While the new farm-house was being built Michu the Judas, so-called, and
his family occupied the rooms over the stables at Cinq-Cygne on the side
of the chateau next to the famous breach. He bought two horses, one
for himself and one for Francois, and they both joined Gothard in
accompanying Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne in her many rides, which had for
their object, as may well be imagined, the feeding of the four gentlemen
and perpetual watching that they were still in safety. Francois and
Gothard, assisted by Couraut and the countess’s dogs, went in front and
beat the woods all around the hiding-place to make sure that there was
no one within sight. Laurence and Michu carried the provisions which
Marthe, her mother, and Catherine prepared, unknown to the other
servants of the household so as to restrict the secret to themselves,
for all were sure that there were spies in the village. These
expeditions were never made oftener than twice a week and on different
days and at different hours, sometimes by day, sometimes by night.
These precautions lasted until the trial of Riviere, Polignac, and
Moreau ended. When the senatus-consultum, which called the dynasty of
Bonaparte to the throne and nominated Napoleon as Emperor of the French,
was submitted to the French people for acceptance Monsieur d’Hauteserre
signed the paper Goulard brought him. When it was made known that
the Pope would come to France to crown the Emperor, Mademoiselle de
Cinq-Cygne no longer opposed the general desire that her cousins and the
young d’Hauteserres should petition to have their names struck off
the list of _emigres_, and be themselves reinstated in their rights
as citizens. On this, old d’Hauteserre went to Paris and consulted the
ci-devant Marquis de Chargeboeuf who knew Talleyrand. That minister,
then in favor, conveyed the petition to Josephine, and Josephine gave it
to her husband, who was addressed as Emperor, Majesty, Sire, before the
result of the popular vote was known. Monsieur de Chargeboeuf, Monsieur
d’Hauteserre, and the Abbe Goujet, who also went to Paris, obtained an
interview with Talleyrand, who promised them his support. Napoleon had
already pardoned several of the principal actors in the great royalist
conspiracy; and yet, though the four gentlemen were merely suspected of
complicity, the Emperor, after a meeting of the Council of State, called
the senator Malin, Fouche, Talleyrand, Cambaceres, Lebrun, and Dubois,
prefect of police, into his cabinet.
“Gentlemen,” said the future Emperor, who still wore the dress of
the First Consul, “we have received from the Sieurs de Simeuse and
d’Hauteserre, officers in the army of the Prince de Conde, a request to
be allowed to re-enter France.”
“They are here now,” said Fouche.
“Like many others whom I meet in Paris,” remarked Talleyrand.
“I think you have not met these gentlemen,” said Malin, “for they are
hidden in the forest of Nodesme, where they consider themselves at
home.”
He was careful not to tell the First Consul and Fouche how he himself
had given them warning, by talking with Grevin within hearing of Michu,
but he made the most of Corentin’s reports and convinced Napoleon that
the four gentlemen were sharers in the plot of Riviere and Polignac,
with Michu for an accomplice. The prefect of police confirmed these
assertions.
“But how could that bailiff know that the conspiracy was discovered?”
said the prefect, “for the Emperor and the council and I were the only
persons in the secret.”
No one paid attention to this remark.
“If they have been hidden in that forest for the last seven months and
you have not been able to find them,” said the Emperor to Fouche, “they
have expiated their misdeeds.”
“Since they are my enemies as well,” said Malin, frightened by the
Emperor’s clear-sightedness, “I desire to follow the magnanimous example
of your Majesty; I therefore make myself their advocate and ask that
their names be stricken from the list of _emigres_.”
“They will be less dangerous to you here than if they are exiled; for
they will now have to swear allegiance to the Empire and the laws,” said
Fouche, looking at Malin fixedly.
“In what way are they dangerous to the senator?” asked Napoleon.
Talleyrand spoke to the Emperor for some minutes in a low voice. The
reinstatement of the Messieurs de Simeuse and d’Hauteserre appeared to
be granted.
“Sire,” said Fouche, “rely upon it, you will hear of those men again.”
Talleyrand, who had been urged by the Duc de Grandlieu, gave the Emperor
pledges in the name of the young men on their honor as gentlemen (a term
which had great fascination for Napoleon), to abstain from all attacks
upon his Majesty and to submit themselves to his government in good
faith.
