MADAME DE BREZE IS NERVOUS.
That night Gabrielle and her foster-sister slept together, or rather
lay in the same bed, for Toinon had much to tell and Gabrielle to
hear. In the morning, the chatelaine looked much the same as usual,
but for the circle of bistre round her eyes, which had grown deeper,
giving an air of lassitude.
Virginie, Marechale de Breze, never slept a wink; but groaned and
tossed in a fever, mumbling Ave Marias, and when she appeared at
dejeuner, the abbe shook a reproachful finger at her. "Yellow!" he
declared, mournfully, "absolutely and undeniably yellow! How dare you,
after all our care, look so jaded, when yesterday you were as blooming
as a rose? I know what it is. Try this pear--it absolutely melts in
the mouth. No. I won't offer it, for I am afraid it smells of copper.
Or is it brimstone? How provoking! I have tucked my hoofs and tail
under my chair, but I cannot conceal the brimstone! Look at your
lovely daughter. She knows better than to believe _cancans_, and has
slept the sleep of the angels. Alas--dearest mother--you have
permitted me to call you mother--I shall have to administer a severe
and terrible lecture. I told you last night you were our prisoner, but
I won't have birds that injure their delightful plumage. If you beat
your wings against the bars I shall open the cage-door, I warn you,
and dismiss you into space!"
Turned out into space among the ravening wolves without, or kept in
the gilded cage to be slowly done to death? What an alternative! Why
could not somebody tell her what to do, instead of leaving her all
night stretched upon the rack of her uncertainty? Evidently, unless
candidates for an asylum, they must all have some motive for acting in
the odd way they did, but what was it? It was so rude and
inconsiderate to be plotting, and scheming, and lying, and charging
each other with all kinds of horrible offences, under the nose of an
innocent stranger, of whom they were making a butt. Madame made up her
mind to upbraid Gabrielle severely for her inhuman and unfilial
conduct. If there was any nasty skeleton about, she had no business to
summon an aged parent to contemplate it.
Toinon, plunged into a slough of anguish, could only wring her hands
and moan. It is not every David who can get the better of Goliath; and
is it not wiser to flee before the great towering monster, instead of
hurling our puny stone at him--only to be trodden in a trice under his
ponderous splay foot?
The abigail had got the worst of the encounter, her proofs as well as
her accusation were rendered ridiculous, even in her own eyes,
although she knew the accusation to be true. She was held up to
obloquy as a Jacobin, one of the anarchists steeped to the lips in
crime, ready to destroy by false witness the family to which she owed
everything. Next, she would develop into a tricoteuse, sitting under
shadow of the guillotine. It was intolerable. Toinon was not meek and
lowly as some of her betters were. On the contrary, there ran through
her veins a current of pugnacity of which honest Jean had tasted. She
was not prepared to sit down like Gabrielle, wearing a crown of thorns
and bearing a cross, the while pretending to enjoy them. Certainly
not. She was one of those who have no respect for crowns of thorns,
and consider crosses irksome wear. But what could she do to unwind her
mistress and herself from the present tangle? The marechale was an
imbecile old doll. The abject terror of her mien last night had
something about it that was full of pathos. It is pitiful to see so
battered and helpless a thing as that in the bubbling whirlpool of our
world. Jean--Jean Boulot was the one rock to which the two women might
cling in their danger. Jean must leave his Jacobin clubs and come to
them. Would it be well for Toinon herself to proceed to Blois, seek
him out, and explain? He would not think her forward and unmaidenly,
for she would find words to convince him as she had her mistress. No.
The marechale having proved herself to be a broken reed, it would not
do to go to Blois, for her mistress would be left with no rampart,
however unsatisfactory and weak, between herself and the insidious
foe. What if, on her return, she were to find that the deed was
accomplished? Jean must be written to, and implored by the past to
come to the rescue of two women in grievous peril. And they were in
extreme danger; he would see that for himself when he arrived. Toinon
knew it full well. She had read the abbe's eyes last night, and was as
much aware as Gabrielle, that for those who stood athwart his path,
there was no more mercy within his breast than conscience or religion.
Poor Madame de Breze! Yellow, forsooth! The more she pondered the more
troubled she became. Her wrinkled old face was turning green. Was the
abbe a monster or an angel? If only somebody would clear up this
point. He made her blood run cold with his facetiousness, for is it
not creepy to be openly informed by a person, that he wears a tail and
hoofs, and to be more than half assured that it is true? He danced
round her fears with elfin gambols, till she felt her frail wits
tottering; and then, grown of a sudden serious, he would relate what
he called facts, which only increased her terrors. Why had no one
informed her before that Madame de Vaux hardly, and her daughter
Angelique, were practically in a state of siege; that various chateaux
in the neighbourhood had been demolished, their inhabitants drowned
or strangled; that she had not been wrong on her way thither, as to
the threatening attitude of the peasantry? Of course, she had been
right--was she not always right though people would not believe her?
