“RASH WORD, RASH DEED.”
After her repulse by Norbert, Diana, with the cold chill of death in her
heart, made her way back to the Chateau of the De Laurebourgs, over
the same road which but a short time before she had traveled full of
expectation and hope. The sudden appearance of the Duke de Champdoce
had filled her with alarm, but her imagination was not of that kind upon
which unpleasant impressions remain for any long period; for after she
had regained her room, and thrown aside her out-door attire, and removed
all signs of mud-stains, she once more became herself, and even laughed
a little rippling laugh at all her own past alarms. Overwhelmed with the
shame of her repulse, she had threatened Norbert; but as she reasoned
calmly, she felt that it was not he for whom she felt the most violent
animosity. All her hatred was reserved for that woman who had come
between her and her lover--for Marie de Puymandour. Some hidden feeling
warned her that she must look into Marie’s past life for some reason for
the rupture of her engagement with Norbert, though the banns had already
been published. This was the frame of mind in which Diana was when the
Viscount de Mussidan was introduced to her, the friend of the brother
whose untimely death had left her such a wealthy heiress. He was tall
and well made, with handsomely chiseled features; and, endowed with
physical strength and health, Octave de Mussidan had the additional
advantages of noble descent and princely fortune. Two women, both
renowned for their wit and beauty, his aunt and his mother, had been
intrusted with the education which would but enable him to shine in
society.
Dispatched to Paris, with an ample allowance, at the age of twenty, he
found himself, thanks to his birth and connections, in the very center
of the world of fashion. At the sight of Mademoiselle de Laurebourg
his heart was touched for the first time. Diana had never been more
charmingly fascinating than she was at this period. Octave de Mussidan
did not suit her fancy; there was too great a difference between him and
Norbert, and nothing would ever efface from her memory the recollection
of the young Marquis as he had appeared before her on the first day of
their meeting in the Forest of Bevron, clad in his rustic garb, with
the game he had shot dangling from his hand. She delighted to feast her
recollection, and thought fondly of his shyness and diffidence when
he hardly ventured to raise his eyes to hers. Octave, however, fell a
victim at the first glance he caught of Diana, and permitted himself
to be swept away by the tide of his private emotions, which upon every
visit that he paid to Laurebourg became more powerful and resistless.
Like a true knight, who wishes that he himself should gain the love of
his lady fair, Octave addressed himself directly to Diana, and after
many attempts succeeded in finding himself alone with her, and then he
asked her if she could permit him to crave of her father, the Marquis
de Laurebourg, the honor of her hand. This appeal surprised her, for
she had been so much absorbed in her own troubles that she had not
even suspected his love for her. She was not even frightened at his
declaration, as is the patient when the surgeon informs him that he
must use the knife. She glanced at De Mussidan strangely as he put this
question to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, replied that she would
give him a reply the next day. After thinking the matter over, she wrote
and dispatched the letter which Francoise had carried to Norbert. The
prisoner in the dock as he anxiously awaits the sentence of his judge,
can alone appreciate Diana’s state of agonized suspense as she stood at
the end of the park at Laurebourg awaiting the return of the girl. Her
anxiety of mind lasted nearly three hours, when Francoise hurried up
breathless.
“What did the Marquis say?” asked Diana.
“He said nothing; that is, he cried out very angrily, ‘Never! no,
never!’”
In order to prevent any suspicions arising in the girl’s mind,
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg contrived to force a laugh, exclaiming: “Ah!
indeed, that is just what I expected.”
Francoise seemed as if she had something to say on the tip of her
tongue, but Diana hurriedly dismissed her, pressing a coin into her
hand. All anxiety was now at an end; for her there was no longer any
suspense or anguish; all her struggles were now futile, and she felt
grateful to Octave for having given her his love. “Once married,”
thought she, “I shall be free, and shall be able to follow the Duke and
Duchess to Paris.”
Upon her return to the Chateau, she found Octave awaiting her. His eyes
put the question that his lips did not dare to utter; and, placing her
hand in his with a gentle inclination of her head, she assented to his
prayer.