“Messieurs d’Hauteserre and de Simeuse are not willing to bear arms
against France, now that events have taken their present course,” he
said, aloud; “they have little sympathy, it is true, with the Imperial
government, but they are just the men that your Majesty ought to
conciliate. They will be satisfied to live on French soil and obey the
laws.”
Then he laid before the Emperor a letter he had received from the
brothers in which these sentiments were expressed.
“Anything so frank is likely to be sincere,” said the Emperor, returning
the letter and looking at Lebrun and Cambaceres. “Have you any further
suggestions?” he asked of Fouche.
“In your Majesty’s interests,” replied the future minister of police, “I
ask to be allowed to inform these gentlemen of their reinstatement--when
it is _really granted_,” he added, in a louder tone.
“Very well,” said Napoleon, noticing an anxious look on Fouche’s face.
The matter did not seem positively decided when the Council rose; but it
had the effect of putting into Napoleon’s mind a vague distrust of the
four young men. Monsieur d’Hauteserre, believing that all was gained,
wrote a letter announcing the good news. The family at Cinq-Cygne were
therefore not surprised when, a few days later, Goulard came to inform
the countess and Madame d’Hauteserre that they were to send the four
gentlemen to Troyes, where the prefect would show them the decree
reinstating them in their rights and administer to them the oath of
allegiance to the Empire and the laws. Laurence replied that she would
send the notification to her cousins and the Messieurs d’Hauteserre.
“Then they are not here?” said Goulard.
Madame d’Hauteserre looked anxiously after Laurence, who left the room
to consult Michu. Michu saw no reason why the young men should not be
released at once from their hiding-place. Laurence, Michu, his son, and
Gothard therefore started as soon as possible for the forest, taking
an extra horse, for the countess resolved to accompany her cousins to
Troyes and return with them. The whole household, made aware of the
good news, gathered on the lawn to witness the departure of the happy
cavalcade. The four young men issued from their long confinement,
mounted their horses, and took the road to Troyes, accompanied by
Mademoiselle Cinq-Cygne. Michu, with the help of his son and Gothard,
closed the entrance to the cellar, and started to return home on foot.
On the way he recollected that he had left the forks and spoons and a
silver cup, which the young men had been using, in the cave, and he
went back for them alone. When he reached the edge of the pond he
heard voices, and went straight to the entrance of the cave through the
brushwood.
“Have you come for your silver?” said Peyrade, showing his big red nose
through the branches.
Without knowing why, for at any rate his young masters were safe, Michu
felt a sharp agony in all his joints, so keen was the sense of vague,
indefinable coming evil which took possession of him; but he went
forward at once, and found Corentin on the stairs with a taper in his
hand.
“We are not very harsh,” he said to Michu; “we might have seized
your ci-devants any day for the last week; but we knew they were
reinstated--You’re a tough fellow to deal with, and you gave us too
much trouble not to make us anxious to satisfy our curiosity about this
hiding-place of yours.”
“I’d give something,” cried Michu, “to know how and by whom we have been
sold.”
“If that puzzles you, old fellow,” said Peyrade, laughing, “look at your
horses’ shoes, and you’ll see that you betrayed yourselves.”
“Well, there need be no rancor!” said Corentin, whistling for the
captain of gendarmerie and their horses.
“So that rascally Parisian blacksmith who shoed the horses in the
English fashion and left Cinq-Cygne only the other day was their spy!”
thought Michu. “They must have followed our tracks when the ground was
damp. Well, we’re quits now!”
Michu consoled himself by thinking that the discovery was of no
consequence, as the young men were now safe, Frenchmen once more, and at
liberty. Yet his first presentiment was a true one. The police, like the
Jesuits, have the one virtue of never abandoning their friends or their
enemies.
Old d’Hauteserre returned from Paris and was more than surprised not to
be the first to bring the news. Durieu prepared a succulent dinner,
the servants donned their best clothes, and the household impatiently
awaited the exiles, who arrived about four o’clock, happy,--and yet
humiliated, for they found they were to be under police surveillance for
two years, obliged to present themselves at the prefecture every month
and ordered to remain in the commune of Cinq-Cygne during the said two
years. “I’ll send you the papers for signature,” the prefect said to
them. “Then, in the course of a few months, you can ask to be relieved
of these conditions, which are imposed on all of Pichegru’s accomplices.
