CHAPTER VI.
The clock of the St. Lazare terminus was striking eleven as old Tabaret,after shaking hands with Noel, left his house, still bewildered by whathe had just heard. Obliged to restrain himself at the time, he now fullyappreciated his liberty of action. It was with an unsteady gait thathe took his first steps in the street, like the toper, who, after beingshut up in a warm room, suddenly goes out into the open air. He wasbeaming with pleasure, but at the same time felt rather giddy, from thatrapid succession of unexpected revelations, which, so he thought, hadsuddenly placed him in possession of the truth.
Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon's he did not take acab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one of those who requireexercise to see things clearly. When he moved about his ideas fitted andclassified themselves in his brain, like grains of wheat when shaken ina bushel. Without hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chausseed'Antin, crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned tothe Rue Richelieu.
He walked along, unconscious of external objects, tripping and stumblingover the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping on the greasypavement. If he followed the proper road, it was a purely mechanicalimpulse that guided him. His mind was wandering at random through thefield of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysteriousthread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at LaJonchere.
Like all persons labouring under strong emotion without knowing it, hetalked aloud, little thinking into what indiscreet ears his exclamationsand disjointed phrases might fall. At every step, we meet in Parispeople babbling to themselves, and unconsciously confiding to the fourwinds of heaven their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allowtheir contents to steal away. Often the passers-by mistake theseeccentric monologuists for lunatics. Sometimes the curious follow them,and amuse themselves by receiving these strange confidences. It wasan indiscretion of this kind which told the ruin of Riscara the richbanker. Lambreth, the assassin of the Rue de Venise, betrayed himself ina similar manner.
"What luck!" exclaimed old Tabaret. "What an incredible piece of goodfortune! Gevrol may dispute it if he likes, but after all, chance is thecleverest agent of the police. Who would have imagined such a history? Iwas not, however, very far from the reality. I guessed there was achild in the case. But who would have dreamed of a substitution?--an oldsensational effect, that playwrights no longer dare make use of. Thisis a striking example of the danger of following preconceived ideas inpolice investigation. We are affrighted at unlikelihood; and, as in thiscase, the greatest unlikelihood often proves to be the truth. Weretire before the absurd, and it is the absurd that we should examine.Everything is possible. I would not take a thousand crowns for whatI have learnt this evening. I shall kill two birds with one stone. Ideliver up the criminal; and I give Noel a hearty lift up to recover histitle and his fortune. There, at least; is one who deserves what he willget. For once I shall not be sorry to see a lad get on, who has beenbrought up in the school of adversity. But, pshaw! he will be like allthe rest. Prosperity will turn his brain. Already he begins to prate ofhis ancestors. . . . Poor humanity he almost made me laugh. . . . Butit is mother Gerdy who surprises me most. A woman to whom I would havegiven absolution without waiting to hear her confess. When I think thatI was on the point of proposing to her, ready to marry her! B-r-r-r!"
At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He saw himself married, andall on a sudden, discovering the antecedents of Madame Tabaret, becomingmixed up with a scandalous prosecution, compromised, and renderedridiculous.
"When I think," he continued, "that my worthy Gevrol is running afterthe man with the earrings! Run, my boy, run! Travel is a good thing foryouth. Won't he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But I don't care. If anyone wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon will protect me. Ah! there isone to whom I am going to do a good turn. I can see him now, opening hiseyes like saucers, when I say to him, 'I have the rascal!' He can boastof owing me something. This investigation will bring him honour, orjustice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of theLegion of Honour. So much the better! I like him. If he is asleep, I amgoing to give him an agreeable awaking. Won't he just overpower me withquestions! He will want to know everything at once."
Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont des Saints-Peres, stoppedsuddenly. "But the details!" said he. "By Jove! I have none. I only knowthe bare facts." He resumed his walk, and continued, "They are rightat the office, I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrolsays. When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got holdof a quantity of useful details; but I did not even think of doing so.I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the story in a sentence.All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one doesnot stop to shoot a blackbird. But I see very well now, I did not drawhim out enough. On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might haveawakened suspicions in Noel's mind, and led him to discover that I amworking for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush for myconnection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time,I prefer that no one should know of it. People are so stupid, thatthey detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my bestbehaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey."
M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; sothat M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to themagistrate's sleeping apartment. At sight of his amateur detective,M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, "There is somethingextraordinary! What have you discovered? have you got a clue?"
"Better than that," answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure.
"Speak quickly!"
"I know the culprit!"
Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced aneffect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. "Already!" said he. "Is itpossible?"
"I have the honour to repeat to you, sir," resumed the old fellow, "thatI know the author of the crime of La Jonchere."
"And I," said M. Daburon, "I proclaim you the greatest of alldetectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter undertakean investigation without your assistance."
"You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in thematter. The discovery is due to chance alone."
"You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever, and it isthat which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be seated and proceed."
Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believedhim capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he hadlearned from Noel. He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters,almost without changing a word.
"These letters," added he, "I have seen; and I have even taken one, inorder to verify the writing. Here it is."
"Yes," murmured the magistrate--"Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discoveredthe criminal. The evidence is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven haswilled this. Crime engenders crime. The great sin of the father has madethe son an assassin."
