Thomas Lindet was not satisfied. Some effort must be made to
rescue the girl. If the father would not move, he must. He started
immediately for the château. He was an impetuous man; what he
resolved on doing he did at once, as quickly as he could.
In half an hour he was at the Château Malouve.
The house was small and modern. It stood by itself, with the woods
for a background, on the slope of the hill, facing south-east. The
ground before it fell rapidly away towards the valley, and was
in field and pasture. A terrace had been formed in front of the
house, with a pond in the midst, and a triton to spout water from a
conch-shell. But as the château occupied high ground, and there was
little water on a higher level, the triton maintained in wet weather
an inconsiderable dribble, which not even the storm of that day could
convert into a jet; but in hot weather it was dry.
The château was flanked by two square blocks, the roofs of which were
capped with tower-roofs and weathercocks. The body of the building
had the high exaggerated roof of Louis XIV’s time, pierced with
attic louvres. Every window was provided with emerald green shutters,
and the walls being of a chalky whiteness, the house had a gay and
smiling appearance.
M. Berthier had a large house in Paris, in which he resided the major
portion of the year, only visiting Malouve in the summer for a month
or two.
At the back of the château was a yard, one side occupied by stables,
another by servants’ offices; access to this yard was obtained
through an iron gate painted green and gold, set in a lofty iron
railing, very gay with paint, very strong and insurmountable,
the spikes at the summit being split and contorted so as to
form a pretty, but, at the same time, an eminently practical
chevaux-de-frise.
As Thomas Lindet approached the gate, two hounds rushed out of their
kennels before the coach-house door, and barked furiously. One was
chained, but the other, by accident, had got loose, the staple which
fastened the chain having given way; and the brute now flew to the
gates, dragging the clanking links after him, and leaped against the
iron bars.
The shovel hat and black cassock were an unusual sight to the dog,
and the costume of the priest excited it to a pitch of fury. First
it set its head down, with the paws extended, rolled back its
lips exposing the pink gums and white fangs, and growled; then it
leaped up the iron rails, as though desirous of scrambling over
them, started back, barked furiously; its chained brother assisting
vociferously. The eyes of the hound became bloodshot. It flung itself
again and again at the gate, it ran along the line of rails, leaping
on the dwarf wall in which they were fixed, and slipping instantly
off it, scrambling up again, and catching at the bars with its teeth,
searching along the whole length for a gap, through which it could
force its way; sometimes thrusting its head between the rods, and
then, nipped by them, becoming more furious; racing back to the great
gates, scraping at the earth under them with intent to burrow a way
to get at the priest, but always unsuccessful.
Lindet rang the great bell.
A rakish-looking footman opened the glass doors of the house,
looked out and called ‘Poulet! Poulet!’ to the hound, but it paid
no attention, so the footman sauntered to the stable and then to
the coach-house, in search of a groom. As he passed the kennel, he
kept at some distance from the chained dog, but addressed it in a
conciliatory tone--‘Eh bien! Pigeon, mon ami! Soyez tranquil, cher
Pigeon.’ But the Pigeon paid no more attention to this advice than
did the Chicken to his calls.
Not being able to find the groom, the footman leisurely visited the
garden, and called, not too loudly, ‘Gustave!’ Gustave, the gardener,
having at last turned up, a little conversation ensued between him
and Adolphe, the footman, which ended in both appearing in the court,
and making towards the hound from opposite quarters, Adolphe keeping
unduly in the rear.
Having approached the dog--which by this time had worked itself into
a mad rage, apparently quite ungovernable--within such distance as
Gustave, on one side, and Adolphe on the other, respectively thought
consistent with prudence, ‘Come on, my brave fellow, excellent dog,
worthy hound, trustiest of chickens!’ called Adolphe, ‘come, don’t
be a naughty child. Come, be docile once more, and all shall be
forgotten.’
‘Come this way, you rascal!’ roared Gustave authoritatively, ‘come
and let me chain you up, or, sapristi! I’ll dash your brains out,
I’ll tear the liver out of you, I’ll poke your red eyes out, I’ll cut
off your bloodthirsty tongue. Sacré! I give you three minutes by the
clock, and, ventre gris! if you don’t obey me, I’ll be the death of
you. Come, you insolent, audacious ruffian. Come this moment!’
But the dog paid not the slightest attention to the entreaties of
Adolphe and the threats of Gustave.
Lindet folded his arms, and looked on the men contemptuously. They
were both afraid of the hound, but pretended that they were not.
‘You must give him rein,’ said Adolphe; ‘he will exhaust himself, and
the poulet will be an angel once more.’
‘Not for a moment,’ roared Gustave; ‘suffer that demon an inch of
liberty; never! He shall be chained to a block of stone,--he shall
not move a paw, he shall not open his mouth, he shall not wink an
eye. He shall have no meat for a thousand days, till the devil in him
is expelled!’