This act on her part would, she believed, free her from the past; but
she was in error. Upon hearing that his dastardly attempt at murder had
failed, the Counsellor was for the time utterly overwhelmed with terror,
but the news that he had gained from M. de Puymandour calmed his mind
in a great measure. He was not, however, completely reassured until he
heard for certain that the Duke had become a helpless maniac, and that
the doctor, having given up all hopes of his patient’s recovery, had
discontinued his visits to the Chateau. As soon as he had heard that
Norbert’s marriage had been so soon followed by his father’s death, he
imagined that every cloud had disappeared from the sky. All danger now
seemed at an end, and he recalled with glee that he had in his strong
box the promissory notes, signed by Norbert, to the amount of twenty
thousand francs, which he could demand at any moment, now that Norbert
was the reigning lord of Champdoce. The first step he took was to hang
about the neighborhood of Laurebourg, for he thought that some
lucky chance would surely favor him with an opportunity for a little
conversation with Mademoiselle Diana. For several days in succession
he was unsuccessful, but at last he was delighted at seeing her alone,
walking in the direction of Bevron. Without her suspecting it, he
followed her until the road passed through a small plantation, when he
came up and addressed her.
“What do you want with me?” asked she angrily.
He made no direct reply; but after apologizing for his boldness, he
began to offer his congratulations upon her approaching marriage, which
was now the talk of the whole neighborhood, and which pleased him much,
as M. de Mussidan was in every way superior to--
“Is that all you have to say to me?” asked Diana, interrupting his
string of words.
As she turned from him, he had the audacity to lay his hand upon the
edge of her jacket.
“I have more to say,” said he, “if you will honor me with your
attention. Something about--you can guess what.”
“About whom or what?” asked she, making no effort to hide her supreme
contempt.
He smiled, glanced around to see that no one was within hearing, and
then said in a low voice,--
“It is about the bottle of poison.”
She recoiled, as though some venomous reptile had started up in front of
her.
“What do you mean?” cried she. “How dare you speak to me thus?”
All his servile manner had now returned to him, and he uttered a string
of complaints in a whining tone of voice. She had played him a most
unfair trick, and had stolen a certain little glass bottle from his
office; and if anything had leaked out, his head would have paid the
penalty of a crime in which he had no hand. He was quite ill, owing to
the suspense and anxiety he had endured; sleep would not come to his
bed, and the pangs of remorse tortured him continually.
“Enough,” cried Diana, stamping her foot angrily on the ground. “Enough,
I say.”
“Well, mademoiselle, I can no longer remain here. I am far too nervous,
and I wish to go to some foreign country.”
“Come, let me hear the real meaning of this long preface.”
Thus adjured, Daumon spoke. He only wished for some little memento
to cheer his days and nights of exile, some little recognition of his
services; in fact, such a sum as would bring him in an income of three
thousand francs.
“I understand you,” replied Diana. “You wish to be paid for what you
call your kindness.”
“Ah, mademoiselle!”
“And you put a value of sixty thousand francs upon it; that is rather a
high price, is it not?”
“Alas! it is not half what this unhappy business has cost me.”
“Nonsense; your demand is preposterous.”
“Demand!” returned he; “I make no demand. I come to you respectfully
and with a little charity. If I were to demand, I should come to you in
quite a different manner. I should say, ‘Pay me such and such a sum,
or I tell everything.’ What have I to lose if the whole story comes to
light? A mere nothing. I am a poor man, and am growing old. You and M.
Norbert are the ones that have something to fear. You are noble, rich,
and young, and a happy future lies before you.”
Diana paused and thought for an instant.
“You are speaking,” answered she at last, “in a most foolish manner.
When charges are made against people, proofs must be forthcoming.”
“Quite right, mademoiselle; but can you say that these proofs are not in
my hands? Should you, however, desire to buy them, you are at liberty to
do so. I give you the first option, and yet you grumble.”
As he spoke, he drew a battered leather pocket-book from his breast,
and took from it a paper, which, after having been crumpled, had been
carefully smoothed out again. Diana glanced at it, and then uttered a
stifled cry of rage and fear, for she at once recognized her last letter
to Norbert.
