As his cab turned by the end of the Pont Royal towards the Gare d'Orsay,
M. Etienne Rambert looked at his watch and found, as he had anticipated,
that he had a good quarter of an hour before the train that he intended
to take was due to start. He called a porter, and gave him the heavy
valise and the bundle of rugs that formed the whole of his hand baggage.
"Where is the office for forwarding luggage, my man?" he enquired.
The porter led him through the famous panelled hall of the Gare d'Orsay,
and M. Etienne Rambert satisfied himself that his trunks had been
properly registered for Verrières, the station at which he had to alight
for the château of Beaulieu.
Still attended by the porter, who had conceived a respectful admiration
for him in consequence of the authoritative tone in which he demanded
information from the various railway servants, and who scented a
probable munificent tip, M. Etienne Rambert proceeded to the
booking-office and took a first-class ticket. He spent a few minutes
more at the book-stall where he selected an imposing collection of
illustrated papers, and then, his final preparations completed, he
turned once more to the porter.
"The Luchon train," he said; "where is it?" and as the man only made a
vague gesture and growled something wholly indistinct, he added: "Lead
the way, and I will follow."
It was now just half-past eight, and the station showed all the
animation inseparable from the departure of main-line trains. M. Etienne
Rambert hurried onwards, and reaching the platform from which all the
lines begin, was stayed by the porter who was laden with his baggage.
"You want the express, sir?"
"No, the slow train, my man."
The porter showed some surprise, but made no remark.
"Do you like the front or the back of the train?"
"The back by choice."
"First-class, isn't it?"
"Yes, first-class."
The porter, who had stopped a moment, picked up the heavy valise again.
"Then there isn't any choice. There are only two first-class carriages
on the slow train, and they are both in the middle."
"They are corridor carriages, I suppose?" said Etienne Rambert.
"Yes, sir; there are hardly any others on the main-line trains,
especially first-class."
In the ever-increasing crowd Etienne Rambert had some difficulty in
following the porter. The Gare d'Orsay has little or none of the
attractiveness of the other stations, which cannot fail to have a
certain fascination for any imaginative person, who thinks of the
mystery attaching to all those iron rails reaching out into the distance
of countries unknown to him. It is less noisy than the others also, for
between Austerlitz and Orsay the traction is entirely electric. And
further, there is no clearly defined separation between the main and the
suburban lines.
On the right of the platform was the train which was to take Etienne
Rambert beyond Brives to Verrières, the slow train to Luchon; and on the
left of the same platform was another train for Juvisy and all the small
stations in the suburbs of Paris.
Very few people were making for the train to Luchon; but a large crowd
was pressing into the suburban train.
The porter who was piloting M. Etienne Rambert, set the baggage he was
carrying down on the footboard of a first-class carriage.
"There is no one for the slow train yet, sir; if you like to get in
first you can choose your own compartment."
M. Etienne Rambert acted on the suggestion, but he had hardly set foot
in the corridor before the guard, also scenting a generous tip, came to
offer his services.
"It really is the 8.50 you want, sir?" was his first enquiry. "You are
sure you are not making a mistake?"
"No," Etienne Rambert replied. "Why?"
"A great many first-class passengers do make a mistake," the man
explained, "and confuse the 8.50 with the 8.45 express."
As he spoke the guard took the baggage from the porter who had remained
on the platform, and the porter, after being generously remunerated for
his trouble by M. Rambert, hurried away to look for other travellers.
"The 8.45 is the express, isn't it?" M. Rambert enquired.
"Yes," the guard answered; "it runs right through without stopping at
all the small stations as this train does. It goes in front of this one
and gets to Luchon three hours earlier. There it is on the side there,"
and he pointed through the window in the door on the far side to another
train on the next rails, in which a number of travellers were already
taking their seats. "If you prefer to go by that one, sir," he went on,
"there is still time for you to change; you are entitled to take your
choice since you have a first-class ticket."
