Justine followed Caroline, who had escaped to her own room, and made
signs to Peyraque that he should receive the Marquis and be
self-possessed.
Peyraque was equal to the emergency. He received M. de Villemer with the
calm dignity of a man who has the most rigid ideas of duty. It was no
longer a question of putting him in communication with the pretended
Charlette; it was necessary to get him away before any suspicions arose
in his mind, or, in case they had already arisen, to dispel them at
once. From the first words of the Marquis, Peyraque saw that he
suspected nothing. Desirous to set out again in a few days with his son,
whom he intended to keep nearer to himself in future, he had made the
most of a fine morning to come on foot and repay this debt of gratitude
to some generous stranger. He had not supposed the distance so great,
and was, therefore, a little late in arriving. He confessed he was
somewhat tired, and, in point of fact, his face betrayed both weariness
and suffering.
Peyraque hastened to offer him food and drink, the duties of hospitality
preceding everything else. He called Justine, who had, by this time,
regained her composure; and they waited upon M. de Villemer, who,
catching at this opportunity of rewarding his entertainers generously,
accepted their services with a good grace. He learned with regret that
Charlette had gone away; but there was no reason why he should ask many
questions about her. He thought of leaving a present for her, which
Justine, in a low tone, advised her husband to accept, that he might not
be surprised at anything. Caroline would readily find a chance to send
it back. Peyraque did not see the necessity; his pride revolted at the
idea of seeming to accept money on her account.
Caroline, in her little chamber, overheard this strife on a point of
delicacy. The voice of the Marquis sent shudders through her. She dared
not stir. It seemed as if M. de Villemer would recognize her footfall
through the flooring. He, for his part, hoping to find a way of
discharging his obligations under some different form, pretended and
really tried to eat a little; and after this inquired whether he could
hire a horse to return with. The night was dark and the rain came on
again. Peyraque agreed to carry him back and went out to get his wagon
ready; but first, he climbed up softly to Caroline's room. "This poor
gentleman makes me uneasy," said he in a low voice. "He is very ill,
that I am sure of. You can see drops of sweat on his forehead, and yet
he creeps up to the fire like a man with a fever-chill. He could not
swallow two morsels, and when he breathes hard it seems to affect his
heart like a spasm, for he puts his hand there, smiling bravely all the
while, but afterwards carrying it to his head, as one does in severe
pain.
"Heavens!" exclaimed Caroline, in alarm, "when he is ill it is so
dangerous! You must not carry him back to-night; your wagon is not easy,
and then the bad roads and the cold, and this rain and his fever! No,
no, he must stay here to-night. But where, pray? He would rather sleep
out of doors than at the inn, which is so untidy. There is only one way.
Keep him from going, keep him here. Give him my room. I will gather up
my things; it will not take long, and I will go to your
daughter-in-law's."
"With my son's wife or in the village, you will be too near. If he
should happen to be a little worse in the night you would come in spite
of yourself, to take care of him."
"That is true. What shall I do?"
"Do you want me to say? Well, you have courage and health: I will take
you to Laussonne, where you can pass the night with my sister-in-law; it
is as neat there as it is here, and to-morrow, after he goes, I will
come for you."
"Yes, you are right," said Caroline, doing up her bundle hastily. "Make
him agree to stay, and tell your son, as you go by, to harness Mignon."
"No, not Mignon! he has been travelling all day. We must take the mule."
Peyraque, having given his orders, returned to tell the Marquis the rain
had set in for the whole evening, which was indeed true; and, giving
Justine a significant glance, he urged him to stay so cordially that M.
de Villemer consented. "You are right, my friends," said he, with his
heart-broken smile; "I am somewhat ill, and I am one of those who have
no right to wish for death."
"No one has that right," replied Peyraque; "but you will not be
dangerously sick here with us, I assure you. My wife will take good care
of you. The chamber up above is very clean and warm, and if you get
worse you have only to knock lightly, just once; we shall hear it."
Justine went up stairs to prepare his room and embrace poor Caroline,
who was really dismayed. "What!" said Caroline, speaking very low; "I
know he is sick and I am going to desert him in this way. No. I was mad!
I will stay."
"But that is just what Peyraque will never let you do," replied Justine.