“That wretch, Francoise, has betrayed me,” exclaimed she, “and I saved
her mother from a death by hunger and cold.”
The Counsellor held out the letter to her. She thought that he had no
suspicion of her, and made an attempt to snatch it from him; but he was
on his guard, and drew back with a sarcastic smile on his face.
“No, mademoiselle,” said he; “this is not the little bottle of poison;
however, I will give it to you, together with another one, when I have
obtained what I ask. Nothing for nothing, however; and if I must go to
the scaffold, I will do so in good company.”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was in utter despair.
“But I have no money,” said she. “Where is a girl to find such a sum?”
“M. Norbert can find it.”
“Go to him, then.”
Daumon made a negative sign with his head.
“I am not quite such a fool,” answered he; “I know M. Norbert too
well. He is the very image of his father. But you can manage him,
mademoiselle; besides, you have much interest in having the matter
settled.”
“Counsellor!”
“There is no use in beating about the bush. I come to you humbly enough,
and you treat me like so much dirt. I will not submit to this, as you
will find to your cost. _I_ never poisoned any one; but enough of this
kind of thing. To-day is Tuesday; if on Friday, by six o’clock, I do not
have what I have asked for, your father and the Count Octave will have a
letter from me, and perhaps your fine marriage may come to nothing after
all.”
This insolence absolutely struck Diana dumb, and Daumon had disappeared
round a turning of the road before she could find words to crush him for
his vile attempt at extortion. She felt that he was capable of keeping
his word, even if by so doing he seriously injured himself without
gaining any advantage.
A nature like Diana’s always looks danger boldly in the face. She had,
however, but little choice how she would act--for to apply to Norbert
was the only resource left to her--for she knew that he would do all
in his power to ward off the danger which threatened both of them so
nearly. The idea, however, of applying to him for aid was repugnant to
her pride. To what depths of meanness and infamy had she descended! and
to what avail had been all her aspirations of ambition and grandeur?
She was at the mercy of a wretch--of Daumon, in fact. She was forced to
go as a suppliant to a man whom she had loved so well that she now hated
him with a deadly hatred. But she did not hesitate for a moment. She
went straight to the cottage of Widow Rouleau, and despatched Francoise
in quest of Norbert.
She ordered the girl to tell him that he must without fail be at the
wicket gate in the park wall at Laurebourg on the coming night, where
she would meet him, and that the matter was one of life and death.
As Diana gave these orders to Francoise, the woman’s nervous air
and flushed features plainly showed that she was a mere creature of
Daumon’s; but Mademoiselle de Laurebourg felt it would be unwise to
take any notice of her discovery, but to abstain from employing her in
confidential communications for the future.
As the hour of the meeting drew near a host of doubts assailed her.
Would Norbert come to the meeting? Had Francoise contrived to see him?
Might he not be absent from home? It was now growing dark, and the
servants brought candles into the dining-room, and Diana, contriving to
slip away, gained the appointed spot. Norbert was waiting, and when he
caught sight of her, rushed forward, but stopped as though restrained by
a sudden thought, and remained still, as if rooted to the ground.
“You sent for me, mademoiselle?” said he.
“I did.”
After a pause, in which she succeeded in mastering her emotion, Diana
began with the utmost volubility to explain the extortion that Daumon
was endeavoring to practise upon her, magnifying, though there was but
little need to do so, all the threats and menaces that he had made use
of. She had imagined that this last piece of roguery on the part of
Daumon would drive Norbert into a furious passion, but to her surprise
it had no such effect. He had suffered so much and so deeply, that his
heart was almost dead against any further emotion.
“Do not let this trouble you,” answered he apathetically; “I will see
Daumon and settle with him.”
“Can you leave me thus, at our last meeting, without even a word?” asked
she.
“What have I to say? My father forgave me on his death-bed, and I pardon
you.”