But Etienne Rambert, after a moment's consideration, declined the
suggestion.
"No: I would rather go by the slow train. If I take the express I should
have to get out at Brives, and then I should be twelve or thirteen miles
from Saint-Jaury, which is my destination; whereas the slow train stops
at Verrières, where, by the way, I have already telegraphed to say I
shall arrive to-morrow morning."
He walked a little way along the corridor, assuring himself that the
various compartments were still quite empty, and then turned to the
guard.
"Look here, my man," he said, "I am awfully tired, and I mean to get
some sleep to-night; consequently I should like to be alone. Now where
shall I be most quiet and undisturbed?"
The man understood. M. Etienne Rambert's enquiry about the place where
he would be most quiet, was an implicit promise of a handsome tip if
nobody did disturb him.
"If you like to settle yourself here, sir," the man answered, "you can
draw down the blinds at once, and I dare say I shall be able to find
room for any other passengers somewhere else."
"Good," said M. Rambert, moving towards the compartment indicated. "I
will smoke a cigar until the train starts, and immediately afterwards I
will settle down to sleep. By the way, my man, since you seem so
obliging, I wish you would undertake to call me to-morrow morning in
time for me to get out at Verrières. I am desperately sleepy and I am
quite capable of not waking up."
The guard touched his cap.
"You can be perfectly easy, sir, and sleep without the least anxiety. I
won't fail."
"Very well."
When his baggage had been stowed away, and his rugs spread out to make
the seat more comfortable still, M. Etienne Rambert repeated his appeal,
for he was an old traveller and knew that it does not do to rely too
much upon the promises of chance attendants.
"I can rely upon you, can't I? I may sleep as sound as I like, and you
will wake me at Verrières?" And the more to assure himself that the
guard would execute his orders he slipped a franc into his hand.
When he was left alone, M. Rambert continued his preparations for the
night. He carefully drew down the blinds over the door and over the
windows of the compartment that gave on to the corridor, and also
lowered the shade over the electric light, and then, in order to enjoy
the last puffs at his cigar in peace, he opened the window over the
other door and leant his elbows on it, watching the final preparations
being made by the travellers by the express on the other line.
The departure of a train is always a picturesque sight, and M. Rambert
leant forward inquisitively to note how the passengers had installed
themselves in the two compartments which he could see from his coign of
vantage.
There were not many people in the train. As a matter of fact the Brives
and Luchon line is not much used at this time of year. If the number of
passengers in the express were any criterion Etienne Rambert might
reasonably expect that he would be the only one in the slow train. But
there was not much time for observations and reflections of this kind.
On the platform for the express, which he got a glimpse of through the
compartments, people were hurrying up their farewells. The passengers
had got into their carriages, and the friends who had come to see them
off were standing alone upon the platform. There was the sound of safety
locks being fastened by porters, and the noise of trollies being wheeled
along bearing articles for sale.
"Pillows! Rugs! Sweets! Papers!"
Then came the whistle of the guard, the shriller scream from the
electric engine, and then, slowly at first but steadily, more rapidly as
the engine got up speed, the express moved along the platform and
plunged into the tunnel on the way to Austerlitz.
Meanwhile the guard of the slow train was doing wonders. Shamelessly
resolved to assure perfect quiet to "his" passenger, he managed, without
unduly compromising himself but yet without leaving any doubt about it
in any mind, to insinuate discreetly that M. Rambert's carriage was
reserved, so that that gentleman might count upon an entirely
undisturbed night.
A few minutes after the express had gone, the slow train drew out in its
turn, and disappeared into the darkness of the underground tunnel.
* * * * *
At the château of Beaulieu young Charles Rambert was just finishing
dressing when a gentle tap sounded on the door of his room.
"It is a quarter to five, Charles. Get up at once!"
"I am awake already, Thérèse," Charles Rambert answered with some pride.
"I shall be ready in two minutes."
"What? up already?" the girl exclaimed from the other side of the door.
