The sound of our steps crossing the terrace was heard within the
château as we returned from our ineffectual search; and on entering
the vestibule, the first object on which my eye fell was the form of
Father Ferdinand, advancing to meet me. The natural clear brown of his
complexion had now given way to a deadly paleness; and I saw by the
haggard anxiety of the noble old man's eye, the tremulous eagerness of
his lip, and the agitation that pervaded his whole frame, how deep and
heartfelt was the interest which he took in the fate of those to whom
he was attached.
"Have you found her?" he cried; "have you found her?"
A mournful silence was the only reply; and the Priest, clasping his
hand over his eyes, remained for a moment or two apparently in prayer.
When the hand was withdrawn, however, it was clear that tears had
mingled with his orisons; and turning away from the gaze of the
domestics, he took me by the hand and led me towards the library.
There, closing the door, he cast himself into a seat, and gave way to
a burst of feeling, which certainly did not lower him in my
estimation.
"This is, indeed, terrible," he said, when he had somewhat recovered
himself. "This is, indeed, most terrible; and even I, who am too well
accustomed to witness scenes of death, and crime, and sorrow, am
overpowered by this."
"Is Monsieur de Villardin dead, then?" I exclaimed, misunderstanding
him. "Is he dead?"
"No, no," replied the Priest, "he is still alive, and likely to live;
but I fear me," he added, "is likely to live only to wretchedness and
remorse. Tell me, tell me, my son, how did all this happen? for it
seems you were the only one present at the time this fatal catastrophe
occurred."
To answer his question was more difficult than it would seem at first
sight; for it required no small care to avoid mingling the dark
suspicions that were in my own mind with the facts that I myself had
seen, especially as I perceived that the Priest himself entertained
many doubts of the event which had occurred having been purely
accidental. All that he could positively know, indeed, must have been
obtained from such information as the physician and the domestics had
gleaned from the broken account I had given on first returning to the
château; but it was evident to me that his own knowledge of foregone
facts had led his mind to dark suspicions, for which he now sought, in
his conversation with me, either confirmation or disproof. I replied,
however, as cautiously as I could, telling him the simple facts as
they had happened, but abstaining scrupulously from all remarks. My
manner, beyond doubt, was embarrassed, for I would fain have spoken
freely with the Priest, and fully believed, even at the time, that I
might do so without danger; but I imagined that I had no right to give
utterance to the slightest unascertained particular, and therefore
evinced a backwardness to explain more than was absolutely necessary,
which he instantly remarked.
"Are you deceiving me, my son?" he asked, gravely.
"No, indeed, Father," I answered; "I am telling you the simple truth;
but for reasons of my own, you must let me do so without comment, and
draw your own deductions from what you yourself know."
"Well, then," he said, after musing a moment, "you say that you were
turning back to ask him where his carbine was placed when you saw the
accident that occurred. Tell me now, my son, did your never-failing
memory and attention abandon you in the present instance; or had you
not forgotten, in reality, where he had told you that the weapon was
to be found?"
"I had not forgotten," I replied, "and only turned back with that
excuse, because I did not wish to leave him just at that moment."
"Then you must have apprehended something," said the Priest; "tell me
what it was, and why you did so. You may do so safely, my son; for I
pledge my word that your reply never passes my lips."
Thus pressed home, I replied, "Certainly I did apprehend something,
good Father; but my apprehensions were quite vague and unformed,
pointing to no particular object, and having no very definite cause."
"Then why did you entertain fears at all," demanded Father Ferdinand,
"if you had seen nothing to excite them?"
"I had seen much to excite fears of every kind," I answered; "the
whole demeanour of Monsieur de Villardin, his altered habits, his
look, the fierceness of his manner, the wildness of his eye, all made
me fear that he was hardly sane, and that surely was excuse sufficient
for general apprehensions."
"It was," said the Priest, "it was; and your conduct was so just and
proper in writing to me at first, that I will not believe you conceal
anything from me now."
"Father Ferdinand, I will tell you the truth," I rejoined, as he was
about to proceed; "I conceal from you no fact of any kind; but I do
retain in my own bosom all those deductions which I have made from the
same events that I have detailed to you."
"It matters little," he said, "it matters little! The truth of all I
shall soon know from this unhappy man, if ever he recover the use of
his reason, and in the meantime I will draw my own conclusions."
"Has he been roused from the stupor into which he had fallen?" I
asked.