‘I will fetch the dear fellow a sponge-cake. I know he loves sweets,
do you not, my Poulet? And above all sweets, sponge-cake; yes, in one
moment! Be gentle till my return.’
‘I will get my double-weighted whip, with lead in it, and fifty
thousand knots in the lash, and nails in each knot, and the nails
rusty, and crooked, and spiked. Ah! ha! they will make the devil
jump; they will make the devil bleed! Sapristi! I will cut and chop
and mangle his accursed hide.’
‘Bah!’ said a creaky voice.
M. Foulon was there. He had heard the noise, which was indeed
deafening, and had descended to the yard from his room. He was in
his brown topcoat, and the little wiry pigtail with its huge bow
protruded over it like a monstrous dragon-fly that had alighted on
his collar.
‘Bah! you are three fools,’ said he; then, drawing his great gold
snuff-box from his breast pocket, he poured some of the dust into
his hand, snuffed it up himself, strewing his face with particles
of tobacco, then he emptied half that remained in the box into his
hand, and walked leisurely up to Poulet.
‘Eh bien, Poulet!’ said he, with a tone of mingled banter and
defiance. The hound turned its head instantly, snarled, cowered, and
the old man flung the snuff into its face.
‘Now you may go and wink and sneeze your superfluous spirits away,
you chicken, you!’ Foulon continued; ‘now you may go to your darling
brother Pigeon, and you may tell him that you do not like snuff, that
snuff is expensive, because of the excise; that we have a monopoly of
tobacco, and that the revenue gains by tobacco. Do you understand,
Poulet? Well, go and tell Pigeon all about it. Here, I will help
you.’ He caught the end of the chain, and drew the dog after him to
its kennel. The brute’s attention was engrossed by its own distress,
the snuff in its eyes blinded it, the snuff up its nose afflicted it
with sneezing, and down its throat choked it.
Foulon called to Gustave for a hammer. Adolphe ran with alacrity to
look for one, Gustave brought one. The old man calmly snuffed again,
then took the hammer and riveted the staple. ‘Now, then, you rascal,’
said he, turning abruptly upon the footman; ‘do you not see that you
have left Monsieur le Curé outside the gate? How thoughtless, how
unmannerly!’
Adolphe bounded to the railing and unlocked the iron gate. Thomas
Lindet walked past him, and went straight towards Monsieur Foulon.
The old gentleman removed his hat and bowed courteously; the priest,
absorbed in the purpose of his visit, had forgotten these courtesies.
He now bent towards Foulon stiffly, and raised his shovel hat.
‘You have done me an honour I never hoped to have enjoyed. This day
you have made me a proud man; hitherto I have been humble. Beware, my
dear curé, or you will blow me up into extravagant conceit.’
Lindet looked at him with surprise.
‘You did me the honour of preaching an observation I made within your
hearing to my excellent son-in-law, the good Berthier. I did not know
that my remarks were so valuable, so deserving of repetition.’
‘I have come to speak of quite another matter,’ said Lindet.
‘Indeed! I thought your visit was one of congratulation to the poor
old man, Foulon, on having made a shrewd and pertinent remark at
last--at last, after so many years of stupidity, Foulon has given
promise of being witty and wise. But allow me to observe that you did
not give my remarks exactly as they were made. Not that a word or
two is of consequence, but still accuracy is a point--a point, you
understand, we revenue farmers learn to appreciate.’
‘Sir, I came here----’
‘Pardon me, my dear curé, we will stick to the point. The expressions
I used were these. “Bah!--” you did not render that interjection in
your version. Now, that interjection is expressive; besides, it is
characteristic; I always use it. Well, I said, “Bah! if the peasants
are hungry, let them browse grass. Wait till I am minister, I will
make them eat hay; my horses eat hay.” You left out the words “wait
till I am minister.” Be exact, my good friend; exactness is a virtue.’
‘M. Foulon, I have come here----’
‘One moment, my good curé; here is a little lesson of Christian
forgiveness for you to take home with you. This day you desired to
turn loose these hungry peasants on me; this day I have chained up a
savage bloodhound that was ravening to be at your throat. Now, what
have you to say?’
‘I want to know where is the girl Gabrielle André, whom your
son-in-law, M. Berthier, and you, M. Foulon, carried out of church
this afternoon?’
‘Bah! I am ashamed of my good, model curé. He is as bad as we naughty
laymen, and runs after pretty girls and petticoats.’
Lindet clenched his hands and teeth.
‘She is your charming niece, is she not? Ah, ha! my sad scapegrace of
a curé!’
‘M. Foulon, I will not have this,’ said the priest, passionately;
‘this insult is intolerable.’
‘Then you can always leave the court,’ answered the old man; ‘see!
the door is open. But we will not quarrel. Come along into the hall
and have some refreshment.’
