Produced by Dagny; Emma Dudding; John Bickers
THE CHAMPDOCE MYSTERY
by Emile Gaboriau
This novel is a sequel to Caught in the Net. [Etext #2451]
CHAPTER I.
A DUCAL MONOMANIAC.
The traveller who wishes to go from Poitiers to London by the shortestroute will find that the simplest way is to take a seat in thestage-coach which runs to Saumur; and when you book your place, thepolite clerk tells you that you must take your seat punctually at sixo'clock. The next morning, therefore, the traveller has to rise from hisbed at a very early hour, and make a hurried and incomplete toilet, andon arriving, flushed and panting, at the office, discover that there wasno occasion for such extreme haste.
In the hotel from whence the coach starts every one seems to be asleep,and a waiter, whose eyes are scarcely open, wanders languidly about.There is not the slightest good in losing your temper, or in pouring outa string of violent remonstrances. In a small restaurant opposite a cupof hot coffee can be procured, and it is there that the disappointedtravellers congregate, to await the hour when the coach really makes astart.
At length, however, all is ready, the conductor utters a tremendousexecration, the coachman cracks his whip, the horses spring forward, thewheels rattle, and the coach is off at last. Whilst the conductor smokeshis pipe tranquilly, the passengers gaze out of the windows and admirethe beautiful aspect of the surrounding country. On each side stretchthe woods and fields of Bevron. The covers are full of game, which hasincreased enormously, as the owner of the property has never allowed ashot to be fired since he had the misfortune, some twenty years ago, tokill one of his dependents whilst out shooting. On the right hand sidesome distance off rise the tower and battlements of the Chateau deMussidan. It is two years ago since the Dowager Countess of Chevanchedied, leaving all her fortune to her niece, Mademoiselle Sabine deMussidan. She was a kind-hearted woman, rough and ready in her manner,but very popular amongst the peasantry. Farther off, on the top of somerising ground, appears an imposing structure, of an ancient style ofarchitecture; this is the ancient residence of the Dukes of Champdoce.The left wing is a picturesque mass of ruins; the roof has fallenin, and the mullions of the windows are dotted with a thick growth ofclustering ivy. Rain, storm, and sunshine have all done their work, andpainted the mouldering walls with a hundred varied tints. In 1840 theinheritor of one of the noblest names of France resided here withhis only son. The name of the present proprietor was Caesar GuillaumeDuepair de Champdoce. He was looked upon both by the gentry andpeasantry of the country side as a most eccentric individual. He couldbe seen any day wandering about, dressed in the most shabby manner, andwearing a coat that was frequently in urgent need of repair, a leatherncap on his head, wooden shoes, and a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. Inwinter he supplemented to these an ancient sheepskin coat. He was sixtyyears of age, very powerfully built, and possessing enormous strength.The expression upon his face showed that his will was as strong ashis thews and sinews. Beneath his shaggy eyebrows twinkled a pair oflight-gray eyes, which darkened when a fit of passion overtook him, andthis was no unusual occurrence.
During his military career in the army of the Conde, he had receiveda sabre cut across his cheek, and the cicatrice imparted a strange andunpleasant expression to his face. He was not a bad-hearted man, butheadstrong, violent, and tyrannical to a degree. The peasants salutedhim with a mixture of respect and dread as he walked to the chapel, towhich he was a regular attendant on Sundays, with his son. During theMass he made the responses in an audible voice, and at its conclusioninvariably put a five-franc piece into the plate. This, his subscriptionto the newspaper, and the sum he paid for being shaved twice each week,constituted the whole of his outlay upon himself. He kept an excellenttable, however; plump fowls, vegetables of all kinds, and the mostdelicious fruit were never absent from it. Everything, however, thatappeared upon his well-plenished board was the produce of his fields,gardens, or woods. The nobility and gentry of the neighborhoodfrequently invited him to their hospitable tables, for they looked uponhim as the head and chief of the nobility of the county; but he alwaysrefused their invitations, saying plainly, "No man who has the slightestrespect for himself will accept hospitalities which he is not in aposition to return." It was not the grinding clutch of poverty thatdrove the Duke to this exercise of severe economy, for his income fromhis estates brought him in fifty thousand francs per annum; and it wasreported that his investments brought him in as much more. As a matterof course, therefore, he was looked upon as a miser, and a victim to thesordid vice of avarice.
