Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had failed to notice
that Aunt Medea was no longer the same.
The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not struck the
servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and it betrayed
itself in numberless trifles.
For example, though the poor dependent still retained her humble,
resigned manner; she had lost, little by little, the servile fear that
had showed itself in her every movement. She no longer trembled when
anyone addressed her, and there was occasionally a ring of independence
in her voice.
If visitors were present, she no longer kept herself modestly in
the background, but drew forward her chair and took part in the
conversation. At table, she allowed her preferences and her dislikes to
appear. On two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her
niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety
of some of her orders.
Once Mme. Blanche, on going out, asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but
the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home.
And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend
vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intention of going; and as it rained,
she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which
was done.
All this was nothing, in appearance; in reality, it was monstrous,
amazing. It was quite plain that the humble relative was becoming bold,
even audacious, in her demands.
As this departure, which her niece had just announced so gayly, had
never been discussed before her, she was greatly surprised.
“What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“To go where, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there; that is decided. That is the place for
my husband. His name, his fortune, his talents, the favor of the King,
assure him a high position there. He will repurchase the Hotel de
Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently. We shall have a princely
establishment.”
All the torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Medea’s countenance.
“‘And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You, aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A
trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be
happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied.
“I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,”
she whined.
“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and
the concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the
marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go
mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“What _do_ you wish, then?” she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.
“I thought--I wondered--if you would not take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt; impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.
“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here--that I dare
not--that I should die!”
A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.
“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely.
And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added:
“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you
from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.
“That is to say,” she said, at last, “you permit me to take my choice
between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital.
Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less of
you. Thanks!”
She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. There
was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued:
“Very well! this decides me. I entreated you, and you brutally refused
to heed my prayer, now I command and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend
to go with you to Paris--and I shall go. Ah! it surprises you to hear
poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way. I have endured in
silence for a long time, but I have rebelled at last. My life in this
house has been a hell. It is true that you have given me shelter--that
you have fed and lodged me; but you have taken my entire life in
exchange. What servant ever endured what I have endured? Have you ever
treated one of your maids as you have treated me, your own flesh and
blood? And I have had no wages; on the contrary, I was expected to
be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah! you have made me pay
dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me--humiliated
me--trampled me under foot!”
She paused.
The bitter rancor which had been accumulating for years fairly choked
her; but after a moment she resumed, in a tone of intense irony:
“You ask me what would I do in Paris? I, too, would enjoy myself. What
will you do, yourself? You will go to Court, to balls, and to the play,
will you not? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these
fetes. I will have handsome toilets, I--poor Aunt Medea--who have never
seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever
thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Yes,
twice a year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me
to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to
this expense. It was for your own sake; and in order that your poor
relation should do honor to your generosity. You dressed me in it, as
you sew gold lace upon the clothing of your lackeys, through vanity.
And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; buffeted
upon one cheek, I offered the other. I must live--I must have food. And
you, Blanche, how often, to make me subservient to your will, have
you said to me: ‘You will do thus-and-so, if you desire to remain at
Courtornieu?’ And I obeyed--I was forced to obey, since I knew not where
to go. Ah! you have abused me in every way; but now my turn has come!”
Blanche was so amazed that she could not articulate a syllable. At last,
in a scarcely audible voice, she faltered:
“I do not understand you, aunt; I do not understand you.”
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few
moments before.
“In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you that since you
have, against my will, made me your accomplice, we must share everything
in common. I share the danger; I will share the pleasure. What if all
should be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes; and that is why
you are seeking diversion. Very well! I also desire diversion. I shall
go to Paris with you.”
By a terrible effort Blanche had succeeded in regaining her
self-possession, in some measure at least.
“And if I should say no?” she responded, coldly.
“But you will not say no.”
“And why, if you please?”
“Because----”
“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head.
“I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself.
No, I shall not do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what
happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No threat was capable of moving her like that.
“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she; “I promise it.”