"Marvellous! I congratulate you. I'm ready too; I will wait for you in
the dining-room. Come down as soon as you are dressed."
"All right!" the young man answered.
He wasted no time over his toilette, the more so because it was none too
warm in his room, for at this early hour it was still quite dark; and
then taking his light in one hand he opened his door carefully so as to
make no noise, tip-toed along the landing, and went down the staircase
to join Thérèse in the dining-room. The girl was an accomplished
housekeeper already, and while waiting for the young fellow she had got
a scratch meal together.
"Let us have breakfast quickly," she suggested; "it isn't snowing this
morning, and if you like we might walk to the station. We have plenty of
time, and it will do us good to have a walk."
"It will warm us up anyhow," Charles Rambert replied; he was only
half-awake, but he sat beside Thérèse, and did justice to the
preparations she had made.
"Do you know that it is very wonderful of you to get up so punctually?"
Mme. de Langrune's granddaughter remarked. "How did you manage it? Last
night you were afraid you would sleep on as usual."
"It was not much trouble for me to wake up," Charles Rambert answered.
"I hardly closed an eye all night."
"But I promised to come and knock at your door myself, so you might have
slept without any anxiety."
"That's so, but to tell you the truth, Thérèse, I was regularly upset
and excited by the thought of papa arriving this morning."
They had both finished breakfast, and Thérèse got up.
"Shall we start?" she asked.
"Yes."
Thérèse opened the hall door, and the two young people went down the
flight of steps leading to the garden. The girl had thrown a big cloak
over her shoulders, and she inhaled the pure morning air with keen
delight.
"I love going out in the early morning," she declared.
"Well, I don't like it at all," Charles Rambert confessed with
characteristic candour. "Good Lord, how cold it is! And it is still
pitch dark!"
"Surely you are not going to be frightened?" said Thérèse teasingly.
Charles Rambert made an irritable movement of vexation and surprise.
"Frightened? What do you take me for, Thérèse? If I don't like going out
in the early morning it's really only because it is cold."
She laughed at him while they were crossing the lawn towards the
out-buildings, through which she meant to get out on to the high road.
As they passed the stables they came across a groom who was leisurely
getting an old brougham out of the coach-house.
"Don't hurry, Jean," Thérèse called out as she greeted him. "We are
going to walk to the station, and the only important thing is that you
should be there to bring us back."
The man touched his cap and the two young people passed through the park
gate and found themselves upon the high road.
* * * * *
It was still very dark, with just a wan reflection in the distance of
the sky vaguely outlining some cloud-shapes to the eastward to give some
promise of the day. There was no sound to break the silence of the
fields, and as they walked briskly along Charles and Thérèse could hear
their footsteps ringing on the hard surface of the frozen ground.
"It must please you awfully to be going to meet your father," said Mme.
de Langrune's granddaughter half questioningly. "It is a long time since
you have seen him, isn't it?"
"Three years," Charles Rambert answered, "and then just for a few
minutes. He is coming home from America now, and before that he
travelled in Spain for a long time."
"He was travelling the whole time you were a child, wasn't he?"
"Yes, always: either in Colombia, looking after his rubber plantations
there, or in Spain, where he has a good deal of property too. When he
was in Paris he used to come to the school and ask for me, and I saw him
in the parlour--for a quarter of an hour."
"And your mother?"
"Oh, mamma was different. You know, Thérèse, I spent all the childhood
that I can remember at the school. I liked the masters and had good
chums, and was very happy there, and if the truth must be told I looked
forward with anything but pleasure to the holidays, when I had to go to
my parents' house. I always felt a stranger with them; my real home was
the school-room, where I had my desk and all my own interests. And then,
you know, when one is little one doesn't understand things much; I
didn't feel having hardly any family, very much."
"But you loved your mother very much?"
Thérèse asked the question quite anxiously, and it was patent that she
would have thought it dreadful if her companion had not had a real
affection for his mother.