I will back your request.”
These restrictions, fairly deserved, rather dispirited the young men,
but Laurence laughed at them.
“The Emperor of the French,” she said, “was badly brought up; he has not
yet acquired the habit of bestowing favors graciously.”
The party found all the inhabitants of the chateau at the gates, and a
goodly proportion of the people of the village waiting on the road to
see the young men, whose adventures had made them famous throughout the
department. Madame d’Hauteserre held her sons to her breast for a long
time, her face covered with tears; she was unable to speak and remained
silent, though happy, through a part of the evening. No sooner had the
Simeuse twins dismounted than a cry of surprise arose on all sides,
caused by their amazing resemblance,--the same look, the same voice,
the same actions. They both had the same movement in rising from their
saddles, in throwing their leg over the crupper of their horses when
dismounting, in flinging the reins upon the animal’s neck. Their dress,
precisely the same, contributed to this likeness. They wore boots _a la_
Suwaroff, made to fit the instep, tight trousers of white leather, green
hunting-jackets with metal buttons, black cravats, and buckskin gloves.
The two young men, just thirty-one years of age, were--to use a term in
vogue in those days--charming cavaliers, of medium height but well set
up, brilliant eyes with long lashes, floating in liquid like those of
children, black hair, noble brows, and olive skin. Their speech, gentle
as that of a woman, fell graciously from their fresh red lips; their
manners, more elegant and polished than those of the provincial
gentlemen, showed that knowledge of men and things had given them that
supplementary education which makes its possessor a man of the world.
Not lacking money, thanks to Michu, during their emigration, they had
been able to travel and be received at foreign courts. Old d’Hauteserre
and the abbe thought them rather haughty; but in their present position
this may have been the sign of nobility of character. They possessed all
the eminent little marks of a careful education, to which they added a
wonderful dexterity in bodily exercises. Their only dissimilarity was
in the region of ideas. The youngest charmed others by his gaiety, the
eldest by his melancholy; but the contrast, which was purely spiritual,
was not at first observable.
“Ah, wife,” whispered Michu in Marthe’s ear, “how could one help
devoting one’s self to those young fellows?”
Marthe, who admired them as a wife and mother, nodded her head prettily
and pressed her husband’s hand. The servants were allowed to kiss their
new masters.
During their seven months’ seclusion in the forest (which the young
men had brought upon themselves) they had several times committed the
imprudence of taking walks about their hiding-place, carefully guarded
by Michu, his son, and Gothard. During these walks, taken usually on
starlit nights, Laurence, reuniting the thread of their past and present
lives, felt the utter impossibility of choosing between the brothers. A
pure and equal love for each divided her heart. She fancied indeed
that she had two hearts. On their side, the brothers dared not speak to
themselves of their impending rivalry. Perhaps all three were trusting
to time and accident. The condition of her mind on this subject acted
no doubt upon Laurence as they entered the house, for she hesitated a
moment, and then took an arm of each as she entered the salon followed
by Monsieur and Madame d’Hauteserre, who were occupied with their sons.
Just then a cheer burst from the servants, “Long live the Cinq-Cygne
and the Simeuse families!” Laurence turned round, still between the
brothers, and made a charming gesture of acknowledgement.
