THE MYSTERY AT PLOUERNEL.
The Castle of Plouernel is located not far from Nantes on one side nor
from Rennes on the other, and is one of the most magnificent residential
palaces of France. It dates back to the Renaissance period, and presents
a finished specimen of that style of architecture, the fancy of which is
infinite and charming. Here, cupolas, elegant as Oriental minarets,
contrast vividly with the pointed angle of high roofs; yonder,
wide-arched galleries, resembling aerial bridges thrown over space, join
one set of buildings to another; here, balustraded terraces seem
embroidered in the living stone. It is a mass of richness and diversity,
a dazzling efflorescence of architectural ornamentation from the
exterior of the chimneys, each of which is a masterpiece of execution,
down to the chimerical gutter-spouts and the stone setting of the doors
and windows, sculptured in human figures, flowers, birds and the heads
of monstrous animals, real and fabulous. And yet, Oh! prodigy of art,
the inexhaustible variety of details, the fantastic irregularity of the
different parts of the edifice merge into a whole that is instinct with
loftiness and grace. Finally, about half a league away from that
dazzling fairy palace--the facade of which runs over with sculptured
designs gilded by the slanting rays of the sun, and brilliantly
harmonizes with the azure of the sky above and the verdure of the woods
round about--the eye catches on the crest of an arid and rocky ridge
that rises almost perpendicularly, the ruins of the ancient feudal manor
of Plouernel, semi-hidden under a vast wrappage of ivy. The
indestructible dungeon only has defied the tooth of time. Its square
bulk, blackened by the ages, rises to a height of over a hundred and
twenty feet, still crowned by its old crenelated battlements and
machicolations, and flanked at either angle with a turret from which the
men on watch kept an eye upon the road and the river, the former of
which wound its way to the right, the other to the left of the foot of
the rock, at the summit of which, perched like a vulture's nest, rose
the seigniorial lair.
An avenue of centennarian elms, planted in four files, led up to the
facade of the Castle of Plouernel, which rose from a wide and
semi-circular "court of honor," surrounded by a colonnade surmounted by
terraces. The elegant architectural hemicycle masked the stables, the
kennels, the falcon cages and other out-buildings of the castle, and
was, in turn, surmounted by an impost on which, woven into implements of
war and of the chase artistically sculptured, was seen the coat-of-arms
of Plouernel--three eagle's talons sable on a field gules--and, rising
from among gracefully executed ornamentations, the lettering "Guy de
Plouernel," the builder of the palace in the year 1559, according to
the lapidary date graven above the armorial bearings.
On this day, the bustle among a large number of valets, grooms, cooks
and huntsmen who scurried over the court of honor on their way to one or
other of the out-buildings, announced that the seigneur of the place was
in the castle. Several soldiers dressed in the red uniform, and two
sentinels on guard at the foot of the winding staircase, further
indicated that the Marquis of Chateauvieux, the colonel of the Crown
Regiment, was the guest of the Count of Plouernel, the latter having
offered to his friend the colonel to quarter two companies of his
soldiers in the numerous dependencies of the castle. Finally, at a
distance, stablemen were seen putting some horses through their paces
upon the fine grass of a lawn, beyond which, and as far as the eye
reached, extended the tree-covered park, dominated to the east by the
rocky ridge, at the top of which the imposing ruins and black dungeon of
the ancient manor of Plouernel contrasted strikingly against the blue of
the sky.
The interior of this modern castle corresponded with its sumptuous
exterior. Numerous servitors in livery crowded the marble-slabbed
vestibule, to the left of which ran a gallery containing the portraits
of the Seigneurs Neroweg of Plouernel. The oldest of these paintings,
belonging to the Eighth Century, bearing unmistakable mark of Byzantine
stiffness of execution, represented a Neroweg lady, Meroflede, the
Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel, of the days of Charles Martel. But
seeing that the origin of this family harked back to the conquest of
Gaul by the Franks, the father of the present Count, yielding to his
pride of race, had supplied the lack of authentic portraits antedating
the Eighth Century, by consulting his genealogy, and causing the
lineaments of those of his ancestors, who lived during the first five
centuries of the Frankish monarchy, to be retraced. Though not accurate
portraits of their subjects, these paintings at least reproduced the
several costumes of those past epochs. The first Neroweg, a leude of
Clovis and count of the country of Auvergne by right of his sword, was
represented in all the barbarism of the savage accoutrement of that
Frankish warrior--hair of a coppery hue tied at the top of his head with
a leather thong, and falling down loose over his back like the tail of a
horse; long, red moustaches; clean shaven chin; and savage mien. The
bust was half covered by a sort of dalmatica made of an animal's hide,
and the warrior leaned his hand upon his "framee," or battle weapon.