She had been lured hither to this dismal fortalice to perish like a
rat in a trap. Danger from without and from within. Goodness gracious!
What if that story of the cakes were true? Gabrielle, strangely
enough, seemed to consider that it was neither new nor surprising that
her life should be in peril. What should they want to kill her for?
Was it something connected with money? All evil springs from that.
Then a thrill of horror surged over the selfish heart of the unlucky
dame, when she remembered her daughter's will. To her, the old mother,
the money was bequeathed--in trust, it is true; but to her. If they
wished to compass Gabrielle's death, of course, her own would follow.
What a silly will it was. She protested at the time, but had been
overruled by M. Galland. It was an absurd thing for a young woman to
bequeath a fortune to an old one--worse--it was a cruel and dastardly
thing to do, if unscrupulous schemers were after it. Why must they mix
up a harmless and venerable and justly respected lady in their plots
and squabbles? Madame de Breze worked herself up into a white heat of
indignation, and set herself to see how she could get out of the trap
with promptitude, and such decency as might be.
She propounded her views to Gabrielle, who gravely and calmly
aquiesced. "Nothing detains you here, dear mother," she kept
repeating, with monotonous persistency, "except your own fancy. I
hoped you had taken to our quiet life; but if not, it is better you
should go."
"I have so few years left to live, you know," apologetically whimpered
the marechale, "that I grudge the time away from entrancing Paris."
When her daughter elected courteously to consider that this was
natural, her conscience pricked, and she was annoyed at feeling
ashamed. Indeed, the excuse was of the lamest, since the beloved
capital was, at this juncture, a prey to devils whose goddess was
Mother Guillotine. In the retirement of her secluded dwelling,
however, she could feel comparatively safe. She quite longed for the
little house, which she was always complaining of as dismal. At all
events, she could nibble a cake there without dread of poison.
"I will stay, of course, if you say you really wish it," she went on,
plaintively, as salve to the inner monitor, "but the air of Touraine
never did agree with me any more than with your blessed father; and if
I were to be taken ill, I should only be an extra worry."
A smile flitted over the sad face of the marquise, as she took her
mother's hands and kissed them. "My dear," she said, "I would not have
you stay for worlds a moment longer than you fancy. Go back to Paris,
and I will pray Heaven that your journey may be prosperous. I would
like you to go at once, because I am sure it is for the best, since
you are nervous, and at the same time I would beg of you a favour.
Take the children with you, for I should feel happier if they were
safe under your care. I will give orders now," she added, rising
briskly, "in order that they may be ready by to-morrow."
The old lady ruefully rubbed her nose with her spectacles, being
ashamed to speak her thoughts. It occurred to her that if the abbe
really was nourishing designs of a nefarious nature, he might
endeavour to prevent her from departing. If she proposed to remove the
children, there would be extra inducement to interfere, considering
the uncomfortable prominence given to all three by that deplorably
ill-advised testament. Gabrielle had kept her lips sealed with regard
to the second document. Indeed, she was unaccountably and provokingly
reticent on most points in her dealings with the marechale, who
resented her silence hotly. She never could be got to talk of her
affairs--to give an opinion as to the characters of Pharamond or of
Phebus; declined to discuss the absence of her husband, or to explain
the presence of the quondam governess, who, from time to time, was
meteorically visible, hovering. Under the circumstances, what object
would be gained by lingering at Lorge, since all seemed alike agreed
to withhold from the sage their confidence? If she were allowed, she
would gladly turn her back on the ill-omened place, and thank her
stars when quit of it.
The marquise saved her from the trouble of displaying her own
diplomacy by boldly announcing to the abbe that Madame la Marechale de
Breze would return on the morrow to the capital, and, being lonely
there, would borrow, for a period, the society of her grandchildren.
The abbe glanced keenly in her face, but could read nothing there.
What curious fancy was this? She who so adored the cherubs, had
decided on a separation! Why? What motive could underly so unexpected
a project? The more the abbe reflected, the less could he fathom it,
but after looking at it from every point, he made up his mind that it
was some feminine whim which concerned him not. And yet it did in this
much. From the moment that the second will was executed, the children
were safe from any machinations of the conspirators. What happened to
them was of no importance. If Algae chose to be burthened with them,
she was welcome so to do, as far as her fellow-schemer was concerned.
