A DUCAL MONOMANIAC.
The traveller who wishes to go from Poitiers to London by the shortest
route will find that the simplest way is to take a seat in the
stage-coach which runs to Saumur; and when you book your place, the
polite clerk tells you that you must take your seat punctually at six
o’clock. The next morning, therefore, the traveller has to rise from his
bed at a very early hour, and make a hurried and incomplete toilet, and
on arriving, flushed and panting, at the office, discover that there was
no occasion for such extreme haste.
In the hotel from whence the coach starts every one seems to be asleep,
and a waiter, whose eyes are scarcely open, wanders languidly about.
There is not the slightest good in losing your temper, or in pouring out
a string of violent remonstrances. In a small restaurant opposite a cup
of hot coffee can be procured, and it is there that the disappointed
travellers congregate, to await the hour when the coach really makes a
start.
At length, however, all is ready, the conductor utters a tremendous
execration, the coachman cracks his whip, the horses spring forward, the
wheels rattle, and the coach is off at last. Whilst the conductor smokes
his pipe tranquilly, the passengers gaze out of the windows and admire
the beautiful aspect of the surrounding country. On each side stretch
the woods and fields of Bevron. The covers are full of game, which has
increased enormously, as the owner of the property has never allowed a
shot to be fired since he had the misfortune, some twenty years ago, to
kill one of his dependents whilst out shooting. On the right hand side
some distance off rise the tower and battlements of the Chateau de
Mussidan. It is two years ago since the Dowager Countess of Chevanche
died, leaving all her fortune to her niece, Mademoiselle Sabine de
Mussidan. She was a kind-hearted woman, rough and ready in her manner,
but very popular amongst the peasantry. Farther off, on the top of some
rising ground, appears an imposing structure, of an ancient style of
architecture; this is the ancient residence of the Dukes of Champdoce.
The left wing is a picturesque mass of ruins; the roof has fallen
in, and the mullions of the windows are dotted with a thick growth of
clustering ivy. Rain, storm, and sunshine have all done their work, and
painted the mouldering walls with a hundred varied tints. In 1840 the
inheritor of one of the noblest names of France resided here with
his only son. The name of the present proprietor was Caesar Guillaume
Duepair de Champdoce. He was looked upon both by the gentry and
peasantry of the country side as a most eccentric individual. He could
be seen any day wandering about, dressed in the most shabby manner, and
wearing a coat that was frequently in urgent need of repair, a leathern
cap on his head, wooden shoes, and a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. In
winter he supplemented to these an ancient sheepskin coat. He was sixty
years of age, very powerfully built, and possessing enormous strength.
The expression upon his face showed that his will was as strong as
his thews and sinews. Beneath his shaggy eyebrows twinkled a pair of
light-gray eyes, which darkened when a fit of passion overtook him, and
this was no unusual occurrence.
During his military career in the army of the Conde, he had received
a sabre cut across his cheek, and the cicatrice imparted a strange and
unpleasant expression to his face. He was not a bad-hearted man, but
headstrong, violent, and tyrannical to a degree. The peasants saluted
him with a mixture of respect and dread as he walked to the chapel, to
which he was a regular attendant on Sundays, with his son. During the
Mass he made the responses in an audible voice, and at its conclusion
invariably put a five-franc piece into the plate. This, his subscription
to the newspaper, and the sum he paid for being shaved twice each week,
constituted the whole of his outlay upon himself. He kept an excellent
table, however; plump fowls, vegetables of all kinds, and the most
delicious fruit were never absent from it. Everything, however, that
appeared upon his well-plenished board was the produce of his fields,
gardens, or woods. The nobility and gentry of the neighborhood
frequently invited him to their hospitable tables, for they looked upon
him as the head and chief of the nobility of the county; but he always
refused their invitations, saying plainly, “No man who has the slightest
respect for himself will accept hospitalities which he is not in a
position to return.” It was not the grinding clutch of poverty that
drove the Duke to this exercise of severe economy, for his income from
his estates brought him in fifty thousand francs per annum; and it was
reported that his investments brought him in as much more. As a matter
of course, therefore, he was looked upon as a miser, and a victim to the
sordid vice of avarice.