“Farewell, Norbert; we shall see no more of each other. I am going to
marry, as you have doubtless been informed. Can I oppose my parent’s
will? Besides, what does it signify? Farewell; remember no one wishes
more sincerely for your future happiness than I do.”
“Happy!” exclaimed Norbert. “How can I ever be happy again? If you know
the secret, for pity’s sake break it to me. Tell me how to forget and
how to annihilate thought. Do you not know that I had planned a life of
perfect happiness with you by my side? I had visions; and now plans and
visions are alike hateful to me. And as they ever and anon recur to my
memory, they will fill me with terror and despair.”
As Diana heard these words of agony, a wild gleam of triumph shot from
her eyes, but it faded away quickly, and left her cold and emotionless
as a marble statue; and when she reappeared in the drawing-room, after
taking leave of Norbert, her face wore so satisfied an expression, that
the Viscount complimented her upon her apparent happiness.
She made some jesting retort, but there was a shade of earnestness mixed
with her playfulness, for to her future husband she only wished to show
the amiable side of her character; but all the time she was thinking.
Will Norbert see Daumon in time?
The Duke kept his word, and the next day the faithful Jean discreetly
handed her a packet. She opened it and found that besides the two
letters of which the Counsellor had spoken, it contained all her
correspondence with Norbert--more than a hundred letters in all, some
of great length, and all of them compromising to a certain extent. Her
first thought was to destroy them, but on reflection she decided not
to do so, and hid the packet in the same place as she had concealed the
letters written by Norbert to her.
Norbert had given Daumon sixty thousand francs, and in addition owed him
twenty thousand on his promissory notes. This sum, in addition to what
he had already saved, would form such a snug little fortune that it
would enable the Counsellor to quit Bevron, and take up his abode in
Paris, where his peculiar talents would have more scope for development.
And eight days later the village was thrown into a state of intense
excitement by the fact becoming known that Daumon had shut up his house
and departed for Paris, taking Francoise, the Widow Rouleau’s daughter,
with him. The Widow Rouleau was furious, and openly accused Mademoiselle
de Laurebourg of having aided in the committal of the act which had
deprived her of her daughter’s services in her declining years; and the
old woman who had acted as housekeeper, who on Daumon’s departure had
thrown open the place, did not hesitate to assert that all her late
master’s legal lore had been acquired in prison, where he had undergone
a sentence of ten years’ penal servitude.
In spite of all this, however, Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was secretly
delighted at the departure of Daumon and Francoise; for she experienced
an intense feeling of relief at knowing that she no longer was in any
risk of meeting her accomplice in her daily walks. Norbert, too, was
going to Paris with his wife; and M. de Puymandour was going about
saying that his daughter, the Duchess of Champdoce, would not return to
this part of the country for some time to come.
Diana drew a long breath of relief, for it seemed to her as if all the
threatening clouds, which had darkened the horizon, were fast breaking
up and drifting away. Her future seemed clear, and she could continue
the preparations for her marriage, which was to be celebrated in a
fortnight’s time; and the friend of Octave who had been asked to act as
his best man had answered in the affirmative.
Diana had taken accurate measurement of the love that Octave lavished
upon her, and did her utmost to increase it. She had another cruel idea,
and that was that the bewitching manner which she had assumed towards
her betrothed was excellent practice, and by it she might judge of her
future success in society when she resided in Paris. Octave was utterly
conquered, as any other man would have been under similar circumstances.
Upon the day of her wedding she was dazzling in her beauty, and her face
was radiant with happiness; but it was a mere mask, which she had put on
to conceal her real feelings. She knew that many curious eyes were fixed
on her as she left the chapel; and the crowd formed a line for her to
pass through. She saw many a glance of dislike cast upon her; but a more
severe blow awaited her, for on her arrival at the Chateau de Mussidan,
to which she was driven directly after the ceremony, the first person
she met was Montlouis, who came forward to welcome her. Bold and
self-possessed as she was, the slight of this man startled her, and a
bright flush passed across her face. Fortunately Montlouis had had time
to prepare himself for this meeting, and his face showed no token
of recognition. But though his salutation was of the most respectful
description, Madame de Mussidan thought she saw in his eyes that
ironical expression of contempt which she had more than once seen in
Daumon’s face.