"Oh, yes, I loved her," Charles Rambert answered; "but I hardly knew her
either." And as Thérèse showed her surprise he went on, telling her
something of the secret of his lonely childhood. "You see, Thérèse, now
that I am a man I guess lots of things that I could not have had even a
suspicion of then. My father and mother did not get on well together.
They were what you call an ill-assorted couple. They were both very
good, but their characters did not harmonise. When I was little I always
saw mamma silent and sad, and papa active and on the go, and bright and
talking at the top of his voice. I half believe he frightened mamma! And
then my father was constantly away, whereas mamma hardly ever went out.
When a servant took me to the house on Thursdays, I was taken up to say
good morning to her, and I invariably found her lying on a sofa in her
room, with the blinds down and almost dark. She just touched me with her
lips and asked me one or two questions, and then I was taken away again
because I tired her."
"Was she ill, then?"
"Mamma always has been ill. I suppose you know, Thérèse, that three
months ago--stay, it was just when I had taken my degree and went to
Germany--she was sent to an asylum? I believe my father had wanted her
to agree to undergo careful treatment of the kind long before, but she
would not."
Thérèse was silent for a few minutes.
"You have not been very happy," she said presently.
"Oh, it was only after I grew up that I felt unhappy. When I was a
little chap I never thought of how sad it is to have no real father or
mother. The last four or five years it has hurt me, but when he came to
see me once at school, papa told me he would take me with him as soon as
I had taken my degree and grown up. Last October, after my examination,
he wrote and told me to be patient a little longer, and that he was
hurrying on with the winding up of his business and coming back to
France. That gave me a hope which has brightened these last few months,
and will also make you understand why I am so pleased this morning at my
father's coming. It seems to me that a new life is going to begin."
Day was breaking now: a dirty December day, with the light filtering
through heavy grey clouds that drifted along the ground, hid the
horizon, clung to the low hills, and then suddenly dispersed in long
wisps driven by a keen breeze, that got up in gusts, and drove clouds of
dust along the hard frozen ground.
"I have not been very happy either," said Thérèse, "for I lost my father
when I was tiny: I don't even remember him; and mamma must be dead as
well."
The ambiguous turning of the child's phrase caught Charles Rambert's
interested attention.
"What does that mean, Thérèse? Don't you know if your mother is dead?"
"Yes, oh yes; grandmamma says so. But whenever I ask for particulars
grandmamma always changes the subject. I will echo what you said just
now: when you are little you don't know anything and are not surprised
at anything. For a long time I took no notice of her sudden reticence,
but now I sometimes wonder if something is not being kept back from
me--whether it is really true that mamma is no more in this world."
Talking like this Thérèse and Charles had walked at a good pace, and now
they came to the few houses built around Verrières station. One by one,
bedroom windows and doors were being opened; peasants were making their
way to the sheds to lead their cattle to the pastures.
"We are very early," Thérèse remarked, pointing to the station clock in
the distance. "Your father's train is due at 6.55, and it is only 6.40
now; we still have a quarter of an hour to wait, and more, if the train
is not punctual!"
* * * * *
They went into the little station and Charles Rambert, thankful for some
shelter from the cold, stamped his feet, making a sudden uproar in the
empty waiting-room. A porter appeared.
"Who the deuce is kicking up all this row?" he began angrily, and then
seeing Thérèse, broke off short. "Ah, Mademoiselle Thérèse," he said
with the familiar yet perfectly respectful cordiality that marks country
folk, "up already? Have you come to meet somebody, or are you going
away?"
As he spoke, the porter turned a curious eye upon Charles Rambert, whose
arrival had caused quite a sensation two days before in this little
spot, where with but few exceptions none but people belonging to the
neighbourhood ever came by train.
"No, I am not going away," Thérèse replied. "I have accompanied M.
Rambert, who has come to meet his father."
"Ah-ha, to meet your papa, sir: is he coming from far?"