His past life might, in some degree, offer an explanation of this
conduct. Born in 1780, the Duke de Champdoce had joined the band of
emigrants which swelled the ranks of Conde’s army. An implacable opposer
of the Revolution, he resided, during the glorious days of the Empire,
in London, where dire poverty compelled him to gain a livelihood as a
fencing master at the Restoration. He came back with the Bourbons to
his native land, and, by an almost miraculous chance, was put again in
possession of his ancestral domains. But in his opinion he was living
in a state of utter destitution as compared to the enormous revenues
enjoyed by the dead-and-gone members of the Champdoce family; and what
pained him more was to see rise up by the side of the old aristocracy a
new race which had attached itself to commerce and entered into business
transactions. As he gazed upon the new order of things, the man whose
pride of birth and position almost amounted to insanity, conceived the
project to which he determined to devote the remainder of his life. He
imagined that he had discovered a means by which he could restore the
ancient house of Champdoce to all its former splendor and position. “I
can,” said he, “by living like a peasant and resorting to no unnecessary
expense, treble my capital in twenty years; and if my son and my
grandson will only follow my example, the race of Champdoce will again
recover the proud position that it formerly held.” Faithful to this idea,
he wedded, in 1820, although his heart was entirely untouched, a young
girl of noble birth but utterly devoid of beauty, though possessed of
a magnificent dowry. Their union was an extremely unhappy one, and many
persons did not hesitate to accuse the Duke of treating with harshness
and severity a young girl, who, having brought her husband five hundred
thousand francs, could not understand why she should be refused a new
dress when she urgently needed it. After twelve months of inconceivable
unhappiness, she gave birth to a son who was baptized Louis Norbert, and
six months afterwards she sank into an untimely grave.
The Duke did not seem to regret his loss very deeply. The boy appeared
to be of a strong and robust constitution, and his mother’s dowry would
go to swell the revenues of the Champdoce family. He made his recent
loss, too, the pretext for further retrenchments and economies.
Norbert was brought up exactly as a farmer’s son would have been. Every
morning he started off to work, carrying his day’s provisions in a
basket slung upon his back. As he grew older, he was taught to sow and
reap, to estimate the value of a standing crop at a glance, and, last
but not least, to drive a hard bargain. For a long time the Duke debated
the expediency of permitting his son to be taught to read or write; and
if he did so at last, it was owing to some severe remarks by the parish
priest upon the day on which Norbert took the sacrament for the first
time.
All went on well and smoothly until the day when Norbert, on his
sixteenth birthday, accompanied his father to Poitiers for the first
time.
At sixteen years of age, Louis Norbert de Champdoce looked fully twenty,
and was as handsome a youth as could be seen for miles round. The sun
had given a bronzed tint to his features which was exceedingly becoming.
He had black hair, with a slight curl running through it, and large
melancholy blue eyes, which he inherited from his mother. Poor girl! it
was the sole beauty that she had possessed. He was utterly uncultured,
and had been ruled with such a rod of iron by his father that he had
never been a league from the Chateau. His ideas were barred by the
little town of Bevron, with its sixty houses, its town hall, its small
chapel, and principal river; and to him it seemed a spot full of noise
and confusion. In the whole course of his life he had never spoken
to three persons who did not belong to the district. Bred up in this
secluded manner, it was almost impossible for him to understand that
any one could lead a different existence to that of his own. His only
pleasure was in procuring an abundant harvest, and his sole idea of
excitement was High Mass on Sunday.
For more than a year the village girls had cast sly glances at him, but
he was far too simple and innocent to notice this. When Mass was over,
he generally walked over the farm with his father to inspect the work
of the past week, or to set snares for the birds. His father at last
determined to give him a wider experience, and one day said that he was
to accompany him to Poitiers.
At a very early hour in the morning they started in one of the low
country carts of the district, and under the seat were small sacks,
containing over forty thousand francs in silver money. Norbert had
long wished to visit Poitiers, but had never done so, though it was
but fifteen miles off. Poitiers is a quaint old town, with dilapidated
pavements and tall, gloomy houses, the architecture of which dates from
the tenth century; but Norbert thought that it must be one of the most
magnificent cities in the world. It was market day when they drove in,
and he was absolutely stupefied with surprise and excitement. He had
never believed there could be so many people in one place, and hardly
noticed that the cart had pulled up opposite a lawyer’s office. His
father shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“Come, Norbert, lad, we are there,” said he.
The young man jumped to the ground, and assisted mechanically to remove
the sacks. The servile manner of the lawyer did not strike him, nor did
he listen to the conversation between him and his father. Finally, the
business being concluded, they took their departure, and, driving to the
Market Place, put up the horse and cart at an old-fashioned, dingy inn,
where they took their breakfast in the public room at a table where
the wagoners were having a violent quarrel over their meal. The Duke,
however, had other business to transact than the investment of his
money, for he wanted to find the whereabouts of a miller who was
somewhat in his debt. Norbert waited for him in front of the inn, and
could not help feeling rather uncomfortable at finding himself alone.
All at once some one came up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He
turned round sharply, and found himself face to face with a young man,
who, seeing his look of surprise, said,--
“What! have you entirely forgotten your old friend Montlouis?”
