THE PAST OF FRANCOISE.
Simon followed his wife into the house. She closed the door behind her.
Simon was struck by the strange expression in her face. Was it anxiety
for him that had clouded that placid brow?
"Friend," said Francoise, "you must know all. I saw that Austrian
officer from the window, and recognized him--"
"Recognized him!"
"Yes, for the man who dishonored my sister that fatal night of the 16th
of May, 1804, at Sachemont, was not alone. He was accompanied by the
Count of Karlstein, the man whom you have just seen. I cannot dwell upon
the terrors of that night. I escaped--but my poor sister! Nor did I ever
speak of that man to you. I felt that Talizac was enough for us to
hate."
"Yes, dear, I see; and I, too, have something to tell, for, when after
long months in the hospital at Dresden, I was permitted to leave it, I
wandered, I know not where; but I reached a hut--it was in February,
1805--I saw a light and knocked. There was no answer, and I opened the
door and went in. To my horror, I beheld a woman dead, and heard an
infant screaming its heart out."
"Poor little Jacques!" said Francoise, weeping.
"I saw a cup of milk on the table; I gave some to the infant. Presently
you came in, and did not seem astonished to find the child in my arms.
The physician you had gone to seek looked at the poor woman, said she
was dead, and that he could do nothing. We were left alone together. It
seemed as if you trusted me at once. Your hands trembled, and it was I
who closed the eyes of the dead. The next day we followed the poor girl
to the grave, and when one of the rough peasants who bore the bier on
which she lay, asked you who I was, you answered simply, 'A friend!'
"After we returned to the hut, I asked you who the dead girl was, and
then you pronounced the name of Talizac, and heard that a gentleman of
France had conducted himself like a base coward--"
"But an honorable man said to me, 'Shall we repair the crime of another?
Shall we not give this little one a home and a family?' I became your
wife, your happy, honored companion, and poor Jacques will never know
that he owes his life to a base profligate."
Simon laid his hand on his wife's head.
"Do you know why Simon Fougere wished to make reparation for the crime
of the Vicomte de Talizac?"
"Because Simon Fougere had a loyal and generous heart!"
"Because," said Simon, in solemn tones, "because the Vicomte de Talizac
is my brother!"
"Your brother! But who, then, are you?"
"The son of the Marquis de Fongereues," and in a few words Simon
explained to his wife the situation already known to our readers.
"I reproach myself," concluded Simon, "for having so long concealed my
name from you. I have not seen my father since I was a boy. I am
indebted to him for a few years of happiness, but he was under the
influence of others who awakened in him the pride of race. He has
forgotten the Republican soldier, and has never cared to know whether I
lived or died, since the day that he offered me a princely fortune, rank
and title, to fight against France. But to return to this man, you are
sure he is the friend and accomplice of Talizac?"
"I am sure."
"I have never seen my brother, but I know him to be one of the bitterest
enemies France has. He has fought against us, and I have heard that he
is nearly ruined. Painful as such suspicions are, I am tempted to
believe that the appearance of this Karlstein in this out of the way
place, is due to the fact that this renegade brother of mine has hunted
me up, knowing that at my father's death I can claim my inheritance. I
feel as if we were the cause of this attack on Leigoutte, which is
really directed on the heir of the Fongereueses."
"Horrible!" murmured Francoise.
"Yes, this officer asked me if this inn belonged to me. Dear wife, it is
now doubly our duty to take every measure for the protection of these
people. You must take the children away. I must remain with these
peasants. I wish you to go to the farm of old Father Lasvene--"
"Yes, I know, a league away, in the Outremont gorge."
"I will take you there. Lasvene is a man of sense, and will not be
guilty of any imprudence."
Suddenly Francinette, who was looking out of a window, uttered a shrill
cry, and ran to her mother.
"What is it?" exclaimed Simon, rushing to the window, which he threw
open, but could see nothing.
Francoise soothed the little girl and questioned her.
The child, still wild with fear, pointed to the window. "A man! a bad
man!"
The father lifted her in his arms.
"No, no," he said, "little Francinette was dreaming. There was no one
there!"
"Yes, I saw him; he climbed over the wall!"
Simon took his gun and went out. Presently he returned, and with a look
towards his wife that contradicted his words, he said, "No, it is
nothing."
At the same time he wrote a few words on a bit of paper, and laid it on
the table near his wife. This is what she read:
"The child is right; there are footprints on the wall--a spy
undoubtedly." He said aloud: "And now, wife, make haste; there is no
time to lose. Francinette, go to the other window and see if your
brother is anywhere about. And Francoise," Simon continued rapidly, "I
do not think that our separation will last long, yet it is well to be
prepared for everything. All my secret and family papers are in this
portfolio. Take every care of it. And now, kiss me--let no one see you
weep!"
Michel and Jacques now entered.
"Well, Michel, what think you of our recruits?" asked Simon, cheerfully.
"Oh, they are born soldiers, and your boy Jacques is as bright as a
button!"
Simon drew his child toward him.
"My boy, I meant to take your mother and sister to some place of safety,
but I am needed here. You must go in my stead."
"Am I not to remain with you, father?" asked the boy, greatly
disappointed.
"No--you are to take care of all that is most precious to me in the
world. God bless you all!"