Madame Berthier had left Gabrielle in her yellow room, with strict
directions to attend to the cat, and to take him a little stroll
in the garden. The lady had descended to the courtyard with full
intentions of visiting the church of Nôtre Dame, but the information
given her by Adolphe had altered her intention. The walk to Bernay
and back took longer than she had intended.
Shortly after madame had left the house, Gabrielle, carrying the dyed
cat in her arms, descended the stairs and entered the garden. Her
confinement to the house had removed the dark stain of the sun from
her skin, which was now of a wheaten hue, delicate, and lighting up
with every emotion that sent a flush to her cheek. The anxiety and
terror which had overcome her, had left their traces on her face; the
old child-like simplicity and joyousness were gone, and their place
was occupied by an expression of timidity scarcely less engaging. She
wore one of her own peasant dresses, so becoming to a peasant girl,
and a pure white Normandy cap.
‘Poor puss!’ she said, caressing the yellow cat as she entered the
garden; ‘do you love your mistress? I am sure you do, for already I
love her, though I have not known her half so long as you have. How
can that dreadful man treat her with so much cruelty? If he only knew
how good she was----’
‘You surely do not allude to me when you use the expression “dreadful
man.” No, I am convinced you could not have so named one who lives
only to devote himself to you, and gratify your every whim.’
Berthier stood before her, having stepped from an arbour that had
concealed him.
Gabrielle recoiled in speechless terror.
‘Did I hear you say that you loved Madame Plomb?’ he asked, advancing
towards her. She shrank away.
‘Did I hear you express affection for that leaden woman, with her
blue complexion, her bird-like profile, her fierce black eyes, and
her mad fancies?’
‘Monsieur,’ answered the girl, trembling violently, ‘I do love her;
she has been kind to me.’
‘Then,’ said the fat man, throwing up one hand and laying the other
on his breast, ‘I love her too.’
He looked at her from head to foot, feasting his eyes on her beauty
and innocence. She attempted to look up, but before that bold glance
her eyes fluttered to one side and then the other.
‘Do not run away, I will not touch you,’ he said, as she made a
movement to escape; ‘I want merely to have a word with you in
confidence. If you will not listen to me here, I will speak to you
in the house. Whither can you go to escape me? The house is mine. No
door is locked or bolted which I cannot open.’
‘Monsieur, pray do not speak to me!’ exclaimed Gabrielle, joining her
trembling hands as in prayer.
‘I must speak to you, little woman,’ said Berthier, ‘for I have got a
charming suggestion, strictly correct, you may be sure, which I want
to make to you.’
‘Let me go home!’ she cried, covering her face with her hands.
‘Home!’ echoed Berthier. ‘Where is your home? Not the Isle of
Swallows. Your father is dead, you know that; and another farmer has
taken the house. How stupid of the père André to put himself out of
the world just when his daughter wanted a home!’
This brutal remark caused the girl’s tears to burst forth.
‘Home!’ continued the Intendant, approaching her; ‘this is henceforth
your home. I offer you my wealth, my mansions, my servants, myself.’
He put his hand on her shoulder.
She sprang from the touch, as though it had stung her.
‘Foolish maiden, not to accept such offers at once. You are in my
power; you have nowhere to flee to; you have no relations to take
your part against me. If I turn you out of my doors, do you know
whither to go? No; you have no place to go to.’
‘I have friends,’ she sobbed.
‘Name them.’
‘I am sure Pauline Lebertre would give me shelter.’
‘Who is Pauline Lebertre, may I ask?’
‘The curé’s sister.’
‘At La Couture?’
‘Yes.’
M. Berthier clapped his fleshy hands together and laughed.
‘You are vastly mistaken,’ he said, ‘if you think that every house
is open to you now. I lament to say it, but your presence in this
château is likely somewhat to affect your credit with some good
people. It is with unfeigned regret that I assure you that this
charming mansion of mine is regarded with suspicion. It is even
asserted that you left your father and home for the purpose of making
your fortune here; that the idea so weighed on the good Matthias,
that he committed suicide, and that therefore you are his murderer.’
Gabrielle leaned against a tree, with her face in her hands; she
could not speak; shame, anguish, and disgust overwhelmed her.
‘Do you think that the sister of a curé would invite you to her
house?’
‘Monsieur, monsieur!’ she cried; ‘leave me, I pray.’