Then she added, gently:
“But it is unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at
the same time, unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you alone
are to blame. Why have you said nothing? I attributed your complaisance
to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman as quiet
and modest as yourself longed for fine apparel. Confess that it was
impossible. Had I known--But rest easy, aunt; I will atone for my
neglect.”
And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse:
“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You
forgive me, do you not?”
And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like
two friends united after a misunderstanding. But Aunt Medea was as far
from being deceived by this mock reconciliation as the clearsighted
Blanche.
“It will be best for me to keep on the _qui vive_,” thought the humble
relative. “God only knows with what intense joy my dear niece would send
me to join Marie-Anne.”
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through the mind of Mme. Blanche.
She felt as a convict might feel on seeing his most execrated enemy,
perhaps the man who had betrayed him, fastened to the other end of his
chain.
“I am bound now and forever to this dangerous and perfidious creature,”
she thought. “I am no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she
commands, I must obey. I must be the slave of her every caprice--and she
has forty years of humiliation and servitude to avenge.”
The prospect of such a life made her tremble; and she racked her brain
to discover some way of freeing herself from her detested companion.
Would it be possible to inspire Aunt Medea with a desire to live
independently in her own house, served by her own servants?
Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed
for finery and ball-dresses, to marry? A handsome marriage-portion will
always attract a husband.
But, in either case, Blanche would require money--a large sum of money,
for whose use she would be accountable to no one.
This conviction made her resolve to take possession of about two hundred
and fifty thousand francs, in bank-notes and coin, belonging to her
father.
This sum represented the savings of the Marquis de Courtornieu during
the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his
daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche, who knew where
the hoard was concealed, could take it for her own use without the
slightest danger.
“With this,” she thought, “I can at any moment enrich Aunt Medea without
having recourse to Martial.”
After this little scene there was a constant interchange of delicate
attentions and touching devotion between the two ladies. It was “my
dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until
night; and the gossips of the neighborhood, who had often commented upon
the haughty disdain which Mme. Blanche displayed in her treatment of her
relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that
Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined
with costly fur, exactly like the marquise’s own, and that she made
the journey, not in the large Berlin, with the servants, but in the
post-chaise with the Marquis and Marquise de Sairmeuse.
The change was so marked that even Martial remarked it, and as soon
as he found himself alone with his wife, he exclaimed, in a tone of
good-natured raillery:
“What is the meaning of all this devotion? We shall finish by encasing
this precious aunt in cotton, shall we not?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed a little.
“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the
affection and devotion she lavished upon me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice
of the matter, for his mind just then was fully occupied.
The agent, whom he had sent to Paris in advance, to purchase, if
possible, the Hotel de Sairmeuse, had written him to make all possible
haste, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain.
“Plague take the fellow!” said the marquis, angrily, on receiving this
news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, for which we
have been waiting ten years, slip through his fingers. I shall find no
pleasure in Paris if I cannot own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach Paris that, on the second day of their
journey, he declared if he were alone he would travel all night.
“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel fatigued in the
least, and a night of travel does not appall me.”
They did travel all night, and the next day, about nine o’clock, they
alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast.
“I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I
will soon be back.”
He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant.
“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me
that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a
bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it in welcome.”
Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his
wife, he said:
“It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not do so unless
the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit
it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Mme. Blanche would have
been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion,
one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de
Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to
the Rue de Varennes.
Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several
years, and required many repairs.
“It will take at least six months to restore it,” said Martial; “perhaps
more. It is true that they might in three months, perhaps, render a
portion of it very comfortable.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” approved Blanche,
divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I
will expedite matters as much as possible.”
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de
Sairmeuse knew that a person is never so well, nor so quickly served, as
when he serves himself, so he resolved to take the matter into his
own hands. He conferred with architects, interviewed contractors, and
hurried on the workmen.
As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for
breakfast, and seldom returned until dinner.
Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time within doors,
on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her
journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of
life in a hotel, all combined to distract her thoughts from herself.
She forgot her fears; a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the
Borderie; the clamors of conscience sank into faint whispers.
The past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of
a new and better life, when one day a servant entered, and said:
“There is a man below who wishes to speak with Madame.”