"I have not given you the names, sir," resumed old Tabaret. "I wishedfirst to hear your opinion."
"Oh! you can name them," interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degreeof animation, "no matter how high he may have to strike, a Frenchmagistrate has never hesitated."
"I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time. The father whohas sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is CountRheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard,Viscount Albert de Commarin!"
M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these words slowly,and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently expecting to produce agreat impression. His expectation was more than realized. M. Daburonwas struck with stupor. He remained motionless, his eyes dilated withastonishment. Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning whichhe was trying to impress upon his memory: "Albert de Commarin! Albert deCommarin!"
"Yes," insisted old Tabaret, "the noble viscount. It is incredible, Iknow." But he perceived the alteration in the mag
istrate's face, anda little frightened, he approached the bed. "Are you unwell, sir?" heasked.
"No," answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said. "I amvery well; but the surprise, the emotion,--"
"I understand that," said the old fellow.
"Yes, it is not surprising, is it? I should like to be alone a fewminutes. Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some lengthon this business. Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be afire burning there. I will join you directly."
Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, andseated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to whichin the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give theimmobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while hiseyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowfulrecollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This namerecalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth andspoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to thisepoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it hadseemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to himnow that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixedup, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.
Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the mostimportant positions in the province. Why, then, had they not bequeatheda title and a coat of arms to their descendants?
The magistrate's father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateauwhich he inhabits, more than eight hundred thousand francs' worth of themost valuable land. By his mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related tothe highest nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists inFrance, as every one knows.
When he received his nomination in Paris, his relationship caused him tobe received at once by five or six aristocratic families, and it was notlong before he extended his circle of acquaintance.
He possessed, however, none of the qualifications which ensure socialsuccess. He was cold and grave even to sadness, reserved and timideven to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lackedthe facility of repartee, and the amiable art of conversing without asubject; he could neither tell a lie, nor pay an insipid compliment.Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret hisimpressions immediately. He required to reflect and consider withinhimself.
However, he was sought after for more solid qualities than these: forthe nobleness of his sentiments, his pleasant disposition, and thecertainty of his connections. Those who knew him intimately quicklylearned to esteem his sound judgment, his keen sense of honour, and todiscover under his cold exterior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility,and a delicacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be eclipsedin a room full of strangers or simpletons, he charmed all hearts in asmaller circle, where he felt warmed by an atmosphere of sympathy.
He accustomed himself to go about a great deal. He reasoned, wiselyperhaps, that a magistrate can make better use of his time than byremaining shut up in his study, in company with books of law. He thoughtthat a man called upon to judge others, ought to know them, and for thatpurpose study them. An attentive and discreet observer, he examined theplay of human interests and passions, exercised himself in disentanglingand manoeuvring at need the strings of the puppets he saw moving aroundhim. Piece by piece, so to say, he laboured to comprehend the workingof the complicated machine called society, of which he was charged tooverlook the movements, regulate the springs, and keep the wheels inorder.
And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1860 and 1861, M.Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere tobe met with. What could he be doing? Inquiry resulted in the discoverythat he passed nearly all his evenings at the house of the Marchionessd'Arlange. The surprise was as great as it was natural.
This dear marchioness was, or rather is,--for she is still in the landof the living,--a personage whom one would consider rather out of date.She is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eighteenthcentury. How, and by what marvellous process she had been preservedsuch as we see her, it is impossible to say. Listening to her, you wouldswear that she was yesterday at one of those parties given by the queenwhere cards and high stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance ofLouis XIV., and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation ofeach other.
Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has preserved everythingbelonging to that period about which authors have written only todisplay the defects. Her appearance alone will tell more than anexhaustive article, and an hour's conversation with her, more than avolume.
She was born in a little principality, where her parents had takenrefuge whilst awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring andrebellious people. She had been brought up amongst the old nobles ofthe emigration, in some very ancient and very gilded apartment, just asthough she had been in a cabinet of curiosities. Her mind had awakenedamid the hum of antediluvian conversations, her imagination had firstbeen aroused by arguments a little less profitable than those of anassembly of deaf persons convoked to decide upon the merits of the workof some distinguished musician. Here she imbibed a fund of ideas, which,applied to the forms of society of to-day, are as grotesque as wouldbe those of a child shut up until twenty years of age in an Assyrianmuseum.
The first empire, the restoration, the monarchy of July, the secondrepublic, the second empire, have passed beneath her windows, but shehas not taken the trouble to open them. All that has happened since '89she considers as never having been. For her it is a nightmare from whichshe is still awaiting a release. She has looked at everything, but thenshe looks through her own pretty glasses which show her everything asshe would wish it, and which are to be obtained of dealers in illusions.
Though over sixty-eight years old she is as straight as a poplar, andhas never been ill. She is vivacious, and active to excess, and can onlykeep still when asleep, or when playing her favorite game of piquet. Shehas her four meals a day, eats like a vintager, and takes her wine neat.She professes an undisguised contempt for the silly women of our centurywho live for a week on a partridge, and inundate with water grandsentiments which they entangle in long phrases. She has always been, andstill is, very positive, and her word is prompt and easily understood.She never shrinks from using the most appropriate word to express hermeaning. So much the worse, if some delicate ears object! She heartilydetests hypocrisy.
