THE COMTE DE SAINT-REMY.
It was about two hours after Boyer had left Edwards to go to M. de
Saint-Remy, when the father of the latter knocked at the door of the
house in the Rue de Chaillot.
M. de Saint-Remy, senior, was a tall man, still active and vigorous in
spite of his age. The extreme darkness of his complexion contrasted
singularly with the peculiar whiteness of his beard and hair; his thick
eyebrows still remained black, and half covered his piercing eyes deeply
sunk in his head. Although from a kind of misanthropic feeling he wore
clothes which were extremely shabby, yet there was in his entire
appearance something so calm and dignified as to inspire general
respect.
The door of his son's house opened, and he went in.
A porter in dress livery of brown and silver, with his hair carefully
powdered, and dressed in silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an
elegant lodge, which resembled the smoky cave of the Pipelets as much as
does the tub of a stocking-darner the splendid shop of a fashionable
dressmaker.
"M. de Saint-Remy?" said the comte, in an abrupt tone.
The porter, instead of replying, scrutinised with impertinent curiosity
the white beard, the threadbare frock coat, and the napless hat of the
unknown, who held a stout cane in his hand.
"M. de Saint-Remy?" again said the comte, impatiently, and much
irritated at the insolent demeanour of the porter.
"M. le Vicomte is not at home."
So saying, the co-mate of M. Pipelet opened the door, and, with a
significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire.
"I will wait for him," said the comte, and he moved forward.
"Holloa! Come, I say, my friend, that's not the way people enter other
people's houses!" exclaimed the porter, running after the comte, and
taking him by the arm.
"What, fellow!" replied the old man, with a threatening air, and lifting
his cane, "dare you to lay your hands on me?"
"I dare do more than that if you do not be off quickly. I tell you the
vicomte is not within; so now go away, will you?"
At this moment Boyer, attracted by the sound of contending voices,
appeared on the steps which led to the house.
"What is the meaning of this noise?" he inquired.
"M. Boyer, it is this man, who will go into the house, although I have
told him that M. le Vicomte is not within."
"Hold your tongue!" said the comte. And then addressing Boyer, who had
come towards them, "I wish to see my son. He is out, and therefore I
will wait for him."
We have already said that Boyer was neither ignorant of the existence
nor the misanthropy of his master's father; and being, moreover, a
physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the comte's identity, but,
bowing respectfully, replied:
"If M. le Comte will follow me, I will conduct him--"
"Very well!" said M. de Saint-Remy, who followed Boyer, to the extreme
amazement of the porter.
Preceded by the _valet de chambre_, the comte reached the first story,
and followed his guide across the small sitting-room of Florestan de
Saint-Remy (we shall in future call the viscount by his baptismal name
to distinguish him more easily from his father) until they reached a
small antechamber communicating with the sitting-room, and sitting
immediately over the boudoir on the ground floor.
"M. le Vicomte was obliged to go out this morning," said Boyer. "If M.
le Comte will be so kind as to wait a little for him, he will not be
long before he comes in." And the _valet de chambre_ quitted the
apartment.
Left alone, the count looked about him with entire indifference; but
suddenly he started, his face became animated, his cheeks grew purple,
and anger agitated his features. His eyes had lighted on the portrait of
his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint-Remy! He folded his arms
across his breast, bowed his head, as if to escape this sight, and
strode rapidly up and down the room.
"This is strange!" he said. "That woman is dead--I killed her lover--and
yet my wound is as deep, as sensitive, as the first day I received it;
my thirst of vengeance is not yet quenched; my savage misanthropy, which
has all but entirely isolated me from the world, has left me alone, and
in constant contemplation of the thought of my injury. Yes; for the
death of the accomplice of this infamy has avenged the outrage, but not
effaced its memory from my remembrance. Oh, yes! I feel that what
renders my hatred inextinguishable is the thought that, for fifteen
years, I was a dupe; that for fifteen years I treated with respect and
esteem a wretched woman who had infamously betrayed me; that I have
loved her son--the son of crime--as if he had indeed been my own child;
for the aversion with which Florestan now inspires me proves but too
clearly that he is the offspring of adultery! And yet I have not the
absolute conviction of his illegitimacy: it is just possible that he is
still my child! And sometimes that thought is agony to me! If he were
indeed my son! Then my abandonment of him, the coldness I have always
testified towards him, my constant refusals to see him, are
unpardonable. But, after all, he is rich, young, happy; and of what use
should I be to him? Yes; but then, perchance, his tenderness might have
soothed the bitter anguish which his mother has caused me!"