Montlouis was the son of one of the Duke’s farmers, and he and Norbert
had often played together in past years. They had driven their cows
to the meadows together, and had spent long days together fishing or
searching for birds’ nests. The dress now worn by Montlouis had at
first prevented Norbert from recognizing him, for he was attired in
the uniform of the college at which his father had placed him, being
desirous of making something more than a mere farmer of his son.
“What are you doing here?” asked Norbert.
“I am waiting for my father.”
“So am I. Let us have a cup of coffee together.”
Montlouis led his playmate into a small wine shop near at hand. He
seemed a little disposed to presume upon the superior knowledge of the
world which he had recently acquired.
“If there was a billiard-table here,” said he, “we could pass away the
time with a game, though, to be sure, it runs into money.”
Norbert never had had more than a few pence in his pocket at one
time, and at this remark the color rose to his face, and he felt much
humiliated.
“My father,” added the young collegian, “gives me all I ask for. I am
certain of getting one, if not two prizes at the next examination; and
when I have taken my degree, the Count de Mussidan has promised to make
me his steward. What do you think that you will do?”
“I--I don’t know,” stammered Norbert.
“You will, I suppose, dig and toil in the fields, as your father has
done before you. You are the son of the noblest and the richest man for
miles round, and yet you are not so happy as I am.”
Upon the return of the Duke de Champdoce some little time after this
conversation, he did not detect any change in his son’s manner; but the
words spoken by Montlouis had fallen into Norbert’s brain like a subtle
poison, and a few careless sentences uttered by an inconsiderate lad had
annihilated the education of sixteen years, and a complete change had
taken place in Norbert’s mind, a change which was utterly unsuspected by
those around him, for his manner of bringing up had taught him to keep
his own counsel.
The fixed smile on his features entirely masked the angry feelings that
were working in his breast. He went through his daily tasks, which had
once been a pleasure to him, with utter disgust and loathing. His eyes
had been suddenly opened, and he now understood a host of things which
he had never before even endeavored to comprehend. He saw now that his
proper position was among the nobles, whom he never saw except when they
attended Mass at the little chapel in Bevron. The Count de Mussidan, so
haughty and imposing, with his snow-white hair; the aristocratic-looking
Marquis de Laurebourg, of whom the peasants stood in the greatest awe,
were always courteous and even cordial in their salutations, while the
noble dames smiled graciously upon him. Proud and haughty as they were,
they evidently looked upon his father and himself as their equals, in
spite of the coarse garments that they wore. The realization of these
facts effected a great change in Norbert. He was the equal of all these
people, and yet how great a gulf separated him from them. While he and
his father tramped to Mass in heavy shoes, the others drove up in
their carriages with powdered footmen to open the doors. Why was this
extraordinary difference? He knew enough of the value of crops and land
to know that his father was as wealthy as any of these gentlemen. The
laborers on the farm said that his father was a miser, and the villagers
asserted that he got up at night and gazed with rapture upon the
treasure that was hidden away from men’s eyes.
“Norbert is an unhappy lad,” they would say. “He who ought to be able to
command all the pleasures of life is worse off than our own children.”
He also recollected that one day, as his father was talking to the
Marquis de Laurebourg, an old lady, who was doubtless the Marchioness,
had said, “Poor boy! he was so early deprived of a mother’s care!” What
did that mean unless it was a reflection upon the arbitrary behavior of
his father? Norbert saw that these people always had their children with
them, and the sight of this filled him with jealousy, and brought tears
of anguish to his eyes. Sometimes, as he trudged wearily behind his yoke
of oxen, goad in hand, he would see some of these young scions of the
aristocracy canter by on horseback, and the friendly wave of the hand
with which they greeted him almost appeared to his jaundiced mind a
premeditated insult. What could they find to do in Paris, to which they
all took wing at the first breath of winter? This was a question which
he found himself utterly unable to solve. To drink to intoxication
offered no charms to him, and yet this was the only pleasure which the
villagers seemed to enjoy. Those young men must have some higher class
of entertainment, but in what could it consist? Norbert could hardly
read a line without spelling every word; but these new thoughts running
through his mind caused him to study, so as to improve his education.
His father had often told him that he did not like lads who where always
poring over books; and so Norbert did not discontinue his studies, but
simply avoided bringing them under his father’s notice. He knew that
there was a large collection of books in one of the upstairs rooms of
the Chateau. He managed to force the lock of the door, and he found some
thousands of volumes, of which at least two hundred were novels, which
had been the solace of his mother’s unhappy life. With all the eagerness
of a man who is at the point of starvation and finds an unexpected
store of provisions, Norbert seized upon them. At first he had great
difficulty in dividing fact from fiction.
