II.
The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys acertain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves,which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the sourceof countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from goingfaster than eight or ten miles an hour.
The depot has been built--no doubt for the greater convenience oftravellers--at a distance of two miles from town, on a place whereformerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens.The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns andtaverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other,glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty.On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to therailway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see thetrains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchangeconfidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made uptheir mind to travel.
It was nine o'clock in the morning when the train which brought themarchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The formerwas overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole nightin discussing the chances for her son's safety, and was all the moreexhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.
For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain's doubts. He, also,had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt tobe arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelmingproofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.
The train was slackening speed.
"If only Dionysia and her father," sighed the marchioness, "have thoughtof sending a carriage to meet us."
"Why so?" asked Manuel Folgat.
"Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears."
The young lawyer shook his head, and said,--
"You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to followmy advice."
She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.
"I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would bea great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they sawyou in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of yourson's guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. Youmust control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolutein these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else'simmediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what youwill, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations."
"That is true," said the marchioness: "that is but too true."
"Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal yourmaternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and shownothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he seesyou, 'No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.'"
The marchioness straightened herself, and said,--
"You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress publicopinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the stationdeserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show youwhat a woman can do who thinks of her son's life."
The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.
Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder ofher coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; herfeatures, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; sheforced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; andthen she said in a clear, firm voice,--
"Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?"
The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and,offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,--
"You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not beuseless. All Sauveterre seems to be here."
This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report hadbeen current,--no one knew how it had started,--that the "murderer'smother," as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o'clocktrain; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station atthat hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the lastnew dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement wasnot to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor oldlady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a wholetown; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is nothypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamedof it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, andtry to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.
It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was runningstrongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against himbut the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse,that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terribleconsequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been soseverely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the eveningbefore, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre.In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almostcarbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, hadbeen brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor'soffice, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four othersclung to her dress.
All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loadedwith curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, themarchioness, with fierce hootings.
"There she is, there she is!" they said in the crowd, when she appearedin the station, leaning upon M. Folgat's arm.
But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at herappearance. Immediately two parties were formed. "She puts a bold faceon it," said some; while others declared, "She is quite sure of herson's innocence."
At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impressionshe produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat's advice.It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd somepeople whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,--
"Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is theliberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notionthat enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday bytelegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours,and one of the first lawyers of Paris."
M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more consideratewords. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what shehad said.
"These gentlemen of the court," he said in measured tones, "will perhapsbe sorry for what they have done."
Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-lacedcap, came up to them at this moment.
"M. de Chandore's carriage is here," he said.
"Very well," replied the marchioness.
And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfoundedby her assurance, she said,--
"Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. Ishall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son's arm."
The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of theNew-Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly morethan a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon themunicipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuseto improve. The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at theside a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seigneboscalls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.
It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, andfor a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could notboast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas. Butif they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so.Of the whole great family,--one of the most numerous and most powerfulof the province,--only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and agirl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia wasan orphan. She was barely three years old, when within five months, shelost her father, who fell in a duel, an
d her mother, who had not thestrength to survive the man whom she had loved. This was certainly forthe child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for norunloved. Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and thetwo sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longeryoung, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusivelyto their niece. From that day the two good ladies had wished to livein the baron's house; but from the beginning he had utterly refusedto listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly ablehimself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself.All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day withDionysia whenever they chose.
Hence arose a certain rivalry between the aunts and the grandfather,which led both parties to most amazing exaggerations. Each one did whatcould be done to engage the affections of the little girl; each one waswilling to pay any price for the most trifling caress. At five yearsDionysia had every toy that had ever been invented. At ten she wasdressed like the first lady of the land, and had jewelry in abundance.
The grandfather, in the meantime, had been metamorphosed from head tofoot. Rough, rigid, and severe, he had suddenly become a "love of afather." The fierce look had vanished from his eyes, the scorn from hislips; and both had given way to soft glances and smooth words. He wasseen daily trotting through the streets, and going from shop to shopon errands for his grandchild. He invited her little friends, arrangedpicnics for her, helped her drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in acotillion.
If Dionysia looked displeased, he trembled. If she coughed, he turnedpale. Once she was sick: she had the measles. He staid up for twelvenights in succession, and sent to Paris for doctors, who laughed in hisface.
And yet the two old ladies found means to exceed his folly.
If Dionysia learned any thing at all, it was only because she herselfinsisted upon it: otherwise the writing-master and the music-masterwould have been sent away at the slightest sign of weariness.
Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its shoulders.
"What a wretched education!" the ladies said. "Such weakness isabsolutely unheard of. They tender the child a sorry service."
There was no doubt that such almost incredible spoiling, such blinddevotion, and perpetual worship, came very near making of Dionysia themost disagreeable little person that ever lived. But fortunately she hadone of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides,she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grewolder she would say with a laugh,--
"Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what wechoose."
That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affectionwith rarer and nobler qualities.
She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was justseventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. deChandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had beena friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted theinvitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.
Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown toGrandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and theflowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up inher heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.
For Jacques's eyes remained blind for two years.
But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed.Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, theMarquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form askedDionysia's hand for his son.
Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.
He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of hisgrandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that hewas getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should havefound her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, verymuch as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelingsout. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing herprefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all.He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.
Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no replytill he had consulted his granddaughter.
Poor grandpapa! At the very first words he uttered, she exclaimed,--
"Oh, I am so happy! But I expected it."
M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes.Then he said very low,--
"Then the thing is settled."
At once, rather comforted by the joy that was sparkling in hisgrandchild's eyes, he began reproaching himself for his selfishness, andfor being unhappy, when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy. Jacques had,of course, been allowed to visit the house as a lover; and the very daybefore the fire at Valpinson, after having long and carefully countedthe days absolutely required for all the purchases of the trousseau,and all the formalities of the event, the wedding-day had been finallyfixed.
Thus Dionysia was struck down in the very height of her happiness, whenshe heard, at the same time, of the terrible charges brought against M.de Boiscoran, and of his arrest.
At first, thunderstruck, she had lain nearly ten minutes unconsciousin the arms of her aunts, who, like the grandfather, were themselvesutterly overcome with terror. But, as soon as she came to, sheexclaimed,--
"Am I mad to give way thus? Is it not evident that he is innocent?"
Then she had sent her telegram to the marquis, knowing well, that,before taking any measures, it was all important to come to anunderstanding with Jacques's family. Then she had begged to be leftalone; and she had spent the night in counting the minutes that mustpass till the hour came when the train from Paris would bring her help.
At eight o'clock she had come down to give orders herself that acarriage should be sent to the station for the marchioness, adding thatthey must drive back as fast as they could. Then she had gone into thesitting-room to join her grandfather and her aunts. They talked to her;but her thoughts were elsewhere.
At last a carriage was heard coming up rapidly, and stopping before thehouse. She got up, rushed into the hall, and cried,--
"Here is Jacques's mother!"