Among this long succession of portraits was one empty frame wrapped in
black crepe. The absent picture was that of Colonel Plouernel, an
honorable man, and one of the most valiant captains in the Protestant
armies of the Sixteenth Century. But the colonel's great-grandson had
struck him out of the family line, meaning thereby to brand in his
person the Huguenot, a rebel to his King and to the Church of Rome. The
portrait gallery led to a salon, on the other side of which was the
apartment of Madam Tremblay, the aunt of the Count of Plouernel.
The Marchioness was still the woman of the court which she was at the
time of her journey to The Hague. She was conversing confidentially
with Abbot Boujaron, who seemed to be deeply preoccupied. The two had
not yet wholly gotten over the experiences of what they called their
"accursed journey to Holland," where they came near being torn to
pieces, but where they had, they said, "at least the satisfaction of
knowing at first hand of the massacre of the two republican heretics,
those De Witt brothers."
It was a narrow escape, but the worthy pair succeeded in eluding the
popular fury that exploded against the French party by leaving The
Hague, again reaching the port of Delft--thanks to Serdan, who,
nevertheless they held to be a fellow of felonious instincts--and there
embarking on a neutral vessel bound for Havre, where they landed without
further incident. From Havre the two went to Versailles, Mademoiselle
Plouernel's flat refusal to accompany them to England having put an end
to their project of a voyage to that country. Besides, the young lady's
health was so much impaired that they would have been compelled to give
up that journey even had she not opposed it. They took her along to
Versailles.
Upon their arrival there the Marchioness summoned Monsieur Fagon, Louis
XIV's leading physician. That illustrious doctor declared that the young
woman's illness was a mystery to him. Despite all his assiduous care,
despite all the resources of his art, Bertha of Plouernel remained
between life and death, her strength being undermined by a slow fever
that rendered her almost unconscious, and that reduced her to the point
of being but the shadow of her former self. In fact, she was taken to
be at death's door, when an unexpected but favorable crisis set in, as
unexplainable as the disease itself, according to Monsieur Fagon, and
restored her to health. Her convalescence lasted more than six months.
In the spring of the year Monsieur Fagon advised Bertha's aunt to send
her to Brittany, assuring her that the girl's native climate would
complete the cure. Accordingly Bertha was sent ahead to Plouernel under
the escort of one of her brother's equerries, two of her aunt's women,
and an old nurse, Marion, who had cared for her from childhood. When the
Marchioness and her Abbot arrived there themselves, they found Bertha
greatly restored. Her cheeks had resumed their rosy hue.
It was about this very illness and recovery that the pair were anxiously
conversing. "We now feel reassured on the score of your niece's physical
condition," said Abbot Boujaron; "but--and this is the important
point--what is your opinion concerning her moral condition? To me it
seems there is much to be wished for."
"The turn of her mind and nature has always been more than bizarre, as a
consequence of the detestable bringing up that she received from her
mother. But, since her illness, my niece's oddities have grown daily
more marked so that, were it not for the reasons you know of, my nephew
and myself would long ago have decided, with the consent of the King our
master, to lock up in a convent the wayward minx who insists that our
priests are imposters, that people do not die, and that we are re-born
in flesh and bone to live onward in the stars!"
"All of which, my dear Marchioness, is heresy, pure and simple; and
worse yet--paganism of the first water. Besides that, there can be
nothing more disorderly than Bertha's conduct. She receives with open
arms the first tramp who presents himself at the castle's gate, under
the pretext of giving alms; at the burg she is called _the good
demoiselle_, a sort of indirect insult to her brother. It often happens
that she mounts her horse in the morning, and does not return until
evening, accompanied, it is true, by an old lackey and old Du Buisson,
one of the Count's equerries. Other times she leaves alone on foot upon
interminable promenades. To make a long story short, a few days ago,
Bertha took the notion of going to the manor of Mezlean, that has long
been uninhabited, and of remaining there forty-eight hours at a stretch.