After a moment of deep reflection the comte shrugged his shoulders and
continued:
"Still these foolish suppositions, weak as useless, which revive all my
suffering! Let me be a man, and overcome the absurd and painful emotion
which I experience when I think that I am again about to see him whom,
for ten years, I have loved with the most mad idolatry,--whom I have
loved as my son; he--he--the son of the man whose blood I saw flow with
such intense joy! And they would not let me be present at his last
agony,--at his death! Ah, they know not what it was to have been
stricken as deeply as I was! Then, too, to think that my name--always
honoured and respected--should have been so often mentioned with scoff
and derision, as is always mentioned that of a wronged husband! To think
that my name--a name of which I had always been so proud--should now
belong to a man whose father's heart I could have plucked out! Ah, I
only wonder I do not go mad when I think of it!"
M. de Saint-Remy continued walking up and down in great agitation, and
mechanically lifted up the curtain which separated the apartment in
which he was from Florestan's private sitting-room, and advanced several
strides into that chamber.
He had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the
hangings of the wall opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a
large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on,
entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted.
It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit.
Florestan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made an appointment with
the duchess for the next morning. She having, as we have said, a key of
the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the
conservatory, relying on finding Florestan on the ground floor boudoir;
but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that
the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet.
A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. Madame de
Lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had
given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a
threatening call from M. Badinot had compelled Florestan to go out
hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with Madame de Lucenay.
She, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the
curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted
with Florestan's father.
She could not repress a shriek.
"Clotilde!" exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished.
Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame de
Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had known her from her childhood, and, during
her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The
duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with
his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to
mind.
"You, Clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach;
"you here, in my son's house!"
These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay,
who then recognised Florestan's father, and said:
"M. de Saint-Remy?"
The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose
peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to
have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance
there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had
always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once
graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own:
"Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you
called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago."
"Yes, I called you so then; but--"
"I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'What is, is
what will be.'"
"Oh, Clotilde!"
"Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at
seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,--my poor
dear father, in the first place, and then--heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!'
Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!"
"It is because your father was my friend that--"
"Oh, yes," said the duchess, interrupting M. de Saint-Remy, "he was so
very fond of you! You remember he always called you the man with the
green ribands, and you always told him, 'You spoil Clotilde; mind, I
tell you so;' and he replied, whilst he kissed me, 'I really do believe
I spoil her, and I must make all haste and double my spoiling, for very
soon the world will deprive me of her to spoil her in their turn.' Dear
father! What a friend I lost!" and a tear started to the lovely eyes of
Madame de Lucenay; then, extending her hand to M. de Saint-Remy, she said,
in a faltering voice, "But indeed, in truth, I am happy, very happy, to
see you again, you call up such precious remembrances,--memories so dear
to my heart!"
The comte, although he had long been acquainted with her original and
decisive disposition, was really amazed at the ease with which Clotilde
reconciled herself to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no
other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's house.
"If you have been in Paris for any time," continued Madame de Lucenay,
"it is very naughty of you not to have come and seen me before this; for
we should have had such long talks over the past; for you must know that
I have reached an age when there is an excessive pleasure in saying to
old friends, 'Don't you remember!'"
Assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with more confirmed
tranquillity if she were receiving a morning visit at the Hotel de
Lucenay. M. de Saint-Remy could not prevent himself from saying with
severity:
"Instead of talking of the past, it would be more fitting to discourse
of the present. My son is expected every instant, and--"
"No," said Clotilde, interrupting him, "I have the key of the little
door of the conservatory, and his arrival is always announced by a ring
of the bell when he returns by the principal entrance; and at that sound
I shall disappear as mysteriously as I arrived, and will leave you to
all your pleasure, at again seeing Florestan. What a delightful surprise
you will give him! For it is so long since you forsook him. Really, now
I think of it, it is I who have to reproach you."
"Me? Reproach me?"
"Assuredly. What guide, what aid had he, when he entered on the world?
whilst there are a thousand things for which a father's counsels are
indispensable. So, really and truly, it is very wrong of you--"
Here Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the whimsicality of her character,
could not help laughing most heartily, and saying to the comte:
"It must be owned that our position is at least an odd one, and that it
is very funny that it should be I who am sermonising you."
"Why, it does seem very strange to me, I assure you; but I deserve
neither your sermons nor your praises. I have come to my son's house,
but not for my son's sake. At his age, he has not, or has no longer, any
need of my advice."
"What do you mean?"
"You ought to know the reason for which I hold the world, and Paris,
especially, in such horror," said the comte, with a painful and
distressing expression; "and you may therefore believe that nothing but
circumstances of the utmost importance could have induced me to leave
Angers and have come hither--to this house. But I have been forced to
overcome my repugnance, and have recourse to everybody who could aid or
help me in a search which is most interesting to me."
"Oh, then," said Madame de Lucenay, with affectionate eagerness, "I beg
you will make use of me; dispose of me in any way in which I can be
useful to you. Do you want any interest? Because De Lucenay must have
some degree of influence; for, the days when I go to dine with my
great-aunt, De Montbrison, he entertains the deputies; and men don't do
that without some motives; and the trouble ought to be recompensed by
some contingent advantages, such as a certain amount of influence over
persons, who, in their turn, have a great deal of interest. So, I
repeat, if we can assist you, rely on us. Then there is my cousin, the
young Duke de Montbrison, who, being a peer himself, is connected with
all the young peers. If he can do anything, why, I am sure you have but
to command him. In a word, dispose of me and mine. You know whether or
not I deserve the title of a warm and devoted friend!"
"I know it well, and do not refuse your aid, although--"
"Come, my dear Alcestis, we know how the world wags, and let us act as
if we did. Whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of little
consequence, I imagine, as to the affair which interests you, and which
now interests me very much because it is yours. Let us then talk of it,
and tell me all I request of you."
So saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, leaned on the
mantelpiece, and placed on the fender one of the prettiest feet in the
world, which were, at the moment, somewhat chilled. With perfect tact
Madame de Lucenay seized the opportunity of saying no more about the
vicomte, and of engaging M. de Saint-Remy to talk of a subject to which
he attached such great importance. Clotilde's conduct would have been
very different in the presence of his mother, and to her she would have
avowed with pleasure and pride how long he had been so dear to, so
beloved by, her.
* * * * *
In spite of his strictness and surliness, M. de Saint-Remy yielded to
the influence of the cavalier and cordial demeanour of this lady, whom
he had seen and loved when a child, and he almost forgot that he was
talking to the mistress of his son. Besides, how could he resist the
contagion of example, while the subject of a position which was
inexpressibly embarrassing did not seem disturbed, or even think she
ought to be disturbed, by the difficulty of the situation in which she
unexpectedly found herself?
"Perhaps you do not know, Clotilde," said the comte, "that I have been
living at Angers for a very long time?"
"Yes, I know it."
"In spite of the solitude I sought, I had selected that city because one
of my relations lived there,--M. de Fermont,--who, after the heavy blow
that had smitten me, behaved to me like a brother. After having
accompanied me to almost every city in Europe, where I hoped to meet
with the man I desired to slay, he served me for second in the duel--"
"Yes, that terrible duel; my father told me all concerning it!"
answered the duchess, in a sad tone of voice. "But, fortunately,
Florestan is ignorant of that duel, as well as the cause that led to
it."