It would be a convenience, though, to have them out of the way just
now. When _it_ was over, and the family was comfortably established at
Geneva, there would be plenty of time to consider what was to be done
with the infants. Perhaps it would be a harmless sop to Clovis to have
them with him there, in order that he might make up for the shadiness
of his marital past by systematic parental indulgence. There certainly
was no possible reason why they should not journey with their
grandmother to Paris on a visit, and the heart of the latter, on
finding there was no opposition to the plan, was relieved of a weight
as ponderous as a nether millstone.
Long before the hasty preparations were complete, Madame la Marechale
had satisfactorily convinced herself that the abbe's place was among
the angelic host. It must be mischievous fudge about those cakes; a
silly tittle-tattle of ignorant servants, to which Gabrielle, mopish
and morbid, had given too willing an ear. Far from throwing barriers
in the way of an exodus, both brothers were almost too obliging. The
chevalier, who was a past master in farriery, examined the horses'
shoes with minute care, while his brother superintended the inner
economy of the berline. In the boot were books, and a few bottles of
the choicest wines and samples of comforting cordials, wherewith an
elderly traveller might be sustained under fatigue. There were pillows
and cushions galore, and cunning wraps deftly-stowed in corners.
"Our dear mother," he explained, laughingly, "shall carry away with
her a favourable impression of Lorge, though she is so ungrateful as
to leave us with too evident alacrity. Never mind. It becomes the
Church to be forgiving, and, returned to the capital, she will reward
us with remembrance in her prayers."
As at last she drove away, with a darling wedged in on either side,
like panniers on a donkey, the marechale blamed herself bitterly for
her unjust suspicions. How could the man have evil intentions, since
he was so ready to speed upon their road those whom, if suspicions
were true, it was his direct interest to keep under control? And
if--as was clearly proven--he had evolved no base scheme with regard
to the children and their guardian--why should he be scheming to
injure Gabrielle? What could he possibly gain by injuring Gabrielle,
since, after her death, her possessions would pass at once far
out of his reach? It was all preposterous--impossible rather than
improbable--and it behoved a wise and experienced lady of mature years
to scold an hysterical daughter for nourishing injurious fancies. The
nearer she was to Paris, the more jubilant did the old dame become,
the more rosy grew her cogitations. It was certainly nice to have the
cherubs' society in a shut-up house in the suburbs, whose safety lay
in its blankness; but it was improper to be selfish. If there was a
vice against which the marechale was fond of tilting, it was
selfishness. She loathed and abhorred the disfiguring leprosy. No one
should ever say that she was selfish. She would keep the little ones
for a few months, then pack them home again. In her odd state, it was
not quite wise to leave the marquise moping. By and by she would
receive them in her arms, delighted with the good that change of
scene had done them, grateful for the grandmother's care. As for M.
Galland--the estimable and upright, but somewhat square-toed,
solicitor, to whose acumen the late marechal had been misguided enough
to trust, rather than to the wisdom of his singularly clear-brained
wife, she would be able to report most favourably. He had urged,
almost compelled, the journey to Touraine, being oppressed by some
indefinite apprehension. Madame la Marquise, he had explained, wrote
so seldom and so little, that he began to think there must be some
reason for her reticence. Regardless of self, or plaguey pains and
aches, the devoted mother had travelled that weary distance, and in
late autumn, too, when east winds are so unpleasantly familiar. Martyr
to duty and an irrepressibly conscientious solicitor, she had been,
and she had come back. The tiresomely apprehensive Galland would be
delighted with the assurance that the Marquise de Gange was well; that
the marquis, temporarily absent on business, was likewise well; that
two of the most charming and devotedly attentive men on earth were his
half-brothers, on whose backs the wings were already sprouting, that
they might join the hierarchy of heaven. As for the cherubs, she had
brought them as specimens of the results of Touraine air. The arms of
the darlings were healthily brown, and prematurely developed by
boating exercise on the Loire. They were quite bursting with health
and spirits, and would very likely be insulted in the streets as
aggressive and reproachful examples of country versus town. M.
Galland's apprehensions, clearly demonstrated to be of the most idle
description, would vanish; he would sleep on his two ears, as the
saying hath it; and worry the grandmother no more.
