To quit Sairmeuse without any display of violence had cost Blanche an
almost superhuman effort.
The wildest anger convulsed her soul at the very moment, when, with
an assumption of melancholy dignity, she murmured those words of
forgiveness.
Ah! had she obeyed the dictates of her resentment!
But her indomitable vanity aroused within her the heroism of a gladiator
dying on the arena, with a smile upon his lips.
Falling, she intended to fall gracefully.
“No one shall see me weep; no one shall hear me complain,” she said to
her despondent father; “try to imitate me.”
And on her return to the Chateau de Courtornieu, she was a stoic.
Her face, although pale, was as immobile as marble, beneath the curious
gaze of the servants.
“I am to be called mademoiselle as in the past,” she said, imperiously.
“Anyone forgetting this order will be dismissed.”
A maid forgot that very day, and uttered the prohibited word, “madame.”
The poor girl was instantly dismissed, in spite of her tears and
protestations.
All the servants were indignant.
“Does she hope to make us forget that she is married and that her
husband has deserted her?” they queried.
Alas! she wished to forget it herself. She wished to annihilate all
recollection of that fatal day whose sun had seen her a maiden, a wife,
and a widow.
For was she not really a widow?
Only it was not death which had deprived her of her husband, but an
odious rival--an infamous and perfidious creature lost to all sense of
shame.
And yet, though she had been disdained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was
no longer free.
She belonged to the man whose name she bore like a badge of
servitude--to the man who hated her, who fled from her.
She was not yet twenty; and this was the end of her youth, of her life,
of her hopes, and even of her dreams.
Society condemned her to solitude, while Martial was free to rove
wheresoever fancy might lead him.
Now she saw the disadvantage of isolating one’s self. She had not been
without friends in her school-girl days; but after leaving the convent
she had alienated them by her haughtiness, on finding them not as high
in rank, nor as rich as herself. She was now reduced to the irritating
consolations of Aunt Medea, who was a worthy person, undoubtedly, but
her tears flowed quite as freely for the loss of a cat, as for the death
of a relative.
But Blanche bravely resolved that she would conceal her grief and
despair in the recesses of her own heart.
She drove about the country; she wore the prettiest dresses in her
_trousseau_; she forced herself to appear gay and indifferent.
But on going to attend high mass in Sairmeuse the following Sunday, she
realized the futility of her efforts.
People did not look at her haughtily, or even curiously; but they turned
away their heads to laugh, and she overheard remarks upon the maiden
widow which pierced her very soul.
They mocked her; they ridiculed her!
“Oh! I will have my revenge!” she muttered.
But she had not waited for these insults before thinking of vengeance;
and she had found her father quite ready to assist her in her plans.
For the first time the father and the daughter were in accord.
“The Duc de Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to aid in the escape
of a prisoner and to insult a man like me. Fortune, favor, position--he
shall lose all! I hope to see him ruined and dishonored at my feet.
You shall see that day! you shall see that day!” said the marquis,
vehemently.
But, unfortunately for him and his plans, he was extremely ill for three
days, after the scene at Sairmeuse; then he wasted three days more in
composing a report, which was intended to crush his former ally.
This delay ruined him, since it gave Martial time to perfect his plans
and to send the Duc de Sairmeuse to Paris skilfully indoctrinated.
And what did the duke say to the King, who accorded him such a gracious
reception?
He undoubtedly pronounced the first reports false, reduced the
Montaignac revolution to its proper proportions, represented Lacheneur
as a fool, and his followers as inoffensive idiots.
Perhaps he led the King to suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu
might have provoked the outbreak by undue severity. He had served under
Napoleon, and possibly had thought it necessary to make a display of his
zeal. There have been such cases.
So far as he himself was concerned, he deeply deplored the mistakes into
which he had been led by the ambitious marquis, upon whom he cast most
of the responsibility for the blood which had been shed.
The result of all this was, that when the Marquis de Courtornieu’s
report reached Paris, it was answered by a decree depriving him of the
office of _grand prevot_.
This unexpected blow crushed him.
To think that a man as shrewd, as subtle-minded, as quick-witted, and
adroit as himself--a man who had passed through so many troubled epochs,
who had served with the same obsequious countenance all the masters who
would accept his services--to think that such a man should have been
thus duped and betrayed!
“It must be that old imbecile, the Duc de Sairmeuse, who has manoeuvred
so skilfully, and with so much address,” he said. “But who advised him?
I cannot imagine who it could have been.”
Who it was Mme. Blanche knew only too well.
She recognized Martial’s hand in all this, as Marie-Anne had done.
