A few days later Caroline wrote again to her sister.
"POLIGNAC, May 15.
"Here I have been for five days past, in one of the most imposing ruined
castles left from feudal times, on the summit of a great, black lava
boulder, like those I told you about in connection with Le Puy and
Espaly. You will think my position has changed, and my dream has become
reality. No: I am certainly near little Didier, but I have taken it upon
myself to watch over him, for his father or protector has not yet
appeared. Now see what has happened.
"I felt a wish to see the child again, besides a slight wish to learn
more about him; and lastly I had a desire to examine closely this castle
of Polignac, which looks from afar like a city of giants, on a rock from
the infernal depths. It is the strongest mediæval fortress in the
country; it was the nest of that terrible race of vultures under whose
ravages Velay, Forez, and Auvergne have trembled. The ancient lords of
Polignac have left everywhere throughout these provinces mementos and
traditions worthy of the legends about the ogre and Blue-Beard. These
feudal tyrants robbed travellers, pillaged churches, murdered the monks,
carried off women, set fire to villages, and this, too, from father to
son, through long centuries. The Marquis de Villemer worked out of these
facts one of the most remarkable chapters of his book; drawing the
conclusion that the descendants of this family though innocent,
assuredly, of the crimes of their ancestors, seem, by their misfortunes,
to have been expiating the triumphs of barbarism.
"Their citadel was impregnable. The rock is sliced down perpendicularly
on all sides. The village forms a group below on the little hill which
supports the block of lava. It is some distance from Lantriac. The
insuperable ravines here make all distances great. Having started early,
however, we arrived last Tuesday toward noon, and our little horse
carried us to the foot of the postern. Peyraque left me there, in order
to take care of our animal, and to look at some others, for he has quite
a reputation in veterinary science, and wherever he goes, practice of
this kind always comes to him.
"I found a little girl ten years of age to open the door for me; but
when I asked to see Dame Roqueberte, the child told me with tears that
her mother was dying. I hurried to where she lives,--a part of the
castle still standing, in good repair,--and I found her the victim of a
brain-fever. Little Didier was playing about the room with another of
this poor woman's children; the latter child was quite happy,
comprehending nothing, although the elder; while Didier, between smiles
and tears, was looking toward the bedside with as much anxiety as a
little creature of three years could be expected to show. When he caught
sight of me, he came to me at once, and without coquetting before
embracing me, as he did the first time, he clung to my dress, pulling me
with his little hands, and saying 'mamma,' in a voice so plaintive and
gentle that my whole heart was won by it. He was certainly telling me
about the strange condition of his adopted mother. I drew near the bed.
Dame Roqueberte could not speak; she knew no one. Her husband came in
after a moment and began to be alarmed, for she had been in this state
only a few hours. I told him it was time to send for a physician and a
woman to take care of his wife, which he did at once; and as I could not
be sure that it was not typhoid fever, I sent the children out of the
room, warning the husband that it might be dangerous to leave them
there.
"When the physician came at the expiration of two hours, he approved
what I had done, observing that the disease had not yet defined itself
and that the children must be placed in some other house. This change I
undertook to make with the help of Peyraque, for the husband had quite
lost his senses, and thought of nothing but having candles burnt in the
village church and prayers mumbled in Latin which he could not
understand, but which seemed to him of more efficacy than the doctor's
prescriptions.
"When he had calmed down a little it was already four o'clock; and it
was necessary for Peyraque to set out again with me, that the night
might not overtake us in the ravine of the Gâgne. There was no moon for
the moment, and a storm was impending. Then poor Roquebert began to
lament, saying that he was ruined unless some one would take care of the
children, and especially of 'the child,' meaning by that Didier,--the
hen with the golden eggs for his household. Special care was needful for
him; he was not strong like the children of the country, and besides he
was 'curious,' he wanted to go everywhere, and these ruins are a
labyrinth of precipices, where a young gentleman of this adventurous
temper must not be lost sight of a single moment. He dared not trust him
with any one. The money this little one had brought into his house had
made others envious, he had enemies; what did I know about it? In short,
Peyraque said to me in a low voice, 'Come, your good heart and my own
bright ideas are at one in this matter. Remain here; I see they have the
wherewith to lodge you comfortably; I will come back to-morrow to see
how the case stands, and take you home if there is no further need of
you.'