"Peyraque is stern; but what would you! Perhaps he is right. If you take
pity on one another now, you will never be able to part again. And
then--for myself I am sure you would never do anything wrong, but the
mother--And then, think what other people might say!"
Caroline would not listen; Peyraque went up stairs, took her hand with
an air of authority, and made her come down. She had put her poor heart
under the guidance of this Protestant of the Cévennes; there was no
longer any way of drawing back.
He led her out to the carriage and put in her bundle. At this moment
Caroline, who had really lost her senses, escaped from his grasp, darted
into the house through the kitchen-door, and caught sight of M. de
Villemer, who was seated with his back toward her. She went no farther;
her reason returned. And then his appearance reassured her a little. He
had not that bruised, broken-down aspect she had seen him wear on the
night of his former attack. He was sitting before the fire, reading in
Peyraque's Bible. The little iron lamp hanging from the mantel-piece
threw its light on his black hair, wavy like his son's, and partly also
on his clear, strong forehead. M. de Villemer was doubtless suffering
much, but he still wished to live; he had not lost hope.
"Here I am," said Caroline, returning to Peyraque. "He did n't see me,
and I have seen him! I am more at ease. Let us start; but you must
promise on your honor," added she, as she drew near the step of the
carriage, "that if he is taken to-night with suffocation you will come
for me at whatever damage to your horse. It must be done, do you see? No
one else knows what this sick man needs in way of care--and you--you
would see him die in your own house, and you would have it on your
conscience forever!"
Peyraque promised, and they set out. The weather was dreadful, and the
road frightful; but Peyraque knew every one of its holes and its stones.
Besides, the distance was short. He left Caroline at the house of his
sister-in-law, and had reached home again by eleven o'clock.
The Marquis was feeling better; he had gone to lie down after having
chatted with Justine in such a friendly way that she was delighted. "Do
you see, Peyraque, this man," said she, "he has a good heart like hers--
I can understand it perfectly myself--"
"Stop talking now," said Peyraque, who knew the thinness of the
flooring; "if he is asleep, we ought to sleep too."
At Lantriac the night passed in absolute quiet. The Marquis actually
rested, and at two o'clock awoke, having shaken off the fever. He felt
imbued with a pleasant calm, such as he had not known for a long time,
and he attributed this to some sweet dream that he had forgotten, though
its impression remained. Unwilling to awaken his hosts, he kept still,
gazing at the four walls of the little chamber, brightly lighted by his
lamp, and grasping the facts of his position more positively than he had
done before since Caroline's departure. He had debated a thousand
extreme measures; then he had said to himself that his first duty was to
his son; and the sight of this child had given him the force of will he
needed to resist the physical disease which now began to threaten him
anew. Within twenty-four hours he had fixed upon a definite plan. He
would take Didier to Madame Heudebert, leaving with her a letter for
Caroline, and then quit France for some time, so that Mlle de
Saint-Geneix, reassured by his absence, might return to be near her
sister at Étampes. In the course of a few quiet weeks, the Marchioness
would perhaps get further information, or perhaps her secret would be
discovered by the Duke, who had sworn he would draw it from her by
surprise. If the Duke failed, Urbain was not at the end of his
resources. He would come back quietly to the castle of Mauveroche, where
his mother, was to pass the summer with her daughter-in-law, and he
would not let Caroline know of his return until he had cleared her in
his mother's estimation, and thus again smoothed away every difficulty.
The most important and the most urgent thing, then, was to draw Mlle de
Saint-Geneix from her mysterious hiding-place. The Marquis still thought
she was in some Parisian convent. He found himself compelled to stay a
few days longer in Polignac to make sure of Dame Roqueberte's complete
recovery, before grieving her by taking away his son, and this delay had
fretted him more than anything else. To cheat his impatience, he asked
himself why he should not write to Madame Heudebert at once and to
Caroline also, that they might be prepared to rejoin each other after
his departure for a foreign land. By this means he would perhaps gain a
few days. He could mail the letter at once, as he would pass through Le
Puy on his return to Polignac.
