The shock was too much for Gabrielle’s already excited nerves to
bear, and she remained for several days prostrated with fever.
During this time, Madame Berthier attended her with gentle care and
affection. She administered medicines with her own hand, slept in
the room beside her, or kept watch night and day. The unfortunate
woman having at length found a human being whom she could love,
concentrated upon her the pent-up ardour of her soul. The cat
attracted less attention than heretofore, and for some days his
cradles were neglected.
If Madame Berthier had been given a companion whom she could love,
in times gone by, and had been less ill-treated by her husband and
neglected by her father, she would never have become deranged; it
is possible that a course of gentle treatment and forbearance from
irritating conduct on the part of M. Berthier might eventually
have restored her already shaken intellect; but such treatment and
forbearance she was not to receive.
Madame Berthier was walking in the courtyard one day, when Gabrielle
was convalescent. Her husband and father had returned, but she had
seen little of them. The former carefully avoided the wing occupied
by the invalid and his wife, out of apprehension of infection, for he
was peculiarly fearful of sickness; and Foulon did not approach them,
not having occasion.
As she passed the kennel, she halted to caress the hounds. Poulet
and Pigeon were docile under her hand, and never attempted to fly
at and bite her. She and her father were the only persons in the
château who had the brutes under perfect control; they feared Foulon,
but they loved Madame Plomb. Animals are said to know instinctively
those persons who like them. The poor woman exhibited a remarkable
sympathy with animals, which they reciprocated. The dogs would
never suffer Berthier to approach them without barking and showing
their fangs, because he amused himself in teasing and ill-treating
them; they slunk into their kennels before Foulon’s cold grey eye,
Madame Berthier they saluted with gambols. She patted the dogs, and
addressed them by name.
‘Well, Pigeon! well, Poulet! how are you to-day? Are you more
reconciled to Gabriel? Ah! when will you learn to love that angel?
He fears you; he sets up his back, and his tail becomes terrible
to contemplate; and you--you growl at him, and you leap towards
him, and I know if you were loose you would devour him. Alas!
be reconciled, and love as brethren.’ Turning to Adolphe, who
approached, she asked, ‘Have they been good boys lately?’
‘Madame, their conduct has been superb.’
‘That is nice, my brave dogs; I am pleased to hear a good account of
you.’
‘Madame, I must except Poulet for one hour. For one hour he
misconducted himself; but what is an hour of evil to an age of good?
it is a drop in an ocean, madame.’
‘Did he misconduct himself, Adolphe? How was that?’
‘Alas! madame, that I should have to blame him; and yet the blame
does hardly attach to him,--it rests rather on the staple,--the
staple of his chain. It gave way that day that the curé came.’
‘What curé?’
‘Ah! madame does not know? Monsieur the Curé of Bernay arrived at the
gate, and the brave dog rushed towards him, and would have devoured
him, doubtless, but for the rails. The staple, madame, was out; but
Gustave and I, assisted by your honoured father, secured the dog once
more, and no blood was shed.’
‘What brought the curé here?’
Adolphe fidgeted his feet, and platted his fingers.
‘Tell me, Adolphe,’ persisted madame, ‘tell me why M. Lindet came to
this house. These gates are not usually visited by Religion.’
‘Madame,’ answered the servant in a low voice, and with hesitation,
‘I think he came here to enquire after the young girl----’
‘I understand,’ said the lady. ‘Who spoke to him?’
‘It was M. Foulon, your honoured father, who dismissed him.’
‘Did the priest seem anxious to obtain information?’
‘Madame, I believe so; he seemed most anxious.’
‘Thank you, Adolphe. Open the gate for me; I am going to Bernay.’
‘Madame will, I am sure, not mention what I have said,’ the man
began, nervously.
‘Be satisfied; neither M. Berthier nor M. Foulon shall know that you
have mentioned this to me.’
‘Madame is so good!’ exclaimed the man, throwing open the gate.
The unfortunate lady, having gathered her veil closely over her
face, so as completely to conceal it, took the road to Bernay, and,
entering the town by the Rue des Jardins, crossed the square in front
of the Abbey, and speedily made her way to the Place S. Croix, where
dwelt the priest.
The day being somewhat chilly, Thomas Lindet was seated before the
fire in the kitchen; his brothers, Robert and Peter, were with him.