She believes in God, but she believes also in M. de Voltaire, so thather devotion is, to say the least, problematical. However, she is ongood terms with the curate of her parish, and is very particular aboutthe arrangement of her dinner on the days she honours him with aninvitation to her table. She seems to consider him a subaltern, veryuseful to her salvation, and capable of opening the gate of paradise forher.
Such as she is, she is shunned like the plague. Everybody dreads herloud voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frankness of speech whichshe affects, in order to have the right of saying the most unpleasantthings which pass through her head. Of all her family, there onlyremains her granddaughter, whose father died very young.
Of a fortune originally large, and partly restored by the indemnityallowed by the government, but since administered in the most carelessmanner, she has only been able to preserve an income of twenty thousandfrancs, which diminishes day by day. She is, also, proprietor of thepretty little house which she inhabits, situated near the Invalides,between a rather narrow court-yard, and a very extensive garden.
So circumstanced, she considers herself the most unfortunate of God'screatures, and passes the greater part of her life complaining of herpoverty. From time to time, especially after some exceptionally badspeculation, she confesses that what she fears most is to die in apauper's bed.
A friend of M. Daburon's presented him one evening to
the Marchionessd'Arlange, having dragged him to her house in a mirthful mood, saying,"Come with me, and I will show you a phenomenon, a ghost of the past inflesh and bone."
The marchioness rather puzzled the magistrate the first time he wasadmitted to her presence. On his second visit, she amused him very much;for which reason, he came again. But after a while she no longer amusedhim, though he still continued a faithful and constant visitor to therose-coloured boudoir wherein she passed the greater part of her life.
Madame d'Arlange conceived a violent friendship for him, and becameeloquent in his praises.
"A most charming young man," she declared, "delicate and sensible! Whata pity he is not born!" (Her ladyship meant born of noble parentage,but used the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfortunates who arenot noble having been born at all) "One can receive him though, allthe same; his forefathers were very decent people, and his mother was aCottevise who, however, went wrong. I wish him well, and will do all Ican to push him forward."
The strongest proof of friendship he received from her was, that shecondescended to pronounce his name like the rest of the world. She hadpreserved that ridiculous affectation of forgetfulness of the names ofpeople who were not of noble birth, and who in her opinion had no rightto names. She was so confirmed in this habit, that, if by accident shepronounced such a name correctly, she immediately repeated it with someludicrous alteration. During his first visit, M. Daburon was extremelyamused at hearing his name altered every time she addressed him.Successively she made it Taburon, Dabiron, Maliron, Laliron, Laridon;but, in three months time, she called him Daburon as distinctly as if hehad been a duke of something, and a lord of somewhere.
Occasionally she exerted herself to prove to the worthy magistrate thathe was a nobleman, or at least ought to be. She would have been happy,if she could have persuaded him to adopt some title, and have a helmetengraved upon his visiting cards.
"How is it possible," said she, "that your ancestors, eminent, wealthy,and influential, never thought of being raised from the common herdand securing a title for their descendants? Today you would possess apresentable pedigree.--"
"My ancestors were wise," responded M. Daburon. "They preferred beingforemost among their fellow-citizens to becoming last among the nobles."
Upon which the marchioness explained, and proved to demonstration, thatbetween the most influential and wealthy citizen and the smallest scionof nobility, there was an abyss that all the money in the world couldnot fill up.
They who were so surprised at the frequency of the magistrate'svisits to this celebrated "relic of the past" did not know that lady'sgranddaughter, or, at least, did not recollect her; she went out soseldom! The old marchioness did not care, so she said, to be botheredwith a young spy who would be in her way when she related some of herchoice anecdotes.
Claire d'Arlange was just seventeen years old. She was extremelygraceful and gentle in manner, and lovely in her natural innocence. Shehad a profusion of fine light brown hair, which fell in ringlets overher well-shaped neck and shoulders. Her figure was still rather slender;but her features recalled Guide's most celestial faces. Her blue eyes,shaded by long lashes of a hue darker than her hair, had above all anadorable expression.
A certain air of antiquity, the result of her association with hergrandmother, added yet another charm to the young girl's manner. She hadmore sense, however, than her relative; and, as her education had notbeen neglected, she had imbibed pretty correct ideas of the world inwhich she lived. This education, these practical ideas, Claire owedto her governess, upon whose shoulders the marchioness had thrown theentire responsibility of cultivating her mind.
This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, chosen at hazard, happened bythe most fortunate chance to be both well informed and possessed ofprinciple. She was, what is often met with on the other side ofthe Rhine, a woman at once romantic and practical, of the tenderestsensibility and the severest virtue. This good woman, while she carriedher pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy and poetical imaginings,gave her at the same time the most practical instruction in mattersrelating to actual life. She revealed to Claire all the peculiaritiesof thought and manner that rendered her grandmother so ridiculous, andtaught her to avoid them, but without ceasing to respect them.
