A STRATAGEM
Instead of joining the persons who were carrying Marillac away, Christian
went into the garden after leaving the dining-room, in quest of the fresh
air which he gave as an excuse for leaving his guests. In fact, he felt
oppressed almost to suffocation by the emotions he had undergone during
the last few hours. The dissimulation which prudence made a necessity
and honor a duty had aggravated the suffering by protracted concealment.
For some time Christian walked rapidly among the paths and trees in the
park. Bathing his burning brow in the cool night air, he sought to calm
the secret agitation and the boiling blood that were raging within him,
in the midst of which his reason struggled and fought like a ship about
to be wrecked. He used all his strength to recover his self-possession,
so as to be able to master the perils and troubles which surrounded him
with a calm if not indifferent eye; in one word, to regain that control
over himself that he had lost several times during the supper.
His efforts were not in vain. He contemplated his situation without
weakness, exaggeration, or anger, as if it concerned another. Two facts
rose foremost before him, one accomplished, the other uncertain. On one
side, murder, on the other, adultery. No human power could remedy the
first or prevent its consequences; he accepted it, then, but turn his
mind away from it he must, in the presence of this greater disaster.
So far, only presumptions existed against Clemence--grave ones, to be
sure, if one added Lambernier's revelations to Marillac's strangely
indiscreet remarks. It was his first duty to himself, as well as to
her, to know the whole truth; if innocent, he would beg her forgiveness;
if guilty, he had a chastisement to inflict.
"It is an abyss," thought he, "and I may find as much blood as mud at the
bottom of it. No matter, I will descend to its very depths."
When he returned to the chateau, his face had resumed its usual calm
expression. The most observing person would hardly have noticed any
change in his looks. The dining-room had been abandoned at last. The
victorious and the vanquished had retired to their rooms. First of all,
he went up to the artist's apartment, so that no singularity in his
conduct should attract attention, for, as master of the house, a visit to
one of his guests who had fallen dead, or nearly so, at his own table was
a positive duty. The attentions lavished upon Marillac by his friend had
removed the danger which might have resulted from his imprudent excesses
in drinking, and the sort of poisoning with which he had crowned the
whole. He lay upon his bed in the same position in which he had first
been placed, and was sleeping that heavy, painful sleep which serves as
an expiation for bacchic excesses. Gerfaut was seated a few steps from
him, at a table, writing; he seemed prepared to sit up all night, and to
fulfill, with the devotion of a friend, the duties of a nurse.
Octave arose at sight of the Baron, his face having resumed its habitual
reserved expression. The two men greeted each other with equal
composure.
"Is he sleeping?" asked Christian.
"But a few minutes only," replied the latter; "he is all right now, and I
hope," Octave added, smilingly, "that this will serve as a lesson to you,
and that hereafter you will put some limits to your princely hospitality.
Your table is a regular ambush."
"Do not throw stones at me, I pray," replied the Baron, with an
appearance of equal good-humor. "If your friend wants to ask an
explanation of anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765 for
water."
"I really believe that I was the drunker of the two," interrupted Octave,
with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; "we must have
terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor opinion of
Parisian heads and stomachs."
After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached
the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter's
writing.
"You are still at work, I see?" said he, as his eyes rested upon the
paper.
"Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist. These are some
verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for--"
"Will you do me a favor? I am going to her room now; give me these
verses to hand to her. Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she
has been terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some
reason for going to her room."
Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and
handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively,
then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.
"I thank you, Monsieur," said he, "I will leave you to your friendly
duties."
There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the
polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not
alarmed, for he did not understand.
When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut had
just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from
Lambernier. The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were
confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the
letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!
After a few moments' reflection, Christian went to his wife's room.
Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a
revery. Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm
of this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to the
yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity of
her imagination. At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not a
sad thought that these words, "He loves me!" could not efface.
The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation. Madame de
Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of the
servant whom she was ready to reprimand, she saw her husband. The
expression of impatience imprinted upon her face gave way to one of
fright. She arose with a movement she could not repress, as if she had
seen a stranger, and stood leaning against the mantel in a constrained
attitude. Nothing in Christian's manner justified, however, the fear the
sight of him seemed to cause his wife. He advanced with a tranquil air,
and a smile that he had forced upon his lips.
With the presence of mind with which all women seem to be gifted,
Clemence fell back into her chair, and, assuming a languid, suffering
tone, mixed with an appearance of reproach, she said:
"I am glad to see you for a moment in order to scold you; you have not
shown your usual consideration to-night. Did you not think that the
noise from the dining-room might reach as far as here?"
"Has it troubled you?" asked Christian, looking at her attentively.
"Unless one had a head of cast-iron--It seems that these gentlemen have
abused the liberty permitted in the country. From what Justine tells me,
things have taken place which would have been more appropriate at the
Femme-sans-Tete."
"Are you suffering very much?"
"A frightful neuralgia--I only wish I could sleep."
"I was wrong not to have thought of this. You will forgive me, will you
not?"
Bergenheim leaned over the chair, passed his arm around the young woman's
shoulders, and pressed his lips to her forehead. For the first time in
his life, he was playing a part upon the marital stage, and he watched
with the closest attention the slightest expression of his wife's face.
He noticed that she shivered, and that her forehead which he had lightly
touched was as cold as marble.
He arose and took several turns about the room, avoiding even a glance at
her, for the aversion which she had just shown toward her husband seemed
to him positive proof of the very thing he dreaded, and he feared he
should not be able to contain himself.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked, as she noticed his agitation.