“Ah! I was not deceived in him,” she thought; “he is the great
diplomatist I believed him to be. At his age to outwit my father, an old
politician of such experience and acknowledged astuteness! And he does
all this to please Marie-Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. “It
is the first step toward obtaining pardon for the friends of that vile
creature. She has unbounded influence over him, and so long as she lives
there is no hope for me. But, patience.”
She was patient, realizing that he who wishes to surely attain his
revenge must wait, dissimulate, _prepare_ an opportunity, but not force
it.
What her revenge should be she had not yet decided; but she already had
her eye upon a man whom she believed would be a willing instrument in
her hands, and capable of doing anything for money.
But how had such a man chanced to cross the path of Mme. Blanche? How
did it happen that she was cognizant of the existence of such a person?
It was the result of one of those simple combinations of circumstances
which go by the name of chance.
Burdened with remorse, despised and jeered at, and stoned whenever he
showed himself upon the street, and horror-stricken whenever he thought
of the terrible threats of Balstain, the Piedmontese innkeeper, Chupin
left Montaignac and came to beg an asylum at the Chateau de Sairmeuse.
In his ignorance, he thought that the _grand seigneur_ who had employed
him, and who had profited by his treason, owed him, over and above the
promised reward, aid and protection.
But the servants shunned him. They would not allow him a seat at the
kitchen-table, nor would the grooms allow him to sleep in the stables.
They threw him a bone, as they would have thrown it to a dog; and he
slept where he could.
He bore all this uncomplainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being
able to purchase comparative safety at such a price.
But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy of forgetfulness and
conciliation in his pocket, he would no longer tolerate the presence of
this man, who was the object of universal execration.
He ordered the dismissal of Chupin.
The latter resisted, swearing that he would not leave Sairmeuse unless
he was forcibly expelled, or unless he received the order from the lips
of the duke himself.
This obstinate resistance was reported to the duke. It made him
hesitate; but the necessity of the moment, and a word from Martial,
decided him.
He sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse again
under any pretext whatever, softening the harshness of expulsion,
however, by the offer of a small sum of money.
But Chupin sullenly refused the money, gathered his belongings together,
and departed, shaking his clinched fist at the chateau, and vowing
vengeance on the Sairmeuse family. Then he went to his old home, where
his wife and his two boys still lived.
He seldom left the house, and then only to satisfy his passion for
hunting. At such times, instead of hiding and surrounding himself with
every precaution, as he had done, before shooting a squirrel or a few
partridges, in former times, he went boldly to the Sairmeuse or the
Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and brought it home openly, almost
defiantly.
The rest of the time he spent in a state of semi-intoxication, for he
drank constantly and more and more immoderately. When he had taken more
than usual, his wife and his sons generally attempted to obtain money
from him, and if persuasions failed they resorted to blows.
For he had never given them the reward of his treason. What had he done
with the twenty thousand francs in gold which had been paid him? No one
knew. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but they tried in
vain to wrest his secret from him.
All the people in the neighborhood were aware of this state of affairs,
and regarded it as a just punishment for the traitor. Mme. Blanche
overheard one of the gardeners telling the story to two of his
assistants:
“Ah, the man is an old scoundrel!” he said, his face crimson with
indignation. “He should be in the galleys, and not at large among
respectable people.”
“He is a man who would serve your purpose,” the voice of hatred
whispered in Blanche’s ear.
“But how can I find an opportunity to confer with him?” she wondered.
Mme. Blanche was too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his house,
but she remembered that he hunted occasionally in the Courtornieu woods,
and that it might be possible for her to meet him there.
“It will only require a little perseverance and a few long walks,” she
said to herself.
But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperon, two long weeks of
almost continued walking.
“Another freak!” groaned the poor relative, overcome with fatigue; “my
niece is certainly crazy!”
But one lovely afternoon in May Blanche discovered what she sought.
It was in a sequestered spot near the lake. Chupin was tramping sullenly
along with his gun and glancing suspiciously on every side! Not that
he feared the game-keeper or a verbal process, but wherever he went, he
fancied he saw Balstain walking in his shadow, with that terrible knife
in his hand.
Seeing Mme. Blanche he tried to hide himself in the forest, but she
prevented it by calling:
“Father Chupin!”
He hesitated for a moment, then he paused, dropped his gun, and waited.
Aunt Medea was pale with fright.
“Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “why do you
call that terrible man?”
“I wish to speak with him.”
“What, Blanche, do you dare----”
“I must!”
“No, I cannot allow it. _I_ must not----”
“There, that is enough,” said Blanche, with one of those imperious
glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite
enough.”