Every evening, on arriving at Madame d'Arlange's, M. Daburon was sure tofind Claire seated beside her grandmother, and it was for that thathe called. Whilst listening with an inattentive ear to the old lady'srigmaroles and her interminable anecdotes of the emigration, he gazedupon Claire, as a fanatic upon his idol. Often in his ecstasy he forgotwhere he was for the moment and became absolutely oblivious of the oldlady's presence, although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanumof his ear like a needle. Then he would answer her at cross-purposes,committing the most singular blunders, which he labored afterwards toexplain. But he need not have taken the trouble. Madame d'Arlange didnot perceive her courtier's absence of mind; her questions were of sucha length, that she did not care about the answers. Having a listener,she was satisfied, provided that from time to time he gave signs oflife.
When obliged to sit down to play piquet, he cursed below his breath thegame and its detestable inventor. He paid no attention to his cards.He made mistakes every moment, discarding what he should keep inand forgetting to cut. The old lady was annoyed by these continualdistractions, but she did scruple to profit by them. She looked at thediscard, changed the cards which did not suit her, while she audaciouslyscored points she never made, and pocketed the money thus won withoutshame or remorse.
M. Daburon's timidity was extreme, and Claire was unsociable to excess,they therefore seldom spoke to each other. During the entire winter, themagistrate did not directly address the young girl ten times; and, onthese rare occasions, he had learned mechanically by heart the phrase heproposed to repeat to her, well knowing that, without this precaution,he would most likely be unable to finish what he had to say.
But at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her, he heard hervoice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his very soul.
By constantly watching her eyes, he learned to understand all theirexpressions. He believed he could read in them all her thoughts, andthrough them look into her soul like through an open window.
"She is pleased to-day," he would say to himself; and then he wouldbe happy. At other times, he thought, "She has met with some annoyanceto-day;" and immediately he became sad.
The idea of asking for her hand many times presented itself to hisimagination; but he never dared to entertain it. Knowing, as he did,the marchioness's prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of anyapproach to a misalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouthat the first word by a very decided "no," which she would maintain. Toattempt the thing would be to risk, without a chance of success, hispresent happiness which he thought immense, for love lives upon its ownmisery.
"Once repulsed," thought he, "the house is shut against me; and thenfarewell to happiness, for life will end for me." Upon the otherhand, the very rational thought occurred to him that another mightsee Mademoiselle d'Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for andobtain her. In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating still,he must certainly lose her in the end. By the commencement of spring,his mind was made up.
One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps towards theresidence of Madame d'Arlange, having truly need of more bravery thana soldier about to face a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered tohimself, "Victory or death!" The marchioness who had gone out shortlyafter breakfast had just returned in a terrible rage, and was utteringscreams like an eagle.
This was what had taken place. She had some work done by a neighboringpainter some eight or ten months before; and the workman had presentedhimself a hundred times to receive payment, without avail. Tired of thisproceeding, he had summoned the high and mighty Marchioness d'Arlangebefore the Justice of the Peace.
This summons had exasperated the marchioness; but s
he kept the matterto herself, having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon the judge andrequest him to reprimand the insolent painter who had dared to plagueher for a paltry sum of money. The result of this fine project may beguessed. The judge had been compelled to eject her forcibly from hisoffice; hence her fury.
M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half undressed, herhair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by the debris of theglass and china which had fallen under her hands in the first moments ofher passion. Unfortunately, too, Claire and her governess were gone out.A maid was occupied in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters,in the hope of calming her nerves.
She received Daburon as a messenger direct from Providence. In a littlemore than half an hour, she told her story, interlarded with numerousinterjections and imprecations.
"Do you comprehend this judge?" cried she. "He must be some franticJacobin,--some son of the furies, who washed their hands in the blood oftheir king. Ah! my friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance.He listened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I enabledto live by employing him! And when I addressed some severe remonstrancesto this judge, as it was my duty to do, he had me turned out! Do youhear? turned out!"
At this painful recollection, she made a menacing gesture with her arm.In her sudden movement, she struck a handsome scent bottle that her maidheld in her hand. The force of the blow sent it to the other end of theroom, where it broke into pieces.
"Stupid, awkward fool!" cried the marchioness, venting her anger uponthe frightened girl.
M. Daburon, bewildered at first, now endeavored to calm herexasperation. She did not allow him to pronounce three words.
"Happily you are here," she continued; "you are always willing to serveme, I know. I count upon you! you will exercise your influence, yourpowerful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful painter and thismiscreant of a judge flung into some deep ditch, to teach them therespect due to a woman of my rank."
The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile at this imperativedemand. He had heard many speeches as absurd issue from her lips withoutever making fun of them. Was she not Claire's grandmother? for thatalone he loved and venerated her. He blessed her for her granddaughter,as an admirer of nature blesses heaven for the wild flower that delightshim with its perfume.
The fury of the old lady was terrible; nor was it of short duration. Atthe end of an hour, however, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. Theyreplaced her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toilette, andpicked up the fragments of broken glass and china. Vanquished by herown violence, the reaction was immediate and complete. She fell backhelpless and exhausted into an arm-chair.
This magnificent result was due to the magistrate. To accomplish it, hehad had to use all his ability, to exercise the most angelic patience,the greatest tact. His triumph was the more meritorious, because hecame completely unprepared for this adventure, which interfered with hisintended proposal. The first time that he had felt sufficient courageto speak, fortune seemed to declare against him, for this untoward eventhad quite upset his plans.