"I confess I desired this decision; it seemed as if it were a duty as
well as a privilege to watch over the child. Peyraque returned the next
day, and as I saw that Dame Roqueberte, though out of danger, would not
be able to sit up for some days, I consented to remain, telling Peyraque
not to come after me till the end of the week.
"I am very comfortable here, in a vast room, which is, I believe, an old
hall for the guards, that has been divided into several portions for the
use of the farmers. The beds, though very rustic, are clean, and the
housekeeping I attend to myself. I have the three children at my side
all the time. The little girl does the cooking while I superintend; I
see to the attendance which must be given the mother; I wash and dress
Didier myself. He is clothed like the others, in a little blue blouse,
but with more care, especially since I have made it my concern,--and I
am so fond of him that I dread the moment when I shall have to leave
him. You know my passion for children,--that is, for some children; this
one is certainly well born. Charley would be as jealous of him as a
tiger. Because, you see, this Didier is surely the son of a superior man
or woman. He is of high, fine descent, morally speaking; his face is of
a somewhat dull whiteness with little flushes of color like those on
standard roses. He has brown eyes of admirable shape and expression, and
a forest of black hair, half inclined to curl, which is fine and soft as
silk. His little hands are perfect, and he never soils them. He does not
dig in the earth, and never touches anything: he passes his life in
looking at things. I am sure he has thoughts beyond his years which he
cannot express, or rather, a series of dreams, charming and divine, that
cannot be translated into human language; yet he talks very fluently for
one of his age, both in French and patois. He has caught the accent of
the country, but makes it very sweet by his infantile lisp. He has the
prettiest reasons in the world for doing as he pleases, and what he
pleases is to be out of doors, climbing over the ruins, or crawling into
their crevices; once there, he sits down, gazing at the tiny flowers,
and especially at the insects, without touching them, but following all
their motions, apparently interested in these living marvels, while the
other children think only of crushing and destroying them.
"I have tried to give him his first notions in reading, being persuaded
(contrary to the father's opinion perhaps) that the earlier you begin
with children the more you spare them the heavy strain on the attention,
so painful when their strength and activity have found greater
development. I have tested his intelligence and curiosity; they are
unusual, and with our wonderful method, which succeeded so well with
your children, I am sure I could teach him to read in a month.
"And then this child is all soul, and his self-will melts into boundless
affection. Our fondness is growing too fast really, and I ask myself how
we are ever going to part.
"Besides, although I miss my Justine and Peyraque, I enjoy myself
exceedingly among these magnificent ruins, commanding as they do one of
the loveliest spots on earth. The air is so pure that the white stones,
mixed with rough fragments of lava, are as bright as if just from a
quarry. And then the interior of this immense castle is stored with very
curious things.
"You must know that the Polignac family pretend to a descent from Apollo
or his priests in a direct line; and that tradition consecrates the
existence here of a temple to this god,--a temple of which some
fragments yet remain. As for myself, I think there is no doubt of it,
and that just to see these fragments is enough. The question to decide
is whether the inscriptions and carvings were brought here to decorate
the castle according to Renaissance usage, or whether the castle was
built upon these vestiges. Dame Roqueberte tells me the scientific men
of the country have been disputing over it for fifty years, and for my
own part I agree with those who think the curbstone of the well was the
mouthpiece of the god's oracles. The orifice of this immense well, with
which another and a smaller well grotesquely communicates, was closed by
a colossal head of noble outline, whose perforated mouth gave forth the
subterranean voice of the priestess. Why not? Those who say it was only
the mask of a fountain are no surer. The head has been preserved from
destruction in the lower story of a little tower, along with a pile of
stone bullets found in the well. I have amused myself by taking a sketch
of it, which I send you in this letter, with a portrait of my little
Didier at its foot, lying sound asleep at full length upon the temple of
the god. It does not look like him, to be sure; but it will give you an
idea of the fantastic and charming picture which I have had before my
eyes for the last fifteen minutes.
"As for other matters, I do not read at all here. I have not Peyraque's
eight or ten stray volumes and his big old Protestant Bible. I no longer
try to improve myself; I hardly think of it even. I mend the clothing of
my Didier, following him step by step; I dream, I am sad, but not
rebellious, and not given to wondering any further about a state of
things to which I ought to submit,--and I am in good health, which is
the most important thing.