What gave him the idea of writing from Lantriac was, mainly, the sight
of the little bureau, where Caroline had left pens, some ink in a cup,
and a few stray sheets of paper. These objects, on which his gaze
fastened mechanically, seemed inviting him to follow his inspiration. He
rose noiselessly, put the lamp on the table, and wrote to Caroline.
"My friend, my sister, you will not desert an unhappy man, who, for a
year past, has centred in you the hopes of his life. Caroline, do not
mistake my meaning. I have a favor to ask of you which you cannot
refuse. I am going away.
"I have a son who has no mother. I love him devotedly; I intrust him to
you. Come back!--As for myself, I go to England. You shall never see me
again, if you have lost faith in me,--but that is impossible. When have
I been unworthy of your esteem? Caroline--"
The Marquis stopped abruptly. An object of little importance had caught
his eye. The ordinary paper, the steel pens, had no peculiarities; but
one black bead lay on the table between his hand and the inkstand, a
trifle insignificant in itself, but one bringing with it a whole world
of memories. It was a bit of jet, cut and perforated in a certain
unusual fashion. It was part of a valueless bracelet Caroline had worn
at Séval; which he easily recognized because she used to take it off
whenever she wrote, and he had himself formed a habit of toying with
this bracelet while talking to her. He had handled it a hundred times,
and one day she had said to him, "Pray don't break it, it is all I have
left from my mother's jewel-box." He had looked at it respectfully, and
held it lovingly in his hands. Just as she was on the point of quitting
her little room in Lantriac, Caroline, in her precipitation, had broken
this bracelet; she had picked up the beads hastily, leaving behind but
this one.
This black bead reversed all the ideas of the Marquis; but what kind of
dreaming was this? These cut jets might be an industrial product of the
country he was then in. Nevertheless he sat motionless, absorbed in new
surmises. He breathed and questioned the vague perfume of the room. He
looked everywhere without moving from his chair. There was nothing on
the walls, nothing on the table, nothing on the mantel. Finally he
became aware of some bits of paper in the fireplace, which were not
completely charred. He bent over the ashes, searched minutely, and found
one single fragment of an address, only two syllables of which were
legible: one, written by hand, was the last in the word Lantriac, the
other, "am," forming part of the postmark. The postmark was that of
Étampes, the handwriting that of Madame Heudebert. There could be no
longer a doubt: Charlette was no one but Caroline, and perhaps she had
never gone away, perhaps she was still in the house.
From that moment, the Marquis had the cunning, the watchfulness, the
coolness, and the keen perception of a savage. He discovered the pipe
from the little spring leading down to the sink below. The pipe itself
was stopped up, but there was more than one fissure in the plaster which
surrounded it. He put his ear down to it closely, and caught Peyraque's
long, even breathing as he lay yet asleep.
Not a word, though spoken ever so low, could then escape him. In a few
moments he distinctly heard Justine rise, uttering the words, "Come, get
up, Peyraque; perhaps poor Caroline has not been sleeping so well as we
have!"
"A night is a night," said Peyraque; "besides, I can't go for her till
after he has gone away."
Justine listened and replied, "He does n't stir, but he said he should
get up at daybreak. Daylight is n't far off now; he means to go away
without taking anything, he said so."
"It is all the same," rejoined Peyraque, who had now risen, and whose
voice was even more audible, though he spoke quite low; "I don't want
him to set out on foot; it is too far. The lad shall saddle my horse,
and when I have seen him fairly off, I will start for Laussonne."
M. de Villemer had made sure. He stirred a little to show he was up, and
went down stairs after having slipped his purse into the bureau-drawer.
He seemed very impatient to get back to Polignac, and declaring he felt
perfectly strong, obstinately refused the horse. It would have been an
encumbrance in the war of observation he was about to wage. He shook
hands cordially with his entertainers and set out; but, on the borders
of the village, having inquired about the road of a passer-by, he
changed his course, plunging into a by-way that led to Laussonne.
He thought he could arrive there in advance of Peyraque, wait for him
stealthily, and see him take Caroline back. When he had made sure of her
return to Lantriac, he would lay his plans further. Until then, being
quite aware she was trying to escape him, he would not risk losing track
of her again. But Peyraque was very expeditious; Mignon travelled fast
in spite of the roads which grew worse and worse, forming one unbroken
ascent in the direction of Laussonne, and crossing more than one
mountain declivity. The by-path cut off the angles of the main road but
slightly, and the Marquis was distanced by the rustic equipage. He saw
it pass and recognized Peyraque, who, for his part, thought he
distinguished, in the morning fog, a man who was not in peasant garb,
and who quickly retreated behind an embanking wall of rough stones.