Since she returned from that excursion day before yesterday, she has not
left her room nor her bed, claiming indisposition, and refusing to admit
you, as well as her brother. All this, Marchioness, is more than odd; it
verges on mental derangement. For that reason, your own and the Count's
tolerance seem to me regrettable and unpardonable. An end must be put to
this situation."
"You know very well why we must seem tolerant. We are hoping to secure
Bertha's consent to marry the Marquis of Chateauvieux, then her brother
Raoul will be able to wed Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, in turn. My nephew
attaches extreme importance to these matrimonial projects--the old Duke
of Chateauvieux, the Marquis's father, enjoys an immense influence with
the King. Due to the inheritance left to her by the Viscountess of
Morincourt, Mademoiselle Chateauvieux is one of the richest matches in
France. Now, then, however considerable Raoul's property may be, he is
prodigal and luxurious to a degree. The bailiffs of his domains of
Auvergne, of Beauvoisis and of Brittany make his vassals _sweat_, as
they humorously express it, all that it is humanly possible to sweat
them of. Two hundred and fifty-three thousand livres, good year or
bad--more than a third in excess of what the same estates yielded at the
time of his father--and yet my nephew is often reduced to such straits
that he must resort to the money-lenders. From all this it follows that,
if the King, as the Duke of Chateauvieux has formally promised us,
confers upon my nephew the embassy to Spain immediately after his
marriage, nothing less than the inheritance of the Viscountess of
Morincourt will be needed to enable the Count worthily to represent his
royal master at the court of Madrid."
"No doubt, there is nothing more desirable or more opportune than that
marriage, my dear Marchioness. But, you know what is the express
condition for its fulfilment. It is a condition that only raises fresh
perplexities."
"Yes, the Duke of Chateauvieux--a duke only by brevet, and, be it said
among us, of poor material, considering his origin, seeing that his
great-grandfather was only a domestic servant--the Duke of Chateauvieux,
despite his influence with his Majesty, and his brevet title of duke,
feels that he limps on the leg of birth. In order to dip his descendants
in the antique luster of our house, he stipulates as an express
condition of Raoul's marriage with Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, Bertha's
consent to marry the Marquis. That, as you know, is the reason why Raoul
and I, to put it plainly, are dependent upon my niece, and why we wink
at her follies."
"Well, Marchioness, do you know what, in my opinion, appears clear from
all this?"
"I listen, Abbot; open your mind to me!"
"It will happen with the marriage of Bertha to the Marquis of
Chateauvieux as happened with the contemplated mission to England."
"How can you say that! My niece receives admirably the advances of the
Marquis. She has given Monsieur Chateauvieux good cause to hope. She has
said to him that she recognized the advantages of that double marriage,
only she desired time to reflect more fully before deciding upon so
important a step."
"Oh! Marchioness, your niece is but doubling and twisting to the sole
end of gaining time! She will not give her consent to the marriage."
"Gaining time! Gaining time! And to what end? Can she expect a better
match than the Marquis? Is he not, barring his obscure origin, an
accomplished nobleman, and wealthy, besides? Is he not at home at court?
Is he not, thanks to the favor that his father enjoys with the King, a
colonel at the young age of twenty-five, and able to aspire even to a
Marshal's baton? Think of it, Abbot--a Marshal's baton!"
"Your niece snaps her fingers at Marshals' batons, and the wealth of the
Marquis, to boot! Don't you yet know her? And, by the way of wealth, a
certain occurrence comes to my mind. Did not Bertha, planting herself
upon the custom of Brittany which insures to the daughters a part of
the paternal and maternal inheritance, demand not only to know the
amount of her share, but also to be put in possession, immediately, of
her mother's jewels, which are valued at more than forty thousand ecus?
Did she not, furthermore, cause the Count's intendant to deliver to her
a thousand louis in advance, and does she not keep the money locked up
in her casket together with the precious stones? These several
proceedings have set my mind a-thinking."