Lindet stamped. The imperturbable coolness and insolence of the old
gentleman exasperated his fiery spirit.
‘Come, come, cool down,’ said Foulon; ‘I did not mean to irritate
you. Is the girl your relative?’
‘No.’
‘Of course, then, she is one of your parishioners?’
‘No, she is not.’
‘Then, pardon me, but I am surprised at your taking so much trouble,
and running the risk of being torn to pieces by those villanous dogs,
to make enquiries about her. I will answer all your enquiries with
the utmost frankness, if you can assure me that her father authorized
you to come here and demand her.’
Lindet’s face became crimson. He bit his lips with vexation. That he
was completely at the old man’s mercy, he felt; and he was conscious
that the revenue-farmer was making him ridiculous.
‘I insist on knowing whether the girl is here. I know her father and
her, and I have a perfect right to make these enquiries. I now ask to
see her. You dare not keep her here against her father’s and her own
will.’
‘You are the most inconsequent of curés,’ exclaimed Foulon, laughing
gently; ‘you ask to see her, and you ask at the same time whether she
is here. I neither say that she is here, nor that she is not here.
As to your seeing her, that is out of the question. If she be not
here, how can I show her to you? If she be here, I do not bring the
chambermaids into the courtyard to receive pastoral exhortations.’
Whilst speaking with Lindet, the old gentleman had moved slowly
towards the gates of the yard: Lindet had followed him, without
observing whither he was conducting him. Thus Foulon had drawn him
outside the rails. Now, having finished this last insulting speech,
spoken with an air of politeness and cordiality, he suddenly turned
on his heel, stepped within, slammed and locked the iron gates of the
enclosure, leaving Lindet without.
The curé attempted to speak again; but Foulon retired, waving his
hand and hat, and bowing courteously. Then he made the circuit of the
house, in hopes of finding another door, but was baffled. It is true
there was a small door in a high wall, which led into the garden, but
it was fastened from within. The terrace was so raised, being built
up from the slope, that it could not be reached, and on every other
side the château was enclosed by walls and rails.
Lindet wasted a few minutes in making the round of the premises,
feeling all the while that he should be at a loss what course to
pursue, even if he did penetrate once more within. At last he
desisted and retired, satisfied that the only person who could claim
access to the girl, with any chance of obtaining it, was her father;
and Lindet was convinced that he could not be stimulated to make the
attempt.
Had Lindet accompanied André home to les Hirondelles, instead of
rashly going himself in quest of Gabrielle, he would have done her a
greater service.
When Matthias André returned to les Hirondelles, he found that
the water had subsided almost as rapidly as it had risen. The
plank-bridge was no longer submerged, and the garden and house were
clear. The corn-field presented the appearance of a large pond, but
that was because the dyke retained the water; there being no gap in
it, there was no drainage.
To his amazement, he saw M. Berthier seated at his door. André
scowled at him, but deferentially removed his bonnet.
‘Good evening, man!’ said the Intendant, nodding, but not rising from
his seat. ‘Your name is Matthias André, is it not?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Ah! your daughter was at the church this afternoon?’
‘She was, monsieur, and I cannot find her----’
‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Berthier; ‘I can tell you more about
her than you could tell me.’
‘Monsieur, I heard that you and your honoured father-in-law
had removed her from the church, when she fainted during the
thunderstorm.’
‘You heard aright,’ said Berthier. ‘There was evident danger in
remaining within. The spire might fall at any moment and bury
those in the church under its ruins. We saw a girl near us fall,
and thinking she had been injured by the lightning, we carried her
out and transported her to my house. We did not know where was her
home. She is now with my wife, Madame Berthier, who has taken great
interest in her.’
André remained standing before him with his eyes on the ground. He
knew that Berthier was deceiving him, and the Intendant did not care
to do more than give his account of what had really taken place, a
superficially plausible colour.
‘I see your wheat is under water,’ said the stout gentleman, pointing
with his thumb towards the submerged field, and then, drawing his
handkerchief from his pocket, he twisted the corner into a little
screw and ran it round the lids of his eyes in succession.
‘Yes, monsieur, all my crop is destroyed.’
‘And what have you to subsist upon now?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Can you pay the tax?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Have you any money laid by, to help you out of your difficulties?
Of course, in prosperous times, you have put aside a nice sum to fall
back upon?’
‘Monsieur! how can a peasant lay by? The revenue absorbs all his
profits, and leaves him barely enough for his subsistence. He may
live in times of plenty; in times of scarcity he must die.’
‘Then what do you intend doing?’
Matthias shrugged his shoulders.
‘All depends on the winter. I have a few potatoes. I must sell this
wet corn--it will all be mouldy--for what it will fetch. Ah! if I
could have garnered it three days ago, or even yesterday. I shall
starve.’ He groaned.
