The next day, in the morning, as I went to the railway station, a
post-chaise stood in the courtyard of the _hotel_, and I saw old Alain
get out. His face brightened as he saw me.
"Oh, sir, what good luck! You've not gone! Here is a letter for you."
I recognised M. Laubepin's writing. He said that Mlle. de Porhoet was
seriously ill and was asking for me. I only allowed time to change the
horses, and threw myself into the chaise, after forcing Alain to get in
with me. I questioned him eagerly, and made him repeat his news, which
seemed incredible.
The evening before, Mlle. de Porhoet had received an official despatch
through M. Laubepin, announcing her succession to the entire Spanish
property.
"And it seems," said Alain, "that she owes it to you, sir, for finding
some old papers in the pigeon-house that have proved the old lady's
title. I don't know how much truth there is in this, but if it is so,
what a pity she has those ideas about the cathedral and won't give them
up, for she's more bent on it than ever. When she first got the news
she fell flat on the floor, and we thought she was dead. But an hour
after she began talking about her cathedral, the choir, and the nave,
the north aisle and the south, the chapter, and the canons. To calm her
we had to fetch an architect and masons, and put the plans of her
blessed building on her bed. At last, after three hours of that kind of
talk, she quieted down a bit and dozed. When she awoke she asked for
you, sir--M. le Marquis" (Alain bowed, closing his eyes)--"and I had to
run after you. It seems she wants to consult you about the rood-loft."
This strange event took me entirely by surprise. Nevertheless, my
memory, aided by the confused details given me by Alain, enabled me to
find an explanation, which more precise information completely
confirmed. As I have before said, the affair of the Spanish inheritance
of the Porhoets had gone through two phases. There had first been a
long lawsuit between Mlle. de Porhoet and one of the great families of
Castile, which my old friend had finally lost. Then there had been a
new suit between the Spanish heirs and the Crown, the latter claiming on
the grounds of intestacy.
Shortly after this, while pursuing my researches in the Porhoet
archives, I had, about two months before leaving the chateau, laid hands
upon a curious document, which I will here transcribe:
"Don Philip, by the Grace of God, King of Castile, Leon, Aragon, the two
Sicilies, Jerusalem, Navarre, Grenada, Toledo, Valencia, Galicia,
Majorca, Seville, Sardinia, Cordova, Cadiz, Murcia, Jaen, of the
Algarves, of Algeciras, Gibraltar, the Canary Islands, the West and East
Indies, the islands and continents of the ocean, the Archduchy of
Austria; Duke of Burgundy, Brabant, and Milan; Count of Hapsburg,
Flanders, the Tyrol, and Barcelona; Lord of Biscay and Molina, etc.
"To thee, Herve-Jean Jocelyn, Lord of Porhoet-Gael, Count of Torre
Nuevas, etc., who hast followed me throughout my dominions, and served
me with exemplary fidelity, I promise, by special favour, that in case
of the extinction of thy direct and legitimate progeny, the possessions
of thy house shall return, even to the detriment of my Crown, to the
direct and legitimate descendants of the French branch of the
Porhoet-Gaels, as long as any such shall exist.
"And I make this covenant for myself and for my successors on my royal
faith and word.
"Given at the Escorial, April 10, 1716.
"YO EL REY."
Together with this document, which was merely a translator's copy, I
found the original text, bearing the arms of Spain. The importance of
this document had not escaped me, but I had feared to exaggerate it. I
greatly doubted whether the validity of a title of such ancient date,
and prior to so many momentous events, would be recognised by the
Spanish Government. I even doubted whether it would have the power to
give effect to it, even if it had the will. I had therefore decided to
say nothing to Mlle. de Porhoet about a discovery, the consequences of
which seemed to me most problematic, and I had contented myself with
sending the document to M. Laubepin. As I had heard nothing more of it,
I had soon forgotten it in the midst of the personal cares with which I
was overwhelmed at the time. However, contrary to my unjust suspicions,
the Spanish Government had not hesitated to carry out Philip V's
covenant, and at the very moment when a supreme decree had handed over
the vast possessions of the Porhoets to the Crown, it had nobly restored
them to the legitimate heir.