"Mere whims, to which we felt constrained to yield out of fear lest the
brainless body decline the marriage!"
"Well, Marchioness, what you consider the whims of a brainless body--in
other words, this determination of having a considerable sum of money in
her possession--is, in my opinion, on the part of your niece, an action
that denotes thorough reflection, and the consequences of which may,
perhaps, prove most disastrous, if, as I much fear, a thought that
flashed through my mind last night has actually put me on the right
track. That thought obsesses and pursues me."
"What thought is that? Come, Abbot, be more explicit. Do not speak in
riddles."
"It is my opinion that Bertha is in love--crazily smitten!"
"Bertha in love! Crazily smitten! Come, your mind is wandering!"
"Oh, Marchioness! In that, I hold, lies the mystery. You may ask who the
object is of her love--"
The conversation between Madam Tremblay and the Abbot was interrupted by
the blustering arrival of the Count of Plouernel.
Raoul Neroweg, Count of Plouernel, then about thirty years of age, in no
manner resembled his sister. In consequence of one of the most
mysterious of the laws of nature, the Germanic type of the Frankish race
reappeared in him as, repeatedly across the ages, it had reappeared in
all its pristine purity in several of his ancestors. This son of the
Nerowegs had hair and beard of a fiery red, white skin, sea-green eyes,
and an aquiline nose, hooked like an eagle's beak. His rude and haughty
nature was tempered by the gracefulness of the accomplished courtier. He
was a sample of so many seigneurs of our times--greedy and prodigal,
vainglorious and luxurious, without shame or heart, consumed by ambition
and more still by the desire of drawing upon himself publicly the eyes
of his master, and capable, in order to attain that purpose, of
committing the vilest crimes. Accordingly, the Count had seen nothing
but a natural expedient, and profitable to his own career, in the
project of prostituting his sister to the King of England. This
notwithstanding, the Count of Plouernel carried high his head with the
pride of his name. Yet such is the moral aberration of the folks of the
court that, in their eyes, the adulterous love of Kings, so far from
soiling their sisters, their wives, or their daughters, honors, exalts,
crowns, consecrates them. From that instant prostitution becomes august,
infamy a sacred thing! The royal leman becomes a Madonna!
Monsieur Plouernel was horrified at Bertha's ill will, and at her
carrying her indifference to the fortune of her brother and to the
service of her King to the point of refusing to give herself up to his
Majesty Charles II of England. The young girl, already a conundrum by
reason of the manner in which she looked upon the things of her times,
was, after that latest performance, nothing but an insane woman in her
brother's eyes, and fit to be locked up for the good of his house--a
step that he would at one time undoubtedly have taken, were it not for
the involuntary compassion he experienced at the sight of Bertha almost
dying of a languishing malady. Later, when the Duke of Chateauvieux made
overtures of a double alliance between the two families to Raoul, he did
not hesitate an instant to pledge his sister to the young Marquis.
Accident willed it that the Marquis was a young and handsome nobleman,
although a debauchee, a drunkard and a gambler, neither worse nor better
than so many others of his caste; but had he been old, ugly, a cripple,
rotten of body and soul, the Count's action would not have been
otherwise, nor would he have recoiled before any measures to compel his
sister to submit to the marriage.
When the Count of Plouernel entered Madam Tremblay's salon he was
laboring under a violent irritation, caused by the information
transmitted to him by his Mezlean bailiff in a letter that he had just
received, advising him of Bertha's intervention in behalf of the vassals
of his seigniory. He was pressed to meet the enormous financial
obligations required by his ostentatious living at Versailles--his
equipages, his jewelry, his banquets, his splendid balls, without taking
into account his reckless gambling. Seeing the courtier's fortune
consisted almost exclusively in his seigniorial domains, there was no
way of increasing his revenues except by overwhelming his vassals with
exorbitant imposts. The Count of Plouernel, as almost all the other
members of his caste, neither felt, nor was able to feel, any pity for
his vassals, whom he had the right to tax at pleasure. Were they not a
conquered and disinherited race? an inferior species, standing midway
between man and the brute? bent, broken and deformed by a ceaseless
round of sorrows and toil? condemned by fate to labor and produce wealth
for the benefit of their seigneur? The Count of Plouernel approved
himself consistent with his race, his traditions and his times by
exhibiting inexorable severity towards this _species_, which he
sincerely and naively looked upon as an inferior race, and at all points
unlike his own. Accordingly, in an angry voice, with flashing eyes, and
holding out to the Marchioness the letter which he had just received,
and that he crumpled with rage, he said:
"Do you know, madam, what my sister was up to during her short sojourn
at Mezlean? My Mezlean bailiff informs me that he was about to execute a
seizure upon several teams belonging to certain recalcitrant vassals who
were evading payment of the taxes that it pleased me to impose upon
them, when my sister, happening to ride by along the road, took it upon
herself to forbid my bailiff to carry out his orders, or even to arrest
a scamp of a poacher who deserves to hang!"
