Four long and eventful years had passed since the lovers' clandestine
parting, when Captain de Serres again set foot on the soil of his
native land. The transport which brought a portion of his regiment
home entered the harbour of Brest early one bright morning in June,
and Maurice the same day set out for Paris, his first thought being
to embrace his widowed mother, whom he idolised. He had taken the
precaution to send her previous intelligence of his return to France,
and of his safety, for the poor lady, during nearly two years, had
mourned her only son as dead. Of his betrothal to Mademoiselle de
Launay she had never known, though she knew of the President by name as
one of her late husband's early friends.
When Maurice arrived in Paris, on the second morning after his
departure from Brest, and it was vouchsafed to his mother to clasp
in her arms the son she had thought gone from her for ever, her joy
can only be pictured by those to whom it has been given to taste an
unhoped-for happiness. Maurice, too, was happy; but still, after the
first emotions of such a meeting, Madame de Serres' keenly observant
glance detected in her son's face a strange expression of melancholy,
and an air of abstraction in his replies to her anxious questions,
which at once aroused all her solicitude. Alarmed at his singular
demeanour, she tenderly pressed him to confide to her the cause of his
sadness, that she might at least attempt to soothe and console him.
"It is nothing, mother," he said, with an effort to smile, "merely a
childish folly, of which a man should be ashamed; but since you imagine
that there is some serious cause for my ill-timed depression, I must do
my best to reassure you, though I fear you will only laugh at me."
"No, no, my son, I shall not laugh, whatever it may be," replied Madame
de Serres. "Explain yourself fully, Maurice, and trust my good sense to
make all due allowances."
"Very well, mother," was the answer, "you shall know the exact truth.
On my way home this morning, I passed before the church of St. Roch,
the entire front of which was heavily hung with black, and decorated
for the funeral of some person of note. Such a circumstance, I am
aware, is of every-day occurrence in Paris, and would not likely
attract the attention of an indifferent passerby. But upon me the sight
of those mournful preparations had a strange and mystic effect, which
seemed to chill my blood, and imbued me with a presentiment of evil. I
feared--ah! you are smiling at my superstitious weakness, and you are
right. But three years of captivity and horrible sufferings have so
unstrung me that my restoration to liberty and home seems a miraculous
dream, and I tremble to awake lest I should indeed find it to be only a
vision after all."
"My dear Maurice," said his mother, imprinting a kiss on his brow,
"let this convince you that it is no dream. The feelings you have
described to me I can well understand, and they prove that you cling
strongly to your recovered happiness, since you tremble lest it may
again be snatched from you by relentless destiny. You must try to
forget the trials of the past, and accustom yourself to the present,
as if you had never known what it is to suffer. As for your mournful
impression at the sight of a church hung with black, you have been so
long absent from France that a very ordinary occurrence seems invested
with a significance it really does not possess, except for those who
have sustained the loss of a dear relative or friend. The funeral
decorations you saw this morning were no doubt in honour of the young
and beautiful Madame du Bourg, wife of the President du Bourg, chief
judge of the Civil Tribunal of Paris."
"The beautiful Madame du Bourg?" repeated the young officer,
inquiringly. "Was the fame of her beauty, then, so universal as to
become proverbial?"
"Yes, poor young creature," replied Madame de Serres, "though she had
only resided in Paris since her union with the President du Bourg,
about eighteen months ago. Her husband was nearly thirty years her
senior, and the unhappy lady died after an illness of only two days,
so I was informed yesterday, leaving an infant six months old. The
unfortunate lady herself was scarcely more than a child, and, before
her marriage, was the belle of Toulouse, Mademoiselle Gabrielle de
Launay."
[Illustration: DISASTROUS NEWS.]
This disclosure, so simple and so brusque, of a terrible calamity
to him, did not at once penetrate sharply and clearly the mind of
Maurice de Serres. He was so utterly unprepared for the blow that for a
moment he was unable to realise the disastrous news thus unconsciously
imparted to him by his mother. He gazed at her with the air of a man
who had not fully grasped the meaning of the words she had spoken, and
asked her to repeat them. Then Madame de Serres, remembering that her
son had been stationed at Toulouse a few years previously, and might
consequently have met the President de Launay and his daughter, framed
an evasive reply; but the instant she again named Mademoiselle de
Launay, and reverted to the story of her sudden death, Maurice fell,
with a cry of anguish, at his mother's feet, as though struck by a
mortal wound--a livid pallor overspread his features, his breathing was
that of a man struggling against suffocation, and he might have died,
had not a flood of tears come to his relief.
