CHAPTER VIII.
On the same day that the crime of La Jonchere was discovered, andprecisely at the hour that M. Tabaret made his memorable examinationin the victim's chamber, the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered hiscarriage, and proceeded to the Northern railway station, to meet hisfather.
The young man was very pale: his pinched features, his dull eyes, hisblanched lips, in fact his whole appearance denoted either overwhelmingfatigue or unusual sorrow. All the servants had observed, that, duringthe past five days, their young master had not been in his ordinarycondition: he spoke but little, ate almost nothing, and refused to seeany visitors. His valet noticed that this singular change dated fromthe visit, on Sunday morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, who had beencloseted with him for three hours in the library.
The Viscount, gay as a lark until the arrival of this person, had, fromthe moment of his departure, the appearance of a man at the point ofdeath. When setting forth to meet his father, the viscount appeared tosuffer so acutely that M. Lubin, his valet, entreated him not to go out;suggesting that it would be more prudent to retire to his room, and callin the doctor.
But the Count de Commarin was exacting on the score of filial duty, andwould overlook the worst of youthful indiscretions sooner than what hetermed a want of reverence. He had announced his intended arrivalby telegraph, twenty-four hours in advance; therefore the house wasexpected to be in perfect readiness to receive him, and the absence ofAlbert at the railway station would have been resented as a flagrantomission of duty.
The viscount had been but five minutes in the waiting-room, when thebell announced the arrival of the train. Soon the doors leading onto the platform were opened, and the travelers crowded in. The throngbeginning to thin a little, the count appeared, followed by a servant,who carried a travelling pelisse lined with rare and valuable fur.
The Count de Commarin looked a good ten years less than his age. Hisbeard and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely gray. He was tall andmuscular, held himself upright, and carried his head high. Hisappearance was noble, his movements easy. His regular features presenteda study to the physiognomist, all expressing easy, careless goodnature, even to the handsome, smiling mouth; but in his eyes flashed thefiercest and the most arrogant pride. This contrast revealed the secretof his character. Imbued quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudiceas the Marchioness d'Arlange, he had progressed with his century or atleast appeared to have done so. As fully as the marchioness, he held incontempt all who were not noble; but his disdain expressed itself in adifferent fashion. The marchioness proclaimed her contempt loudly andcoarsely; the count had kept eyes and ears open and had seen and hearda good deal. She was stupid, and without a shade of common sense. He waswitty and sensible, and possessed enlarged views of life and politics.She dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age;he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth. He wassincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would yet recover slowlyand silently, but surely, all their lost power, with its prestige andinfluence.
In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; themarchioness its caricature. It should be added, that M. de Commarin knewhow to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of hisequals. There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient,and intractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse theapplication of the spur. In his own house, he was a despot.
Perceiving his father, Albert advanced towards him. They shook handsand embraced with an air as noble as ceremonious, and, in less thana minute, had exchanged all the news that had transpired during thecount's absence. Then only did M. de Commarin perceive the alteration inhis son's face.
"You are unwell, viscount," said he.
"Oh, no, sir," answered Albert, laconically.
The count uttered "Ah!" accompanied by a certain movement of the head,which, with him, expressed perfect incredulity; then, turning to hisservant, he gave him some orders briefly.
"Now," resumed he, "let us go quickly to the house. I am in haste tofeel at home; and I am hungry, having had nothing to-day, but somedetestable broth, at I know not what way station."
M. de Commarin had returned to Paris in a very bad temper, his journeyto Austria had not brought the results he had hoped for. To crown hisdissatisfaction, he had rested, on his homeward way, at the chateau ofan old friend, with whom he had had so violent a discussion that theyhad parted without shaking hands. The count was hardly seated in hiscarriage before he entered upon the subject of this disagreement.
"I have quarrelled with the Duke de Sairmeuse," said he to his son.
"That seems to me to happen whenever you meet," answered Albert, withoutintending any raillery.
"True," said the count: "but this is serious. I passed four days at hiscountry-seat, in a state of inconceivable exasperation. He has entirelyforfeited my esteem. Sairmeuse has sold his estate of Gondresy, one ofthe finest in the north of France. He has cut down the timber, andput up to auction the old chateau, a princely dwelling, which is to beconverted into a sugar refinery; all this for the purpose, as he says,of raising money to increase his income!"
"And was that the cause of your rupture?" inquired Albert, without muchsurprise.
"Certainly it was! Do you not think it a sufficient one?"
"But, sir, you know the duke has a large family, and is far from rich."
"What of that? A French noble who sells his land commits an unworthyact. He is guilty of treason against his order!"
"Oh, sir," said Albert, deprecatingly.