About nine that evening I stopped at the humble house where this royal
fortune had arrived so tardily. The little servant opened the door. She
was crying.
From the staircase above came the grave voice of M. Laubepin.
"It is he," said the voice.
I went up the stairs quickly. The old man grasped my hand warmly, and
took me into Mlle. de Porhoet's room. The doctor and the cure stood
silent in the shadow of the window. Mme. Laroque knelt at the bedside;
her daughter was arranging the pillow where the pale face of my old
friend rested. When the sick woman saw me a faint smile flickered
across her face. Painfully she moved one of her arms. I took her hand;
I fell on my knees; I could not keep back my tears.
"My child," she said, "my dear child!"
Then she looked intently at M. Laubepin. The old notary took from the
bed a piece of paper, and, as if he were continuing to read after an
interruption, he went on:
"For these reasons," he read, "I appoint by this holograph will
Maxime-Jacques-Marie Odiot, Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive, noble by
heart as by descent, sole and universal legatee of all my property in
Spain as well as in France, without reserve or condition. Such is my
will.
"JOCELYNDE JEANNE,
"COMTESSE DE PORHOET-GAEL."
In my astonishment I had risen and was about to speak, when Mlle. de
Porhoet, gently retaining my hand, placed it in Marguerite's. At this
sudden contact the dear creature trembled. She bent her young forehead
on the mournful pillow, and, blushing, whispered something in the dying
woman's ear. I could not speak. I fell on my knees, and prayed to God.
Some minutes passed in solemn silence, when Marguerite suddenly withdrew
her hand with a gesture of alarm. The doctor came up hastily. I rose.
Mlle. de Porhoet's head had fallen back; with a fixed and radiant glance
she looked towards heaven; her lips half-opened, and as if she were
speaking in a dream, she whispered:
"God! the good God! I see Him there ... up there.... Yes ... the choir
... the golden lamps ... the windows ... the sun everywhere.... Two
angels kneeling before the altar ... in white robes ... their wings move
... God, they are alive!"
This cry died on her lips, which remained smiling. She closed her eyes
as if she were going to sleep, and suddenly an air of immortal youth
fell on her face, making it almost unrecognisable to us.
[Illustration: "I felt her lips on mine----I thought my soul was
escaping from me" (see page 246)]
Such a death, after such a life, had lessons with which I desired to
fill my soul. I begged to be left alone with the priest in the room.
This pious vigil will not, I believe, be unavailing. From that face,
irradiated with a glorious peace, where a supernatural light seemed to
glow, more than one forgotten or questioned truth came home to me with
irresistible force. Noble and holy friend, well I knew that the virtue
of sacrifice was yours! Now I see that you have entered into your
reward.
About two hours after midnight, yielding to fatigue, I longed to breathe
the fresh air for a moment. I went down the dark staircase and into the
garden, avoiding the _salon_ on the ground floor, where I had seen a
light. The night was profoundly dark. As I approached the arbour at
the end of the little inclosure, I heard a faint sound, and at the same
moment a shadowy form detached itself from the foliage. I felt a sudden
rapture; my heart leaped, and I saw the heavens fill with stars.
"Marguerite!" I cried, holding out my arms. I heard a little cry, then
my name murmured faintly, then silence ... and I felt her lips on mine.
I thought that my soul was escaping from me.
* * * * *
I have given Helene half my fortune. Marguerite is my wife. I close
these pages forever. I have nothing more to intrust to them. What has
been said of nations may be said of men: "Happy are those who have no
history."
