The years that came and went at Poissy after the birth of this baby son
were slowly drawing away the life of M. de Cadanet in that little Paris
hotel, which yet to his shrunk interests seemed large and hollow. Even
when Leon saw him he was small and bent, with his skin colourless; by
this time he had grown absolutely dwarfish, wizened, elfish-looking, the
extraordinary brightness of his eyes, shining out of their hollow caves,
giving him a strange and weird appearance. His body had become
extremely frail, but his will showed no symptoms of weakening, and one
or two valets who had presumed on his apparent feebleness found
themselves speedily undeceived and dismissed. Old friends had dropped
off, smitten by death or illness; newspapers and politics absorbed his
chief attention, but the absorption was gloomy, for to the old--
recalling what seem better days--hope is difficult, and pessimism
natural.
M. Charles had succeeded in his determination to make himself necessary
to the old count, and it must be admitted that the task was difficult.
It required to be carried out with the greatest care and circumspection,
since M. de Cadanet was suspicious of the smallest premonitory shadow of
coercion. More than once, more than half a dozen times, Charles's fate
had trembled in the balance, and given him some bad half-hours of
disquiet. If he could have made a confidante of his wife, things might
have been easier for him; as it was, he cursed his stars that even with
her it was necessary to play a part, for she was an honest dull woman,
who would have blurted out to M. de Cadanet what her husband most wished
to conceal.
It has been said that the furniture and surroundings were austere. They
did not become less so when their owner grew older and weaker. He had
always despised luxuries rather than begrudged them; he despised them
still. Had he ever derived personal pleasure from them, he might have
been more merciful towards Leon, and the fabulous sums M. Charles
reported him to have paid for his cigars; but such expenditure,
especially personal expenditure, appeared to him a miserable weakness.
Of Leon he never spoke, though M. Charles would have given a good deal
to have known what had happened. Without being aware of the exact state
of affairs, he was aware of this much: The Poissy estates were--if not
hopelessly--deeply embarrassed. Probably in order to make a desperate
appeal to his cousin, M. de Beaudrillart had presented himself one day
at the hotel, and had an interview. This much he had gathered from the
servant. Since that day Leon had, to his knowledge, never reappeared in
Paris; but from inquiries he had made, it seemed, was living quietly at
Poissy, engaged in the ordinary life of a country gentleman. This,
moreover, was five or six years ago.
There might, of course, be one simple explanation. M. de Cadanet might
have relented under the pressure of a personal interview, and advanced
the large necessary sum of money, extorting at the same time a promise
from the young man to give up his Paris extravagances and betake himself
to the provinces and economy. But Charles was tolerably certain that
this had not happened. To begin with, he thought that his uncle, as he
chose to call him, would have told him what he had done, for he was in
the habit of speaking pretty frankly to him about Leon. And in the next
place there was another point which might almost be taken as proof
against the possibility of such an advance. Charles himself had
received a gift of one hundred thousand francs, and some six months
later another gift of the same sum, with the intimation that they
represented an abandoned idea. What this idea might have been he never
ventured to ask, but he made many shrewd, guesses, and the guess which
seemed the most probable pointed to Leon de Beaudrillart. Why there was
that space of months between the gifts he could not think; putting that
aside, he felt convinced that M. de Cadanet's generosity would not have
carried him to the length of providing for two relatives in so lavish a
fashion.
In spite of his conviction that he had benefited by Leon's disgrace,
Charles did not hate him the less. Possibly it was because he knew that
Leon was aware of his true character; and although he had not accused
him to M. de Cadanet, there was an unpleasant feeling of insecurity in
the knowledge. But that was not all, because as M. de Cadanet grew
weaker, and the chances of M. de Beaudrillart ever seeing him again
became infinitesimal, he lost nothing of his distrust and dislike.
Perhaps from something the old count had once let drop, he had not been
without hope of becoming master of Poissy--a hope which had ended in
disappointment. Perhaps there still lurked in his mind a fear that when
the will was read, Leon might be remembered. Whatever it was, one thing
was certain--that his hate had not diminished.