"I wished to let him still respect his mother," replied the comte,
stifling a sigh. He then continued: "Some years afterwards, M. de
Fermont died at Angers in my arms, leaving a daughter and a wife, whom,
in spite of my misanthropy, I was obliged to love, because nothing in
the world could be more pure, more noble, than these two excellent
creatures. I lived alone in a remote quarter of the city; but when my
fits of black melancholy gave me some respite, I went to Madame de
Fermont to talk with her and her daughter of him we had both lost. As
whilst he was alive, so still I came to soothe and calm myself in that
gentle friendship in whose bosom I had henceforth concentrated all my
affections. The brother of Madame de Fermont dwelt in Paris, and managed
all his sister's affairs after her husband's decease. He had placed
about a hundred thousand crowns (12,000_l._), which was all the widow's
fortune, with a notary.
"After some time another and fearful shock affected Madame de Fermont.
Her brother, M. de Renneville, killed himself about eight months ago. I
did all in my power to comfort her. Her first sorrow somewhat abated, she
went to Paris to arrange her affairs. After some time I learned that, by
her orders, they were selling off the furniture she had in her small abode
at Angers, and that the money was applied to the payment of a few little
debts she had left there. This disturbed me, and, on inquiry, I learned
that this unhappy lady and her daughter were in dire distress,--the
victims, no doubt, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont could, in such
straits, rely on any one, it was on me, and yet I never received any
information or application from her. It was when I lost this acquaintance
that was so delightful to me that I felt all its value. You cannot imagine
my suffering and my uneasiness after the departure of Madame de Fermont
and her daughter. Their father--husband--had been a brother to me, and I
was resolved, therefore, to find them again, to learn how it was they had
not addressed me in their ruin, poor as I was; and therefore I set out,
leaving at Angers a person who, if anything was learned, would inform me
instantly of the news."
"Well?"
"Yesterday a letter from Angers reached me,--they know nothing. When I
reached Paris I began my researches. I went first to the old servant of
Madame de Fermont's brother; then they told me she lived on the Quai of
the Canal St. Martin."
"Well, that address--"
"Had been theirs; but they had moved, and where to was not known.
Unfortunately, up to the present time, my researches have been useless.
After a thousand vain attempts before I utterly despaired, I resolved to
come here. Perhaps Madame de Fermont, who, from some inexplicable
motive, has not asked from me aid or assistance, may have had recourse
to my son as to the son of her husband's best friend. No doubt this hope
has but very slight foundation; but I will not neglect any chance that
may enable me to discover the poor woman and her child."
The Duchess de Lucenay, who had been listening to the comte with the
utmost attention, said, suddenly:
"Really it would be very singular if these should be the same persons in
whom Madame d'Harville takes so much interest."
"What persons?" inquired the comte.
"The widow of whom you speak is still young, is she not?--her face very
striking?"
"Yes, but how do you know?"
"Her daughter, as lovely as an angel, and about sixteen at most?"
"Yes, yes."
"And her name is Claire?"
"Oh, for mercy's sake, say, where are they?"
"Alas! I know not."
"You know not?"
"I will tell you all I know. A lady of my acquaintance, Madame
d'Harville, came to me to inquire whether or not I knew a widow lady
whose daughter was named Claire, and whose brother had committed
suicide. Madame d'Harville inquired of me because she had seen these
words, 'Write to Madame de Lucenay,' written at the bottom of a rough
sketch of a letter which this unfortunate lady was writing to some
stranger of whom she was asking assistance."
"She wished to write to you; and wherefore to you?"
"I cannot solve your question."
"But she knew you, it would seem," said M. de Saint-Remy, struck with a
sudden idea.
"What mean you?"
"She had heard me speak of your father a hundred times, as well as of
you and your generous and excellent heart. In her misfortune, it
occurred to her to address you."
"That really does explain this."
"And Madame d'Harville--tell me, how did she get this sketch of a letter
into her possession?"