"Good old Peyraque comes in, bringing your letter. Ah! my sister, do not
give up weakly, or I shall be in despair. You say _he_ is pale, already
ill; and this gave you so much pain that you came near betraying me.
Camille, if you have not strength enough to see a courageous man suffer,
and if you do not understand that my courage alone can support his, I
will set out again; I will go farther away still, and you shall not know
where I am. Consider yourself notified, that the day I see the mark of a
strange foot upon the sand of my island, I shall disappear so entirely
that--"
Caroline left the sentence unfinished; Peyraque, who had just given her
Madame Heudebert's letter, came back saying, "Here is the _gentleman_
coming."
"Who? what?" cried Caroline, rising and evidently quite troubled. "What
gentleman?"
"The father of the unknown child,--M. Bernyer he calls himself."
"Then you know his name? No one here knew it or would tell it."
"On my word, I am not very curious; but he threw his valise on a bench
at Roquebert's door, and my eye happened to fall upon it, so I read."
"Bernyer! I don't know any such person; perhaps I might show myself
without getting into difficulty."
"Why, certainly you must see him, to tell him about the little one; now
is the time."
Roquebert came in, however, and defeated Peyraque's design. M. Bernyer
was asking for his son; but, according to his custom, he had gone into a
room, reserved for him especially, and did not wish, just then, to see
any one not of the family.
"It is all the same," added Roquebert. "I will tell him how you took
care of my wife and the little boy, and he will certainly give me
something good to repay you with. Otherwise I will do it myself, out of
my own pocket. Be easy about that."
He took the child in his arms and went out, closing the door behind him,
as if to shut out even a curious look from following him into the
passage leading to the stranger's room.
"Well, let us set out," said Caroline, whose eyes were full of tears at
the thought that she would probably never see Didier again.
"No," replied Peyraque, "let us wait a little and see what the gentleman
will think, when he knows you have stayed here five days to take care of
his child."
"But don't you see, my friend, that Roquebert will take care not to tell
him? He will never dare to own that, during his wife's illness, he knew
of nothing better than trusting the child to a stranger. And beside, is
he not anxious to keep Didier a year longer, which would be very
feasible? Will he let us give the father a hint that the child would not
only be better cared for, with us, but also educated as he needs to be
at his age? No, no. Dame Roqueberte herself, in spite of the care I have
given her, will say that no one knows me, that perhaps I am only an
adventuress; and while seeking gratitude and confidence, we shall look
as if we were intriguing to get the few sous which have been offered us
already."
"But when we refuse them it will be seen who we are. I am known myself;
it is understood that Samuel Peyraque has never lied or held out his
hand for money."
"This stranger knows nothing of all that, and he will inquire of the
Roqueberts only because he knows nobody else. Let me set out quickly, my
dear friend; I suffer every minute I stay here."
"Just as you like," said Peyraque. "I have not unharnessed, and we can
let the horse rest at Le Puy; but nevertheless, if you would trust me,
we should remain here one or two hours. Going thither from here, we
would naturally meet on the way; the child would come to you and ask for
you himself, he is so fond of you already. Look here now! If the
gentleman should see you only one minute, I am sure he would say, 'Here
is a person who is like no one else: I must speak to her.' And when he
had talked with you--"
Arguing in this way, Peyraque followed Caroline, who had gathered up her
clothing and was turning her steps toward the castle gate, quite
determined to start. Passing before the bench where the stranger's
valise was still lying beside his travelling-cloak, she read the name
which Peyraque had reported faithfully; but at the same time she made a
gesture of surprise and hurried along with unusual agitation.
"What is it now? asked the good man, taking the reins.
"Nothing,--a fancy!" replied Caroline, when they were out of the
enclosure. "I imagined I recognized the hand of the person who wrote the
name of Bernyer on that valise."
"Bah! it was written just like print."
"That is true; I am silly! Never mind; let us go on, my good Peyraque."