It need not be said that he had grown extremely tired of dancing
attendance at the house in the Rue du Bac. The hours spent in the
severely-furnished room, reading to or writing for M. de Cadanet, who
exacted all his attention, and never fell asleep, were irksome to the
last degree. He received few thanks, but often a gift accompanied by a
dozen cynical words. The cynicism did not affect him, the gift it was
which enabled him to endure the attendance. As often as possible he
sent his wife. She was a kindly unimaginative woman; luckily for her
own happiness, of very slow perception; and attaching herself readily by
little surface roots to those who came in her way. She had liked her
aunt and she liked M. de Cadanet, although he treated her with scant
civility; as he grew weaker, she was at the house a great deal, and
applied herself diligently to feeding him with beef tea, which he
detested, and with such small pieces of news as she considered
sufficiently unexciting.
M. de Cadanet sat in a straight-backed chair, wrapped in a wadded
dressing-gown, for, although the weather was hot, he was now always
cold, and young Mme. Lemaire had for the last twenty minutes been
engaged in presenting him with such scraps of news from _Le Temps_ as
she thought suitable. In the midst he said, with a sudden yawn which
would have disconcerted a more sensitive person:
"Amelie, is one permitted to ask how old you are!"
Mme. Lemaire laid the newspaper calmly in her lap, and considered,
before answering honestly:
"I was seven-and-twenty last April."
"Heavens! Only that I sometimes when I listen to you I think I hear my
grandmother."
"Yes? I never saw her, of course, but I dare say she was an excellent
woman," said Amelie, taking up her work, since her uncle now seemed
disposed for a little conversation.
"Oh, excellent!" he muttered, with a little laugh. "She killed the
count, my grandfather."
"Killed him! oh, impossible! You don't really mean it!"
"She bored him to death," returned M. de Cadanet, letting his chin sink
feebly on his chest.
"Poor man! Now, do you know, I am afraid you are tired. If you were to
let me ring for an egg beaten up with a little sherry? No? Then shall
I go on reading?"
"No. Unless--"
"What, mon oncle?"
"Is there anything about--about Poissy in the paper?"
"Oh, let me see." She immediately busied herself. "Poissy--Poissy--"
"Do you know the name?"
"No, I think not. I cannot remember it."
"Your husband has not mentioned it?"
"Never. Has anything happened there? Perhaps you would like us to make
inquiries?"
"No. Be quiet. Nothing has happened since--since--a child was born."
"Ah, there is a child." Her voice had changed; she looked down, and a
sigh escaped her.
"Certainly. And a boy."
Silence followed. She said presently, wistfully, "I suppose, then, they
are very happy?"
"Perhaps. I do not know, and I do not care, but--in old days I knew
Poissy."
He spoke slowly and with difficulty, his voice dropping until it was
scarcely audible, and after these last words he relapsed into silence.
Amelie again laid down the paper, and took up her work--a little blouse
for an orphan in whom she was interested; she was extremely charitable,
and as Charles did not give her much money, and always talked of his
poverty, she consoled herself by working for her poor. Her nature was
singularly placid, and she was fairly happy; indeed, she would have
declared she wanted nothing, except perhaps a little more money for her
orphans. A really kind heart gave her an interest in the sick man, and
she did not suffer from his sharp speeches because she did not discover
their edge. Now she sat and thought tranquilly of fat little Marie, how
fast she outgrew her frocks, and what was to be done for another when
this was worn out. A thin white streak of sunshine, penetrating through
the outer blinds, just struck her pale brown hair, wreathed in a large
coil at the back of her head, and stole across the table to M. de
Cadanet's hand, which lay upon a book. The hand was very thin and
parchment-like; every now and then it twitched slightly, and his head
sank lower. Amelie, who had more than once glanced in his direction,
became at last uneasy at the profound stillness; she laid down her work,
and half rose, resting her fingers on the table. It was possible that
he might be asleep, but sleep was unusual with him, and the least
movement generally enough to disturb him. As he did not stir she moved
towards him noiselessly, until she was close, but his face was so sunk
that she was obliged to drop on her knees to gain a sight of it. Then
she uttered a cry, for it was drawn and distorted.