"Completely," answered the Confessor; "but he is now in a state of
raving delirium, which is still more fearful. Of course, however, you
are at liberty to go and see him; and I do not know that it will not
be better for you and me, and old Jerome Laborde, with whom all
secrets are safe, to take upon ourselves the entire tendance of the
Duke during his illness, than to suffer others, on whose discretion we
cannot rely, to wait upon him. Men in delirium often say fearful
things, which, whether true or false--whether the breakings forth of
long suppressed remorse, or the mere dreamings of a disordered
imagination--make deep impression on the hearers, and are often
transmitted to others with all the evidence of truth. We had better,
perhaps, watch him alone. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," I replied, "and will be guided in all things by your
counsel, Father. Would that you had come before to direct us!"
"Would I had!--would I had!" replied the Priest, sadly. "But it was
impossible. I set out from Rennes as soon as I received your letter,
and travelled even with far more haste than beseemed my age and my
profession."
We now repaired to the chamber of Monsieur de Villardin, and made
arrangements with the physician--in whom the Confessor appeared to
place full confidence--for carrying into execution what had been
already proposed. It was at once determined that we should each watch
six hours at a time by the couch of the sick man, whose ravings were
certainly of a nature to be kept secret as far as possible. Now he
would call upon the Count de Mesnil--now use harsh and cruel words, as
if towards his wife--now speak of a cunningly devised scheme to end it
all at once--now talk of a bloody grave beneath the oak; and, in
short, he would let drop a thousand wild and whirling words, which,
with all their incoherence, might very well have led to the discovery
of much that he would willingly have concealed, and to the suspicion
of other acts, of which, perhaps, he was innocent, though he never
gave his mind time to remain long enough upon the fearful facts that
busied it, to pour forth anything like a coherent tale in regard to
either of them.
As the physician had now done his part, and as I bore on my face
sufficient traces of fatigue and anxiety, the Confessor took upon
himself the first six hours' watch, saying, that while he sat up he
would write to the uncle of Madame de Villardin, whose domains were
situated in the Orleanois.
I certainly never remember to have been more fatigued, and willingly
took advantage of the good Priest's proposal. As I retired with the
medical man, however, I asked him eagerly what was the state in which
he had found the Duke when we brought him home; and, in reply, he
explained to me that though his skull was not fractured, yet a severe
concussion of the brain had taken place, from his head having struck,
in the fall, either some projecting rock, or some piece of the broken
bridge. From the ravings which had since come on, he feared, he said,
that there was a tendency to inflammation; and on my pressing to know
what would be the result, he shook his head doubtingly, saying, that
the result was in the hands of God alone; he himself could not venture
to give an opinion on the subject.
I did not sleep more than four or five hours, and on rising, proceeded
towards the apartments of Monsieur de Villardin, in order to take my
place by his bedside. I found old Jerome Laborde already there,
however; who, having been made aware of the arrangements of the
preceding night, had come about half an hour before to relieve the
Priest. By this time, the Duke had fallen into a quiet sleep, from
which I augured well; and leaving the old major-domo to hold out his
watch, I descended to the saloon, feeling most oppressively that deep
and shadowy gloom which always seems to fall over a house where such a
sudden and fatal event has taken place as that which distinguished the
foregoing evening. The low voice in which every one spoke when they
met, the stealthy pace with which every one moved about the mansion,
the stillness which pervaded the whole place, expressed the sense of
awe that was felt by every bosom, and had something awful in itself.
All this struck me much as I descended the stairs; but on entering the
saloon, there was something more painful still to be encountered. The
little Laura de Villardin was playing near one of the windows with
some trinkets of her mother's, but the moment I entered, she ran up to
me with open arms, and holding up her fair face towards me, exclaimed,
"Oh! tell me--tell me, where is mamma? Suzette says she is dead, and I
shall never see her again. What does _dead_ mean? Where is she gone
to?"
It was impossible to hear such questions calmly; and for the first
time since my father's death, I wept like a child. Suzette herself now
entered the saloon, and for a moment her eyes and mine met. Whether
what I felt towards her was very visibly expressed in my glance or
not, I cannot tell, but she turned extremely red, and casting down her
eyes, caught the little girl by the arm and drew her rudely out of the
room. In truth, I was not sorry to be spared more questions; and
taking my hat, I walked forth into the park.
