"Well now, that is admirable!" said the Marchioness to herself after a
moment of surprise and fright. "She enters into my ideas; she has
enabled me to win the first evening, the hardest of all certainly. By
promising to come back to-morrow night she keeps my son from rushing
away to Étampes. To-morrow probably she will have a new pretext for not
returning--But I would rather not know what she means to do. I shall
then be sure that the Marquis will never get the truth from me."
Nevertheless, the evening came too soon for her comfort. Her fears
increased as she saw the hour approaching when they would have to dine
together.
If Caroline had really fled a little farther than Étampes, it was
necessary to gain time. She then decided upon telling an untruth. She
never spoke to her son until they were just seating themselves at table,
contriving to keep herself surrounded by others. It was a great dinner,
very ceremonious; but unable to bear the anxious gaze which he fastened
upon her, before taking her seat she said to the young Duchess, in such
a way as to be overheard by the Marquis, "Mlle de Saint-Geneix will not
come to dinner. She has a little niece ill at the convent, and has asked
leave to go and see her."
Immediately after dinner the Marquis, tortured with anxiety, tried to
speak to his mother. She avoided him again; but, seeing him preparing to
go out, she made signs for him to come near and whispered to him: "She
has n't gone to the convent, but to Étampes."
"Then why did n't you tell us so awhile ago?"
"I was mistaken. I had scarcely read the note, which was just given me
this evening. It is not the little girl who is mentioned, but another of
the children; however, she will return to-morrow morning. Come! there is
nothing alarming in this. Be careful, my son, your bewildered face
astonishes every one. There are ill-disposed persons everywhere: what if
some one should happen to think and say that you were envious of your
brother's happiness! It is known that at first it was you--"
"Ah! mother, that is the very thing! You are keeping something from me.
It is Caroline who is ill. She is here, I am sure of it. Let me inquire
on your behalf--"
"Do you want to compromise her, then? That would be no way to prepossess
her in your favor."
"She is not well disposed toward me, then? Mother, you have spoken to
her."
"No, I have n't seen her; she went away this morning."
"You said the note came this evening."
"I received it--some time, I can't tell when; but these questions are
not very amiable, my son. Pray be calm; we are observed."
The poor mother did not know how to tell a lie. Her son's anguish
pierced her to the heart. She struggled for an hour against the sight.
Every time he approached a door, she followed him with a glance which
plainly told of her fear that he would go: their eyes would meet, and
the Marquis would remain, as if held by his mother's anxiety. She could
not bear this long. She was broken down by the fatigue of the emotions
she had endured for twenty-four hours; by the excitement of the
festivity which, for several days, she had been trying to enliven with
all her cleverness; and above all, by the violent effort she had made
since dinner, to appear calm. She had herself conducted back to her own
apartment, and there fainted in the arms of the Marquis, who had
followed her.
Urbain lavished the most tender care on his mother, reproaching himself
a thousand times for having agitated her; assuring her that he was
composed, that he would not ask another question until she had
recovered. He watched over her the whole night. The next day, finding
her perfectly well, he ventured upon a few timid questions. She showed
him Caroline's note, and he waited patiently until evening. The evening
brought a fresh note, dated at Étampes. The child was better, but still
so poorly that Madame Heudebert desired to keep Caroline twenty-four
hours longer.
The Marquis promised to be patient for twenty-four hours more; but the
next day, deceiving his mother with the pretence of going to ride with
his brother and sister, he set out for Étampes.
There he learned that Caroline had really been with her sister, but had
just set out again for Paris. They must have passed each other on the
way. It occurred to the Marquis that on his arrival, which was evidently
anticipated, one of the children was kept out of sight, and silence
enjoined upon the others. He inquired after the little invalid, and
asked to see him. Camille replied that he was asleep and she was afraid
to wake him. M. de Villemer dared not urge the matter, and returned to
Paris seriously doubting Madame Heudebert's sincerity, and wholly unable
to explain her embarrassed and absent-minded ways.