"That I do not know; all I can say is, that, without knowing whither
this poor mother and child had gone for refuge, she was, I believe, on
the trace of them."
"Then I rely on you, Clotilde, to introduce me to Madame d'Harville. I
must see her this very day."
"Impossible! Her husband has just been the victim of a most afflicting
accident: a pistol which he did not know to be loaded went off in his
hands, and he was killed on the spot."
"How horrible!"
"The marquise went instantly to pass the first months of her mourning
with her father in Normandy."
"Clotilde, I beseech you, write to her to-day; ask her for all the
information in her power, and, as she takes an interest in these poor
women, say she cannot find a warmer auxiliary than myself; that my only
desire is to find the widow of my friend, and share with her and her
daughter the little I possess. They are now all my family."
"Ever the same, always generous and devoted! Rely on me. I will write
to-day to Madame d'Harville. Where shall I address my answer?"
"To Asnieres _Poste-Restante_."
"How odd! Why do you live there, and not in Paris?"
"I detest Paris, because of the recollections it excites in me!" said M.
de Saint-Remy, with a gloomy air. "My old physician, Doctor Griffon,
with whom I have kept up a correspondence, has a small house on the
banks of the Seine, near Asnieres, which he does not occupy in the
winter; he offered it to me; it is almost close to Paris, and there I
could be undisturbed, and find the solitude I desire. So I accepted it."
"I will then write to you at Asnieres, and I can give you some
information which may be useful to you, and which I had from Madame
d'Harville. Madame de Fermont's ruin has been occasioned by the roguery
of the notary in whose hands all your deceased relative's fortune was
deposited. The notary denied that the money was ever placed in his
hands."
"The scoundrel! And his name?"
"M. Jacques Ferrand," replied the duchess, without being able to conceal
her inclination to laugh.
"How strange you are, Clotilde!" said the comte, surprised and annoyed;
"nothing can be more serious, more sad than this, and yet you laugh."
In fact, Madame de Lucenay, at the recollection of the amorous
declaration of the notary, had been unable to repress her hilarity.
"Pardon me, my dear sir," she replied, "but this notary is such a
singular being, and they tell such odd stories about him; but, in truth,
if his reputation as an honest man is not more deserved than his
reputation as a religious man (and I declare that is hypocrisy) he is a
great wretch."
"And he lives--"
"Rue du Sentier."
"I will call upon him. What you tell me confirms certain other
suspicions."
"What suspicions?"
"From certain information as to the death of the brother of my poor
friend, I should be almost tempted to believe that that unhappy man,
instead of committing suicide, had been the victim of assassination."
"And what can make you suppose that?"
"Several reasons, which would be too long to detail to you now. I will
leave you. Do not forget the promises of service which you have made me
in your own and your husband's name."
"What, will you go without seeing Florestan?"
"You may suppose how painful this interview would be to me. I would
brave it only in the hope of finding some information as to Madame de
Fermont, being unwilling to neglect anything to discover her. Now, then,
adieu!"
"Ah, you are pitiless!"
"Do you not know?"
"I know that your son was never in greater need of your advice."
"What, is he not rich--happy?"
"Yes, but he is ignorant of mankind. Blindly extravagant, because he is
generous and confiding in everything, and everywhere and always free and
noble, I fear people take advantage of his liberality. If you but knew
the nobleness of his heart! I have never dared to preach to him on the
subject of his expenditure and want of care: in the first place, because
I am as inconsiderate as himself, and next, in the second place, for
other reasons; whilst you, on the contrary--"
Madame de Lucenay could not finish. The voice of Florestan de Saint-Remy
was heard. He entered hastily into the cabinet next to the room in which
they were, and, after having shut the door suddenly, he said, in a
broken voice, to some one who accompanied him:
"But it is impossible."
"I tell you again," replied the clear and sharp voice of M. Badinot, "I
tell you again that, if not, why, in four hours you will be apprehended;
for, if he has not the cash forthwith, our man will lodge his complaint
with the king's attorney-general; and you know the result of a forgery
like this,--the galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!"