"That is unheard of! That is downright impudence!" cried the
Marchioness.
"Wait, madam, that is not yet all--my bailiff and an usher of the fisc,
who also had a process against those clowns, being aware of their
malignant disposition, secured the escort of a squad of soldiers from
the regiment of the Marquis, who has set up his headquarters at Vannes,
since the Duke of Chaulnes apprehends some trouble in the province.
Well, madam! Would you believe such an excess of audacity possible? The
clowns dared to rebel against the escort of the bailiff, and tried to
disarm them!"
"Why nephew! that is a very alarming piece of news. It is grave!"
"The sergeant of the escort, a resolute man, soon had the upper hand of
the canaille. He seized three of the ringleaders in the mutiny, and had
them pinioned tightly by his soldiers. And what do you imagine my sister
did? No, you will not believe such audacity possible!"
"I suppose she begged mercy for them. Oh! I doubt not that she
interceded in their behalf also--"
"Worse than that, Abbot! She demanded their immediate liberation, and
threatened the sergeant with the anger of the Marquis of Chateauvieux!"
"Steps have to be taken in the matter of this poor insane girl."
"I am all the readier for that, madam, seeing that, according to what my
bailiff writes, my sister's intervention in these matters has produced
detestable effects. My vassals, finding themselves encouraged in
resisting the payment of the taxes, are now loudly clamoring that the
imposts are exorbitant, and will not pay them! Finally, the most lawless
of them, feeling encouraged by immunity, are no longer afraid to declare
that the hay-fork of a Breton does not fear the bayonet of a soldier of
the King; that if the latter are well armed, the peasants are more
numerous; and that the fury of their despair will render them a match
for the soldiers when the hour of revolt shall have sounded! It is a
call to insurrection! To a popular revolt!"
"An insurrection! A revolt!" cried the Marchioness, alarmed. "How dare
the wretches talk of insurrection and revolt!"
"We are relapsing into the Jacquerie!" put in the Abbot, raising his
hands heavenward. "Jacques under Louis XIV! Under the Grand Monarch! In
the Seventeenth Century! It must be the end of the world! Woe is us!"
"Prompt and terrible punishment will, I still hope, my dear Abbot, bring
these clowns back to their duty," answered the Count. "But my sister has
encouraged the scoundrels. Her insane generosity has chosen for its
object the very worst elements of all my vassals. The poacher and the
recalcitrant vassal belong to a certain Lebrenn family, that numbers
among its members two mariners of the port of Vannes--a brace of active
and intriguing adventurers, who are strongly suspected of aiming at
sedition, and of even having secret understandings with the republicans
of Holland! They are both men of thought and action--most dangerous
fellows!"
"Marchioness," observed the Abbot, casting a meaning look at Madam
Tremblay, "what did I tell you about that family, which our venerable
Society of Jesus over a century and a half ago entered in its secret
register as one of the most dangerous? My information evidently was most
correct and accurate. An eye will have to be kept upon those people."
"What do you refer to?" asked the Count of Plouernel. "What information
can you have had concerning these people?"
"We shall go over that more at our leisure, my dear Raoul. The details
of the matter would now lead us too far away. Only be certain that you
can not have a more pernicious family among your vassals than this
identical Lebrenn family. We shall talk over the matter later. Suffice
it now to say that they are the sort of people that must be suppressed.