"I said treason!" continued the count. "I maintain the word. Rememberwell, viscount, power has been, and always will be, on the side ofwealth, especially on the side of those who hold the soil. The men of'93 well understood this principle, and acted upon it. By impoverishingthe nobles, they destroyed their prestige more effectually than byabolishing their titles. A prince dismounted, and without footmen, isno more than any one else. The Minister of July, who said to the people,'Make yourselves rich,' was not a fool. He gave them the magic formulafor power. But they have not the sense to understand it. They want togo too fast. They launch into speculations, and become rich, it is true;but in what? Stocks, bonds, paper,--rags, in short. It is smoke they arelocking in their coffers. They prefer to invest in merchandise, whichpays eight or ten per cent, to investing in vines or corn which willreturn but three. The peasant is not so foolish. From the moment he ownsa piece of ground the size of a handkerchief, he wants to make it aslarge as a tablecloth. He is slow as the oxen he ploughs with, but aspatient, as tenacious, and as obstinate. He goes directly to his object,pressing firmly against the yoke; and nothing can stop or turn himaside. He knows that stocks may rise or fall, fortunes be won or lost on'change; but the land always remains,--the real standard of wealth. Tobecome landholders, the peasant starves himself, wears sabots in winter;and the imbeciles who laugh at him will be astonished by and by when hemakes his '93, and the peasant becomes a baron in power if not in name."
"I do not understand the application," said the viscount.
"You do not understand? Why, what the peasant is doing is what thenobles ought to have done! Ruined, their duty was to reconstruct theirfortunes. Commerce is interdicted to us; be it so: agriculture remains.Instead of grumbling uselessly during the half-century, instead ofrunning themselves into debt, in the ridiculous attempt to support anappearance of grandeur, they ought to have retreated to their provinces,shut themselves up in their chateaux; there worked, economised, deniedthemselves, as the peasant is doing, purchased the land piece by piece.Had they taken this course, they would to-day possess France. Theirwealth would be enormous; for the value of land rises year after year.I have, without effort, doubled my fortune in thirty years. Blauville,which cost my father a hundred crowns in 1817, is worth to-day morethan a million: so that, when I hear the nobles complain, I shrug theshoulder. Who but they are to blame? They impoverish themselves fromyear to year. They sell their land to the peasants. Soon they
will bereduced to beggary, and their escutcheons. What consoles me is, thatthe peasant, having become the proprietor of our domains will then beall-powerful, and will yoke to his chariot wheels these traders in scripand stocks, whom he hates as much as I execrate them myself."
The carriage at this moment stopped in the court-yard of the de Commarinmansion, after having described that perfect half-circle, the glory ofcoachmen who preserve the old tradition.
The count alighted first, and leaning upon his son's arm, ascended thesteps of the grand entrance. In the immense vestibule, nearly all theservants, dressed in rich liveries, stood in a line. The count gave thema glance, in passing, as an officer might his soldiers on parade, andproceeded to his apartment on the first floor, above the receptionrooms.
Never was there a better regulated household than that of the Countde Commarin. He possessed in a high degree the art, more rare than isgenerally supposed, of commanding an army of servants. The number of hisdomestics caused him neither inconvenience nor embarrassment. They werenecessary to him. So perfect was the organisation of this household,that its functions were performed like those of a machine,--withoutnoise, variation, or effort.
Thus when the count returned from his journey, the sleeping hotel wasawakened as if by the spell of an enchanter. Each servant was at hispost; and the occupations, interrupted during the past six weeks,resumed without confusion. As the count was known to have passed the dayon the road, the dinner was served in advance of the usual hour. All theestablishment, even to the lowest scullion, represented the spiritof the first article of the rules of the house, "Servants are not toexecute orders, but anticipate them."
M. de Commarin had hardly removed the traces of his journey, and changedhis dress, when his butler announced that the dinner was served.
He went down at once; and father and son met upon the threshold of thedining-room. This was a large apartment, with a very high ceiling,as were all the rooms of the ground floor, and was most magnificentlyfurnished. The count was not only a great eater, but was vain of hisenormous appetite. He was fond of recalling the names of great men,noted for their capacity of stomach. Charles V. devoured mountains ofviands. Louis XIV. swallowed at each repast as much as six ordinary menwould eat at a meal. He pretended that one can almost judge of men'squalities by their digestive capacities; he compared them to lamps,whose power of giving light is in proportion to the oil they consume.
During the first half hour, the count and his son both remained silent.M. de Commarin ate conscientiously, not perceiving or not caring tonotice that Albert ate nothing, but merely sat at the table as if tocountenance him. The old nobleman's ill-humour and volubility returnedwith the dessert, apparently increased by a Burgundy of which he wasparticularly fond, and of which he drank freely.
He was partial, moreover, to an after dinner argument, professing atheory that moderate discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter whichhad been delivered to him on his arrival, and which he had found time toglance over, gave him at once a subject and a point of departure.
"I arrived home but an hour ago;" said he, "and I have already receiveda homily from Broisfresnay."
"He writes a great deal," observed Albert.
"Too much; he consumes himself in ink. He mentions a lot more of hisridiculous projects and vain hopes, and he mentions a dozen names of menof his own stamp who are his associates. On my word of honour, they seemto have lost their senses! They talk of lifting the world, onlythey want a lever and something to rest it on. It makes me die withlaughter!"