* * * * * * * *
*THE PORTRAITS OF OCTAVE FEUILLET*
In spite of the fashionable popularity achieved by Octave Feuillet as
early as the year 1855, a popularity which never waned to his last hour,
it seems that his life, which we should have pictured excessively
brilliant and public, was in reality quiet and retired. The author of
"M. de Camors" and of the "Roman d'un Jeune Homme pauvre" was, as his
portraits attest, melancholy of temperament and contemplative of mind, a
man who was happiest in his own study, who preferred the distant echoes
of his literary triumphs in his home, to noisy manifestations thereof in
the world of social pleasure.
[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1850) After a drawing by the engraver
Monciau]
Feuillet was the official novelist of the Second Empire, the pet writer
of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. He was received at Court among the
distinguished guests who had the _entree_ at Compiegne and
Fontainebleau. His plays and _proverbes_ were acted in the Imperial
theatres, at fashionable watering-places, and on the miniature stages of
marionettes. The Empress treated him with marked distinction. It is
difficult to understand why an author so honoured and so much sought
after should have left so few portraits--canvases, medallions,
water-colours or engravings. Feuillet evidently was not lavish of his
time in his sittings to artists, for neither Dubufe, nor Carolus-Duran,
nor Winterhalter reproduced his features--a fact we find it almost hard
to believe of a man who enjoyed the popularity of Feuillet. But we must
accept the fact.
[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1879) After a sketch made in Geneva]
Madame Octave Feuillet, to whom I went for final confirmation of this
supposed dearth of artistic documents relating to her deceased husband,
showed me everything she had as mementoes of the delicate psychologist
to whose success she so largely contributed by her feminine diplomacy,
her social observations, and her subtle and very cultivated mind.
"Alas!" she said, "I do not know why I am not richer in pictures of my
dear lost one, for he had endless opportunities of being painted, but he
was always too nervous and too busy to undertake the sittings proposed
by various artists. This is why I can only show you a little portrait
painted by Bonvin just before 1850, which represents him with a
Musset-like face, and agrees pretty closely with a drawing of the same
period by the engraver Monciau, which could easily be reproduced."
[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET After a photograph taken in 1880]
"Beyond these souvenirs of Octave Feuillet as a young man," continued
his widow, "I have nothing but a drawing by Dantan, made at the time of
the great success of the _Sphinx_ at the Comedie Francaise, that is to
say, about ten years before his death, and a large canvas by Hirch, a
full-length, painted after 1880. But isn't it too dark for
reproduction?"
To these portraits of the author of "Julia de Trecoeur" we may add a
number of photographs, all of them taken after 1860. First, the large
full-length portrait published by Goupil about 1869 in the "Galerie
Contemporaine." In spite of the defects inherent in all photographs,
this is the most like him of all his portraits: it is reproduced as the
frontispiece of this volume. We have given several others, among them
one from Monciau's drawing, which shows us an Octave Feuillet of
thirty-five, who is nevertheless somewhat morose-looking, and various
presentments of the quinquagenarian Academician, with the white hair and
grey beard of a man still in his prime, which offer a much nobler and
more attractive semblance of the writer who has been called "The family
Musset."
[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET The last photograph taken in 1889]
After the death of the famous novelist and playwright, the sculptor
Crauck executed a fine bust of him with the aid of instructions given
him by one of the author's sons, Richard Feuillet. Another bust, of
little interest and a poor likeness, is at the Hotel de Ville of St. Lo,
where Feuillet was born, and where he often came to rest at his property
during the summer.
[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET Sketch by Dantan, about 1878]
Octave Feuillet's iconological record certainly does not arrest
attention by any curious, startling, or hitherto unpublished elements.
We have no childish or youthful portraits, nothing but the cold
countenance of the man who had already "arrived;" no whimsical artistic
sketch, not even any satirical caricature, to compromise, enliven, or
give a Bohemian touch to the dignified attitude and severe correctness
of the writer of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. It is, we think, to be
regretted. Octave Feuillet remains an over-official figure for us,
bearing too obviously the stamp of the photographer's solemn poses, and
sacramental "Quite still, please."