I may be able to render you some assistance in that direction; but I
consider that the most urgent thing just now is to place your sister
where it would be absolutely impossible for her to pursue the course of
her eccentricities and follies."
"Oh! Abbot, do you not know there is an obstacle, a serious one in the
way?"
"I know full well that your projects of a double marriage compel you to
humor the brainless creature--but, one thing or the other: Bertha is
either willing, or she is not willing, to lead the plan to a successful
issue. Now, then, it is my opinion that she is not willing. Her
determination is made."
"You are in error, Abbot," said the Count of Plouernel. "Bertha does not
object to the marriage."
"But she demands time--to reflect! Not so, my dear Raoul? Well, then,
all her delays have but one object in view: Bertha seeks to gain time in
order to deliver herself without restraint to her follies, perhaps
to--it is this that, above all, frightens me for the honor of your
house--the bare thought frightens and terrifies me--"
"What is the cause of your fear? Come, explain yourself!"
"My dear Raoul, our poor Abbot thinks Bertha is in love."
"Good God!" broke in the Count, stupefied. "Do you think so, madam?
Bertha in love! Impossible!"
"Everything leads to the belief that her love is an unworthy love, since
Bertha surrounds it with profound mystery," the Abbot proceeded to
explain. "Neither the Marchioness, nor yourself, nor I--I admit it--have
until now been able to suspect, or even remotely guess who the object
can be of this evidently monstrous passion. That such a passion does
exist I make no doubt. All signs point in that direction."
"Thinking the matter over, and recalling certain circumstances that now
rise vividly to my mind, I share the Abbot's opinion," added the
Marchioness. "Bertha must have availed herself of the freedom that we
allowed her to abandon herself to some disgraceful choice. One of these
days she will flee with her lover, and the honor of our house will be
tarnished forever! A scandal, dishonor, shame to our family!"
"The devil take it!" cried the Count of Plouernel. "If my sister should
ever carry her disregard of all duty to the point of refusing a marriage
that secures such great advantages to me, I swear to God! if the cause
of her refusal be some disgraceful love, I shall immediately go and
throw myself at the feet of the King, and request him to have the wretch
locked up in the Prison of the Repentant Women where she will be treated
with the utmost rigor."
"Mademoiselle Plouernel consigned to the Prison of the Repentant Women!
Oh, my dear boy, you can not mean that!" said Abbot Boujaron with devout
unction. "No; no; that is out of the question! But what is sensible and
proper is that your sister take the veil, and that the share of the
inheritance due her according to the custom of Brittany, be assigned to
the community that may receive the great sinner, to aid it in exercising
its charitable works. Besides, believe me, my dear boy," added the
Abbot, smiling, "it is not necessary that our sinner be confined in the
Prison of the Repentant Women in order to be treated with the uttermost
rigor, and be severely chastised in the flesh and in her pride--for the
salvation of her soul."
The Count of Plouernel lent but an inattentive ear to the prelate's
words, and resumed in a towering rage:
"My sister in love with some vulgar fellow! My marriage, upon which I
raised so many hopes, thwarted by the ill-will of the wretched
creature! Malediction! Let her tremble before my anger!"
"My dear boy," said the Abbot to the exasperated Count, "there is a way
of putting an end to these perplexities. Demand to-day, instantly, from
Bertha a categoric answer--yes, or no--on her marriage with the
Marquis."
"Zounds! Abbot--I know beforehand she will say neither yes nor no."
"That may be. But after you shall have urged her a last time, entreated,
implored her in the name of your most cherished interests to decide this
very day, would not her persistence in further delays prove to you that
she is determined not to marry the Marquis, and that it is certain she
is sacrificing him to some unworthy love?"
"In that event--malediction! a curse upon her! A dungeon cell will
overcome her resistance."
"My dear boy, we must not curse anybody," remarked the Abbot piously;
"but it is necessary that, without flinching, you perform the duties
that devolve upon you, the head of your illustrious house. It is urgent
that to-morrow, yes, not later than to-morrow, you prevent your sister
by prompt and rigorous measures from dishonoring your name and herself.
You have plenty of cells and dungeons."