The morning was as warm and bright as that of the preceding day; and a
feeling of painful curiosity impelled me directly towards the spot
where the accident had occurred on the night before. I followed the
exact path which I had pursued with Madame de Villardin, and as I
turned from the lateral alley where we had met the Duke, into the
short path which led to the broken bridge, I suddenly saw the form of
Father Ferdinand standing at the very point to which I was directing
my steps. He turned round as I approached, and without any apparent
surprise beckoned me towards him. I walked on at once; and for two or
three minutes after I had come up, we stood gazing together in silence
upon all that remained of the wooden arch which had there spanned
across the river, and which I myself had passed over on horseback not
five days before. Very little of it was now to be seen, for full
twelve feet of the centre had fallen into the river and had been
carried away; but enough still remained attached to the piles at the
sides to show, in some degree, the manner of the accident, though not
the cause. The nails which had fixed the cross supports to the rafters
had either given way or had been drawn out; and the two main beams
which upheld the whole, having been deprived of everything that
strengthened them, had broken at the side nearest the château, and,
dragged down by their own weight from the piles on the other bank of
the river, had fallen with the rest of the wood-work into the current,
and been carried away.
A part, however, of one of them remained, as I have said, attached to
the side where we stood; and after contemplating the whole for some
time in silence, the Priest laid his hand upon my arm, as he saw my
eyes fixed upon the broken beams, and he asked, in a tone half stern,
half sorrowful, "Do you remark nothing there, my son?"
I stooped down and looked more closely, but still kept silence; and he
added, "Then I will ask you, in plainer terms, do you not perceive the
marks of a saw?"
"I am afraid I do," replied I, rising up.
"It is enough," he said, and with his foot pushed the fragments of the
beams over into the water, which was easily accomplished, as all that
held them had already been nearly wrenched out by the breaking down of
the rest of the bridge. Father Ferdinand and myself gazed at each
other for several moments with sad and bitter hearts, and then,
feeling that nothing more need be said between us, we each turned on
our way without another word. Father Ferdinand took the path back to
the château, but I walked on towards Juvigny, in the sad hope of
hearing from good Jacques Marlot that the body of Madame de Villardin
had been found. On my arrival, however, I learned that Madame Marlot
herself, who, it seems, was in a delicate situation, had been so
agitated and alarmed by all the disturbance and anxiety of the
preceding night, as to be obliged to keep her bed that morning; and
the large-nosed Bretonne servante, who gave me these tidings, added,
that her master was gone over to the gate of the convent, and that I
should certainly meet him there if I walked that way.
I did as she suggested, and met Jacques Marlot returning from the
convent; but he informed me that no trace had been discovered of the
body of Madame de Villardin; and as his wife was ill, I turned back
towards the château. As I passed by the bridge again, I found Gaspard
de Belleville, and one or two of the servants, examining the spot
where the fatal event had occurred; and it was not difficult for me to
perceive that the whole household looked upon the page and myself as
irreconcilable enemies, by the manner in which the servants drew away
from his side when I approached. As I had most scrupulously avoided
mentioning even his name to any one when not absolutely called upon to
do so, it must have been from Gaspard himself that the domestics had
learned that any degree of enmity existed between us. At all events,
their having discovered the fact was by no means to his advantage; for
as my good will was of more value in the family than his, from the
circumstances in which I stood in regard to the Duke, my favour was of
course more courted, and it often happened that it was courted at his
expense.
As I wished to be asked no questions upon the subject, I passed on,
without noticing any one, and after an hour or two spent in the
melancholy rooms of the château, I went to take the place of good
Jerome Laborde. While I watched by Monsieur de Villardin, he woke from
the sleep into which he had fallen; but so far from my anticipations
of amendment being realized, he appeared infinitely more delirious
than ever. His words, however, were now so incoherent and wild, that
the most suspicious ear could have drawn no meaning from them; and
thus luckily they continued through the rest of his illness. For
nearly a fortnight he remained in the same condition, but at the end
of that period a material change for the better began to manifest
itself, and the ravings to which he had been subject ceased entirely;
though by this time he was reduced to a state of infant weakness.
Innumerable visiters had presented themselves at the château, as the
tidings spread through the country; and all who could hope to obtain
anything by his death were most assiduous and tender in their
inquiries. Shortly before he recovered his reason, also, the Count de
Loris, the uncle of his late wife--warned of Madame de Villardin's
death by a letter from Father Ferdinand, with whom he was well
acquainted--appeared at the château, and took up his abode there for
the time; but as he had never heard of any dissensions between his
niece and her husband, and care was taken not to make him aware of the
painful state in which they had lived for the last five or six months,
the good old Count expressed, and I believe felt, as much anxiety in
regard to Monsieur de Villardin as if he had been his own son. His
manners were simple and kind to all around him, and when informed by
Father Ferdinand of the share I had borne in several of the late
events, he embraced me tenderly, and after thanking me repeatedly,
made me relate every particular in regard to the accident which had
befallen his unhappy niece. The warm tears coursed each other down his
cheeks as I proceeded, and when I had ended, he said, "If ever I can
serve you, young gentleman, let me know. I am a man of few words, but
I mean what I say."