‘And your daughter will starve with you!’
André answered with a scowl.
‘Do you owe any money?’
‘Yes; I owe Jacob Maître, the usurer, four hundred crowns.’
‘You cannot pay him?’
‘No. I have been in debt a long while; he threatens, and I had hoped
to pay him off a part this year.’
‘And now he must wait?’
‘He will not wait.’
‘How so?’
‘He will put me in prison.’
‘And whilst you are in prison, what will your daughter do?’
‘God knows!’ André bowed his head lower, and began to mutter to
himself.
‘What are you saying?’ asked the Intendant.
‘Nothing,’ answered the peasant, doggedly.
‘But I will hear,’ said Berthier.
‘I said if God would not provide, then the devil must.’
‘Goodman André, that is a somewhat shocking sentiment. Besides, it
is not altogether true; there may be a half measure, you know. Now
madame, my wife,--a very worthy, pious woman--a little of heaven one
way, but a deuced black and ugly one--a little of hell the other
way,--she is the person to do it. She has commissioned me to ask
you to allow her to retain your child as her servant. That is her
message. She wants an active girl to wait upon her, and she has
taken a fancy to your daughter. I do not interfere in household
matters--understand that--but my good wife, being unable, or
disinclined, to come here and see you on the subject, has persuaded
me to do her work. I am goodnatured, I am fat; fat people are always
goodnatured, so I yield to my wife in everything. I am her slave--her
factotum. It is a pity to be goodnatured; one is imposed upon, even
by the best of wives.’
André did not speak; through the corner of his eyes he was
contemplating his submerged corn-field. He knew still that
Berthier was deceiving him, and he was calculating the chances
of the approaching winter. Would his potatoes last, even if Jacob
Maître did not come down upon him? Would not the usurer seize on
everything,--his cow, his horse, his cart, his potatoes, his bed and
furniture, his very clothes?
Berthier took some money out of his pocket, and made twelve little
heaps on the seat beside him.
‘What do you say to me, in my generosity, giving you six months’
wage for your girl in advance? This is very reckless of me, because
I really do not know whether she will suit madame or not. Madame is
capricious, she sometimes sends away a dozen servants in the year.
However, as you are in great distress, and I am constitutionally
liberal--fat people are always liberal--I say, well, I will risk it.
You shall have six months’ wage in advance, and the wage is good; it
is high, very high. Count.’
André touched one of the little heaps with his finger, and upset the
silver pieces, that he might reckon their number; then he counted the
heaps, and multiplied the sum in one by six; then he doubled that.
He would not speak yet.
Berthier substituted gold for some of the silver. Rarely had gold
passed through the peasant’s fingers. He took the piece up in his
trembling palm, turned it over, and looked at it fixedly. His hand
shook as with the palsy, and the gold piece fell from it into the
mud. André’s brow became beaded with perspiration. He stooped, and
picking it up hastily, went to a pitcher and washed it reverently,
and then replaced it on the bench.
‘Well, man!’ said the Intendant, taking his pocket-handkerchief and
spreading it on his knee. It was stained.
Matthias moodily entered the stable, produced a pick, and walked
into his potato-croft. Berthier stared after him, uncertain whether
by this action he designed in his boorish manner to express his
determination to break off the transaction. Matthias began to dig up
a row of potatoes, and Berthier saw him take up the roots, and count
the tubers on each, and measure them with his eye.
Presently he returned with a lap-full; these he measured in a bushel,
and made a rough calculation of the number he should gather from his
little croft.
The gloom on his face became deeper. Then he went into the cow-house
and remained there a few minutes. After that he entered the little
orchard of some dozen trees, and estimated the yield of apples; then
he returned to the house, opened the clothes-chest, and threw all
the articles of wearing apparel on the table and bench, and made a
mental valuation of them. There were some silver ornaments,--round
perforated buttons and a brooch that Gabrielle wore on great fêtes;
an heirloom. The peasant was unable to estimate their value, so he
brought them out to the Intendant, and said, sulkily:
‘What are these worth?’
Berthier weighed them in his hand, laughed, and said:
‘The value of the silver is trifling--five or eight francs, at the
outside.’
The wretched father carried them back into the house.
Presently he came out in a vacillating, uneasy way--his mind hardly
made up.
‘You promise me that it is only madame who will have anything to do
with my Gabrielle?’ he said.
‘I promise you that! of course I will. She will be with madame night
and day; will scarcely be out of her sight. Will that content you?’
André still mused, and refrained from giving a decided answer.
Just then he caught sight of the money-lender, Jacob Maître, a
short-built, red-whiskered and bearded man, with thick overhanging
red brows, standing on the dyke, contemplating the havoc made in
André’s field by the flood.
That sight determined him. He bent, gathered up six of the heaps of
silver between his palms, rushed with it into his cottage, and bolted
the door.