When these nine persons came to actually observe each other,--for in
all meetings, even in the bosom of families, there comes a moment when
friends observe those from whom they have been long parted,--the first
glance which Adrien d’Hauteserre cast upon Laurence seemed to his
mother and to the abbe to betray love. Adrien, the youngest of the
d’Hauteserres, had a sweet and tender soul; his heart had remained
adolescent in spite of the catastrophes which had nerved the man. Like
many young heroes, kept virgin in spirit by perpetual peril, he was
daunted by the timidities of youth. In this he was very different
from his brother, a man of rough manners, a great hunter, an intrepid
soldier, full of resolution, but coarse in fibre and without activity
of mind or delicacy in matters of the heart. One was all soul, the other
all action; and yet they both possessed in the same degree that sense of
honor which is the vital essence of a gentleman. Dark, short, slim
and wiry, Adrien d’Hauteserre gave an impression of strength; whereas
Robert, who was tall, pale and fair, seemed weakly. Adrien, nervous in
temperament, was stronger in soul; while his brother though
lymphatic, was fonder of bodily exercise. Families often present these
singularities of contrast, the causes of which it might be interesting
to examine; but they are mentioned here merely to explain how it was
that Adrien was not likely to find a rival in his brother. Robert’s
affection for Laurence was that of a relation, the respect of a
noble for a girl of his own caste. In matters of sentiment the elder
d’Hauteserre belonged to the class of men who consider woman as
an appendage to man, limiting her sphere to the physical duties of
maternity; demanding perfection in that respect, but regarding her
mentally as of no account. To such men the admittance of woman as an
actual sharer in society, in the body politic, in the family, meant the
subversion of the social system. In these days we are so far removed
from this theory of primitive people that almost all women, even those
who do not desire the fatal emancipation offered by the new sects, will
be shocked in merely hearing of it; but it must be owned that Robert
d’Hauteserre had the misfortune to think in that way. Robert was a man
of the middle-ages, Adrien a man of to-day. These differences instead of
hindering their affection had drawn its bonds the closer. On the first
evening after the return of the young men these shades of character
were caught and understood by the abbe, Mademoiselle Goujet, and Madame
d’Hauteserre, who, while playing their boston, were secretly foreseeing
the difficulties of the future.
At twenty-three years of age, having passed through the many reflections
of a long solitude and the anguish of a defeated enterprise, Laurence
had become a woman, and felt within her an absorbing desire for
affection. She now put forth all her graces of her mind and was
charming; she revealed the hidden beauties of her tender heart with the
simple candor of a child. For the last thirteen years she had been a
woman only through suffering; she longed to obtain amends for it, and
she showed herself as loving and winning as she had been, up to this
time, strong and great.
The four elders, who were the last to leave the salon that night,
admitted to each other that they felt uneasy at the new position of this
charming girl. What power might not passion have on a young woman of
her character and with her nobility of soul? The twin brothers loved her
with one and the same love and a blind devotion; which of the two would
Laurence choose? To choose one was to kill the other. Countess in her
own right, she could bring her husband a title and certain prerogatives,
together with a long lineage. Perhaps in thinking of these advantages
the elder of the twins, the Marquis de Simeuse, would sacrifice himself
to give Laurence to his brother, who, according to the old laws, was
poor and without a title. But would the younger brother deprive the
elder of the happiness of having Laurence for a wife? At a distance,
this strife of love and generosity might do no harm,--in fact, so long
as the brothers were facing danger the chances of war might end
the difficulty; but what would be the result of this reunion? When
Marie-Paul and Paul-Marie reached the age when passions rise to their
greatest height could they share, as now, the looks and words and
attentions of their cousin? must there not inevitably arise a jealousy
between them the consequences of which might be horrible? What would
then become of the unity of those beautiful lives, one in heart though
twain in body? To these questionings, passed from one to another as they
finished their game, Madame d’Hauteserre replied that in her opinion
Laurence would not marry either of her cousins. The poor lady had
experienced that evening one of those inexplicable presentiments which
are secrets between the mother’s heart and God.
Laurence, in her inward consciousness, was not less alarmed at finding
herself tete-a-tete with her cousins. To the active drama of conspiracy,
to the dangers which the brothers had incurred, to the pain and
penalties of their exile, was now succeeding another sort of drama, of
which she had never thought. This noble girl could not resort to the
violent means of refusing to marry either of the twins; and she was too
honest a woman to marry one and keep an irresistible passion for the
other in her heart. To remain unmarried, to weary her cousins’ love by
no decision, and then to take the one who was faithful to her in spite
of her caprices, was a solution of the difficulty not so much sought
for by her as vaguely admitted. As she fell asleep that night she told
herself the wisest course to follow was to let things take their chance.
Chance is, in love, the providence of women.