I gave him full credit for doing so, and I only did him justice. After
the delirium had left Monsieur de Villardin, his health continued to
improve every hour; but still it was the most painful convalescence
that ever I beheld. He scarcely spoke a word to any one, and his eyes
roamed round those that surrounded his bed with a searching and
anxious glance, that was terrible to those who understood the feelings
in which it arose. When he began to speak again, it was but one word
at a time, and even then he confined himself to the name of any object
that he wanted at the moment.
As soon as the physician judged it prudent, Monsieur de Loris was
brought into his bed-chamber, and took his hand affectionately; but
the Duke turned his head away, and pressed his eyes upon the pillows,
as if to avoid the sight and all its concomitant ideas. The good old
Count went on to comfort him in a kindly tone, but not knowing the
truth, he followed the most painful track he could pursue, and by
addressing a man who had destroyed his own happiness as he would have
done one who suffered alone under the bereaving hand of fate, he
poured gall and wormwood into all the consolations he offered.
The shock, however, though terrible, was not without a good effect,
for it seemed to rouse the unhappy Duke from the dull despair that
overwhelmed him, and, at all events, it broke the first dreadful
feelings of returning to scenes which had each its own peculiar
associations of agony to pour forth upon him.
Still, the day that he first came forth from his own chamber was full
of misery. The sun was shining through all the windows, checkering the
staircases and saloons with gay and gladsome light. Under the
directions of Father Ferdinand, everything had been removed which had
peculiarly belonged to the Duchess, and alterations had been made, in
various ways, to break in every direction the chain of associations
which we knew could alone prove painful. Monsieur de Villardin's eye,
however, still wandered wildly over every object around, and I do not
know that it was not really more distressing to him to miss all the
objects he expected to see, than it would have been to find them in
their accustomed places.
I heard him mutter to himself, "They are all gone!--they are all
gone!" and sinking into the fauteuil in which he had been accustomed
to sit when in the saloon, he covered his eyes with his hands, and
remained musing for several minutes. At that moment the door of the
room was gently opened, and Mademoiselle de Villardin, warned and
persuaded by every means in our power to be careful of what she said
and did, was led in by Monsieur de Loris. The Duke heard the door
open, and withdrawing his hand from his eyes, saw his child for the
first time since the death of her mother. He had scarcely been able to
reach the saloon with the assistance of two people, but when his eyes
fell upon his daughter, he started up without aid, sprang forward, and
catching her to his heart, burst into a passionate fit of tears.
Father Ferdinand and myself supported him to a seat, but still he held
his little girl in his arms, and weeping bitterly, every now and then
drew back her head from his bosom to gaze upon her face, which that
day bore--or seemed to me to bear--a more striking likeness to her
mother than ever I had before remarked. She on her part was silent,
but wept too, mingling the tears with which she bedewed her father's
bosom with kisses pressed upon his cheek. The physician would fain
have put an end to such a scene, but when he proposed to remove the
young lady, the Duke turned round, saying mildly, but firmly, "She
must remain! It does me good!"
I believe most sincerely that it did, and certainly from that moment
his health improved much more rapidly than it had previously done.
Each day he regained strength, and gradually, by walking out upon the
terrace, and driving forth in a carriage, he acquired sufficient
vigour to mount his horse, and thenceforward might be considered well,
at least in body.
It was necessary, indeed, that he should recover strength, for there
were still many painful things to do which could not be much longer
postponed. M. de Loris had now been nearly a month at the château, and
was of course anxious to return to his own dwelling; yet, as his niece
had brought to Monsieur de Villardin, at her marriage, an estate
called Virmont, in the Orleanois, which had been settled upon her with
all the peculiar forms and agreements that enter into a French
marriage contract, it became necessary to make some arrangements in
regard to this property, which of course reverted entirely to her
daughter. M. de Loris felt that to speak long upon such a subject
would be inflicting much pain upon both the Duke and himself, and
therefore he had procrastinated for some days, when, suddenly, one
morning, as we were driving out in the neighbourhood, Monsieur de
Villardin, who had been agitated by the same feelings, began the
conversation himself, and concluded it in fewer words than it
otherwise would have required.