Arming himself, however, with his professional eloquence, he talked theold lady into calmness. He was not so foolish as to contradict her. Onthe contrary, he caressed her hobby. He was humorous and pathetic byturns. He attacked the authors of the revolution, cursed its errors,deplored its crimes, and almost wept over its disastrous results.Commencing with the infamous Marat he eventually reached the rascal of ajudge who had offended her. He abused his scandalous conduct in good setterms, and was exceedingly severe upon the dishonest scamp of a painter.However, he thought it best to let them off the punishment they sorichly deserved; and ended by suggesting that it would perhaps beprudent, wise, noble even to pay.
The unfortunate word "pay" brought Madame d'Arlange to her feet in thefiercest attitude.
"Pay!" she screamed. "In order that these scoundrels may persist intheir obduracy! Encourage them by a culpable weakness! Never! Besides topay one must have money! and I have none!"
"Why!" said M. Daburon, "it amounts to but eighty-seven francs!"
"And is that nothing?" asked the marchioness; "you talk very foolishly,my dear sir. It is easy to see that you have money; your ancestors werepeople of no rank; and the revolution passed a hundred feet above theirheads. Who can tell whether they may not have been the gainers by it? Ittook all from the d'Arlanges. What will they do to me, if I do not pay?"
"Well, madame, they can do many things; almost ruin you, in costs. Theymay seize your furniture."
"Alas!" cried the old lady, "the revolution is not ended yet. We shallall be swallowed up by it, my poor Daburon! Ah! you are happy, you whobelong to the people! I see plainly that I must pay this man withoutdelay, and it is frightfully sad for me, for I have nothing, and amforced to make such sacrifices for the sake of my grandchild!"
This statement surprised the magistrate so strongly that involuntarilyhe repeated half-aloud, "Sacrifices?"
"Certainly!" resumed Madame d'Arlange. "Without her, would I have tolive as I am doing, refusing myself everything to make both ends meet?Not a bit of it! I would invest my fortune in a life annuity. But Iknow, thank heaven, the duties of a mother; and I economise all I canfor my little Claire."
This devotion appeared so admirable to M. Daburon, that he could notutter a word.
"Ah! I am terribly anxious about this dear child," continued themarchioness. "I confess M. Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder howI am to marry her."
The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his opportunity hadarrived; he must take advantage of it at once.
"It seems to me," stammered he, "that to find Mademoiselle Claire ahusband ought not to be difficult."
"Unfortunately, it is. She is pretty enough, I admit, although ratherthin, but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing. Men are so mercenarythey think only of money. I do not know of one who has the manhood totake a d'Arlange with her bright eyes for a dowry."
"I believe that you exaggerate," remarked M. Daburon, timidly.
"By no means. Trust to my experience which is far greater than yours.Besides, when I find a son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand troubles.Of this, I am assured by my lawyer. I shall be compelled, it seems, torender an account of Claire's patrimony. As if ever I kept accounts!It is shameful! Ah! if Claire had any sense of filial duty, she wouldquietly take the veil in some convent. I would use every effort to paythe necessary dower; but she has no affection for me."
M. Daburon felt that now was the time to speak. He collected hiscourage, as a good horseman pulls his horse together when going to leapa hedge, and in a voice, which he tried to render firm, he said: "Well!Madame, I believe I know a party who would suit Mademoiselle Claire,--anhonest man, who loves her, and who will do everything in the world tomake her happy."
"That," said Madame d'Arlange, "is always understood."
"The man of whom I speak," continued the magistrate, "is still young,and is rich. He will be only too happy to receive Mademoiselle Clairewithout a dowry. Not only will he decline an examination of youraccounts of guardianship, but he will beg you to invest your fortune asyou think fit."
"Really! Daburon, my friend, you are by no means a fool!" exclaimed theold lady.
"If you prefer not to invest your fortune in a life-annuity, yourson-in-law will allow you sufficient to make up what you now findwanting."
"Ah! really I am stifling," interrupted the marchioness. "What! you knowsuch a man, and have never yet mentioned him to me! You ought to haveintroduced him long ago."
"I did not dare, madame, I was afraid--"
"Quick! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law, this white blackbird?where does he nestle?"
The magistrate felt a strange fluttering of the heart; he was goingto stake his happiness on a word. At length he stammered, "It is I,madame!"
His voice, his look, his gesture were beseeching. He was surprised athis own audacity, frightened at having vanquished his timidity, and wason
the point of falling at the old lady's feet. She, however, laugheduntil the tears came into her eyes, then shrugging her shoulders, shesaid: "Really, dear Daburon is too ridiculous, he will make me die oflaughing! He is so amusing!" After which she burst out laughing again.But suddenly she stopped, in the very height of her merriment, andassumed her most dignified air. "Are you perfectly serious in all youhave told me, M. Daburon?" she asked.
"I have stated the truth," murmured the magistrate.
"You are then very rich?"
"I inherited, madame, from my mother, about twenty thousand francs ayear. One of my uncles, who died last year, bequeathed me over a hundredthousand crowns. My father is worth about a million. Were I to ask himfor the half to-morrow, he would give it to me; he would give me allhis fortune, if it were necessary to my happiness, and be but too wellcontented, should I leave him the administration of it."