These words brought the Baron to his senses, and he returned to her side,
replying in a careless tone:
"I am annoyed for a very simple cause; it concerns your aunt."
"I know. She is furious against you on account of the double misfortune
to her dog and coachman. You will admit that, as far as Constance is
concerned, you are guilty."
"She is not content with being furious; she threatens a complete rupture.
Here, read this."
He handed her a large letter, folded lengthwise and sealed with the
Corandeuil crest.
Madame de Bergenheim took the letter and read its contents aloud:
"After the unheard-of and unqualifiable events of this day, the
resolution which I have formed will doubtless not surprise you in
the least, Monsieur. You will understand that I can not and will
not remain longer in a house where the lives of my servants and
other creatures which are dear to me may be exposed to the most
deplorable, wilful injury. I have seen for some time, although I
have tried to close my eyes to the light of truth, the plots that
were hatched daily against all who wore the Corandeuil livery. I
supposed that I should not be obliged to put an end to this highly
unpleasant matter myself, but that you would undertake this charge.
It seems, however, that respect and regard for women do not form
part of a gentleman's duties nowadays. I shall therefore be obliged
to make up myself for the absence of such attentions, and watch over
the safety of the persons and other creatures that belong to me. I
shall leave for Paris tomorrow. I hope that Constance's condition
will permit her to endure the journey, but Baptiste's wound is too
serious for me to dare to expose him. I am compelled, although with
deep regret, to leave him here until he is able to travel, trusting
him to the kind mercies of my niece.
"Receive, Monsieur, with my adieux, my thanks for your courteous
hospitality.
"YOLANDE DE CORANDEUIL."
"Your aunt abuses the privileges of being foolish," said the Baron, when
his wife had finished reading the letter; "she deserts the battlefield
and leaves behind her wounded."
"But I saw her, not two hours ago, and, although she was very angry, she
did not say one word of this departure."
"Jean handed me this letter but a moment ago, clad in full livery, and
with the importance of an ambassador who demands his passports. You must
go and talk with her, dear, and use all your eloquence to make her change
her mind."
"I will go at once," said Clemence, rising.
"You know that your aunt is rather obstinate when she takes a notion into
her head. If she persists in this, tell her, in order to decide her to
remain, that I am obliged to go to Epinal with Monsieur de Carrier
tomorrow morning, on account of the sale of some wood-land, and that I
shall be absent three days at least. You understand that it will be
difficult for your aunt to leave you alone during my absence, on account
of these gentlemen."
"Certainly, that could not be," said she, quickly.
"I do not see, as far as I am concerned, anything improper about it,"
said the Baron, trying to smile; "but we must obey the proprieties.
You are too young and too pretty a mistress of the house to pass for a
chaperon, and Aline, instead of being a help, would be one inconvenience
the more. So your aunt must stay here until my return."
"And by that time Constance and Baptiste will be both cured and her anger
will have passed away. You did not tell me about this trip to Epinal nor
the selling of the woodland."
"Go to your aunt's room before she retires to bed," replied Bergenheim,
without paying any attention to this remark, and seating himself in the
armchair; "I will wait for you here. We leave to-morrow morning early,
and I wish to know tonight what to depend upon."
As soon as Madame de Bergenheim had left the room, Christian arose and
ran, rather than walked, to the space between the two windows, and sought
the button in the woodwork of which Lambernier had told him. He soon
found it, and upon his first pressure the spring worked and the panel
flew open. The casket was upon the shelf; he took it and carefully
examined the letters which it contained. The greater part of them
resembled in form the one that he possessed; some of them were in
envelopes directed to Madame de Bergenheim and bore Gerfaut's crest.
There was no doubt about the identity of the handwriting; if the Baron
had had any, these proofs were enough. After glancing rapidly over a few
of the notes, he replaced them in the casket and returned the latter to
the shelf where he had found it. He then carefully closed the little
door and reseated himself beside the fireplace.
When Clemence returned, her husband seemed absorbed in reading one of the
books which he had found upon her table, while he mechanically played
with a little bronze cup that his wife used to drop her rings in when she
removed them.
"I have won my case," said the Baroness, in a gay tone; "my aunt saw
clearly the logic of the reasons which I gave her, and she defers her
departure until your return."
Christian made no reply.
"That means that she will not go at all, for her anger will have time to
cool off in three days; at heart she is really kind!--How long is it
since you have known English?" she asked, as she noticed that her
husband's attention seemed to be fixed upon a volume of Lord Byron's
poems.
Bergenheim threw the book on the table, raised his head and gazed calmly
at his wife. In spite of all his efforts, his face had assumed an
expression which would have frightened her if she had noticed it, but her
eyes were fastened upon the cup which he was twisting in his hand as if
it were made of clay.
"Mon Dieu! Christian, what is the matter with you? What are you doing to
my poor cup?" she asked, with surprise mingled with a little of that
fright which is so prompt to be aroused if one feels not above reproach.
He arose and put the misshapen bronze upon the table.
"I do not know what ails me to-night," said he, "my nerves are unstrung.
I will leave you, for I need rest myself. I shall start to-morrow
morning before you are up, and I shall return Wednesday."
"Not any later, I hope," she said, with that soft, sweet voice, from
which, in such circumstances, very few women have the loyalty to abstain.
He went out without replying, for he feared he might be no longer master
of himself; he felt, when offered this hypocritical, almost criminal,
caress, as if he would like to end it all by killing her on the spot.