'it all turns on that? It all turns on that--salvation ordamnation! Are they right? Are you right? You say yes to this, no tothat, you white-coats; and you say it lightly, but are you right? Areyou right? Mon Dieu!' he continued, drawing back abruptly and clawingthe air with impatience, 'I have read, read, read! I have listened tosermons, theses, disputations, and I know nothing. I know no more thanwhen I began.'
He sprang up and began to pace the floor, while I gazed at him with afeeling of pity. A very learned person once told me that the troubles ofthese times bred four kinds of men, who were much to be compassionated:fanatics on the one side or the other, who lost sight of all else in theintensity of their faith; men who, like Simon Fleix, sought desperatelyafter something to believe, and found it not; and lastly, scoffers, who,believing in nothing, looked on all religion as a mockery.
He presently stopped walking--in his utmost excitement I remarked thathe never forgot my mother, but trod more lightly when he drew near thealcove--and spoke again. 'You are a Huguenot?' he said.
'Yes,' I replied.
'So is she,' he rejoined, pointing towards the bed. 'But do you feel nodoubts?'
'None,' I said quietly.
'Nor does she.' he answered again, stopping opposite me. You made upyour mind--how?'
'I was born in the Religion,' I said.
'And you have never questioned it?'
'Never.'
'Nor thought much about it?'
'Not a great deal,' I answered.
'Saint Gris!' he exclaimed in a low tone. 'And do you never think ofhell-fire--of the worm which dieth not, and the fire which shall not bequenched? Do you never think of that, M. de Marsac?'
'No, my friend, never!' I answered, rising impatiently; for atthat hour, and in that silent, gloomy room I found his conversationdispiriting. 'I believe what I was taught to believe, and I strive tohurt no one but the enemy. I think little; and if I were you I wouldthink less. I would do something, man--fight, play, work, anything butthink! I leave that to clerks.'
'I am a clerk,' he answered.
'A poor one, it seems,' I retorted, with a little scorn in my tone.'Leave it, man. Work! Fight! Do something!'
'Fight?' he said, as if the idea were a novel one. 'Fight? But there, Imight be killed; and then hell-fire, you see!'
'Zounds, man!' I cried, out of patience with a folly which, to tell thetruth, the lamp burning low, and the rain pattering on the roof, madethe skin of my back feel cold and creepy. 'Enough of this! Keep yourdoubts and your fire to yourself! And answer me,' I continued, sternly.'How came Madame de Bonne so poor? How did she come down to this place?'
He sat down on his stool, the excitement dying quickly out of his face.'She gave away all her money,' he said slowly and reluctantly. It may beimagined that this answer surprised me. 'Gave it away?' I exclaimed. 'Towhom? And when?'
He moved uneasily on his seat and avoided my eye, his altered mannerfilling me with suspicions which the insight I had just obtained intohis character did not altogether preclude. At last he said, 'I hadnothing to do with it, if you mean that; nothing. On the contrary, Ihave done all I could to make it up to her. I followed her here. I swearthat is so, M. de Marsac.'
'You have not told me yet to whom she gave it,' I said sternly.
'She gave it,' he muttered, 'to a priest.'
'To what priest?'
'I do not know his name. He is a Jacobin.'
'And why?' I asked, gazing incredulously at the student. 'Why didshe give it to him? Come, come! have a care. Let me have none of yourSorbonne inventions!'
He hesitated a moment, looking at me timidly, and then seemed to make uphis mind to tell me. 'He found out--it was when we lived in Paris, youunderstand, last June--that she was a Huguenot. It was about the timethey burned the Foucards, and he frightened her with that, and made herpay him money, a little at first, and then more and more, to keep hersecret. When the king came to Blois she followed his Majesty, thinkingto be safer here; but the priest came too, and got more money, and more,until he left her--this.'
'This!' I said. And I set my teeth together.
Simon Fleix nodded.
I looked round the wretched garret to which my mother had been reduced,and pictured the days and hours of fear and suspense through which shehad lived; through which she must have lived, with that caitiff's threathanging over her grey head! I thought of her birth and her humiliation;of her frail form and patient, undying love for me; and solemnly, andbefore heaven, I swore that night to punish the man. My anger was toogreat for words, and for tears I w
as too old. I asked Simon Fleix nomore questions, save when the priest might be looked for again--whichhe could not tell me--and whether he would know him again--to which heanswered, 'Yes.' But, wrapping myself in my cloak, I lay down by thefire and pondered long and sadly.
So, while I had been pinching there, my mother had been starving here.She had deceived me, and I her. The lamp flickered, throwing uncertainshadows as the draught tossed the strange window-curtain to and fro.The leakage from the roof fell drop by drop, and now and again the windshook the crazy building, as though it would lift it up bodily and carryit away.