‘Certainly, I will leave you to digest what I have told you,’ he
said, with great composure; ‘but not just yet; I must place certain
alternatives before you, and, if you are a discreet girl, you will
make the choice I desire. If you leave my hospitable roof, you go
forth branded as your father’s murderer, with an ugly name that will
ever cling to you. You will go forth to be pointed at and scorned,
and to be shut out of the society of your friends. On the other hand,
if you remain here, you may remain on honourable terms. There is a
place, not the grave, which swallows up wives; and the husband is
left not only to all intents and purposes a widower, but in the eye
of the law wifeless, so that he may marry again. I am sorry to say
it, but that place is about to swallow up Madame Plomb. I offer you
her place. She will be dead,--dead to all the world, and dead by law.
You may occupy the place of honour at my table, sit beside me in my
carriage, dress as suits your taste, lavish money as you list. You
shall be my second wife, and the curé’s daughter will come bowing
down to you and asking for subscriptions for the church and the poor,
and you can give more than all the rest of the people in the village,
and you can set up a magnificent tomb to your father, and have a
thousand masses said for his soul.’
‘Madame!’ cried the girl, ‘oh, dear madame, come to my rescue!’
‘You trust to the leaden wife to protect you, do you?’ asked
Berthier, laughing. ‘The leaden woman shall not be at hand to stand
between us much longer. I have managed that she shall disappear.’
Gabrielle looked fixedly at him, and her heart stood still.
‘Yes, I promise you that,’ said Berthier; ‘I will have no more knives
drawn upon me, and presented at my throat. I have taken precautions
against a recurrence of such a proceeding. Let me tell you, dearest,
that she shall not be much longer in this house. In a very few hours
I hope to see her removed to a place of security. Should you like to
know whither?‘--he sidled up to her, put his lips to her ear, and
whispered a name. ‘Now I leave you,’ he said, drawing back; ‘I leave
you to make your choice. Think what it would be to be called Madame
Berthier de Sauvigny, and to reign over the peasants of Malouve!’
With a snap of his fingers he withdrew. It was some time before
Gabrielle had sufficiently recovered to escape into the house. She
fled to Madame Berthier’s room and threw herself into a chair; then,
fearing lest her pursuer should intrude himself upon her again, she
went to the door to lock or bolt it, but found that the bolt had been
removed, and there was no key in the lock. Berthier had spoken the
truth when he said that no place in the house was secure from his
entrance. She reseated herself, and awaited Madame Berthier’s return.
That lady arrived in good spirits. She had secured a protector for
Gabrielle, and she had spoiled her husband’s sport with the dogs.
‘Well, my precious ones!’ exclaimed she, as she entered. ‘Gabriel!
come to my shoulder. Where is my angel? I do not see him. Gabrielle,
tell me where is the cat, or I perish.’
‘Madame,’ answered the girl, who had started to her feet on the
entrance of the lady, ‘I do not know; I left him in the garden.’
‘Have you cherished him, and consoled him for my absence?’
‘Madame, I have done what I could.’
‘That is right. Oh! it is delightful, now I can leave the house
without anxiety. Hitherto I have been torn with fears lest some
mischief should befall my angel, whenever I have been absent from
home; but now I leave him to you in all confidence. But--what is the
matter with you? you have been crying.’
‘Madame! you have been so good to me, but I cannot remain in this
house. I cannot, indeed.’
‘My dear child, I know that you cannot, and I have this afternoon
been to find you a protector, and I have secured you one.’
‘Who, madame?’
‘The curé of Bernay.’
‘Madame,’ faltered the girl, ‘does he know that I am here?’
‘Yes, child.’
‘And he will yet receive me?’
‘I do not know that he will himself receive you, but he has promised
to find you a refuge.’
‘Madame, tell me, does he think evil of me?’
‘Of you? No; why should he?’
‘Because, madame, I am in this house.’
‘Ah, to be sure; that is not to the credit of any young woman; but I
have assured him that I stood between you and harm.’
Gabrielle flung herself before Madame Berthier, to clasp her feet;
the lady caught her and held her to her heart.
‘You are too good to me,’ the girl sobbed. ‘Oh, madame, how can I
ever repay you?’
‘You will pray for me.’
‘Ever, ever!’ fervently ejaculated Gabrielle.
‘And for Gabriel, my cat.’