"I swear to God!" cried the Count of Plouernel, "if Bertha refuses to
decide to accept the marriage--I shall be pitiless. Yes, and to-morrow
we shall take the steps that may be necessary to safeguard our honor."
The Count was interrupted in the flow of his threats by the entrance of
a lackey who said to Madam Tremblay:
"Monsieur the Marquis of Chateauvieux has presented himself at the door,
and requests to be admitted before madam. May I introduce him, madam?"
"Beg Monsieur the Marquis to enter," answered the Marchioness of
Tremblay. "The dear colonel! How happy we are that he comes to pay us a
visit!"
And immediately after the lackey withdrew she added hurriedly:
"Raoul, not a word to the Marquis about what we have been saying, before
we have heard from Bertha."
As the Marchioness addressed these words to the Count of Plouernel, who
answered her with an affirmative nod, the Marquis of Chateauvieux
appeared at the door of the salon, and saluted the company with the
graceful ease of a courtier. Nevertheless, the colonel seemed troubled
in mind; he held a letter in his hand.
"Madam," he said, addressing the Marchioness, "I have news for you that
grieves me doubly."
"What about, my dear Marquis?"
"This despatch that I have just received by a courier from Monsieur the
Duke of Chaulnes, Governor of Brittany, orders me to join him
immediately with the two battalions of my regiment which I am to collect
on the way thither. A sedition, believed to have been fomented by the
parliament, has broken out in Rennes. The King's authority is assailed;
the citizens are up in arms; the whole populace is in rebellion. The
Duke of Chaulnes does not feel safe."
"Great God!" cried Madam Tremblay, no less alarmed than the Abbot.
"What you are telling us, Marquis, is a most grave event."
"All the graver," interjected the Count of Plouernel thoughtfully,
"seeing this sedition seems to coincide with the recent rebellion of my
own vassals of Mezlean. Would you believe it, Marquis, that canaille had
the audacity of resisting your soldiers; the woolen caps tried to disarm
your men!"
"I have been informed of that occurrence by a letter from one of my
subaltern officers, who was compelled on that occasion to release his
prisoners upon orders from Mademoiselle Plouernel. As a consequence, I
have had to recall that detachment, it being impolitic to leave my
soldiers in a region where they had to submit to an outrage left
unpunished. They will arrive here this evening. The honor of the
regiment is compromised until the guilty parties are punished."
"Believe me, my dear Marquis, I feel grieved at my sister's rash
interference on the occasion."
"Without stopping to consider the consequences of her act, Mademoiselle
Plouernel yielded to a generous impulse for which I would not dare to
blame her. But since I did myself the honor of pronouncing her name,"
added the Marquis of Chateauvieux, "allow me, my dear Count, and you
Madam the Marchioness, to address a request to you. I must leave the
Castle of Plouernel within two hours; however insignificant may be the
revolt of the ill-intentioned people of Rennes, whom I expect to
chastise severely, civil war has its risks. The bullet from an old
musket fired by a bourgeois not infrequently hits its mark as
unerringly as that of our own soldiers. I do not know what fate awaits
me in the conflict that is about to take place. Before taking leave of
you, my dear Count, I entertain the liveliest desire not to be left in
doubt concerning the favorable or unfavorable success of a double
marriage that is the highest aspiration of myself and my father."
"Dear Marquis," answered the Count of Plouernel with emphasis, "my aunt,
the Abbot and myself were just considering the urgency of obtaining this
very day a final answer from my sister, which I doubt not will be in
accord with the desires of our two families. The untoward events that
hasten your departure render the necessity for her answer all the more
urgent. If she is what she should be, and what I doubt not she is, our
chaplain will betroth you to-day to my sister in the chapel of the
castle. It will be your induction into the family. I had so decided."
"And after you shall have chastised the insolent bourgeois of Rennes, a
thing that will be easy to do and will be done promptly, thanks to you
and your soldiers, my dear Marquis," put in Madam Tremblay, feeling more
at ease, "you will return to us. Monsieur the Duke your father and
Mademoiselle Chateauvieux as agreed before our departure from
Versailles, will come to Plouernel, where the festivities of the double
marriage will be held with so much splendor and magnificence that they
will be the admiration of all Brittany."