It did not require the verdict of the doctor, hurriedly sent for, to
tell them that M. de Cadanet had had a stroke. He was carried to the
adjoining bedroom, helpless and speechless. Mme. Lemaire despatched a
messenger to her husband, and made her own arrangements to remain in the
house and to obtain a nurse. Charles did not arrive until late, and
fully approved her purpose. He had no affection for his wife, but was
never wanting in civility.
"Certainly, my dear Amelie; and permit me to say you have shown your
usual excellent sense. It would never do to leave the poor old man
alone. What does the doctor say?"
"He says that it is impossible as yet to form an opinion, but he hopes
that he will recover in a measure. Oh, I do trust so! It was so
startlingly sudden."
"He does not suffer," said her husband, carelessly, "and if he revives,
what sort of a life will it be? I am sure that if I were he I should
prefer to die."
"I am not so sure," Amelie said, walking about the room and placing the
chairs in order. "But certainly he is terribly lonely with no one but
us. Is there really no one?"
"No one."
"Who lives at Poissy?"
Charles turned quickly upon her.
"Poissy! What do you know of Poissy?"
"Oh, nothing. Only, our uncle spoke of it just before his attack. I
really think it was the last thing he said."
"Now, remember, Amelie, this may be of great importance, and I should be
glad to know exactly what were his words." It enraged him that she
still went on with her arranging, but he was afraid of displaying the
anxiety he felt.
"Let me see. I think he began with asking whether there was anything
about Poissy in the paper."
"In the paper!" The young man caught up _Le Temps_ and devoured the
columns. "But there is not, of course. Go on, Amelie. What next?"
"I believe he wanted to know if I knew the name--if you had ever
mentioned it to me. You never have, my friend, and so I told him."
"Yes?"
"Then he remarked--I don't know why--that a boy had been born there.
And that must have been all he said, except that he had known Poissy in
old days."
"Confound it! what did he mean?" muttered her husband, standing chin in
hand.
"Oh, I suppose it is some place where he was when he was young, and that
it just came across his mind at that moment. Unless you think there is
some one there whom he wishes to see? What a pity he did not say more!"
"If he does come to his senses, let me advise you not to make any
suggestions of that sort," said Charles, controlling himself with
difficulty. "The owner of Poissy is an extravagant good-for-nothing,
who has mortally offended your uncle, and the probable result of
mentioning his name would be to bring on a most dangerous excitement."
"Then I will not, of course, because nothing could be so bad for him.
But I am very sorry. It would be so much happier for him, poor dear! if
there were some one besides ourselves in whom he could take an interest,
especially if there was a child."
To this her husband made no answer. His wife's personal opinions were
profoundly indifferent to him, and so long as she was impressed with the
danger of exciting M. de Cadanet, she might utter as many futile
aspirations as she pleased. But what she had told him gave him
uneasiness--more from a vague dread of Leon de Beaudrillart than from a
well-grounded fear. He had a fancy that M. de Cadanet's thoughts turned
sometimes with yearning in that direction, and he had with great care
avoided ever mentioning the birth of a son at Poissy. How the old man
had discovered this event he could not conceive. Most alarming of all
was the fact that he had not only known but had kept silence, since it
pointed to possible other reticences; and Charles had all the schemer's
distrust for the unknown. He believed, however, that if M. de Cadanet
died in his present condition, he was certain to come into so much of
his property as he could will away; if he recovered, and his brain still
worked with painful ideas of this child at Poissy--grandson of the man
who had befriended him--it was impossible to be sure that some foolish
sentiment, some insane impulse of gratitude, might not prove strong
enough to upset his former dispositions. The lust of gambling had
increased upon the young man, debts had swollen, creditors pressed.
Between him and things he loved best in the world a brazen gate was
slowly shutting, and he knew that it wanted but the clink of M. de
Cadanet's money for the barrier to roll swiftly back, and fling open a
garden of delight. Now, that, added to his other anxieties, there came
this new doubt as to the disposition of the wealth which he had been,
counting on as his own, he cursed fate freely, and went about the house
with an injured air.