"Monsieur de Loris," he said, with a degree of calmness which showed
how he had tutored his mind to the point, "I have long thought of
speaking to you in regard to Virmont. Although, of course, I am my
beloved child's only guardian and protector, yet, under present
circumstances, I do not choose to hold the property which is now hers
any longer, even as her guardian. It is contiguous to your own land,
and I have therefore to request that you would kindly take charge of
it, manage the rents, invest them to the best advantage, and make the
whole over to Laura when she marries or becomes of age."
The Count made some opposition, although he acknowledged that the
confidence of the Duke was highly grateful and flattering to him.
Monsieur de Villardin sighed deeply, but replied, "You must, my dear
Count, allow me to have my will in this respect. Accept the trust, I
beseech you; and as we may all feel very sure that my remaining years
will be few, I have named you in some papers that I drew up yesterday
for a still more important charge, which I must entreat you to
undertake. It is that of one of the guardians to my child when I am
dead."
The reply was such as might be expected, but the conversation ended in
Monsieur de Loris accepting both the offices which Monsieur de
Villardin put upon him. A few days after, the necessary papers were
brought, drawn up in legal form, and having been read in silence by
both parties, were duly signed. The next morning the Count de Loris
left us, pouring upon Monsieur de Villardin expressions of affection
and esteem, every one of which went home to his heart like a dagger.
The Duke seemed relieved when he was gone; but there seemed still
another painful task to be performed; at least I judged so from the
anxious expression of his eyes, as he sometimes turned them upon the
face of the Confessor.
At length, one morning, after walking for half an hour upon the
terrace, he turned to Father Ferdinand, who at the moment was coming
forth into the garden to take his customary stroll with me, and said,
"Now, good Father, I am ready, if you can do me the favour."
"It is one that must never be refused, my son," replied the Priest; "I
follow you:" and they turned towards the château. Both had become
somewhat paler as they spoke; and in about two hours afterwards I was
joined by the Priest, with a countenance on which strong and terrible
emotions had left traces which could not be mistaken. He tried to
appear calm, indeed, and succeeded in a certain degree, by speaking
for some time of indifferent things. At length, when he had obtained
command of himself, he said, "In the letter which you wrote to me when
I was at Rennes, and which brought me so suddenly back to the château,
you said, my son, that you really doubted the sanity of Monsieur de
Villardin, from the extraordinary change that had come over him. Now
tell me truly, I beseech you, was that an expression hazarded without
attaching to it its full meaning; or was it your real conviction at
the time that the mind of your friend was unhealthily affected? It is
of much consequence that I should know."
"I will tell you, my good Father, most sincerely,"--I replied, seeing
that the feelings of the Confessor were, in truth, most deeply
interested; "Indeed I will give you an answer that will show you I
speak without reserve. Did I not believe, then, that during the four
or five days preceding the dreadful accident which lately happened,
the mind of Monsieur de Villardin was decidedly deranged, I would not
stay in his house another hour."
"It is enough, my son, it is enough," replied the Priest. "So thinks
the physician,--and so he thinks himself," added the Confessor, in a
lower tone; giving what he said more the appearance of a reflection
addressed to himself than to me. "And yet," he continued, "his mind
must have been dreadfully worked upon by others: at least, it would
seem so from all that I can hear in the house."
"The more reason, Father," I replied, "for supposing that their
irritating suggestions had affected his brain. People seldom go mad
without some cause, unless they are very madly disposed indeed."
The Priest mused; and, after a long pause, he replied, "Well, well,
let us always lean to the side of charity. We are all too fallible to
judge rigidly."
I saw that the fear of approaching, even in the slightest degree, the
facts which had been confided to him under the seal of confession,
prevented Father Ferdinand from speaking with me more candidly upon a
subject which occupied so great a part in the thoughts of both at that
time. Of course I did not press the topic, and the conversation turned
to other matters.
What I had said to him was, nevertheless, true; for certainly had I
not believed that, for several days before the death of Madame de
Villardin, the Duke himself had been positively insane, I would,
without hesitation, have restored to him all his gifts, and would have
quitted for ever a man to whom I could not help attaching, in my own
mind, the darkest of suspicions. But his whole previous conduct had so
firmly impressed me with the idea, that at no period between my return
from St. Malo and the death of his unhappy wife, had he possessed the
complete command of his own reason, that I felt him to be more an
object of pity than of censure. Even more--regarding his conduct in
this light, and looking upon him as one whose happiness had been cast
away for ever, under the influence of mental disease, all that had
occurred proved a strong, though mournful tie, which bound me to him
more firmly than ever; and when I remembered the promise which I had
so shortly before made to this unhappy lady who was now no more, I
determined that no time nor circumstances should ever induce me to
quit entirely the child that she had left, till I saw her hand given
to some one who would have the right and power to protect her. I say
that my determination was not to quit her _entirely_, because the
conduct of Monsieur de Villardin towards me, since his recovery had
been such, that I knew not whether he either desired my longer abode
with him, or whether it was to be upon such terms as I could now alone
endure.