"Above all, Monsieur the Marquis, induce the Duke of Chaulnes to hang
high and dry as many bourgeois as he can," added Abbot Boujaron, who
seemed less sure than the Marchioness of the speedy quelling of the
sedition. "The minds of the scamps must be struck with terror. The
repression must be merciless."
"The customary severity of the Duke of Chaulnes should be an ample
guarantee to you, Monsieur Abbot, that he will not flinch before the
populace," was the Marquis of Chateauvieux's answer. "He will be
inexorable."
And, proceeding to address the Marchioness and the Count:
"I can not express to you how touched I feel at your words! I can now
hope for the best--unless the health of Mademoiselle Plouernel should
prevent our betrothal. She has not left her room for two days, a
circumstance that has desolated me; it prevented me from presenting to
her my homage upon her return from Mezlean. I hope you can give me a
favorable report of her health."
"Reassure yourself, my dear Marquis; my niece's indisposition was caused
only by the fatigue of the journey. It will in no wise prevent her from
proceeding to the chapel to solemnize her betrothal, if, as I do not
doubt, any more than my nephew, she consents to hasten the conclusion of
the marriage. I shall immediately visit Bertha. I shall tell her that
her brother and myself wish to converse with her; and I doubt not, dear
Marquis, that the issue will fully meet your wishes and ours."
Saying this the Marchioness of Tremblay proceeded immediately to
Bertha's apartment. Mademoiselle Plouernel occupied the chamber that her
mother formerly inhabited, contiguous to the library of the castle. As
the Marchioness crossed this vast room she met Dame Marion, Bertha's
nurse, who was devotedly attached to her. Madam Tremblay ordered her to
notify her mistress that she wished to speak to her shortly.
"She is probably still in bed," added the Marchioness. "She must rise
without delay and dress herself to receive her brother, myself and
Monsieur the Abbot. We have to speak to her upon matters of the highest
importance."
"Oh! Mademoiselle has risen and dressed herself more than two hours ago,
madam."
"That being the case, go and request Monsieur the Count and Monsieur the
Abbot to come and join me in my niece's chamber."
"Madam the Marchioness will not find mademoiselle in her chamber."
"Where is she?"
"Mademoiselle went out for a walk in the park, as she often does."
"What! Gone out! And yesterday and this morning she pretended to feel so
ill that she could not receive me?"
"The weather is so beautiful that mademoiselle believed a walk would do
her good. She went down and walked towards the park."
"You lie! My niece did not go out!"
"Madam the Marchioness can ascertain the truth for herself by walking
into the room."
"This sudden going out looks highly suspicious. Toward what part of the
park did my niece go?"
"I could not say as to that, madam; mademoiselle took her gloves, her
mask[6] and her taffeta hood to protect herself from the heat of the
sun--and she left. That is all I know."
"There is some mystery in this--you are hiding something from me."
"I am telling madam all I know."
"You are an accomplice in all the follies of Mademoiselle Plouernel, and
it may happen that you will have reason to feel sorry for it!"
"I obey the orders of mademoiselle the same as I obeyed the orders of
Madam the Countess, her mother. That is my duty."
"It is impossible that my niece, who only this morning claimed to be
ill, can have gone out without some particular reason. You know the
reason. Answer! What caused my niece to leave her chamber?"
"I have already told madam. The weather is so beautiful that
mademoiselle believed a walk would help her."
"Enough!" ordered Madam Tremblay angrily, and casting a threatening look
upon old Marion. "I shall remember your obstinacy. I shall find out the
truth."
The Marchioness hastened to rejoin the Count of Plouernel and the Abbot,
who were no less surprised, alarmed and angry than herself at
Mademoiselle Plouernel's unexpected outing. The Marquis of Chateauvieux
could prolong his stay at the castle only a couple of hours, so that,
if Bertha did not return before his departure the marriage would have to
undergo a further postponement. Accordingly, not satisfied with sending
several of his men in quest of his sister in all directions through the
park, the Count himself took horse together with the Marquis of
Chateauvieux in the hope of meeting Mademoiselle Plouernel; while,
anxious not to be themselves idle in the search, Abbot Boujaron and the
Marchioness of Tremblay went out in a carriage.