To watch life and death fighting is not a pretty sight. With M. de
Cadanet, life slowly got the better; but its wounds and its weaknesses
were many, and the old count, rent with the strife, and agonised with
the pricks of returning circulation, was a sorry spectacle. He was well
nursed, for Amelie was in her element, and gave him her whole attention,
always more delightful to a patient than the intelligence which he may
wish for in health. She made no demands upon his brain, and his
medicine and food were ready at exactly the right hour. Moreover, she
was really quick in understanding his imperfect speech. Every day she
brought her husband a pleased report that there was a growing
improvement. Charles had not the face to frown except behind her back.
He said once, sharply:
"All this is very fine; say what you like, but he will never be himself
again."
"Oh, why not?" exclaimed his wife, appealingly. He controlled himself
to answer.
"They never are after such an attack, which, of course, weakens the
brain."
"Well, he knows everything, I am sure," she persisted. Charles was
going out of the room, and returned, anxiety in his face.
"What does he talk about?"
"He likes to hear what the doctor has said."
"He has never alluded to--to Poissy?"
She exclaimed at the idea.
"Oh, he has not come to thinking about things of that sort."
"All the better," said her husband, drawing a long breath. "Mind you
turn him off from it if he begins; but let me hear what he says. You're
the only person that can understand the gibberish."
("That is one bit of luck," he added, under his breath.)
"Oh, he is getting on," she called after him, consolingly. Charles
inquired daily, but M. de Cadanet never made allusion to Poissy. To lie
and watch the flies on the ceiling, the sunshine travelling round from
shadow to shadow; to frown with pain or impatience; to listen to the
ticking of the gilt clock on the mantel-piece, or the muffled rattle of
a carriage; stung by these new prickings to try to move the leg and arm
to which force was slowly, slowly creeping back--this was M. de
Cadanet's daily life. No one could understand him except Mme. Lemaire;
they pretended to sometimes, in order not to annoy him; but the pretence
only irritated him the more. By little and little, however, words
shaped themselves more rightly.
By--and--by he was lifted into a great chair, and wheeled from one part
of the room to the other; and this move accomplished, Mme. Lemaire
thought that she might return home. Charles had agreed to her remaining
in the Rue du Bac with an amiability which she considered remarkable.
He did not care for her enough to miss her, and preferred having some
one on the spot to report upon anything out of the usual course. He
would therefore willingly have consented to her absence, but the
Orphanage had an outbreak of measles, and her placid good sense told her
that she was no longer absolutely necessary to M. de Cadanet. The
nurse, therefore, had full charge by night, and Mme. Lemaire and the
concierge Andre, a quiet man, whom the count said he preferred to women
about him, shared the day between them.
Unperceptive as she was, Amelie could not but allow that her husband was
in a very bad temper. He showed it chiefly by silence, which she had
the discretion not to break, and by absence from the house, which, he
said, was owing to business. He had not the audacity to tell her, and
she was the last woman to whom it would have occurred--simply, perhaps,
because ideas did not seem ever to spring spontaneously in her
unimaginative mind, but required to be planted there--that it was M. de
Cadanet's recovery, to which undoubtedly her excellent nursing had
contributed, which had brought about the gloom. He took care to inform
the world that the recovery was very partial, and that the seizure had
seriously affected the old count's mind; but, in point of fact, M. de
Cadanet's intellect was as keen as ever--painfully so, indeed, because
it kept him perfectly conscious of his sad condition, and caused
miserable fits of depression.
These fits of depression were treated indifferently by the nurse, but
they always distressed Mme. Lemaire, who would not have realised a
silent trouble, but felt great compassion for one of which she saw the
outward signs. She did her best to produce a cheerful atmosphere, and
when he complained of the desolation of old age, cast about for
something comforting.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Is there not any one, now, dear uncle, that you would like to come and
see you?"
"My friends are where I ought to be--in the grave."
"Oh, don't say that. Your time isn't come. Why, you're getting better
every day. Next week we shall move into the other room--think of that
for an event!"
The old man groaned, and Amelie, at her wits' end, ventured on the
subject against which her husband had warned her.
"You want some one young and lively to cheer you up, that is what I
think. The Poissy you were talking about--is there no one there?"