He hastened to his mother's; but Caroline had not made her reappearance;
she was perhaps at the convent. He went there to wait for her before the
iron grate, and at the close of an hour he made up his mind to ask for
her in the name of Madame de Villemer. He was told that she had not been
seen there for the last five days. He returned a second time to the
Hôtel de Xaintrailles; he awaited the evening; his mother still seemed
ill, and he controlled himself. But on the morrow his courage finally
broke down, and he sobbed at her feet, begging her to restore Caroline,
whom he still believed hidden in the convent by her orders.
Madame de Villemer really knew nothing further about it. She began to
share her son's uneasiness. However, Caroline had taken with her only a
very small bundle of clothing; she could have had but little money, for
she was in the habit of sending it all, as soon as she received it, to
her family. She had left her jewels and her books behind; so she could
not be very far off.
While the Marquis was returning to the convent with a letter from his
mother, who, overcome by his grief, was now really anxious to have him
find Caroline again,--the young lady, wrapped up and veiled to her chin,
was alighting from a diligence just arrived from Brioude, and, carrying
her own bundle, was making her way alone along the picturesque boulevard
of the town of Le Puy in Velay, toward the station of another little
stage-coach, which was just then setting out for Issingeaux.
No one saw her face or thought of troubling himself to do so. She asked
no questions, and seemed thoroughly acquainted with the country, its
customs, and its localities.
Nevertheless, she was there for the first time; but, resolute, active,
and cautious, she had before leaving Paris bought a guide-book, with a
plan of the town and the surrounding country, which she had carefully
studied on the way. She then got into the diligence for Issingeaux,
telling the driver she would stop at Brives, that is, at about a league
from Le Puy. There she alighted at the bridge of the Loire, and
disappeared, without asking her way of any one. She knew she had to
follow the Loire until it met the Gâgne; then, directing her course
toward the Red Rock, again follow the bed of the torrent flowing at its
foot until she reached the first village. There could be no possible
mistake. There were about three leagues to be traversed on foot in a
wilderness, and it was midnight; but the road was smooth, and the moon
came out clearly in a beautiful half-globe from among the great white
clouds, driven back to the horizon by the winds of May.
Where, then, was Mlle de Saint-Geneix going in this fashion, in the
depths of the night and the wilds of the mountain, through a bewildering
country? Has it been forgotten that she had here, in the village of
Lantriac, devoted friends and the safest of all retreats? Her nurse, the
good-wife Peyraque, formerly Justine Lanion, had written her a second
letter, about six weeks before, and Caroline, remembering with certainty
that she had never mentioned to the Marquis or to any one of the family
these letters, or these people, or this country, had accepted the stern
suggestion of going there for a month or so, thus making sure that all
traces of herself would be entirely lost. Thence arose her precautions
against being recognized on the way, and against exciting chance
curiosity by asking questions.
She had gone to Étampes to embrace her sister, and, after having told
her all and intrusted her with all, except the secret feelings which
disturbed her, she had burned her ships behind her by leaving a letter
which, at the end of the week, was to be forwarded to Madame de
Villemer. In this letter she announced that she had gone abroad,
pretending to have found employment there, and begging that no anxiety
should be felt on her account.
Cumbered with her bundle, she was planning to leave it at the first
house where she could effect an entrance, when she became aware of a
train of ox-teams coming behind her. She waited for it. A family of
teamsters, young and old, with a woman holding a child asleep under her
cape, were transporting some great hewn logs,--intended to serve as
carpenters' timber,--by means of a pair of solid little wheels, bound
with ropes to each end of the log. There were six of these logs, each
drawn by a yoke of oxen with a driver walking beside them. It was a
caravan, which occupied a long space on the road.
"Providence," thought Caroline, "always helps those who rely upon it.
Here are carriages to choose from if I am weary."
She spoke to the first teamster. He shook his head: he understood only
the dialect of the country. The second stopped, made her repeat her
words, then shrugged his shoulders and resumed his walk: he understood
no better than the first. A third made signs for her to address his
wife, who was seated on one of the logs, her feet supported by a rope.