In this critical emergency Madame de Serres fortunately retained her
presence of mind, and with the ingenuity of maternal instinct, she
found means to alleviate the violent grief of her son. With his head
pillowed upon her bosom, she talked to him of his lost bride, divining
all that had occurred without a word of explanation from Maurice, and
gently reproaching him for having failed to tell her, his mother, the
story of his love. She found means to reconcile him to the death of
Gabrielle--that, he said, was the will of God--but how could he ever
forget the broken vow, or forgive the perfidy of her who had called
Heaven to witness her promise of fidelity? Then, with admirable tact
and delicacy, his mother recalled to his mind his capture by the
enemy, and the official report of his death, which, no doubt, had
reached Toulouse, and had left Mademoiselle de Launay no resource but
resignation to the decree of Providence. Probably, she said, after a
long resistance and many tears, the unhappy girl had at last yielded
an unwilling obedience to her father's commands, and had consented to
a marriage of convenience, in which her affections had borne no part.
And so natural and plausible was this theory, that in devising these
simple motives in mitigation of Gabrielle's conduct, Madame de Serres
told her son the exact truth. Finally, she poured balm into his heart
by asking him to consider whether the real cause of Mademoiselle de
Launay's early death might not have been sorrow for Maurice's loss, and
the bitter wretchedness of her forced marriage with a husband whom she
could never love?
These wise arguments were, indeed, not without soothing effect. At all
events, after listening to his mother's words for some time, he became
more calm, though a keen observer would have divined that his silence
was not that of resignation, but the refuge of a mind which conceives a
desperate project, weighs its possibility, and resolves upon carrying
it into immediate execution. Madame de Serres watched with deep anxiety
the expression of her son's face, and, had he once raised his eyes
despairingly to hers, she might have read in them a determination to
put an end to his life. But she never suspected him of harbouring any
design so terrible, and when he entreated that he might be left alone,
she acquiesced without hesitation.
Towards nightfall she had the satisfaction of seeing him rejoin
her, apparently almost restored to tranquillity. In her presence,
and without disguise or concealment, he provided himself with a
considerable sum in gold, kissed her, and left the house without
uttering a word, nor did Madame de Serres ask for an explanation, or
seek to detain him. It was quite dark when Maurice sallied forth into
the street, and walked rapidly in the direction of the Rue St. Honoré.
On reaching the church of St. Roch, he lost no time in finding the
sacristan, and inquired the name of the place where Madame du Bourg had
been buried that morning. The information was supplied to him without
hesitation, and he set off immediately for the designated cemetery.
On arriving at the gates, he found them closed for the night, and
experienced some difficulty in rousing the janitor, who was asleep in
his lodge. After some demur, the man opened the door to his nocturnal
visitor, and inquired his business.
"Let me come in," said Captain de Serres, "and I will tell you."
Seeing before him a young man of aristocratic mien and appearance,
the grave-digger, whose curiosity was now fairly aroused, offered no
further objection, and showed the way to a little room on the ground
floor of the lodge.
"Be seated, sir," he said, civilly, placing a chair. "You are, perhaps,
fatigued with your walk."
"No," replied the young officer; "there is no time to be lost."
Then, to the terror and amazement of the grave-digger, Maurice,
placing in his trembling hands more gold than he had ever before seen
in his whole life, implored him to accept it as a reward for committing
an act of sacrilege--a crime then punishable with death. Maurice
entreated him to remove the earth from the grave he had filled that
day, to exhume the corpse of Madame du Bourg, and to break open the
coffin which covered the remains of that most unhappy lady, that he,
Maurice de Serres, her affianced husband, might look once again upon
the woman he had so passionately loved.
[Illustration: MAURICE AND THE GRAVE-DIGGER.]
Then ensued a long and painful discussion, for the glittering heap of
gold, pressed upon the poor man by his tempter, did not succeed in
overcoming either the fears or the scruples of the honest grave-digger.