He arrived at two conclusions from perusing this heterogeneous mass of
literature--one was, that he was most unhappy; and the other was, that
he hated his father with a cold and determined loathing. Had he dared,
he would have shown this feeling openly, but the Duke de Champdoce
inspired him with an unconquerable feeling of terror. This state of
affairs continued for some months, and at the end of that time the Duke
felt that he ought to make his son acquainted with his projects. One
Sunday, after supper, he commenced this task. Norbert had never seen
his father so animated as he was at this moment, when all his ancestral
pride blazed in his eyes. He explained at length the acts and deeds of
those heroes who had been the ornament of their house, and enumerated
the influential marriages which had been made by them in the days when
their very name was a power in the land. And what remained of all their
power and rank, save their Parisian domicile, their old Chateau, and
some two hundred thousand francs of income?
Norbert could hardly credit what he heard; he had never believed that
his father possessed such enormous wealth. “Why, it is inconceivable!”
he muttered. And yet, as he looked round, he saw that the surroundings
were those of a peasant’s cottage. How could he endure so many
discomforts and wounds to his pride? In his anger he absolutely started
to his feet with the intention of reproaching his father, but his
courage failed him, and he fell back into a chair, quivering with
emotion.
The Duke de Champdoce was pacing up and down the room.
“Do you think it so little?” asked he angrily.
Norbert knew that not one of the neighboring nobility who had the
reputation of being wealthy possessed half this annual income, and it
was with a feeling of bitter anger in his heart that he listened to the
broken words which fell from his father’s lips. All at once the Duke
halted in front of his son’s chair.
“What fortune I have now,” said he in a hoarse voice, “is little or
nothing in times like these, when the tradesman contrives to make an
almost unlimited income, and, setting up as a gentleman, imitates, not
our virtues, but our vices; while the nobles, not understanding the
present hour, are in poverty and want. Without money, nothing can be
done. To hold his own against these mushroom fortunes, a Champdoce
should possess millions. Neither you nor I, my son, will see our coffers
overflowing with millions, but our descendants will reap the benefit
of our toil. Our ancestors gained their name and glory by their
determination; let us show that we are their worthy offspring.”
As he approached the subject which had occupied his mind entirely for
years, the old noble’s voice quivered and shook.
“I have done my duty,” said he, calming himself by a mighty effort, “and
it is now your turn to do yours. You shall marry some wealthy heiress,
and you shall bring up your son as I have reared and nurtured you. You
will be able to leave him fifteen millions; and if he will only follow
in our footsteps, he will be able to bequeath to his heir a fortune that
a monarch might envy. And this shall and will come to pass, because it
is my fixed determination.”
The strange outburst of confidence petrified Norbert.
“The task is heavy and painful,” continued the Duke, “but it is one that
several scores of illustrious houses have accomplished. He who wishes
to revive the fallen fortunes of some mighty house must live only in the
future, and have no thought but for the prosperity of his descendants.
More than once I have faltered and hesitated, but I have conquered
my weakness, and now only live to make the line of Champdoce the most
wealthy in France. You have seen me haggle for an hour over a wretched
louis, but it was for the reason that at a future day one of our
descendants might fling it to a beggar from the window of his
magnificent equipage. Next year I will take you to Paris and show
you our house there. You will see in it the most wonderful tapestry,
pictures by the best masters, for I have ornamented and embellished
it as a lover adorns a house for a beloved mistress, and that house,
Norbert, is the home that your grandchildren will dwell in.”
The Duke uttered these words in a tone of jubilant triumph.
“I have spoken to you thus,” resumed he, after a short pause, “because
you are now of an age to listen to the truth, and because I wished you
to understand the rules by which you are to regulate your life. You have
now arrived at years of discretion, and must do of your own free will
what you have up to this time done at my bidding. This is all that I
have to say. To-morrow you will take twenty-five sacks of wheat to the
miller at Bevron.”
Like all tyrannical despots, the Duke never contemplated for a moment
the possibility of any one disobeying his commands; yet at this very
moment Norbert was registering a solemn mental oath that he would never
carry out his father’s wishes. His anger, which his fears had so long
restrained, now burst all bounds, and it was in the broad chestnut tree
avenue, behind the Chateau, far from any listening ear, that he gave way
to his despair. So long as he had only looked upon his father as a
mere miser, he had permitted himself to indulge in hope; but now he
understood him better, and saw that life-long plans, such as the Duke
had framed, were not to be easily overruled.
“My father is mad,” said he; “yes; decidedly mad.”
He had made up his mind that for the present he would yield to his
despotism, but afterwards, in the future, what was he to do?
It is an easy thing to find persons to give you bad advice, and the
very next day Norbert found one at Bevron in the shape of a certain man
called Daumon, a bitter enemy of the Duke.