Caroline asked her, as she walked along, if they were going in the
direction of Laussonne. She did not wish to mention the name of
Lantriac, which was nearer, on the same road. The woman replied in
French of very harsh accent, that they were going to Laussonne, and that
it was "far off,--yes, indeed!"
"Will you let me fasten my bundle to one of these logs?"
The woman shook her head.
"Is this a refusal?" returned Caroline. "I do not ask it for nothing; I
will pay you."
The same response came. In Caroline's speech the mountaineer had
understood only the name of Laussonne.
Caroline knew nothing of the dialect of the Cévennes. It had formed no
part of the early education she had received from her nurse. The music
of Justine's accent, however, had lingered in her memory, and she caught
at the bright idea of imitating it, which she succeeded in doing so well
that the ears of the peasant woman opened at once. She understood French
measured out in this way, and even spoke it herself quite readily.
"Sit down there, behind, on the next log," said she, "and give your
bundle to my husband. Come! we ask nothing for this, my daughter."
Caroline thanked her and took a seat upon the log. The peasant made her
a stirrup like that which held up the feet of his wife, and the rustic
procession went on its way but slightly delayed by the ceremony. The
husband, who walked close at hand, made no attempt to talk. The Cévenol
is grave, and if he is ever curious, he will not deign to let the fact
appear. He contents himself with listening afterward to the comments of
the women, who ask information boldly; but the logs were long, and
Caroline was too far from the female mountaineer to be in danger of any
cross-questioning.
She thus passed at no great distance the Red Rock, which she mistook at
first for an enormous ruined tower; but she recalled the stories of
Justine about this curiosity of her country, and recognized the strange
dike, the indestructible volcanic monument, through whose pale shadow
cast by the moon she was now journeying.
The narrow, winding road rose above the torrent little by little,
growing so contracted that Caroline was frightened to see her feet
hanging in space over these awful depths. The wheels cut down into the
earth soaked by the rains on the extreme edge of the dizzy slope; but
the little oxen never swerved in the least; the driver kept on singing,
standing a little way off when he could find no comfortable place near
his log, and the nurse had a fashion of swaying back and forth that
seemed to mask a vain struggle with sleep.
"Bless me!" cried Caroline to the husband, "have you no fear for your
wife and child?"
He understood the gesture, if not the words, and called out to his wife
not to drop the little one, then launched forth anew in a dismal air,
which resembled a religious chant.
Caroline soon became used to the dizziness; she would not be tempted
into turning her back to the precipice, as the peasant motioned for her
to do. The country was so fine and so strange, the splendor of the moon
made it look so terrible, that she was unwilling to lose anything of the
novel spectacle. In the angles of the ascent, when the oxen had turned
the fore wheels, and the log still held the hind wheels to their former
course until they threatened to go over the brink, the astonished
traveller unconsciously stiffened herself up a little on her stirrup of
rope. Then the driver would speak to his oxen in a calm and gentle tone,
and his voice, which seemed to adapt their docile steps to the least
unevenness of the ground, reassured Caroline as if it had been the voice
of a mysterious spirit shaping her destiny.
"And yet why should I be afraid?" she asked herself. "Why should I cling
to a life which will be henceforth full of dread?--to a succession of
days which in prospect are a hundred times more frightful than death! If
I fell into this chasm, I should be instantly crushed. And even if I
suffered an hour or two before my death, what would that be compared
with the years of sorrow, loneliness, and perhaps despair, which await
me!"
We see that Caroline at last had owned to her love and her grief. Their
full extent she had not yet measured, and, as she thought about that
instinctive love of life which had just made her shudder, bold as she
was by nature, she tried to persuade herself that it was a
presentiment,--a celestial promise of speedy relief. "Who knows! Perhaps
I shall forget sooner than I think. Have I any right to wish for death!
Can I even afford to give way to grief, and waste my strength! Can my
sister and her children do without me? Do I want them to live on the
charity of those who have driven me away? Must I not soon go to work
again, and, in order to work, shall I not be obliged to forget
everything that is not work?"
And then she was troubled even by her own courage. "What," she said to
herself again,--"what if this were only a snare of hope!" Some of M. de
Villemer's words came back to her, and certain phrases in his book that
showed a wonderful amount of energy, penetration, and perseverance.