For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a volley of abuse andsarcasm against his best friends, without seeming to see that a greatmany of their foibles which he ridiculed were also a little his own.
"If," continued he more seriously,--"if they only possessed a littleconfidence in themselves, if they showed the least audacity! Butno! they count upon others to do for them what they ought to do forthemselves. In short, their proceedings are a series of confessions ofhelplessness, of premature declarations of failure."
The coffee having been served, the count made a sign, and the servantsleft the room.
"No," continued he, "I see but one hope for the French aristocracy, butone plank of salvation, one good little law, establishing the right ofprimogeniture."
"You will never obtain it."
"You think not? Would you then oppose such a measure, viscount?"
Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground his father wasapproaching, and remained silent.
"Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!" resumed thecount. "Then let the nobles do their duty. Let all the younger sons andthe daughters of our great families forego their rights, by giving upthe entire patrimony to the first-born for five generations, contentingthemselves each with a couple of thousand francs a year. By that meansgreat fortunes can be reconstructed, and families, instead of beingdivided by a variety of interests, become united by one common desire."
"Unfortunately," objected the viscount, "the time is not favorable tosuch devotedness."
"I know it, sir," replied the count quickly; "and in my own house I havethe proof of it. I, your father, have conjured you to give up allidea of marrying the granddaughter of that old fool, the Marchionessd'Arlange. And all to no purpose; for I have at last been obliged toyield to your wishes."
"Father--" Albert commenced.
"It is well," interrupted the count. "You have my word; but remember myprediction: you will strike a fatal blow at our house. You will be oneof the largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children,and they will be hardly rich. If they also have as many, you willprobably see your grandchildren in poverty!"
"You put all at the worst, father."
"Without doubt: it is the only means of pointing out the danger, andaverting the evil. You talk of your life's happiness. What is that? Atrue noble thinks of his name above all. Mademoiselle d'Arlange isvery pretty, and very attractive; but she is penniless. I had found anheiress for you."
"Whom I should never love!"
"And what of that? She would have brought you four millions in herapron,--more than the kings of to-day give their daughters. Besideswhich she had great expectations."
The discussion upon this subject would have been interminable, hadAlbert taken an active share in it; but his thoughts were far away. Heanswered from time to time so as not to appear absolutely dumb, and thenonly a few syllables. This absence of opposition was more irritating tothe count than the most obstinate contradiction. He therefore directedhis utmost efforts to excite his son to argue.
However he was vainly prodigal of words, and unsparing in unpleasantallusions, so that at last he fairly lost his temper, and, on receivinga laconic reply, he burst forth: "Upon my word, the butler's son wouldsay the same as you! What blood have you in your veins? You are morelike one of the people than a Viscount de Commarin!"
There are certain conditions of mind in which the least conversationjars upon the nerves. During the last hour, Albert had suffered anintolerable punishment. The patience with which he had armed himself atlast escaped him.
"Well, sir," he answered, "if I resemble one of the people, there areperhaps good reasons for it."
The glance with which the viscount accompanied his speech was soexpressive that the count experienced a sudden shock. All his animationforsook him, and in a hesitating voice, he asked: "What is that you say,viscount?"
Albert had no sooner uttered the sentence than he regretted hisprecipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.
"Sir," he replied with some embarrassment, "I have to acquaint you withsome important matters. My honour, yours, the honour of our house, areinvolved. I intended postponing this conversation till to-morrow, notdesiring to trouble you on the evening of your return. However, as youwish me to explain, I will do so."
The count listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He seemed to have divinedwhat his son was about to say, and was terrified at himself for havingdivined it.
"Belie
ve me, sir," continued Albert slowly, "whatever may have beenyour acts, my voice will never be raised to reproach you. Your constantkindness to me--"
M. de Commarin held up his hand. "A truce to preambles; let me have thefacts without phrases," said he sternly.
Albert was some time without answering, he hesitated how to commence.
"Sir," said he at length, "during your absence, I have read all yourcorrespondence with Madame Gerdy. All!" added he, emphasising the word,already so significant.
The count, as though stung by a serpent, started up with such violencethat he overturned his chair.
"Not another word!" cried he in a terrible voice. "I forbid you tospeak!" But he no doubt soon felt ashamed of his violence, for hequietly raised his chair, and resumed in a tone which he strove torender light and rallying: "Who will hereafter refuse to believe inpresentiments? A couple of hours ago, on seeing your pale face atthe railway station, I felt that you had learned more or less of thisaffair. I was sure of it."
There was a long silence. With one accord, father and son avoidedletting their eyes meet, lest they might encounter glances too eloquentto bear at so painful a moment.
"You were right, sir," continued the count, "our honour is involved. Itis important that we should decide on our future conduct without delay.Will you follow me to my room?"
He rang the bell, and a footman appeared almost immediately.
"Neither the viscount nor I am at home to any one," said M. de Commarin,"no matter whom."