His past life might, in some degree, offer an explanation of thisconduct. Born in 1780, the Duke de Champdoce had joined the band ofemigrants which swelled the ranks of Conde's army. An implacable opposerof the Revolution, he resided, during the glorious days of the Empire,in London, where dire poverty compelled him to gain a livelihood as afencing master at the Restoration. He came back with the Bourbons tohis native land, and, by an almost miraculous chance, was put again inpossession of his ancestral domains. But in his opinion he was livingin a state of utter destitution as compared to the enormous revenuesenjoyed by the dead-and-gone members of the Champdoce family; and whatpained him more was to see rise up by the side of the old aristocracy anew race which had attached itself to commerce and entered into businesstransactions. As he gazed upon the new order of things, the man whosepride of birth and position almost amounted to insanity, conceived theproject to which he determined to devote the remainder of his life. Heimagined that he had discovered a means by which he could restore theancient house of Champdoce to all its former splendor and position. "Ican," said he, "by living like a peasant and resorting to no unnecessaryexpense, treble my capital in twenty years; and if my son and mygrandson will only follow my example, the race of Champdoce will againrecover the proud position that it formerly held." Faithful to this idea,he wedded, in 1820, although his heart was entirely untouched, a younggirl of noble birth but utterly devoid of beauty, though possessed ofa magnificent dowry. Their union was an extremely unhappy one, and manypersons did not hesitate to accuse the Duke of treating with harshnessand severity a young girl, who, having brought her husband five hundredthousand francs, could not understand why she should be refused a newdress when she urgently needed it. After twelve months of inconceivableunhappiness, she gave birth to a son who was baptized Louis Norbert, andsix months afterwards she sank into an untimely grave.
The Duke did not seem to regret his loss very deeply. The boy appearedto be of a strong and robust constitution, and his mother's dowry wouldgo to swell the revenues of the Champdoce family. He made his recentloss, too, the pretext for further retrenchments and economies.
Norbert was brought up exactly as a farmer's son would have been. Everymorning he started off to work, carrying his day's provisions in abasket slung upon his back. As he grew older, he was taught to sow andreap, to estimate the value of a standing crop at a glance, and, lastbut not least, to drive a hard bargain. For a long time the Duke debatedthe expediency of permitting his son to be taught to read or write; andif he did so at last, it was owing to some severe remarks by the parishpriest upon the day on which Norbert took the sacrament for the firsttime.
All went on well and smoothly until the day when Norbert, on hissixteenth birthday, accompanied his father to Poitiers for the firsttime.
At sixteen years of age, Louis Norbert de Champdoce looked fully twenty,and was as handsome a youth as could be seen for miles round. The sunhad given a bronzed tint to his features which was exceedingly becoming.He had black hair, with a slight curl running through it, and largemelancholy blue eyes, which he inherited from his mother. Poor girl! itwas the sole beauty
that she had possessed. He was utterly uncultured,and had been ruled with such a rod of iron by his father that he hadnever been a league from the Chateau. His ideas were barred by thelittle town of Bevron, with its sixty houses, its town hall, its smallchapel, and principal river; and to him it seemed a spot full of noiseand confusion. In the whole course of his life he had never spokento three persons who did not belong to the district. Bred up in thissecluded manner, it was almost impossible for him to understand thatany one could lead a different existence to that of his own. His onlypleasure was in procuring an abundant harvest, and his sole idea ofexcitement was High Mass on Sunday.
For more than a year the village girls had cast sly glances at him, buthe was far too simple and innocent to notice this. When Mass was over,he generally walked over the farm with his father to inspect the workof the past week, or to set snares for the birds. His father at lastdetermined to give him a wider experience, and one day said that he wasto accompany him to Poitiers.
At a very early hour in the morning they started in one of the lowcountry carts of the district, and under the seat were small sacks,containing over forty thousand francs in silver money. Norbert hadlong wished to visit Poitiers, but had never done so, though it wasbut fifteen miles off. Poitiers is a quaint old town, with dilapidatedpavements and tall, gloomy houses, the architecture of which dates fromthe tenth century; but Norbert thought that it must be one of the mostmagnificent cities in the world. It was market day when they drove in,and he was absolutely stupefied with surprise and excitement. He hadnever believed there could be so many people in one place, and hardlynoticed that the cart had pulled up opposite a lawyer's office. Hisfather shook him roughly by the shoulder.
"Come, Norbert, lad, we are there," said he.
The young man jumped to the ground, and assisted mechanically to removethe sacks. The servile manner of the lawyer did not strike him, nor didhe listen to the conversation between him and his father. Finally, thebusiness being concluded, they took their departure, and, driving to theMarket Place, put up the horse and cart at an old-fashioned, dingy inn,where they took their breakfast in the public room at a table wherethe wagoners were having a violent quarrel over their meal. The Duke,however, had other business to transact than the investment of hismoney, for he wanted to find the whereabouts of a miller who wassomewhat in his debt. Norbert waited for him in front of the inn, andcould not help feeling rather uncomfortable at finding himself alone.All at once some one came up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Heturned round sharply, and found himself face to face with a young man,who, seeing his look of surprise, said,--
"What! have you entirely forgotten your old friend Montlouis?"