Then, in gentler tones:
“I must talk with this man,” she added.
“You, Aunt Medea, will remain at a little distance. Keep a close watch
on every side, and if you see anyone approaching, call me, whoever it
may be.”
Aunt Medea, submissive as she was ever wont to be, obeyed; and Mme.
Blanche advanced toward the old poacher, who stood as motionless as the
trunks of the giant trees around him.
“Well, my good Father Chupin, what sort of sport have you had to-day?”
she began, when she was a few steps from him.
“What do you want with me?” growled Chupin; “for you do want something,
or you would not trouble yourself about such as I.”
It required all Blanche’s determination to repress a gesture of fright
and of disgust; but, in a resolute tone, she replied:
“Yes, it is true that I have a favor to ask you.”
“Ah, ha! I supposed so.”
“A mere trifle which will cost you no trouble and for which you shall be
well paid.”
She said this so carelessly that one would really have supposed the
service was unimportant; but cleverly as she played her part, Chupin was
not deceived.
“No one asks trifling services of a man like me,” he said coarsely.
“Since I have served the good cause, at the peril of my life, people
seem to suppose that they have a right to come to me with their money in
their hands, when they desire any dirty work done. It is true that I was
well paid for that other job; but I would like to melt all the gold and
pour it down the throats of those who gave it to me.
“Ah! I know what it costs the humble to listen to the words of the
great! Go your way; and if you have any wickedness in your head, do it
yourself!”
He shouldered his gun and was moving away, when Mme. Blanche said,
coldly:
“It was because I knew your wrongs that I stopped you; I thought you
would be glad to serve me, because I hate the Sairmeuse.”
These words excited the interest of the old poacher, and he paused.
“I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuse now--but----”
“But what!”
“In less than a month you will be reconciled. And you will pay the
expenses of the war and of the reconciliation? That old wretch,
Chupin----”
“We shall never be reconciled.”
“Hum!” he growled, after deliberating awhile. “And if I should aid you,
what compensation will you give me?”
“I will give you whatever you desire--money, land, a house----”
“Many thanks. I desire something quite different.”
“What? Name your conditions.”
Chupin reflected a moment, then he replied:
“This is what I desire. _I_ have enemies--I do not even feel safe in my
own house. My sons abuse me when I have been drinking; my wife is quite
capable of poisoning my wine; I tremble for my life and for my money.
I cannot endure this existence much longer. Promise me an asylum in the
Chateau de Courtornieu, and I am yours. In your house I shall be safe.
But let it be understood, I will not be ill-treated by the servants as I
was at Sairmeuse.”
“It shall be as you desire.”
“Swear it by your hope of heaven.”
“I swear.”
There was such an evident sincerity in her accent that Chupin was
reassured. He leaned toward her, and said, in a low voice:
“Now tell me your business.”
His small gray eyes glittered with a demoniac light; his thin lips were
tightly drawn over his sharp teeth; he was evidently expecting some
proposition to murder, and he was ready.
His attitude showed this so plainly that Blanche shuddered.
“Really, what I ask of you is almost nothing,” she replied. “I only wish
you to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes; my husband. I wish to know what he does, where he goes, and what
persons he sees. I wish to know how each moment of his time is spent.”
“What! seriously, frankly, is this all that you desire of me?” Chupin
asked.
“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided. It depends upon
circumstances what action I shall take.”
“You can rely upon me,” he responded; “but I must have a little time.”
“Yes, I understand. To-day is Saturday; will you be ready to report on
Thursday?”
“In five days? Yes, probably.”
“In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at this same hour.”
A cry from Aunt Medea interrupted them.
“Someone is coming!” Mme. Blanche exclaimed. “Quick! we must not be seen
together. Conceal yourself.”
With a bound the old poacher disappeared in the forest.
A servant had approached Aunt Medea, and was speaking to her with great
animation.
Blanche hastened toward them.
“Ah! Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the servant, “we have been seeking you
everywhere for three hours. Your father, monsieur le marquis--_mon
Dieu_! what a misfortune! A physician has been summoned.”
“Is my father dead?”
“No, Mademoiselle, no; but--how can I tell you? When the marquis went
out this morning his actions were very strange, and--and--when he
returned----”
As he spoke the servant tapped his forehead with the end of his
forefinger.
“You understand me, Mademoiselle--when he returned, reason had fled!”
Without waiting for her terrified aunt, Blanche darted in the direction
of the chateau.
“How is the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant whom she met.
“He is in his room on the bed; he is more quiet now.”