“That man must not, shall not, stay here,” she murmured to herself.
It was easy enough for her to ask her husband to dismiss Montlouis from
his employ, but it was a dangerous step to take; and her easiest course
was to defer the dismissal of the secretary until some really good
pretext offered itself. Nor was this pretext long in presenting itself;
for Octave was by no means satisfied with the young man’s conduct.
Montlouis who had been full of zeal while in Paris, had renewed his
_liaison_, on his return to Mussidan, with the girl with whom he had
been formerly entangled at Poitiers. This, of course, could not be
permitted to go on, and an explosion was clearly to be expected; but
what Diana dreaded most was the accidental development of some unseen
chance.
After she had been married some two weeks, when Octave proposed in the
afternoon that they should go for a walk, she agreed. Her preparations
were soon completed, and they started off, blithe and lively as children
on a holiday ramble. As they loitered in a wooded path, they heard a dog
barking in the cover. It was Bruno, who rushed out, and, standing on his
hind legs, endeavored to lick Diana’s face.
“Help, help, Octave!” she exclaimed, and her husband, springing to her
side, drove away the animal.
“Were you very much alarmed, dearest?” asked he.
“Yes,” answered she faintly; “I was almost frightened to death.”
“I do not think that he would do you any harm,” remarked Octave.
“No matter; make him go away;” and as she spoke she struck at him with
her parasol. But the dog never for a moment supposed that Diana was in
earnest, and, supposing that she intended to play with him, as she had
often done before, began to gambol round her, barking joyously the whole
time.
“But this dog evidently knows you, Diana,” observed the Viscount.
“Know me? Impossible!” and as she spoke Bruno ran up and licked her
hand. “If he does, his memory is better than mine; at any rate, I am
half afraid of him. Come, Octave, let us go.”
They turned away, and Octave would have forgotten all about the
occurrence had not Bruno, delighted at having found an old acquaintance,
persisted in following them.
“This is strange,” exclaimed the Viscount, “very strange indeed.
Look here, my man,” said he, addressing a peasant, who was engaged in
clipping a hedge by the roadside, “do you know whose dog this is?”
“Yes, my lord, it belongs to the young Duke of Champdoce.”
“Of course,” answered Diana, “I have often seen the dog at the Widow
Rouleau’s, and have occasionally given it a piece of bread. He was
always with Francoise, who ran off with that man Daumon. Oh, yes, I know
him now; here, Bruno, here!”
The dog rushed to her, and, stooping down, she caressed him, thus hoping
to conceal her tell-tale face.
Octave drew his wife’s arm within his without another word. A strange
feeling of doubt had arisen in his mind. Diana, too, was much disturbed,
and abused herself mentally for having been so weak and cowardly. Why
had she not at once confessed that she knew the dog? Had she said at
once, “Why, that is Bruno, the Duke of Champdoce’s dog,” her husband
would have thought no more about the matter; but her own folly had made
much of a merely trivial incident.
Ever since that fatal walk the Viscount’s manner appeared to have
changed, and more than once Diana fancied that she caught a look of
suspicion in his eyes. How could she best manage to make him forget this
unlucky event? She saw that for the rest of her life she must affect a
terror of dogs; and, for the future, whenever she saw one, she uttered
a little cry of alarm, and insisted upon all Octave’s being chained
up. But for all this she lived in a perfect atmosphere of suspicion and
anxiety, while the very ground upon which she walked seemed to have been
mined beneath her feet. Her sole wish now was to fly from Mussidan, and
leave Bevron and its environs, she cared not for what spot. It has been
first arranged that immediately after the marriage they should make a
short tour; but in spite of this, they still lingered at Mussidan; and
all that Diana could do was to keep this previous determination before
her husband, without making any direct attack.
The blow came at last, and was more unexpected and terrible than she
had anticipated. On the afternoon of the 26th of October, as Diana was
gazing from her window, an excited crowd rushed into the courtyard of
the Chateau, followed by four men bearing a litter covered with a sheet,
under which could be distinguished the rigid limbs of a dead body, while
a cruel crimson stain upon one side of the white covering too plainly
showed that some one had met with a violent death.