The next morning Michu went to Paris, whence he returned a few days
later with four fine horses for his new masters. In six weeks’ time the
hunting would begin, and the young countess sagely reflected that
the violent excitements of that exercise would be a help against the
tete-a-tetes of the chateau. At first, however, an unexpected result
surprised the spectators of these strange loves and roused their
admiration. Without any premeditated agreement the brothers rivalled
each other in attentions to Laurence, with a sense of pleasure in so
doing which appeared to suffice them. The relation between themselves
and Laurence was just as fraternal as that between themselves. What
could be more natural? After so long an absence they felt the necessity
of studying her, of knowing her well and letting her know them, leaving
to her the right of choice. They were sustained in this first trial by
the mutual affection which made their double life one and the same life.
Love, like their own mother, was unable to distinguish between the
brothers. Laurence was obliged (in order to know them apart and make no
mistakes) to give them different cravats--to the elder a white one, to
the younger black. Without this perfect resemblance, this identity of
life, which misled all about them, such a situation would be justly
thought impossible. It can, indeed, be explained only by the fact
itself, which is one of those which men do not believe in unless they
see them; and then the mind is more bewildered by having to explain them
than by the actual sight which caused belief. If Laurence spoke, her
voice echoed in two hearts equally faithful and loving with one tone.
Did she give utterance to an intelligent, or witty, or noble thought,
her glance encountered the delight expressed in two glances which
followed her every movement, interpreted her slightest wish, and
beamed upon her ever with a new expression, gaiety in the one, tender
melancholy in the other. In any matter that concerned their mistress
the brothers showed an admirable quick-wittedness of heart coupled with
instant action which (to use the abbe’s own expression) approached the
sublime. Often, if something had to be fetched, if it was a question of
some little attention which men delight to pay to a beloved woman, the
elder would leave that pleasure to the younger with a look at Laurence
that was proud and tender. The younger, on the other hand, put all his
own pride into paying such debts. This rivalry of noble natures in a
feeling which leads men often to the jealous ferocity of the beasts
amazed the old people who were watching it, and bewildered their ideas.
Such little details often drew tears to the eyes of the countess.
A single sensation, which is perhaps all-powerful in some rare
organizations, will give an idea of Laurence’s emotions; it may be
perceived by recalling the perfect unison of two fine voices (like those
of Malibran and Sontag) in some harmonious _duo_, or the blending of
two instruments touched by the hand of genius, their melodious tones
entering the soul like the passionate sighing of one heart. Sometimes,
seeing the Marquis de Simeuse buried in an arm-chair and glancing from
time to time with deepest melancholy at his brother and Laurence who
were talking and laughing, the abbe believed him capable of making the
great sacrifice; presently, however, the priest would see in the young
man’s eyes the flash of an unconquerable passion. Whenever either of the
brothers found himself alone with Laurence he might reasonably suppose
himself the one preferred.
“I fancy then that there is but one of them,” explained the countess to
the abbe when he questioned her. That answer showed the priest her total
want of coquetry. Laurence did not conceive that she was loved by two
men.
“But, my dear child,” said Madame d’Hauteserre one evening (her own son
silently dying of love for Laurence), “you must choose!”
“Oh, let us be happy,” she replied; “God will save us from ourselves.”
Adrien d’Hauteserre buried within his breast the jealousy that was
consuming him; he kept the secret of his torture, aware of how little
he could hope. He tried to be content with the happiness of seeing the
charming woman who during the few months this struggle lasted shone in
all her brilliancy. In one sense Laurence had become coquettish, taking
that dainty care of her person which women who are loved delight in.
She followed the fashions, and went more than once to Paris to deck her
beauty with _chiffons_ or some choice novelty. Desirous of giving her
cousins a sense of home and its every enjoyment, from which they had so
long been severed, she made her chateau, in spite of the remonstrances
of her late guardian, the most completely comfortable house in
Champagne.
Robert d’Hauteserre saw nothing of this hidden drama; he never noticed
his brother’s love for Laurence. As to the girl herself, he liked to
tease her about her coquetry,--for he confounded that odious defect
with the natural desire to please; he was always mistaken in matters
of feeling, taste, and the higher ethics. So, whenever this man of
the middle-ages appeared on the scene, Laurence immediately made him,
unknown to himself, the clown of the play; she amused her cousins by
arguing with Robert, and leading him, step by step, into some bog of
ignorance and stupidity. She excelled in such clever mischief, which,
to be really successful, must leave the victim content with himself.