She had already reached his room. He was seated upon the bed, and two
servants were watching his every movement. His face was livid, and
a white foam had gathered upon his lips. Still, he recognized his
daughter.
“Here you are,” said he. “I was waiting for you.”
She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, although she was
neither tender-hearted nor impressionable.
“My father!” she faltered. “Good heavens! what has happened?”
He uttered a discordant laugh.
“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt me? I tell you that I
saw the wretch. I know him well; have I not seen his cursed face before
my eyes for more than a month--for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was
in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always
dark there, on account of the trees. I was returning slowly, thinking of
him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to
bar my passage.
“‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’ He was armed with a gun;
he fired----”
The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach
him. For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and
persistent look that is said to exercise such power over those who have
lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said,
almost roughly:
“Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is
impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.”
Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew
only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name.
But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative.
“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who
confronted me. I am sure of it, and the proof is, that he reminded me of
a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to
him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He was all-powerful
in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with the
_emigres_. My property had been confiscated; and every moment I was
expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when
Lacheneur took me into his house. He concealed me; he furnished me with
a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head--I sentenced him to
death. That is the reason why I have seen him again. I must rejoin him;
he told me so--I am a dying man!”
He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and,
lying there, rigid and motionless, one might readily have supposed it
was a corpse, whose outlines could be vaguely discerned through the
bed-coverings.
Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances.
Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. It seemed incomprehensible
to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned
Lacheneur.
Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her
father’s valet, she said:
“It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?”
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been
killed.”
“How do you know this?”
“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in
the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which
could only have been made by bullets.”
The worthy _valet de chambre_ was certainly more agitated than the
daughter.
“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she
murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright.
How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”
The servant shook his head.
“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the
guilty man--Chupin.”
“No, it could not have been he.”
“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood
capable of such an evil deed.”
Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent.
Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met
him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from
him.
She was silent. In a few moments the physician arrived.
He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face--he was almost
compelled to use force to do it--examined the patient with evident
anxiety, then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head,
leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac
at once. All was bustle and confusion.
When the physician left the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him.
“Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look.
With considerable hesitation, he replied:
“People sometimes recover from such attacks.”
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or
died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost _prestige_
was now afforded her. If she desired to turn public opinion against
Martial, she must improvise for herself an entirely different
reputation. If she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as a
patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such an occasion now
offered itself, and she seized it at once.
Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching and delicate
attentions upon a sick father. It was impossible to induce her to leave
his bedside for a moment. It was only with great difficulty that they
could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the
sick-room.
But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had
imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in
Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slow the day
appointed for the meeting was in coming!
It came at last, however, and after intrusting her father to the care of
Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape.
The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place.
“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche.
“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.”
“What! you have not watched the marquis?”
“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow. But
what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your
husband has charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize him! He
is always busy now. He is up at cock-crow and he goes to bed with
the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he
receives all who call upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove
in with him. He has reinstated five or six of them, and he has granted
pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”
He paused and for more than a minute Blanche was silent. She was
confused and agitated by the question that rose to her lips. What
humiliation! But she conquered her embarrassment, and turning away her
head to hide her crimson face, she said:
“But he certainly has a mistress!”
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh.
“Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an audacious
familiarity that made Blanche shudder. “You mean that scoundrel
Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie-Anne?”
Blanche felt that denial was useless.
“Yes,” she answered; “it is Marie-Anne that I mean.”
“Ah, well! she has been neither seen nor heard from. She must have fled
with another of her lovers, Maurice d’Escorval.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs only Jean remains, and he lives
like the vagabond that he is, by poaching and stealing. Day and night he
rambles through the woods with his gun on his shoulder. He is frightful
to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes glitter like live coals.
If he ever meets me, my account will be settled then and there.”
Blanche turned pale. It was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis
then. She did not doubt it in the least.
“Very well!” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie-Anne is in the
neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, probably. I must know. Endeavor
to discover her retreat before Monday, when I will meet you here again.”
“I will try,” Chupin answered.
He did indeed try; he exerted all his energy and cunning, but in vain.
He was fettered by the precautions which he took against Balstain and
against Jean Lacheneur. On the other hand, no one in the neighborhood
would have consented to give him the least information.
“Still no news!” he said to Mme. Blanche at each interview.
But she would not yield. Jealousy will not yield even to evidence.
Blanche had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from her,
that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, hence it must be so, all
proofs to the contrary notwithstanding.
But one morning she found her spy jubilant.
“Good news!” he cried, as soon as he saw her; “we have caught the minx
at last.”