Although no son could have attended upon a father with more care and
anxiety than I had done upon him, yet he had scarcely addressed ten
words to me since his convalescence began. Those that he had spoken,
indeed, had always been kind and affectionate; and I had often caught
his eyes fixed upon me with a look of intense interest,--mournful,
perhaps painful, but still full of regard and feeling. Nevertheless,
the strangeness of his silence, which I ought to have attributed to
other causes, made me anxious and unhappy; and, as I was not a person
to express any of that loud indignation for ill-requited kindness,
which is sure to pile contempt upon ingratitude, I frequently thought
of asking his permission, calmly and tranquilly, but firmly and
urgently, to return to Paris, and to mingle in the scenes of strife
and turmoil which were again beginning to agitate the unquiet capital
of France.
I was saved, however, from the pain which such a request would have
occasioned to us both. On the day following that in the course of
which I had reason to believe he had relieved his bosom of the load
that weighed upon his heart, and had poured forth both his sorrows and
his faults to the ears of the Confessor, he beckoned me immediately
after breakfast towards his library, and led the way thither himself.
I followed, and closed the door; and as soon as I had done so, he put
his hand upon my shoulder, and gazing in my face with an expression
of deep grief, he said, "Why--why, my dear boy, did you save my
life?--why--why did you preserve me to daily sorrow and continual
regret?"
Although I was seldom destitute of a reply, his question might have
been a painful one to answer, had not my conversations with Father
Ferdinand given me altogether a new view of human life from that which
I had formerly entertained.
"My lord," I answered, boldly, "every man, I have heard, has something
to repent of in this world, and it is always better to have time here,
where repentance avails us, than to go where it is a punishment
instead of a penance."
"You say true,--you say true," replied the Duke; "and I thank you for
the life you have preserved, as well as for the kindness and the
courage which prompted and enabled you to preserve it." He paused for
a moment thoughtfully, and then proceeded: "You have thought me cold,
unkind, ungrateful, since I have recovered life and health; but it has
not been so. I have felt all that you have done for me; I have seen
all that you have felt for me; and I have a thousand times longed to
thank you for the whole; but ever, when I was about to speak, all the
horrible memories which are in your heart and in mine, have risen up
before me, and compelled me to silence. I have scarcely had courage
even to address you, much less to speak with you on subjects connected
with the terrible past."
Such an explanation was more than sufficient, and the pain of it once
over, all further difficulty or reserve between us was at an end. He
spoke some time longer with me in the library; and though he alluded
but vaguely and remotely to the past, yet he did speak of it more than
once with that sort of lingering tendency which a man always has to
return, in conversation with others, to any subject that occupies all
his thoughts when alone. At length, taking a key from the table, he
said, "I have a fearful task before me, but one which I promised to
execute myself. Nevertheless, I confess my heart so plays the coward
with me that I am afraid to enter those rooms alone. You must go with
me, at least as far as the ante-room, and wait for me there till my
task is concluded."
Although he did not mention what rooms he meant, yet as I had heard
from the old major-domo that Father Ferdinand had, with his own hands,
closed and sealed the apartments of Madame de Villardin immediately
after his arrival at the château, I easily divined that it was to
those chambers that the Duke now alluded. I instantly prepared to
follow, but still ventured to ask whether he had not better desire the
good Priest to accompany him in the sad duty he was about to perform.
He shook his head gloomily, and replied, "No, no, I must go alone;"
and then, with a pale cheek and wavering steps, took his way up the
great staircase. His hand shook so fearfully that he could scarcely
remove the seal, and turn the key in the lock of Madame de Villardin's
chamber door; and sitting down in the ante-room he paused for several
minutes, in order to gain strength for the undertaking. At length he
started up abruptly, exclaiming, "Now!" and entering her bed-room,
which communicated with a dressing-room on the other side, he closed
the door behind him. Full of sad thoughts, I stood gazing out of the
lattice for some time; but at the end of about a quarter of an hour, I
heard the ante-room door open, and turning my head round without any
noise, perceived Madame Suzette stealing quietly in, and looking about
her. As soon as she perceived me she halted; and, with as much
abhorrence as ever I felt towards any loathsome reptile in my life, I
walked forward, and taking her by the arm, turned her quietly but
firmly towards the door.