Montlouis was the son of one of the Duke's farmers, and he and Norberthad often played together in past years. They had driven their cowsto the meadows together, and had spent long days together fishing orsearching for birds' nests. The dress now worn by Montlouis had atfirst prevented Norbert from recognizing him, for he was attired inthe uniform of the college at which his father had placed him, beingdesirous of making something more than a mere farmer of his son.
"What are you doing here?" asked Norbert.
"I am waiting for my father."
"So am I. Let us have a cup of coffee together."
Montlouis led his playmate into a small wine shop near at hand. Heseemed a little disposed to presume upon the superior knowledge of theworld which he had recently acquired.
"If there was a billiard-table here," said he, "we could pass away thetime with a game, though, to be sure, it runs into money."
Norbert never had had more than a few pence in his pocket at onetime, and at this remark the color rose to his face, and he felt muchhumiliated.
"My father," added the young collegian, "gives me all I ask for. I amcertain of getting one, if not two prizes at the next examination; andwhen I have taken my degree, the Count de Mussidan has promised to makeme his steward. What do you think that you will do?"
"I--I don't know," stammered Norbert.
"You will, I suppose, dig and toil in the fields, as your father hasdone before you. You are the son of the noblest and the richest man formiles round, and yet you are not so happy as I am."
Upon the return of the Duke de Champdoce some little time after thisconversation, he did not detect any change in his son's manner; but thewords spoken by Montlouis had fallen into Norbert's brain like a subtlepoison, and a few careless sentences uttered by an inconsiderate lad hadannihilated the education of sixteen years, and a complete change hadtaken place in Norbert's mind, a change which was utterly unsuspected bythose around him, for his manner of bringing up had taught him to keephis own counsel.
The fixed smile on his features entirely masked the angry feelings thatwere working in his breast. He went through his daily tasks, which hadonce been a pleasure to him, with utter disgust and loathing. His eyeshad been suddenly opened, and he now understood a host of things whichhe had never before even endeavored to comprehend. He saw now that hisproper position was among the nobles, whom he never saw except when theyattended Mass at the little chapel in Bevron. The Count de Mussidan, sohaughty and imposing, with his snow-white hair; the aristocratic-lookingMarquis de Laurebourg, of whom the peasants stood in the greatest awe,were always courteous and even cordial in their salutations, while thenoble dames smiled graciously upon him. Proud and haughty as they were,they evidently looked upon his father and himself as their equals, inspite of the coarse garments that they wore. The realization of thesefacts effected a great change in Norbert. He was the equal of all thesepeople, and yet how great a gulf separated him from them. While he andhis father tramped to Mass in heavy shoes, the others drove up intheir carriages with powdered footmen to open the doors. Why was thisextraordinary difference? He knew enough of the value of crops and landto know that his father was as wealthy as any of these gentlemen. Thelaborers on the farm said that his father was a miser, and the villagersasserted that he got up at night and gazed with rapture upon thetreasure that was hidden away from men's eyes.
"Norbert is an unhappy lad," they would say. "He who ought to be able tocommand all the pleasures of life is worse off than our own children."
He also recollected that one day, as his father was talking to theMarquis de Laurebourg, an old lady, who was doubtless the Marchioness,had said, "Poor boy! he was so early deprived of a mother's care!" Whatdid that mean unless it was a reflection upon the arbitrary behavior ofhis father? Norbert saw that these people always had their children withthem, and the sight of this filled him with jealousy, and brought tearsof anguish to his eyes. Sometimes, as he trudged wearily behind his yokeof oxen, goad in hand, he would see some of these young scions of thearistocracy canter by on horseback, and the friendly wave of the handwith which they greeted him almost appeared to his jaundiced mind apremeditated insult. What could they find to do in Paris, to which theyall took wing at the first breath of winter? This was a question whichhe found himself utterly unable to solve. To drink to intoxicationoffered no charms to him, and yet this was the only pleasure which thevillagers seemed to enjoy. Those young men must have some higher classof entertainment, but in what could it consist? Norbert could hardlyread a line without spelling every word; but these new thoughts runningthrough his mind caused him to study, so as to improve his education.His father had often told him that he did not like lads who where alwaysporing over books; and so Norbert did not discontinue his studies, butsimply avoided bringing them under his father's notice. He knew thatthere was a large collection of books in one of the upstairs rooms ofthe Chateau. He managed to force the lock of the door, and he found somethousands of volumes, of which at least two hundred were novels, whichhad been the solace of his mother's unhappy life. With all the eagernessof a man who is at the point of starvation and finds an unexpectedstore of provisions, Norbert seized upon them. At first he had greatdifficulty in dividing fact from fiction.