"From Paris," Charles Rambert answered. "Is the train signalled yet?"
The man drew out a watch like a turnip, and looked at the time.
"It won't be here for quite another twenty minutes. The work on the
tunnel makes it necessary to be careful, and it's always late now. But
you will hear when the bell rings: that will be when the train is coming
over the level-crossing; it will run into the station three minutes
after that. Well, Mademoiselle, I must get on with my work," and the man
left them.
Thérèse turned to Charles Rambert.
"Shall we go on to the platform? Then we shall see the train come in."
So they left the waiting-room and began to walk up and down the whole
length of the platform. Thérèse watched the jerky movements of the hands
of the clock, and smiled at her companion.
"Five minutes more, and your father will be here! Four minutes more! Ah!
There it is!" and she pointed to a slope in the distance where a slight
trail of smoke rose white against the blue of the sky, now clear of
cloud. "Can't you see it? That is the steam from the engine coming out
of the tunnel."
Ere she finished speaking the quivering whir of the bell echoed through
the empty station.
"Ah!" said Charles Rambert: "at last!"
The two porters who, with the stationmaster, constituted the entire
railway staff at Verrières, came bustling along the platform, and while
the bell continued its monotonous whirring ring, pulled forward trucks
in readiness for any possible luggage. Puffing portentously, the engine
slackened speed, and the heavy train slowed down and finally stopped,
bringing a noisy atmosphere of life into the station of Verrières that
but a moment ago was so still.
The first-class carriages had stopped immediately in front of Charles
and Thérèse, and on the footboard Etienne Rambert stood, a tall, elderly
man of distinguished appearance, proud bearing and energetic attitude,
with extraordinarily keen eyes and an unusually high and intelligent
forehead. Seeing Thérèse and Charles he seized his baggage and in a
twinkling had sprung on to the platform. He dropped his valise, tossed
his bundle of rugs on to a seat, and gripped Charles by the two
shoulders.
"My boy!" he exclaimed; "my dear boy!"
Although he had hitherto shown so little affection for his child, it was
obvious that the man was making a great effort to restrain his emotion,
and was really moved when he now saw him again as a grown young man.
Nor, on his part, did Charles Rambert remain unmoved. As if the sudden
grip of this almost stranger, who yet was his father, had awakened a
world of memories within him, he turned very pale and his voice faltered
as he replied:
"Papa! Dear papa! I am so glad to see you!"
Thérèse had drawn tactfully aside. M. Rambert still held his son by the
shoulders and stepped back a pace, the better to consider him.
"Why, you are a man! How you have altered, my boy! You are just what I
hoped you would be: tall and strong! Ah, you are my son all right! And
you are quite well, hey? Yet you look tired."
"I did not sleep well," Charles explained with a smile. "I was afraid I
should not wake up."
Turning his head, M. Rambert saw Thérèse and held out his hand.
"How do you do, my little Thérèse?" he exclaimed. "You have altered too
since I saw you last. I left a little chit of a child, and now I behold
a grown-up young lady. Well! I must be off at once to pay my respects to
my dear old friend, your grandmother. All well at the château, eh?"
Thérèse shook hands warmly with M. Rambert and thanked him prettily.
"Grandmamma is very well; she told me to tell you to excuse her if she
did not come to meet you, but her doctor says she must not get up very
early."
"Of course your grandmamma is excused, my dear. Besides, I have to thank
her for her kindness to Charles, and for the hospitality she is going to
extend to me for a few days."
Meanwhile the train had gone on again, and now a porter came up to M.
Rambert.
"Will you take your luggage with you, sir?"
Recalled to material things, Etienne Rambert contemplated his trunk
which the porters had taken out of the luggage van.
"Good Lord!" he began, but Thérèse interrupted him.
"Grandmamma said she would send for your heavy luggage during the
morning, and that you could take your valise and any small parcels with
us in the brougham."
"What's that? Your grandmamma has taken the trouble to send her
carriage?"