Peyraque was suspicious. "Very likely," thought he, "he has been fooling
us, or he has found out something. Well! if it is he, and if he is no
more of an invalid than that, I will cure him of trying to follow a
mountain horse on foot."
He urged Mignon forward, and arrived at Laussonne with the first rays of
the sun. Caroline, in deadly anxiety, after a cruelly sleepless night,
came out to meet him.
"All is going well," said he. "I was mistaken yesterday; he is not so
very ill, for he slept well and would return on foot."
"So he is gone?" replied Caroline, climbing to her seat by Peyraque. "He
never suspected anything, then? And I shall never see him again? Well,
so much the better!" and she burst into tears under her hood, which she
pulled over her face in vain. Peyraque heard her sob as if her heart
would break.
"So you are the one going to be sick now?" said he, in a tone of
paternal severity. "Come, be reasonable, or your Peyraque will never
believe you when you tell him you are a Christian."
"So long as I do not weep before him, can you not excuse one moment of
weakness in me? But what are you doing? Why are we going on toward
Laussonne?"
Peyraque thought he again caught sight of the Marquis still creeping
onward. "You must excuse me," said he, "but I have an errand to do in
the village. It is quite near."
He entered the village, shrewdly thinking that the Marquis would still
keep himself in sight at a distance. He went up the street and exchanged
a few words with one of the townspeople. Pretexts could not fail to be
at hand. Then, returning to Caroline, he said, "You see, my daughter,
you have too much on your mind. I want to revive your spirits; you know
an excursion always does you good. Would you like to have me take you on
one--O, a very pleasant one!"
"If you have business anywhere, I don't want to incommode you. I will go
wherever you like."
"I shall have to go to the foot of Mézenc, to the village of Estables.
It is a beautiful place really, and you have been longing to see the
grandest of the Cévennes."
"You said it would be hard travelling over there until after next
month."
"Bless me! Why, the weather is cloudy, to be sure, and perhaps the roads
are a little damaged. I have n't passed over them since last year; but
they have been worked upon, as I have heard, and besides you know with
me there is no danger."
"I assure you I am in no mood to worry about danger. Let us set out."
Peyraque hurried on his horse, which soon crossed the boundaries of
Laussonne and bravely descended the rocky hill, climbing the other slope
again without delay, and even more rapidly. When they had reached the
top, Peyraque turned round, saw no one in the paths behind him, and
looked at the road ahead, which was taking on a discouraging aspect.
"You are going to see a wilderness," said he; "but that need n't annoy
you, need it?"
"No, no," replied she; "when we are desperate we cease to be annoyed."
Peyraque went on, not without warning his companion repeatedly that the
sun might not be disposed to shine, that they had four leagues to go,
and that perhaps Mézenc would be under a fog. All this had little
interest for Caroline, who did not guess the hesitation of her old
friend or his qualms of conscience.
They traversed a mountain wooded with pines, and cut into by a vast
glade,--the result of an ancient felling of the trees,--which opened a
gigantic avenue, where the road, from a distance, looked like a highway
for a hundred chariots abreast; but when the little carriage had
ventured in, it was a frightful task to get over the ground, rain-soaked
and hollowed out into deep ruts in a thousand places. Further on, it was
worse still; the turf was strewed with blocks of lava, which left boggy
places between them; and when they found traces of the travelled road
again, they had to turn aside for monstrous piles of flints and pebbles,
to stop altogether before deep cuts or trenches, to seek the old road
among twenty others that lost themselves in the morass. The horse
performed prodigies of courage, and Peyraque miracles of skill and
judgment.