Robert was an attorney in practice at Bernay, Peter was supposed
to help him in the office, but as the practice was small, and
Peter was constitutionally incapable of attending to business, or
of doing anything systematically, his value was nil. The brothers
were remarkable contrasts. Some years later, when the events of the
Revolution had developed their characters, they were nicknamed Robert
le Diable, Thomas l’Incredule, and Pierre le Fou. It is needless
to say that these names were given them by their enemies. Only in
the first dawn of Christianity do we find a nickname given in a
spirit of charity--Barnabas, the Son of Consolation. These names
were partly just and partly unjust. Robert was never a devil; Thomas
was, perhaps, a doubter; Peter was certainly a fool. Robert had an
intelligent face, much like that of his brother the curé; his lips
were habitually arched with a smile; it was difficult to decide
whether the smile was one of benevolence or of sarcasm. An ironical
twinkle in his eye led most who had dealings with him to suspect that
he was internally jesting at them, when they received from him some
mark of courtesy or esteem. A thorough professional acquaintance with
the injustice of the _ancien régime_, had made him as desirous of
a change as his brother Thomas. He had the same passionate love of
right and liberty, the same vehemence, but his strong clear judgment
completely governed and modulated his impulses. He was scrupulously
honest and truthful. The Revolution rolled its course around him,
and he became one of its most important functionaries, without
compromising his character, without losing his integrity; under every
form of government he served, being found an invaluable servant in
the interest of his country, true to France and to his conscience.
He had no love for power; he dreaded its splendour: he loved only to
have work and responsibility. He was less a man of politics than of
administration. His extreme caution was a subject of reproach, but it
saved his neck from the guillotine in the Reign of Terror, and his
probity, which left him unenriched by the public moneys which had
passed through his hands, preserved him from exile in 1816. Of him
the great Napoleon said: ‘I know no man more able, and no minister
more honest.’ The innumerable difficulties with which he had to deal
in administrative and financial practice during the Revolution,
occupied his close attention, and he shunned public discussion, in
which he knew he should not shine, that he might be the soul of
committees. The Girondins, mistrusting him, thrust him into the arms
of Robespierre, who received him, saying, ‘We shall found Salente,
and you shall be the Fénélon of the Revolution.’
Jean Baptiste Robert, to give him his name in full, was little
conscious of the part it was his destiny to play, at the time our
story opens. He and Peter were smoking.
‘Well, Thomas! what have you gained by this move?’ asked Robert,
alluding to his brother’s expedition to Évreux.
‘To my mind,’ put in Peter, ‘you have acted very wrongly, and have
not exhibited that respect to constituted authority which the
catechism enjoins.’
Thomas had his own misgivings, so he did not answer.
‘You should have waited,’ said Robert.
‘That is your invariable advice,’ said Thomas, impatiently; ‘always
wait, wait, wait--till doomsday, I suppose.’
‘Till the election of deputies,’ said Robert, between his whiffs; ‘it
is the same.’
‘You will be inhibited, brother Thomas,’ Peter observed, as he shook
some of the ashes from his pipe on to the floor; ‘as sure as eggs are
eggs, Monseigneur the Bishop will withdraw your licence, and inhibit
you from preaching and ministering the sacraments. And quite right
too.’
‘Why right, Peter?’ asked Thomas.
‘Because you have gone against constituted authority. I say,
reverence constituted authority; never thwart it. Constituted
authority, in my eyes----’
‘Is constituted despotism,’ said Thomas.
‘No; it is right. Obedience is a Christian virtue; obedience is due
to all who are set over us in Church and State. You have revolted
against constituted authority, brother, and constituted authority
will be down on you. You will be inhibited. Mark my words, you will.’
‘No, not yet,’ said Robert. ‘To inhibit you would be to wing the
story, and send it flying through the province. But be cautious for
the future; the least trip will cause your fall.’
Madame Berthier tapped at the door, and the priest answered it.
‘I want to speak with you,’ she said, ‘for one minute.’
‘Privately?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then walk this way.’
He conducted her to his sitting-room, and requested her to be seated.
She did not remove her veil, but told him her name.
‘You came to Château Malouve in search of Gabrielle André,’ she said.
‘Did they tell you she was there?’
‘Madame, I did go in quest of her. Pardon me for speaking plainly,
but I knew she would be in great peril if she were there.’
‘You were right, she would have been in great peril; I have protected
her, however.’
‘She is with you, then, madame?’
‘She is with me at present: she has been very ill. The shock of her
father’s death has been too great for her. She is recovering now.’
‘Does the poor child remain with you?’ asked the priest.
‘At present; but I cannot say for how long. M. Berthier may be
removing to Paris shortly, our time for returning to the capital
approaches, and, if we go there--we--that is Gabriel, Gabrielle and
I.’
‘Who is Gabriel, madame?’
‘An angel.’
‘Pardon me, I do not understand.’
‘He is my solace, my joy.’
‘Madame!’
‘He is my cat.’
‘Proceed, I pray.’