To the distracted young officer it was a maddening blow to find that
the cupidity upon which he had counted to vanquish the obstacles in
his way had no existence, or if it had, was less powerful than the
grave-digger's dread of the consequences. Maurice gave full vent to
his despair and his tears so moved the heart of the poor man, at whose
feet he grovelled in agony, that out of the commiseration he succeeded
in inspiring came a consent which neither gold nor entreaties had been
able to obtain.
"Come!" said the grave-digger; "if it must be so, follow me!"
He led the way to the dark and silent cemetery, armed with a spade,
a coil of rope, and a thick chisel, Maurice carrying his companion's
lantern. Stumbling over many a mound of earth, they at last reached
the grave in which the dead woman had been buried only a few hours
previously. Taking off his jacket, the grave-digger set to work,
without uttering a single syllable. In an hour, which to Maurice seemed
years of torture, the hollow sound of the spade striking the top of the
coffin told them that their sacrilegious task was nearly accomplished.
A few moments more, and the united efforts of the two men had succeeded
in raising the coffin to the surface. Maurice whispered to the man
to remove the lid without noise, but as may well be imagined, such
an injunction was needless. Proceeding with the utmost silence and
precaution, the grave-digger was not long in loosening the fastenings
of the coffin. Then, having now recovered his customary coolness and
self-command, he sat down quietly upon a neighbouring tombstone, and
mutely motioned to Maurice, who stood gazing at the corpse, as if
petrified by the horrible sight. Finding the young man still remained
immovable, the grave-digger pointed with his long, bony finger, to the
still, white object, and muttered, "Look, 'tis she!"
But Maurice made no response, and appeared no longer to remember why
he was there, nor the crime he had instigated. He heard not the words
of his companion, his gaze was fixed upon vacancy, the breath seemed to
leave him, and he would have fallen to the ground, had not the other,
alarmed at this strange lethargy, seized the young man's arm, and again
whispered "Look!" Then slowly lifting the shroud from the face of the
corpse, he added, "Convince yourself. Is it this lady?"
At this instant the moon burst forth from behind the clouds, and its
pale, mysterious light fell full upon the lineaments of her whom
Maurice had idolised, and for whose sake he had committed this horrible
deed. Her features bore still the sad, sweet expression he knew so
well; the colour of her cheeks had lost little of its rosy tint, and,
though her eyes were closed, her lips were half parted, as if about to
speak.
Flinging himself upon his knees beside the body, Maurice wept tears
which brought his anguish some relief. With passionate sobs he recalled
the story of their love, of their young hopes, of their betrothal, and
of their sudden and piteous separation, and he bitterly reproached
himself for having yielded obedience to her father's commands, and left
her to be sacrificed a victim to that father's unbending will.
As he spoke he gently raised her in his arms and looked closely in
her face. At that instant memory brought back to him her parting
words, years before, when, as they said farewell, he had pressed his
lips to hers. The scene flashed across his brain with the rapidity of
lightning, and, as if urged by some sudden inspiration, he stooped and
kissed her, as he had kissed her on that too well remembered night.
No sooner had his lips touched hers than he uttered a terrible cry,
and rose to his feet, trembling convulsively. Then, with a wild laugh,
he seized the body, and before the astonished grave-digger could
interpose, the young officer fled from the spot with his burden in his
arms, springing over the graves, and threading his rapid course among
the tombs, as if the weight he bore were no more encumbrance to his
flight than a flake of falling snow. With almost supernatural force and
rapidity the madman, as the amazed and bewildered grave-digger now felt
assured he was, made good his escape, like a tiger carrying off his
prey.
[Illustration: "WITH A WILD LAUGH HE SEIZED THE BODY."]
Seeing that pursuit was useless--even if he had contemplated such a
course--the poor man hastened to remove the evidence of the sacrilege
in which he had played so prominent a part. Lowering the empty coffin
into the open grave, he rapidly threw in the earth, and in a short time
the spot showed no trace of having been disturbed since the interment
of the preceding morning. Then the grave-digger gathered together
the implements of his trade and stole back to his lodge, muttering
imprecations upon his mad visitor, and upon himself for having assisted
in committing a crime fraught with such formidable danger to its
perpetrators, should the horrible deed ever be brought to light.