The hideous sight froze Diana with terror, and it was impossible for her
to leave the window or quit the object on the litter, which seemed to
have a terrible fascination for her. That very morning her husband,
accompanied by his friend the Baron de Clinchain, Montlouis, and a
servant named Ludovic, had gone out for a day’s shooting. It was evident
that something had happened to one of the party; which of them could
it be? The doubt was not of very long duration; for at that moment her
husband entered the courtyard, supported by M. de Clinchain and Ludovic.
His face was deadly pale, and he seemed scarcely able to drag one leg
after the other. The dead man therefore must be Montlouis. She need
no longer plot and scheme for the dismissal of the secretary, for his
tongue had been silenced for ever.
A ray of comfort dawned in Diana’s heart at this idea, and gave her the
strength to descend the staircase. Halfway down she met M. de Clinchain,
who was ascending. He seized her by the arm, and said hoarsely,--
“Go back, madame, go back!”
“But tell me what has happened.”
“A terrible calamity. Go back to your room, I beg of you. Your husband
will be here presently;” and, as Octave appeared, he absolutely pushed
her into her own room.
Octave followed, and, extending his arms, pressed his wife closely to
his breast, bursting as he did so into a passion of sobs.
“Ah!” cried M. de Clinchain joyously, “he is saved. See, he weeps; I had
feared for his reason.”
After many questions and incoherent answers, Madame de Mussidan at last
arrived at the fact that her husband had shot Montlouis by accident.
Diana believed this story, but it was far from the truth. Montlouis had
met his death at her hands quite as much as the Duke de Champdoce had
done. He had died because he was the possessor of a fatal secret.
This was what had really occurred. After lunch, Octave, who had drunk
rather freely, began to rally Montlouis regarding his mysterious
movements, and to assert that some woman must be at the bottom of them.
At first Montlouis joined in the laugh; but at length M. de Mussidan
became too personal in remarks regarding the woman his secretary loved,
and Montlouis responded angrily. This influenced his master’s temper,
and he went on to say that he could no longer permit such doings, and he
reproached his secretary for risking his present and future for a woman
who was worthy neither of love nor respect, and who was notoriously
unfaithful to him. Montlouis heard this last taunt with compressed lips
and a deep cloud upon his brow.
“Do not utter a word more, Count,” said he; “I forbid you to do so.”
He spoke so disrespectfully that Octave was about to strike him, but
Montlouis drew back and avoided the blow; but he was so intoxicated with
fury that this last insult roused him beyond all bounds.
“By what right do you speak thus,” said he, “who have married another
man’s mistress? It well becomes you to talk of woman’s virtue, when your
wife is a--”
He had no time to finish his sentence, for Octave, levelling his gun,
shot him through the heart.
M. de Mussidan kept these facts from his wife because he really loved
her, and true love is capable of any extreme; and he felt that, however
strong the cause might be, he should never have the courage to separate
from Diana; that whatever she might do in the future, or had already
done in the past, he could not choose but forgive her.
Acquitted of all blame, thanks to Clinchain’s and Ludovic’s
evidence--for they had mutually agreed that the tragical occurrence
should be represented to have been the result of an accident--the
conscience of M. de Mussidan left him but little peace. The girl whom
Montlouis had loved had been driven from her home in disgrace, owing to
having given birth to a son. Octave sought her out, and, without giving
any reason for his generosity, told her that her son, whom she had named
Paul, after his father, Montlouis, should never come to want.
Shortly after this sad occurrence, M. de Mussidan and his wife quitted
Poitiers, for Diana had more than once determined that she would make
Paris her residence for the future. She had taken into her service a
woman who had been in the service of Marie de Puymandour, and through
her had discovered that, previous to her marriage with Norbert, Marie
had loved George de Croisenois; and she intended to use this knowledge
at some future date as a weapon with which to deal the Duke de Champdoce
a deadly blow.