Madame d'Arlange signed to him to be silent; and, for five good minutesat least, she remained plunged in reflection, her forehead resting inher hands. At length she raised her head.
"Listen," said she. "Had you been so bold as to make this proposal toClaire's father, he would have called his servants to show you the door.For the sake of our name I ought to do the same; but I cannot do so. Iam old and desolate; I am poor; my grandchild's prospects disquiet me;that is my excuse. I cannot, however, consent to speak to Claire of thishorrible misalliance. What I can promise you, and that is too much,is that I will not be against you. Take your own measures; pay youraddresses to Mademoiselle d'Arlange, and try to persuade her. If shesays 'yes,' of her own free will, I shall not say 'no.'"
M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have embraced theold lady. He thought her the best, the most excellent of women, notnoticing the facility with which this proud spirit had been brought toyield. He was delirious, almost mad.
"Wait!" said the old lady; "your cause is not yet gained. Your mother,it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse her for marrying sowretchedly; but your father is simple M. Daburon. This name, my dearfriend, is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will be easy to make aDaburon of a young girl who for nearly eighteen years has been calledd'Arlange?"
This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.
"After all," continued the old lady, "your father gained a Cottevise,so you may win a d'Arlange. On the strength of marrying into noblefamilies, the Daburons may perhaps end by ennobling themselves. One lastpiece of advice; you believe Claire to be just as she looks,--timid,sweet, obedient. Undeceive yourself, my friend. Despite her innocentair, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her father, whowas worse than an Auvergne mule. Now you are warned. Our conditions areagreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on the subject. I almostwish you to succeed."
This scene was so present to the magistrate's mind, that as he sat athome in his arm-chair, though many months had passed since these events,he still seemed to hear the old lady's voice, and the word "success"still sounded in his ears.
He departed in triumph from the d'Arlange abode, which he had enteredwith a heart swelling with anxiety. He walked with his head erect, hischest dilated, and breathing the fresh air with the full strength of hislungs. He was so happy! The sky appeared to him more blue, the sunmore brilliant. This grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop thepassers-by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,--"Have you heard?The marchioness consents!"
He walked, and the earth seemed to him to give way beneath hisfootsteps; it was either too small to carry so much happiness, or elsehe had become so light that he was going to fly away towards the stars.
What castles in the air he built upon what Madame d'Arlange had said tohim! He would tender his resignation. He would build on the banks of theLoire, not far from Tours, an enchanting little villa. He already sawit, with its facade to the rising sun, nestling in the midst of flowers,and shaded with wide-spreading trees. He furnished this dwelling in themost luxuriant style. He wished to provide a marvellous casket, worthythe pearl he was about to possess. For he had not a doubt; not a cloudobscured the horizon made radiant by his hopes, no voice at the bottomof his heart raised itself to cry, "Beware!"
From that day, his visits to the marchioness became more frequent.He might almost be said to live at her house. While he preserved hisrespectful and reserved demeanour towards Claire, he strove assiduouslyto be something in her life. True love is ingenious. He learnt toovercome his timidity, to speak to the well-beloved of his soul, toencourage her to converse with him, to interest her. He went in questof all the news, to amuse her. He read all the new books, and brought toher all that were fit for her to read.
Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the most delicate persistence,in taming this shy young girl. He began to perceive that her fear of himhad almost disappeared, that she no longer received him with the coldand haughty air which had previously kept him at a distance. He feltthat he was insensibly gaining her confidence. She still blushed whenshe spoke to him; but she no longer hesitated to address the first word.She even ventured at times to ask him a question. If she had heard aplay well spoken of and wished to know the subject, M. Daburon would atonce go to see it, and commit a complete account of it to writing, whichhe would send her through the post. At times she intrusted him withtrifling commissions, the execution of which he would not have exchangedfor the Russian embassy.
Once he ventured to send her a magnificent bouquet. She accepted it withan air of uneasy surprise, but begged him not to repeat the offering.
The tears came to his eyes; he left her presence broken-hearted, and theunhappiest of men. "She does not love me," thought he, "she will neverlove me." But, three days after, as he looked very sad, she begged himto procure her certain flowers, then very much in fashion, which shewished to place on her flower-stand. He sent enough to fill the housefrom the garret to the cellar. "She will love me," he whispered tohimself in his joy.
These events, so trifling but yet so great, had not interrupted thegames of piquet; only the young girl now appeared to interest herselfin the play, nearly always taking the magistrate's side against themarchioness. She did not understand the game very well; but, whenthe old gambler cheated too openly, she would notice it, and say,laughingly,--"She is robbing you, M. Daburon,--she is robbing you!" Hewould willingly have been robbed of his entire fortune, to hear thatsweet voice raised on his behalf.
It was summer time. Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and,while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair,they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread withgravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced thetraces of their footsteps. She chatted gaily with him, as with a belovedbrother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrainfrom imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the lightbreeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At suchmoments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, atthe end of which appeared happiness.
When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she wouldsay: "You know what we agreed upon. Not a word. Already does thevoice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such anabomination. To think that I may one day have a granddaughter callingherself Madame Daburon! You must petition the king, my friend, to changeyour name."
If instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this acuteobserver had studied the character of his idol, the effect might havebeen to put him upon his guard. In the meanwhile, he noticed singularalterations in her humour. On certain days, she was gay and carelessas a child. Then, for a week, she would remain melancholy and dejected.Seeing her in this state the day following a ball, to which hergrandmother had made a point of taking her, he dared to ask her thereason of her sadness.
"Oh! that," answered she, heaving a deep sigh, "is my secret,--a secretof which even my grandmother knows nothing."
M. Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear between her longeyelashes.
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"One day," continued she, "I may confide in you: it will perhaps benecessary."
The magistrate was blind and deaf. "I also," answered he, "have asecret, which I wish to confide to you in return."
When he retired towards midnight, he said to himself, "To-morrow I willconfess everything to her." Then passed a little more than fifty days,during which he kept repeating to himself,--"To-morrow!"
It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat allday had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leavesrustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.
They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour,adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceivedthe fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after herdinner. They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying theperfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.
M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl's hand. It was the firsttime, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of hisframe, and drove the blood surging to his brain.
"Mademoiselle," stammered he, "Claire--"
She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.
"Forgive me," continued he, "forgive me. I have spoken to yourgrandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do you notunderstand me? A word from your lips will decide my future happiness ormisery. Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn me: I love you!"
While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d'Arlange looked at himas though doubtful of the evidence of her senses; but at the words, "Ilove you!" pronounced with the trembling accents of the most devotedpassion, she disengaged her hand sharply, and uttered a stifled cry.
"You," murmured she, "is this really you?"
M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life was powerlessto utter a word. The presentiment of an immense misfortune oppressed hisheart. What were then his feelings, when he saw Claire burst into tears.She hid her face in her hands, and kept repeating,--
"I am very unhappy, very unhappy!"
"You unhappy?" exclaimed the magistrate at length, "and through me?Claire, you are cruel! In heaven's name, what have I done? What is thematter? Speak! Anything rather then this anxiety which is killing me."
He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and again made an attempt totake her hand. She repulsed him with an imploring gesture.
"Let me weep," said she: "I suffer so much, you are going to hate me,I feel it. Who knows! you will, perhaps, despise me, and yet I swearbefore heaven that I never expected what you have just said to me, thatI had not even a suspicion of it!"
M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.
"Yes," continued Claire, "you will think you have been the victim of adetestable coquetry. I see it now! I comprehend everything! It is notpossible, that, without a profound love, a man can be all that youhave been to me. Alas! I was but a child. I gave myself up to the greathappiness of having a friend! Am I not alone in the world, and as iflost in a desert? Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you,as in the best, the most indulgent of fathers."
These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the extent ofhis error. The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed into a thousandfragments the fragile edifice of his hopes. He raised himself slowly,and, in a tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,--"Your father!"
Mademoiselle d'Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded this man whoseintense love she dare not even fathom. "Yes," she resumed, "I love youas a father! Seeing you, usually so grave and austere, become for meso good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for sending me a protector toreplace those who are dead."
M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.
"One word," continued Claire,--"one single word, would have enlightenedme. Why did you not pronounce it! It was with such happiness that Ileant on you as a child on its mother; and with what inward joy I saidto myself, 'I am sure of one friend, of one heart into which runs theoverflow of mine!' Ah! why was not my confidence greater? Why did Iwithhold my secret from you? I might have avoided this fearful calamity.I ought to have told you long since. I no longer belong to myself freelyand with happiness, I have given my life to another."
To hover in the clouds, and suddenly to fall rudely to the earth, suchwas M. Daburon's fate; his sufferings are not to be described.
"Far better to have spoken," answered he; "yet no. I owe to yoursilence, Claire, six months of delicious illusions, six months ofenchanting dreams. This shall be my share of life's happiness."
The last beams of closing day still enabled the magistrate to seeMademoiselle d'Arlange. Her beautiful face had the whiteness and theimmobility of marble. Heavy tears rolled silently down her cheeks. Itseemed to M. Daburon that he was beholding the frightful spectacle of aweeping statue.
"You love another," said he at length, "another! And your grandmotherdoes not know it. Claire, you can only have chosen a man worthy of yourlove. How is it the marchioness does not receive him?"
"There are certain obstacles," murmured Claire, "obstacles which perhapswe may never be able to remove; but a girl like me can love but once.She marries him she loves, or she belongs to heaven!"
"Certain obstacles!" said M. Daburon in a hollow voice. "You love a man,he knows it, and he is stopped by obstacles?"
"I am poor," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange, "and his family isimmensely rich. His father is cruel, inexorable."
"His father," cried the magistrate, with a bitterness he did not dreamof hiding, "his father, his family, and that withholds him! You arepoor, he is rich, and that stops him! And yet he knows you love him!Ah! why am I not in his place? and why have I not the entire universeagainst me? What sacrifice can compare with love? such as I understandit. Nay, would it be a sacrifice? That which appears most so, is it notreally an immense joy? To suffer, to struggle, to wait, to hope always,to devote oneself entirely to another; that is my idea of love."
"It is thus I love," said Claire with simplicity.
This answer crushed the magistrate. He could understand it. He knew thatfor him there was no hope; but he felt a terrible enjoyment in torturinghimself, and proving his misfortune by intense suffering.