Thinking, probably, that I was there alone, she seemed about to take
some noisy notice of my unceremonious ejection of her pretty person;
but, pointing sternly towards the bed-chamber, I whispered, "The Duke
is there;" and, glad to get off unobserved, she tripped away as
quietly and speedily as possible. I kept my silent and now undisturbed
watch in the ante-room for nearly two hours, and all seemed so still
and quiet within the chamber beyond, that I began at length to feel
alarmed lest the excitement and agitation which Monsieur de Villardin
had evidently experienced when he entered, should have overpowered him
in the course of his undertaking.
He came forth, however, just as I was about to open the door, and was
evidently calmer and more firm than when he had left me, though I
should say that the expression of deep, stern grief, which had now
become habitual to his countenance, was, if anything, a shade deeper
than before.
"Did I not hear another step than yours about an hour ago?" were the
first words he spoke. I replied in the affirmative, and told him at
once who it was that had intruded. He looked at me for a moment or two
with a sort of inquiring glance, as if he sought to read something in
my heart ere he himself spoke.
"Suzette!" he said, thoughtfully; "I have been thinking of keeping her
here to take charge of Laura."
My feelings burst forth whether I would or not, and I exclaimed,
"What! give the care of the daughter to her who calumniated the
mother!"
The retort was so sudden and so unexpected that the Duke started; and
gazed at me for a moment, with a look in which I thought I could trace
no slight anger at my rash exclamation. I had spoken the truth,
however, though I had spoken it too boldly and unadvisedly, and I was
not to be abashed while such a conviction was at my heart; but casting
down my eyes, I waited calmly for the rebuke that I doubted not was to
follow. But Monsieur de Villardin paused, and for several moments
uttered not a word; till at length, grasping my arm, he said in a low,
but emphatic tone,--
"However you made the discovery, young man, you say true. She did
calumniate her mistress! For though there is still much to be
accounted for, which, probably, will never in this world receive an
explanation, yet I were worse than base to doubt the proofs of virtue
and of love with which those cabinets have furnished me. I heap coals
of fire upon my own head by yielding to the conviction; I inflict the
tortures of hell already on my heart by making the acknowledgment; but
I own before you, who probably have seen more deeply into my weakness
and my madness than any human being, that I did that beloved girl
false and shameful wrong, and that from my soul I believe her--now
that it is too late--to have been as pure as purity itself."
He trembled as he spoke with the very energy of his feelings, though
every tone was as low as a lover's whisper, and when he had concluded,
he sank down into a seat, and gazed at vacancy, giving way, I am sure,
to all that longing, burning thirst to recal the past, which every one
at some time feels amidst the errors and the faults of life.
It was long ere he recovered himself; but when he did so, he called my
attention to a letter that he held in his hand, saying, that it
concerned me as well as himself. The handwriting was that of Madame de
Villardin, and the epistle covered two sheets of paper, one of which
he gave me to peruse, after having made an ineffectual effort to read
it to me himself. I remember the contents almost word for word, and
put down here that part which most interested me at the time.
"I mean not to reproach you, my lord," it went on, after a broken
sentence at the top of the page; "far, far from it; and I only thus
assert my innocence of even one evil thought; I only thus attempt to
prove that I could not have been guilty; I only thus depict all that I
have suffered, in order that you may love our children when I am dead,
and grant me, in dying, a few not very burdensome requests. I repeat
again, that without knowing why, I am convinced that I shall not
survive many months. Nor does this conviction arise in the common
terror of women in my present situation. On the contrary, I fear not
to die; and now that I am deprived of your affection, I have nothing
to attach me to the world but the dear child that we both love, and
the one which is yet unborn. Still I feel that death is not far from
me; and therefore these lines, which will never meet your eye till I
am dead, may well be looked upon as my dying words. Oh then, my lord,
I beseech you to love the children that I leave you with tender and
equal affection; and should a regret at any time cross your mind for
sorrows inflicted on their mother, make me atonement by your affection
for them. If ever the spirits of the dead be permitted to watch over
those they loved while living, my soul shall follow you and our
children through existence, and every kind word or deed towards them
shall be received as wiping away some unmerited reproach or some harsh
act towards myself.