And yet, though his nature was a coarse one, Robert never, during those
delightful months (the only happy period in the lives of the three
young people) said one virile word which might have brought matters to
a crisis between Laurence and her cousins. He was struck with the
sincerity of the brothers; he saw how the one could be glad at the
happiness of the other and yet suffer anguish in the depths of his
heart, and he did perceive how a woman might shrink from showing
tenderness to one which would grieve the other. This perception on
Robert’s part was a just one; it explains a situation which, in times
of faith, when the sovereign pontiff had power to intervene and cut
the Gordian knot of such phenomena (allied to the deepest and most
impenetrable mysteries), would have found its solution. The Revolution
had deepened the Catholic faith in these young hearts, and religion now
rendered this crisis in their lives the more severe, because nobility of
character is ever heightened by the grandeur of circumstances. A sense
of this truth kept Monsieur and Madame d’Hauteserre and the abbe from
the slightest fear of any unworthy result on the part of the brothers or
of Laurence.
This private drama, secretly developing within the limits of the family
life where each member watched it silently, ran its course so rapidly
and withal so slowly, it carried with it so many unhoped-for pleasures,
trifling jars, frustrated fancies, hopes reversed, anxious waitings,
delayed explanations and mute avowals that the dwellers at Cinq-Cygne
paid no attention to the public drama of the Emperor’s coronation. At
times these passions made a truce and sought distraction in the violent
enjoyment of hunting, when weariness of body took from the soul all
occasions to wander in the dangerous meadows of reverie. Neither
Laurence nor her cousins had a thought now for public affairs; each day
brought its palpitating and absorbing interests for their hearts.
“Really,” said Mademoiselle Goujet one evening, “I don’t know which of
all the lovers loves the most.”
Adrien, who happened to be alone in the salon with the four
card-players, raised his eyes and turned pale. For the last few days
his only hold on life had been the pleasure of seeing Laurence and of
listening to her.
“I think,” said the abbe, “that the countess, being a woman, loves with
the greater abandonment to love.”
Laurence, the twins, and Robert entered the room soon after. The
newspapers had just arrived. England, seeing the failure of all
conspiracies attempted within the borders of France, was now arming
all Europe against their common enemy. The disaster at Trafalgar
had overthrown one of the most amazing plans which human genius ever
conceived; by which, if it had succeeded, the Emperor would have paid
the nation for his election by the ruin of the British power. The camp
at Boulogne had just been raised. Napoleon, whose solders were, as
always, inferior in numbers to the enemy, was about to carry the war
into parts of Europe where he had not before waged it. The whole world
was breathless, awaiting the results of the campaign.
“He’ll surely be defeated this time,” said Robert, laying down the
paper.
“The armies of Austria and of Russia are before him,” said Marie-Paul.
“He has never fought in Germany,” added Paul-Marie.
“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Laurence.
“The Emperor,” answered the three gentlemen.
The jealous girl threw a disdainful look at her twin lovers, which
humiliated them while it rejoiced the heart of Adrien, who made a
gesture of admiration and gave her one proud look, which said plainly
that _he_ thought only of her,--of Laurence.
“I told you,” said the abbe in a low voice, “that love would some day
cause her to forget her animosity.”
It was the first, last, and only reproach the brothers ever received
from her; but certainly at that moment their love, which could still be
distracted by national events, was inferior to that of Laurence, which,
absorbed her mind so completely that she only knew of the amazing
triumph at Austerlitz by overhearing a discussion between Monsieur
d’Hauteserre and his sons.
Faithful to his ideas of submission, the old man wished both Robert and
Adrien to re-enter the French army and apply for service; they could,
he thought, be reinstated in their rank and soon find an opening
to military honors. But royalist opinions were now all-powerful at
Cinq-Cygne. The four young men and Laurence laughed at their prudent
elder, who seemed to foresee a coming evil. Possibly, prudence is less
virtue than the exercise of some instinct, or _sense_ of the mind (if it
is allowable to couple those two words). A day will come, no doubt, when
physiologists and philosophers will both admit that the senses are, in
some way, the sheath or vehicle of a keen and penetrative active power
which issues from the mind.