‘Madame,’ said the girl, clinging to the unfortunate lady, ‘madame,
how shall I say it?--but you are yourself in danger.’
‘I am always in danger,’ said the poor woman. ‘Am not I married to
a beast? But tell me, now, what has made you cry whilst I have been
out? The beast has not been near you to insult you. If he has,’--she
gnashed her teeth; all the softness which had stolen over her strange
countenance altering suddenly to an expression of hardness,--‘if
he has, I shall draw my knife upon him again. And I should be sorry
to do that, because I do not want to make him bleed; I have other
designs in my head. Ah! they are secrets: we shall see! perhaps
some day we shall be more alike than we are now. Well--’ she seated
herself and removed her bonnet and veil--‘well, and how came you to
part company with the yellow cat?’
‘Madame! you are in danger.’
‘I have told you that I am in danger every day. In danger of what?
Of being grossly insulted; of being called Madame Plomb; of having
my liberty taken from me. I have been locked up in my chamber before
now, and the beast threatened me with something of the kind just now,
as I passed him in the yard, teasing the dogs. That man is hated by
all. The people of Paris hate him; his servants hate him; his dogs
hate him; you hate him; and so do I,--I hate him. I am all hate.’
‘Madame, let me tell you what he said to me.’
‘I do not care to hear,--I can guess; he spoke of me and called me
Madame Plomb,’ she stamped, as she mentioned the name. ‘He made his
jokes about me. He always makes his jokes about me to the servants,
to his guests, to any one--and, if I am listening and looking on, all
the better.’
‘Dear, dear madame, let me speak.’
‘You do not know, however, how my father treats me. That is worst of
all. But where is Gabriel? Where is the yellow angel? Come, we will
make his cradle.’
In a moment she had the threads about her fingers.
The girl saw that her only chance of being attended to was to wait
her opportunity.
‘This is the cat’s net,’ said Madame Berthier. ‘This is his basket.’
She pursued the changes with her usual interest, till it came to
that of her own invention. As Gabrielle put up her fingers for the
construction of the castle, she said, nervously:
‘Madame, what do you call this tower or prison?’
‘I call it the cat’s castle.’
‘But you have another name for it. You told me about a dreadful
prison in Paris----’
‘Ah! the Bastille.’
‘Yes, madame. Who are shut up in that place?’
‘Political offenders, and mad people, and, indeed, all sorts of folk.’
‘How are they put in there?’
‘Why, those who have committed political offences----’
‘No, dearest madame, the others.’
‘What! the mad people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Their friends get an order from the king, and then they are
incarcerated.’
‘Are all mad people in Paris put there?’
‘Oh dear no! they are sent to Bicêtre. But only those of very great
families, or those whom it is not wise or prudent for their relatives
to have sent to the general asylum, are imprisoned there.’
‘Madame, have you ever feared?’
‘Feared what, Gabrielle?’
‘Feared lest----’ the girl hesitated and shook like an aspen.
‘I have often been much afraid of an accident befalling my darling
Gabriel. Oh! child, the anguish and terror of one night when the dear
cat was absent. He had not been in all day, and night drew on and no
Gabriel came, so I sat up at the window and watched, and I cried ever
and anon, but he did not answer.’
‘Madame,’ interrupted the girl, clasping the poor lady’s hands, and
utterly ruining the tower of threads; ‘dear, dear Madame Berthier,
have you never feared the Bastille for yourself?’
Those words struck the lady as though with an electric shock. She
started back and gazed with distended horror-lighted eyes and rigid
countenance at Gabrielle; her hands fell paralysed at her side; her
mouth moved as though she would speak, but not a word escaped her
lips.
At that moment the dogs began to bark furiously in the yard, and
continued for some minutes.
Madame Berthier slowly recovered such self-possession as she ever had.
‘Did he mean that?’ she asked; ‘he said that those who were dangerous
were chained up. Gabrielle, tell me, did he threaten _that_ to me?’
‘Madame, he said as much.’
The unhappy woman was silent again. She seemed cowed at the very
idea, her feet worked nervously on the floor, and her fingers
twitched; every line of her face bore the impress of abject fear.
‘Oh, Gabrielle! do not desert me!’ she entreated piteously. ‘I have
no friends. My husband is against me, my father is indifferent. I
fling myself on you. Do not desert me--Gabrielle, Gabrielle!’ the cry
of pain pierced the girl to the heart.