At the expiration of two hours, they had accomplished only two leagues,
and were in open country on an interminable plateau, at an elevation of
fifteen hundred metres. Except the breaks here and there in the road,
nothing could be distinguished. The sun had disappeared; a thick mist
enshrouded everything, and nothing can paint the feeling of bitter
desolation which fell upon Caroline. Peyraque himself lost courage and
kept silence. The obstructed road, which, he had been forced to leave
one side did not reappear, and for the last fifteen minutes they had
been pacing over a spongy turf, broken up by the hoofs of cattle in
search of pasturage, but no longer bearing any traces of wheels. The
horse stopped, bathed in sweat; he thus gave warning that he had never
been over this ground before.
Peyraque alighted, sinking almost knee deep in the boggy soil, and tried
to find where he was. It was out of the question. The mountains and
ravines were only one plain of white vapor.
"Have we lost our way?" asked Caroline with cool indifference.
At this point the wind made a little opening in the fog, and they saw in
the distance fantastic horizons empurpled by the sun; but the mist
closed in again so quickly that Peyraque could not determine his
position from this isolated peak in the distant circle of mountains.
However, they heard a confused barking and then voices, though they
could not distinguish the dogs till they were quite upon them. These
dogs were the advance-guard of a caravan of men and mules carrying
vegetables and leather bottles. They were mountaineers who had been down
to the plains to exchange the cheese and butter of their cows for the
fruits and vegetables of the level country. They accosted Peyraque, who
asked information. They told him that he had done very wrong to think of
going with a carriage to Estables at this season, that it could not be
done, and that he would have to return. Peyraque showed some obstinacy,
and asked if he was still far from the village. They guided him into the
road again, telling him he had work before him for an hour and a half;
but as their animals were loaded and warm, and they themselves in haste
to arrive, these mountaineers offered no assistance, and disappeared,
with a laugh at the little carriage. Caroline saw them rapidly vanish
into the fog like shadows.
It was absolutely necessary to let the horse breathe, for a fresh effort
to regain the solid road had exhausted him. "What comforts me," said
Peyraque, really moved, "is that you don't complain of anything! It is
very cold, nevertheless, and I'm sure the dampness has gone through your
cloak."
Caroline replied only by a shiver.
A new shadow had just passed along the side of the road; it was M. de
Villemer. He pretended not to see the carriage, although he did see it
perfectly; but he chose to seem unconscious that it held any one he
knew. He advanced with extraordinary energy, affecting an air of
indifference.
"It is he! I saw him," said Caroline to Peyraque. "He goes wherever we
go."
"Well, let him go on, and we will turn back."
"No, I cannot, I will not! He will die after such a walk. He will never
reach Estables. Let us follow him."
This time Caroline's terror was so commanding that Peyraque obeyed. They
came up with M. de Villemer, who moved aside to let them pass, without
stopping or looking up. He would be neither intrusive nor rebellious,
but he would know, he would follow to the death.
Unfortunately he was at the end of his strength. The difficulty of this
walk, which from Lantriac had been a continual ascent and, for the last
two leagues, one chaos of stones and peaty turf, had started on him a
profuse perspiration which he could feel freezing in the blast of a
sharp wind that had suddenly veered to the east. He lost his breath, and
was forced to stop.
Caroline turned her head toward him, and was on the point of crying out.
Peyraque seized her arm. "Courage, my daughter," he said, with his stern
religious fervor. "The Lord requires it at your hands." And she felt
herself overborne by the strong faith of the peasant.
"What do you want to do for him?" resumed Peyraque, as he still drove
on. "He has had strength to come so far, he will have enough to go the
rest of the way. A man does not die from the effects of a walk. He will
rest at Estables. And if he is sick,--I shall be there."
"But he is following me! You see I shall have to speak to him there or
elsewhere."
"Why should he follow you? He does not suspect you are here even. So
many travellers want to see Mézenc."
"In such weather as this?"
"The sun rose brightly, and we ourselves started to see Mézenc."
The Marquis saw Caroline hesitate and submit. This was the final blow.
No sooner had he seen himself left behind than he felt he could go no
farther. He sank down on a stone, his eyes fixed on the black speck
slowly vanishing from his sight, for the wind had risen suddenly and was
violently scattering the fog, in whose stead there now came light
flurries of snow and sleet. "So she would have me know nothing more of
her?" said he to himself, as he felt his strength failing. "She flees
from hope, she has lost faith. Then she never loved me!"
And he lay down to die.