Caroline was absorbed in thought all the way. She accounted for the
singular emotion which the sight of this disguised handwriting had
caused her by what she had just experienced in reading her sister's
letter; but she had a new anxiety. M. de Villemer had never told her
that he had seen the castle of Polignac with his own eyes, but he had
given a fine description of it, and an accurate one, in his book; he had
taken it as an example of the strength of feudal restorations in the
Middle Ages, and Caroline knew he often travelled into the provinces, in
order to get a distinct impression of historic places. She searched all
the recesses of her memory to find what could not possibly be there, to
see if the Marquis had not accidentally chanced to tell her that he had
visited Polignac. "No," replied she to herself, "if he had said so, I
should have been impressed by it on account of the names Lantriac and Le
Puy, which Justine had mentioned." Then she tried to remember whether,
in connection with Polignac, she had not spoken of Lantriac and Justine;
but she had never mentioned either of them to him, she was quite sure;
so she grew calmer.
Yet she was agitated and thoughtful. Why had she taken such a fancy to
this unknown child? What was the peculiarity in his eyes, his attitude,
and his smile? Was it that he looked like the Marquis? In the idea which
had so suddenly presented itself, of educating a little child and
wishing for this one, might there not have been a vague instinct more
powerful than chance or Peyraque's instigations?
With all this uneasiness there came, too, in Caroline's despite, the
secret torment of a confused jealousy. "He has a son, then, a child of
love?" said she to herself. "He must, then, have loved some woman
passionately before he knew me, for frivolous adventures are
incompatible with his exclusive nature, and there has been an important
mystery in his past life! The mother is still living perhaps. Why is she
supposed to be dead?"
Advancing among these feverish speculations, she recalled the words of
the Marquis under the cedar in the Jardin des Plantes, and the struggle
she had caught a glimpse of between his filial duty and some other duty,
some other love, of which she herself might not be the object after all.
Who knew whether the old Marchioness had not been equally at fault,
whether the Marquis had told his mother the name of the person he wanted
to marry; in short, whether she herself and Madame de Villemer had not
both missed the truth?
Thus working herself into an involuntary excitement, Caroline strove in
vain to feel reconciled to her fate. She loved, and for her the stronger
feeling now was the fear rather than the hope of not being loved in
return.
"What is the trouble?" asked Peyraque, who had learned to read her
anxieties in her face.
She replied by overwhelming him with questions about this M. Bernyer
whom he had seen once. Peyraque had a keen eye and a memory; but,
habitually thoughtful and reserved, he bestowed his attention only on
people who especially interested him. He drew, then, a picture of this
pretended Bernyer so vague and incomplete that Caroline made no
progress. She slept poorly that night, but toward morning she grew calm,
and awoke saying to herself that there had been no common sense in her
excitement of the day before.
Peyraque, having to go his rounds, could not linger till her awakening.
He came in at nightfall. His air was triumphant.
"Our affair is working well," said he. "M. Bernyer will come here
to-morrow, and you may rest easy; he is an Englishman, a sailor. You
don't know any such person, do you?"
"No, not at all," replied Caroline. "You saw him again, then?"
"No, he had just gone out; but I saw Dame Roqueberte, who is better and
begins to have her senses. She told me the little one cried last night,
and before he fell asleep asked over and again for his Charlette. The
father inquired who she was. It seems that Roquebert had no great wish
to speak of you; but his wife, who is a good Christian, and the little
girl, who is fond of you too, said you were an angel from heaven, and
the gentleman replied he would like to thank you, and make you some
recompense. He asked where you lived; he has never been at our house,
but remembered me perfectly, and said he would come and see us soon. He
promised the child this, and even that he would bring you back, in order
to make him go to sleep."
"In all this," said Caroline, "I see only one thing, and that is, this
stranger is coming to offer me money."
"Well, let him do it; so much the better! It will be an opportunity to
show him you are not what he thinks. You will see one another, you will
converse; he will find you are an educated young lady, above what he
supposes you are, and I will tell him your history, because this history
of yours does you credit."
"No, no," replied Caroline, quickly. "What! shall I intrust my secret to
a stranger, after so many precautions to conceal my name and position?"
"But since you do not know him?" said Justine. "If you are agreed on the
matter of the child, he should be intrusted with the whole. Having his
secret, we can afford to give him ours. He would have no inducement to
betray it."
"Justine!" cried Mlle de Saint-Geneix, who was near a window that faced
the street. "Listen! Heaven! not another word. There he is, certainly,
this M. Bernyer. He is coming here, and it is--yes, I was sure--it is
he! It is M. de Villemer! O my friends, hide me! Tell him I am gone,
that I am not coming back!--If he sees me, if he speaks to me,--can't
you feel that I am lost?"