‘My dearest madame,’ said she; ‘I will follow you.’
‘Gabrielle, did you hear aright? Was it not the cat they were going
to take to his castle? Hark!’
There was a sound, a tramp of feet in the corridor.
‘Who are these, who are coming?’ shrieked the poor woman.
The girl was too frightened to move from her place. She stood
trembling, and the tread drew nearer.
‘Fly to the door, shut it, lock it!’ cried Madame Berthier, throwing
herself from her chair on the ground and tearing her grey hair with
her discoloured hands.
Gabrielle stood irresolute but one moment, then she fell on her knees
beside her mistress, and raised her head and kissed her, as the tears
flowed from her eyes over the frightened deathly countenance of the
unfortunate woman, whose trembling was so violent and convulsive that
the floor vibrated under her.
‘Gabrielle!’ gasped the poor lady, suddenly becoming calmer; ‘if I
be taken, remember M. Lindet is your protector. Do not remain here.’
Then her mind rambled off to the horror which oppressed her.
The door was thrown open, and Berthier entered with his eyes
twinkling, and his cheeks wagging with laughter. Behind him were some
soldiers.
‘In the king’s name!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ha! get up!’ He stood instantly
before his wife, rubbing his hands. His eye lighted on Gabrielle, and
he saluted her with a nod and leer. ‘Now, dear! what did I say?’
Madame Berthier hid her face in the girl’s bosom. All fierceness, all
her courage, every atom of power seemed to have disappeared before
the awful fear.
‘I will raise her,’ said Berthier.
‘No,’ exclaimed Gabrielle; ‘she is in my care.’
‘In your care!’ laughed Berthier; ‘much good your care will do her.’
The girl gently lifted the frightened woman to her feet, but she
could not stand without support.
‘She is dangerous,’ said Berthier to the officers. ‘Secure her. She
attempted my life with a dagger. Take care, she may stab one of you.’
There seemed little danger of this from the quaking being before
them, nevertheless they secured her with manacles.
Gabrielle clung to her. The soldiers thrust her aside.
‘Let me accompany her! Oh, let me go with her!’ she pleaded; ‘I have
no home but with her!’
‘What!’ exclaimed Berthier, ‘no home! Why, this house is your home.
You have none other.’
Gabrielle was separated from madame.
‘Where are you going to take me?’ asked the poor woman, faintly.
‘To the Bastille,’ answered her husband promptly, stepping in front
of her and staring into her eyes dim with fear, ‘where you will be
secure, and knowing you to be there, I shall be safe.’
‘Let her come with me,’ she besought, turning her face towards
Gabrielle.
‘By no manner of means,’ answered Berthier with a laugh; ‘I intend
to make her very comfortable here. Whilst you enjoy your cell, she
shall have your room.’
‘My cat!’ gasped the wretched wife.
‘Would you have me catch it for you?’ he asked. ‘No. You must go
without. Soldiers! remove her.’
They obeyed. She offered no resistance. A carriage was in the yard,
ready to receive her. As the men drew her along the corridor and down
the stairs, her limbs refusing to support her, her eyes turned from
side to side in a strained, uneasy manner, and moans escaped her lips.
Gabrielle, almost too stunned to think, stood and gazed after her,
but when she saw that the soldiers were about to thrust her into the
carriage, with her grey hair hanging loosely about her shoulders,
and with no cover for her face, she rallied, and flying back to the
room she had left, caught up the bonnet and veil Madame Berthier had
so lately taken off, and hastened after her to the court. She sprang
upon the step of the carriage, and with her own hands adjusted the
straggling hair, put on the bonnet, and drew the veil over the face
of her mistress.
‘Gabrielle!’ murmured the poor woman, and the girl flung herself into
her arms.
‘Come!’ said Berthier; ‘enough of this. Coachman, drive on.’
Reluctantly the mistress and the maiden parted. Gabrielle stood
looking after the carriage, as it rolled towards the gates amidst the
furious barking of the hounds.
Just as it passed through the entrance and turned into the road, the
head and arms of Madame Berthier appeared at the coach window, the
latter extended, and her cry, shrill and full of agony, was echoed
back from the front of the chateau:
‘Gabrielle! save me, save me!’
‘That,’ said Berthier, rubbing his eyes, ‘that is more than Gabrielle
or any one else can do, excepting myself or the king.’