"My next request is, that you would yourself confirm and sanction an
engagement which I caused the young Englishman, who has since saved
our daughter from a watery grave, to enter into in regard to our
children. Your fate, my lord, is, of course, uncertain; and how long
you may be permitted to guard and protect them no one can tell. I have
heard much of this young gentleman and his history, both from yourself
and from others, and I have myself seen that he is always prompt to
succour and defend, and that his knowledge of the world, in all its
changes and disguises, is extraordinary for one so young. As it is
more than probable that he will grow up with our children as an elder
brother, I have made him promise that he will never wholly leave them,
but will always come forward to give them aid and assistance, wherever
you may be, whenever they may need his help. In making this request to
him I felt sure that I could not be doing wrong, as the person whom I
besought to undertake the task, and whom I entreated, while you acted
towards my children as a father, to act towards them as a brother, is
one in whom you yourself seem to place the fullest confidence; but I
have since been confirmed in what I have done by the opinion of our
excellent friend and spiritual guide, Father Ferdinand, who not only
assures me that this young gentleman's goodness of heart and rectitude
of judgment may be depended on, but undertakes boldly that in case of
my death, you shall sanction my conduct, induce him to repeat his
promise, and give him every opportunity of executing it, both during
your life and after your death.
"My requests, I think, are now all made, except that you would bestow
upon my servants the sums which I have written down upon the paper
attached to this letter, and that you would assign to the convent of
Ursulines at Juvigny the thousand crowns of revenue which, with your
consent, I promised them on the birth of our daughter, and which has
never been formally made over to them. Besides this, I trust that you
will give a thousand livres to the church of St. Peter at Rennes, to
be expended in masses for my soul; and as my last request, I beseech
you to think of me kindly, and when I am dead, to do that justice to
my memory which you have not done to my faith and honour while
living."
I could well conceive, as I read these words, how poignantly they must
have gone home to the heart of Monsieur de Villardin; and even as I
read them in silence before him, I could see from his eye,--which was
fixed upon my face, scanning its expression from line to line,--that
he again mentally ran over all which that paper contained, and
inflicted on his own heart every gentle word as the most severe of
punishments.
"Do you undertake the task?" he demanded, when I had done.
"I have already done so, my lord," I replied; "and I never forget my
word."
"Your task may become a strange and a difficult one," he said, musing;
"but never mind," he added, abruptly, and at the same time rising,
"whatever comes of it, so it shall be. I on my part promise, before
Heaven and before you, on my hope of pardon, and on my honour as a
man, to give you every means of executing what you have undertaken,
and to take such measures as will secure you the same opportunity
should I die. She said right," he continued, holding out his hand to
me; "she said right, poor girl; you do possess my confidence most
fully; none ever possessed it so much; and would to God, would to God,
that you had possessed it more! Oh, had I but trusted your words! oh
God! oh God! that it should now be all beyond recall!" and he groaned
bitterly under the torture of remorse.
"Tell me," he cried, after a long pause, "tell me! do you know of any
cause which that woman--that Suzette had to hate her mistress?"
"Personally I know of none," I answered; "but, if I mistake not, good
old Jerome Laborde could assign sufficient reasons for all her
malice."
"I will inquire!" he rejoined, "I will inquire!" and carefully locking
the doors, he turned away from the apartments of his dead wife.
The agitation and exertion he had gone through, however, had been too
much for him; and ere he reached his library, towards which his steps
were directed in the first instance, he was obliged to turn to his own
chamber, and lie down to rest for the remainder of the day. The next
morning early, good old Jerome Laborde was summoned to his master's
presence, and I fully believe, in his fright,--for he held Monsieur de
Villardin in great awe--he would either have prevaricated so
desperately as not to obtain credence for his tale, or he would have
denied any knowledge of Suzette's behaviour altogether. I luckily,
however, saw him before he went, and exhorted him to tell the whole
truth exactly as it was; and I conclude he did so, though I was not
present.
Whatever took place, the result was but just; for no sooner was his
conference over with Monsieur de Villardin, than the good major-domo
came forth, armed with authority to send forth Madame Suzette, with
all her moveables, without allowing her to sleep another night in the
house.
Some time was, indeed, consumed in her preparations; but as I had
notice from Jerome of the order he had received, and I intended to
spend the greater part of the day in my own apartments, I certainly
did not expect to see Suzette more. I was astonished, however, by the
door of my little saloon being thrown unceremoniously open about two
hours after; and in walked the soubrette, with an air of determined
effrontery which I have seldom seen surpassed in man or woman.
"I have come, Monsieur l'Anglais," she said, making me a mock
courtesy, "to take my leave of you before I go, and to thank you for
all your kindness. I am not unaware of all your good offices, and as I
shall not in all probability be very far off, I shall take good care
to repay them. I do not doubt that some opportunity will occur; in the
meantime, farewell!" and without waiting any reply, she walked out of
the room, leaving all the doors open behind her as she went.