"It's a long way to Beaulieu, you know," Thérèse replied. "Ask Charles
if it isn't. We came on foot and the walk would be too tiring for you
after a whole night in the train."
The three had reached the station yard, and Thérèse stopped in surprise.
"Why, how's that?" she exclaimed; "the carriage is not here. And yet
Jean was beginning to get it ready when we left the château."
M. Etienne Rambert was resting one hand on his son's shoulder, and
contemplating him with an affectionate, all-embracing survey every now
and then. He smiled at Thérèse.
"He may have been delayed, dear. I tell you what we will do. Since your
grandmamma is going to send for my luggage there is no need for me to
take my valise; we can leave everything in the cloak-room and start for
the château on foot; if my memory serves me right--and it is a very good
memory--there is only one road, so we shall meet Jean and can get into
the carriage on the way."
A few minutes later all three set out on the road to Beaulieu. M.
Rambert walked between the two young people; he had gallantly offered
his arm to Thérèse, who was not a little proud of the attention, which
proved to her mind that she was now regarded as a grown-up young lady.
On the other side of his father Charles made answer to the incessant
questions put to him.
M. Etienne Rambert enjoyed the walk in the quiet morning through the
peaceful country-side. With a tender half-melancholy he recognised every
turn in the road, every bit of scenery.
"Just fancy my coming back here at sixty years of age, with a great son
of eighteen!" he said with a laugh. "And I remember as if it were
yesterday the good times I have had at the château of Beaulieu. Mme. de
Langrune and I will have plenty of memories to talk over. Gad! it must
be quite forty years since I came this way, and yet I remember every bit
of it. Say, Thérèse, isn't it the fact that we shall see the front of
the château directly we have passed this little copse?"
"Quite true," the girl answered with a laugh. "You know the country very
well, sir."
"Yes," said Etienne Rambert; "when one gets to my age, little Thérèse,
one always does remember the happy days of one's youth; one remembers
recent events much less distinctly. Most likely that means, my dear,
that the human heart declines to grow old and refuses to preserve any
but pictures of childhood."
* * * * *
For a few minutes M. Rambert remained silent, as if absorbed in
somewhat melancholy reflections. But he soon recovered himself and shook
off the tender sadness evoked in his mind by memories of the past.
"Why, the park enclosure has been altered," he exclaimed. "Here is a
wall which used not to be here: there was only a hedge."
Thérèse laughed.
"I never knew the hedge," she said. "I have always seen the wall."
"Must we go on to the main gate?" M. Rambert asked, "or has your
grandmamma had another gate made?"
"We are going in by the out-buildings," the girl answered; "then we
shall hear why Jean did not come to meet us." She opened a little door
half-hidden among the moss and ivy that clothed the wall surrounding the
park, and making M. Rambert and Charles pass in before her, cried: "But
Jean _has_ gone with the brougham, for the horses are not in the stable.
How was it we did not meet him?" Then she laughed. "Poor Jean! He is so
muddle-headed! I would not mind betting he went to meet us at
Saint-Jaury, as he does every morning to bring me home from church."
The little company, Etienne Rambert, Thérèse and Charles, were now
approaching the château. Passing beneath Mme. de Langrune's windows
Thérèse called merrily up to them.
"Here we are, grandmamma!"
There was no reply.
But at the window of an adjoining room appeared the figure of the
steward, Dollon, making a gesture, as if asking for silence.
Thérèse, in advance of her guests, had proceeded but a few yards when
Mme. de Langrune's old servant rushed down the stone flight of steps in
front of the château, towards M. Rambert.
Dollon seemed distraught. Usually so respectful and so deferential in
manner, he now seized M. Rambert by the arm, and imperiously waving
Thérèse and Charles away, drew him aside.
"It is awful, sir," he exclaimed: "horrible: a fearful thing has
happened. We have just found Mme. la Marquise dead--murdered--in her
room!"