"But," insisted he, "how have you known him, spoken to him? Where? When?Madame d'Arlange receives no one."
"I ought now to tell you everything, sir," answered Claire proudly."I have known him for a long time. It was at the house of one of mygrandmother's friends, who is a cousin of his,--old Mademoiselle Goello,that I saw him for the first time. There we spoke to each other; therewe meet each other now."
"Ah!" exclaimed M. Daburon, whose eyes were suddenly opened, "I remembernow. A few days before your visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayerthan usual; and, when you return, you are often sad."
"That is because I see how much he is pained by the obstacles he cannotovercome."
"Is his family, then, so illustrious," asked the magistrate harshly,"that it disdains alliance with yours?"
"I should have told you everything, without waiting to be questioned,sir," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange, "even his name. He is calledAlbert de Commarin."
The marchioness at this moment, thinking she had walked enough,was preparing to return to her rose-coloured boudoir. She thereforeapproached the arbour, and exclaimed in her loud voice:--
"Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you."
Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, "I am coming."
Claire held him back. "I have not asked you to keep my secret, sir,"said she.
"O mademoiselle!" said M. Daburon, wounded by this appearance of doubt.
"I know," resumed Claire, "that I can count upon you; but, come whatwill, my tranquillity is gone."
M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questionedher.
"It is certain," continued she, "that what I, a young and inexperiencedgirl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother.That she
has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of youraddresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable tomyself."
"I have already mentioned, mademoiselle," replied the magistrate, "thatthe marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes."
And briefly he related his interview with Madame d'Arlange, having thedelicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question of money, which hadso strongly influenced the old lady.
"I see very plainly what effect this will have on my peace," said Clairesadly. "When my grandmother learns that I have not received your homage,she will be very angry."
"You misjudge me, mademoiselle," interrupted M. Daburon. "I have nothingto say to the marchioness. I will retire, and all will be concluded. Nodoubt she will think that I have altered my mind!"
"Oh! you are good and generous, I know!"
"I will go away," pursued M. Daburon; "and soon you will have forgotteneven the name of the unfortunate whose life's hopes have just beenshattered."
"You do not mean what you say," said the young girl quickly.
"Well, no. I cherish this last illusion, that later on you will rememberme with pleasure. Sometimes you will say, 'He loved me,' I wish all thesame to remain your friend, yes, your most devoted friend."
Claire, in her turn, clasped M. Daburon's hands, and said with greatemotion:--"Yes, you are right, you must remain my friend. Let us forgetwhat has happened, what you have said to-night, and remain to me, as inthe past, the best, the most indulgent of brothers."
Darkness had come, and she could not see him; but she knew he wasweeping, for he was slow to answer.
"Is it possible," murmured he at length, "what you ask of me? What! isit you who talk to me of forgetting? Do you feel the power to forget?Do you not see that I love you a thousand times more than you love--"He stopped, unable to pronounce the name of Commarin; and then, with aneffort he added: "And I shall love you always."
They had left the arbour, and were now standing not far from the stepsleading to the house.
"And now, mademoiselle," resumed M. Daburon, "permit me to say, adieu!You will see me again but seldom. I shall only return often enough toavoid the appearance of a rupture."
His voice trembled, so that it was with difficulty he made it distinct.
"Whatever may happen," he added, "remember that there is one unfortunatebeing in the world who belongs to you absolutely. If ever you have needof a friend's devotion, come to me, come to your friend. Now it is over. . . I have courage. Claire, mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu!"
She was but little less moved than he was. Instinctively she approachedhim, and for the first and last time he touched lightly with his coldlips the forehead of her he loved so well. They mounted the steps, sheleaning on his arm, and entered the rose-coloured boudoir where themarchioness was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while awaitingher victim.
"Now, then, incorruptible magistrate," cried she.
But M. Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have held the cards. Hestammered some absurd excuses, spoke of pressing affairs, of duties tobe attended to, of feeling suddenly unwell, and went out, clinging tothe walls.
His departure made the old card-player highly indignant. She turned toher grand-daughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away from thecandles of the card table, and asked, "What is the matter with Daburonthis evening?"
"I do not know, madame," stammered Claire.
"It appears to me," continued the marchioness, "that the littlemagistrate permits himself to take singular liberties. He must bereminded of his proper place, or he will end by believing himself ourequal."
Claire tried to explain the magistrate's conduct: "He has beencomplaining all the evening, grandmamma; perhaps he is unwell."
"And what if he is?" exclaimed the old lady. "Is it not his duty toexercise some self-denial, in return for the honour of our company? Ithink I have already related to you the story of your granduncle, theDuke de St Hurluge, who, having been chosen to join the king's cardparty on their return from the chase, played all through the evening andlost with the best grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles.All the assembly remarked his gaiety and his good humour. On thefollowing day only it was learned, that, during the hunt, he had fallenfrom his horse, and had sat at his majesty's card table with a brokenrib. Nobody made any remark, so perfectly natural did this act ofordinary politeness appear in those days. This little Daburon, if he isunwell, would have given proof of his breeding by saying nothing aboutit, and remaining for my piquet. But he is as well as I am. Who can tellwhat games he has gone to play elsewhere!"