Would such a man give up a plan he was bent upon, allowing himself to be
deceived by stratagem, and would he not have in its highest power that
divining sense which is a part of love!
"I have acted to no purpose; he will find me again, if he tries to find
me. It is useless for me to have come here, though I am a hundred and
fifty leagues off, and though it seems impossible for any one to think
of my being here rather than elsewhere; for he will have that gift of
second sight, if he loves me with all his strength. So it would be
childish to run away and hide, if this were the whole of my defensive
resistance. My heart must take up arms against him, and at any moment,
no matter when, I must stand ready to face him, and say to him, 'Suffer
in vain or die if need be; I do not love you!'"
As she said this, Caroline was seized by a sudden impulse to lean
forward, quit the stirrup, and let herself fall into the abyss. At last,
fatigue overcame her excitement; the road, which still led upward, was
not so steep, and had turned away from the cleft of the ravine, leaving
all danger behind. Their slow progress, the monotonous swaying of the
log, and the regular grinding of the yokes against the pole, had a
quieting effect upon her. She watched the rocks as they passed slowly
before her, under their fantastic lights, and the tree-tops, whose
budding leafage resembled transparent clouds. It became quite cold as
they rose above the valleys, and the keen air was benumbing. The torrent
vanished into the depths, but its strong, fresh voice filled the night
with wild harmonies. Caroline felt her eyelids growing heavy. Judging it
could not be far from Lantriac, and not wanting to be carried to
Laussonne, she jumped to the ground and walked on to rouse herself.
She knew Lantriac was in a mountain gorge and that she would be very
near it when she had lost sight of the torrent of the Gâgne. At the end
of a half-hour's walk, in fact, she saw the outlines of houses above the
rocks, reclaimed her bundle, made the peasant take some money, though
not without difficulty, evaded the curiosity of his wife, and stayed
behind to let them pass through the village, exposed to the barking of
the dogs and disturbing the rest of the villagers whom she hoped to find
sound asleep again on her own arrival.
But nothing disturbs the sleep of the dwellers in a Velay hamlet, and
nothing awakens their dogs. The procession of timber went along; the
teamsters still singing, the wheels rumbling heavily over the blocks of
lava which, under pretext of paving the streets, in these inhospitable
villages, form a system of defence far more impassably sure than the
perilous roads by which you arrive.
Caroline, noticing the deep silence which followed upon the noise of the
wheels, ventured resolutely into the narrow and almost perpendicular
street which was supposed to continue the highway. Here her knowledge of
the place came to a sudden stop. Justine had never described the
position of her house. The traveller, wishing to glide in quietly and
arrange with the family to keep her incognito, resolved to avoid
knocking anywhere or waking any one, and to wait for day, which could
not be long in dawning. She laid her bundle down beside her on a wooden
bench, and took her seat under the pent-house of the first cottage she
came to. She gazed at the queer fantastic picture made by the roofs,
brought into uneven and hard relief against the white clouds of the sky.
The moon passed into the narrow zone left open between the neighboring
pent-houses. The basin of a little fountain caught the clear moonlight
in full, and a quarter of its circle sparkled under the fall of a
slender spray of water from the rock. The peaceful aspect and continuous
measured sound of this silvery water soon lulled our exhausted traveller
to sleep.
"Here is certainly a change within three days," said she to herself,
placing her bundle so as to make it a rest for her weary head. "Only
last Thursday, nevertheless, Mlle de Saint-Geneix, in a dress of tulle,
her neck and arms loaded with rare pearls, and her hair full of
camellias, was dancing with the Marquis de Villemer, under the light of
countless tapers, in one of the richest of Parisian drawing-rooms. What
would M. de Villemer say now if he could see this pretended queen of the
ball-room, wrapped in coarse woollen, lying at the door of a shed, her
feet almost in the flowing water and her hands stiff with the cold?
Happily the moon is beautiful,--and here it is striking two o'clock!
Well, there is an hour more to be spent here, and since sleep will come
whether or no, why, then, let it be welcome."