On the evening of her arrival, the solicitor dined with her, anxious
for a report as to the doings in Touraine. He hearkened to her wisdom,
nor strove to stem the ocean of her prate, which babbled on
unceasingly. She was provoked to observe that he was absent, and that
his moody brow remained clouded despite the rosiness of her report. Of
course, he did not believe her. Nobody ever had, worse luck for the
world in general; but it was really just a shade too insolent to have
sent her all that distance in a ram-shackle old shanderydan, and, the
pilgrimage completed, to treat the result of her observations as mere
draught whistling through a keyhole. The old lady was so hurt that she
was unable to control her vexation. "Of course, I'm a fool," she
gurgled. "If I'm so incurably imbecile, why did you not go yourself?
These children, I suppose, are no evidence, with their gladsome eyes
and ruddy faces!"
M. Galland did not reply at once, for he was thinking.
"It might have been as well, perhaps, madame, if I had accompanied
you," he slowly said at last. "The children, thank goodness! are in
perfect health. The marquis, you admit, was absent; his brothers
practically in possession. One lady and two gentlemen--a cosy party of
three."
"Wrong!" cried the marechale in triumph. "Always the same. You
interrupt and jump at conclusions without having the decent civility
to hear me out. Some men are insufferably rude."
"How wrong?" enquired the solicitor, anxiously.
"There were two ladies in the house; but the second held so much aloof
that I was hardly aware of her presence. That struck me as a little
odd, for she was an invited guest--a Mademoiselle Brunelle, at one
time governess to the little ones."
M. Galland started, and the cloud on his brow deepened.
That woman again! She whom he had himself expelled by the express
orders of De Breze. How had she wormed herself into the house a second
time. And she held aloof, too--was not one of the family circle--sure
sign that her presence there was contrary to the wish of the marquise.
"Of a certainty," reflected the solicitor, "I should have done well to
go down myself. Strange as it may seem, it looks very much as if the
forebodings of madame were to be realized."
M. Galland muffled himself to the eyes in his roquelaure, and preceded
by a trusty servant with a lantern, walked rapidly home, exceedingly
disturbed in mind. "If aught happens to her," he kept murmuring, "it
will be a cause of acutest self-reproach as long as I live. And yet
how could a steady-going old lawyer take a woman's romantic
presentiments into account? She declared when she left Paris, that she
was going to her death. A fear without solid basis founded upon fancy.
And that declaration that she made before the magistrate. Did she see
with prophetic vision? I've heard of such cases, but never credited
them. Have I unwittingly betrayed my trust? If anything happens,
how, in the next world, shall I dare to meet her father? It is
strange--extremely strange."
Proceeding to his study, M. Galland took up an open letter, and with
gathering frown, perused it carefully for the fourth time. It was a
letter from a brother solicitor at Blois, formally enquiring for
information. The Marquis de Gange, the stranger explained, was anxious
to emigrate secretly with his family, and to that end desired to raise
money. All Touraine knew that the beautiful marquise, his wife, was
the money-bag, and it had struck him, the solicitor, as irregular that
the marquise should not herself have made the request, if not in
person, at least in writing. M. le Marquis had explained her absence
by frankly confessing that she knew nothing of his move, she being in
so nervous and over-wrought a condition through terror, that it would
be dangerous to consult her on the subject. It was solely on her
account that he was anxious to leave France in secret and without
delay, for she was in so precarious a state of nervous prostration
that only in a peaceful land could it be hoped that she would rally.
As security for the sum required--nothing very considerable--the
marquis had produced his wife's testament, showing that even if,
unfortunately, her health succumbed on the journey, her sorrowing
widower would be in condition to repay the loan.
The matter was nothing very extraordinary. In these ticklish times,
much stranger requests were being made each day, but it had struck the
provincial firm that before complying, it would be only regular and
courteous to inform the family solicitor.
"Regular and courteous, indeed!" sighed M. Galland, as he folded and
locked away the letter. "It is all too plain. She has been forced, as
she feared, to make another will. Her husband is trying to raise money
on it. Meanwhile, she is left in the custody of his brothers and that
woman. Is it coercion, or has she changed her mind? I should dearly
like to know if there is a cross after the signature. Perhaps she has
really changed her mind, and I am an over-anxious old donkey. Her
mother declared that she is well and happy, and a mother ought to be a
judge. But such a mother! cackling, silly goose. And what could have
induced madame to send away the children? If well enough to deceive a
mother's eye, the marquis has deliberately lied. There is a mystery
that looks mighty black, and must forthwith be fathomed. This raising
of funds without her knowledge shall be nipped in the bud at once; and
if I turn out to be wrong, I can afford to accept the responsibility.
Yes. I will fire a random shot and inform the firm at Blois by special
courier that their will is mere waste paper."