‘If we, that is, Gabriel, Gabrielle and I go to Paris, I cannot be
sure that I shall be able to protect the girl. Here, in the country,
servants are not what they are in Paris. There they are creatures of
the beast!’
‘Of whom, madame?’
‘Of the beast--of my husband. What am I to do then? They will do what
Berthier orders them; they will separate her from me; they will lock
me up. They have done so before; they will even tear my angel from my
shoulder.’
‘Your angel, madame?’
‘My Gabriel, my cat. I have great battles to keep him near me, how
can I assure myself of being able to retain her?’
‘What is to be done, then?’
‘She cannot go home to her blue father; she cannot stay with yellow
Gabriel. I ask you what is to be done.’
Lindet paused before he replied. The lady puzzled him, her way of
speaking was so strange. He looked intently at her veil, as though
he desired to penetrate it with his eyes. Madame Berthier saw the
direction of his eyes, and drew the veil closer.
‘Why do you stare?’ she asked; ‘my face is not beautiful: it is
terrible. The beast calls me Madame Plomb, and I hate him for it;
but,’ she drew close to the priest and whispered into his ear, ‘I
know now how to make him blue, like me,--how to turn M. Berthier into
M. Plomb. We shall see, we shall see one of these days!’
‘Madame, what is your meaning?’
‘Ah, ha! I tell no one that secret, but you shall discover my meaning
some day. Now, go back to what we were saying about Gabrielle. What
is to be done with her?’
‘When you go to Paris?’
‘Yes, I cannot protect her there. I am not safe there myself. Here I
can do what I like, but not there.’
‘I cannot tell you, madame, but I will make enquiries, and find out
where she may be taken in and screened against pursuit.’
‘You promise me that,’ she said.
‘Yes, madame, I will do my best. If you will communicate with me
again in a day or two, I shall be more in a position to satisfy you.’
‘Then I may trust in you as Gabrielle’s protector when I am unable
myself to execute that office?’
‘Certainly. I will be her protector.’
Madame Plomb rose from her seat, and departed.
As she approached the château, she heard the furious barking of the
two dogs, and on entering the gates she saw the cause. M. Berthier
had wheeled an easy chair into the yard, and was seated in it at a
safe distance from the hounds, armed with a long-lashed carriage
whip, which he whirled above his head, and brought down now on Poulet
and then on Pigeon, driving the beasts frantic with pain and rage.
He had thrown a large piece of raw meat just within their reach, and
he kept them from it by skilful strokes across the nose and paws.
The dogs were ravenous, and they flew upon the piece of flesh, only
to recoil with howls of pain. Pigeon had bounded to the top of his
kennel, and was dancing with torture, having received a cutting
stroke across his fore paws; then, seeing Poulet making towards the
meat, and fearful lest he should be robbed of his share, he leaped
down from his perch and flew after his brother, only to be nearly
overthrown by Poulet, as he started back before a sweep of the lash.
Madame Berthier looked scornfully towards her husband.
‘Ah, ha! my leaden lady!’ cried he, as she drew near; ‘you have been
taking a walk; there is nothing to be compared with fresh air and
exercise for heightening and refining the complexion. You are right,
madame, to wear a veil; the sun freckles.’
He had recovered all that insolence which seemed to have left him on
the day following her repulse of him.
‘Sacré! you rascal! will you touch the meat? No, not yet,’ and the
whip caught Poulet across the face.
The blow was answered with a furious howl.
‘Are you going, Madame Plomb? No, stand here and watch my sport. I do
not like to have my sport interfered with, mind that. What I like to
do, that I will do. Sacré! who will dare to stand between me and my
game?’
‘I will,’ said his wife, walking towards the dogs.
‘No, you shall not; you shall leave that meat alone.’
She stooped, picked up the piece of raw flesh, and threw it towards
the dogs.
‘You are a bold woman to go so near the infuriated hounds,’ said
Berthier, cracking his whip in the air; ‘I daren’t do it.’
‘No, you are a bully; and bullies are always cowards.’
‘Madame! you are uncivil. You bark like Pigeon and Poulet.’
‘I shall bite, too.’
‘Do you know what we do with barking, biting, snarling, angry,
ungovernable beasts, eh? with those who show their teeth to their
masters, who unsheath their claws to their lords? Do you know what we
do with them, eh?’
He wiped his red eyes with the corner of his handkerchief, leaned
back in his chair, and laughed. ‘Shall I tell you what we do with
dangerous animals, or with those who stand between us and our object?
We chain them up.’ He laughed again.
Madame gazed contemptuously at his fat quivering cheeks.
‘We lock them up, we chain them up,’ continued he; ‘we make them so
fast that they may bark as much as they like, but bite they cannot,
for those whom they would bite keep out of their reach.’