He arrived at two conclusions from perusing this heterogeneous mass ofliteratu
re--one was, that he was most unhappy; and the other was, thathe hated his father with a cold and determined loathing. Had he dared,he would have shown this feeling openly, but the Duke de Champdoceinspired him with an unconquerable feeling of terror. This state ofaffairs continued for some months, and at the end of that time the Dukefelt that he ought to make his son acquainted with his projects. OneSunday, after supper, he commenced this task. Norbert had never seenhis father so animated as he was at this moment, when all his ancestralpride blazed in his eyes. He explained at length the acts and deeds ofthose heroes who had been the ornament of their house, and enumeratedthe influential marriages which had been made by them in the days whentheir very name was a power in the land. And what remained of all theirpower and rank, save their Parisian domicile, their old Chateau, andsome two hundred thousand francs of income?
Norbert could hardly credit what he heard; he had never believed thathis father possessed such enormous wealth. "Why, it is inconceivable!"he muttered. And yet, as he looked round, he saw that the surroundingswere those of a peasant's cottage. How could he endure so manydiscomforts and wounds to his pride? In his anger he absolutely startedto his feet with the intention of reproaching his father, but hiscourage failed him, and he fell back into a chair, quivering withemotion.
The Duke de Champdoce was pacing up and down the room.
"Do you think it so little?" asked he angrily.
Norbert knew that not one of the neighboring nobility who had thereputation of being wealthy possessed half this annual income, and itwas with a feeling of bitter anger in his heart that he listened to thebroken words which fell from his father's lips. All at once the Dukehalted in front of his son's chair.
"What fortune I have now," said he in a hoarse voice, "is little ornothing in times like these, when the tradesman contrives to make analmost unlimited income, and, setting up as a gentleman, imitates, notour virtues, but our vices; while the nobles, not understanding thepresent hour, are in poverty and want. Without money, nothing can bedone. To hold his own against these mushroom fortunes, a Champdoceshould possess millions. Neither you nor I, my son, will see our coffersoverflowing with millions, but our descendants will reap the benefitof our toil. Our ancestors gained their name and glory by theirdetermination; let us show that we are their worthy offspring."
As he approached the subject which had occupied his mind entirely foryears, the old noble's voice quivered and shook.
"I have done my duty," said he, calming himself by a mighty effort, "andit is now your turn to do yours. You shall marry some wealthy heiress,and you shall bring up your son as I have reared and nurtured you. Youwill be able to leave him fifteen millions; and if he will only followin our footsteps, he will be able to bequeath to his heir a fortune thata monarch might envy. And this shall and will come to pass, because itis my fixed determination."
The strange outburst of confidence petrified Norbert.
"The task is heavy and painful," continued the Duke, "but it is one thatseveral scores of illustrious houses have accomplished. He who wishesto revive the fallen fortunes of some mighty house must live only in thefuture, and have no thought but for the prosperity of his descendants.More than once I have faltered and hesitated, but I have conqueredmy weakness, and now only live to make the line of Champdoce the mostwealthy in France. You have seen me haggle for an hour over a wretchedlouis, but it was for the reason that at a future day one of ourdescendants might fling it to a beggar from the window of hismagnificent equipage. Next year I will take you to Paris and showyou our house there. You will see in it the most wonderful tapestry,pictures by the best masters, for I have ornamented and embellishedit as a lover adorns a house for a beloved mistress, and that house,Norbert, is the home that your grandchildren will dwell in."
The Duke uttered these words in a tone of jubilant triumph.
"I have spoken to you thus," resumed he, after a short pause, "becauseyou are now of an age to listen to the truth, and because I wished youto understand the rules by which you are to regulate your life. You havenow arrived at years of discretion, and must do of your own free willwhat you have up to this time done at my bidding. This is all that Ihave to say. To-morrow you will take twenty-five sacks of wheat to themiller at Bevron."
Like all tyrannical despots, the Duke never contemplated for a momentthe possibility of any one disobeying his commands; yet at this verymoment Norbert was registering a solemn mental oath that he would nevercarry out his father's wishes. His anger, which his fears had so longrestrained, now burst all bounds, and it was in the broad chestnut treeavenue, behind the Chateau, far from any listening ear, that he gave wayto his despair. So long as he had only looked upon his father as amere miser, he had permitted himself to indulge in hope; but now heunderstood him better, and saw that life-long plans, such as the Dukehad framed, were not to be easily overruled.
"My father is mad," said he; "yes; decidedly mad."
He had made up his mind that for the present he would yield to hisdespotism, but afterwards, in the future, what was he to do?
It is an easy thing to find persons to give you bad advice, and thevery next day Norbert found one at Bevron in the shape of a certain mancalled Daumon, a bitter enemy of the Duke.