At about four o'clock, while the brightening skies permitted Peyraque to
make preparations for their return, by hiring another cart well provided
with straw and blankets, together with oxen and a skilful teamster, so
as to reach Laussonne before evening, the young and beautiful Duchess
d'Aléria, robed in moire, her arms loaded with cameos, came into the
apartment of her mother-in-law at the castle of Mauveroche, in Limousin,
leaving her husband and Madame d'Arglade chatting with apparent
friendliness in a magnificent drawing-room.
Diana had an air of joyful triumph, which struck the Marchioness.
"Well, what is it, my beauty?" asked the old lady. "What has happened!
Has my other son returned!"
"He will come soon," replied the Duchess. "You have the promise of it,
and, you know, we feel no uneasiness on his account. His brother knows
where he is, and declares we shall see him again by the end of the week.
So you find me excessively gay,--excessively happy, even--This little
Madame d'Arglade is delightful. Dear mamma, she is the source of all my
happiness."
"O, you are jesting, little masquerader! You can't endure her. Why have
you brought her here? I did n't request it. No one can amuse me but
you."
"And I undertake it more bravely than ever," replied Diana, with a
bewitching smile, "and this very D'Arglade whom I adore is going to
furnish me with weapons against your wretched melancholy. Listen, dear,
good mamma. At last we have got her awful secret, though not without
trouble, by any means. For three days we have been manœuvring round
her,--the Duke and I,--overpowering her with our mutual trust, our
surrender of ourselves to happiness, our most graceful tenderness. At
last, the estimable woman, who is n't our dupe, and whom our aggravating
mockeries drove to extremity, has given me to understand that Caroline
had for an accomplice in her great fault--O, you know whom. She has told
you. I pretended not to understand; it was a little thrust right into my
heart,--no, a deep thrust, I must tell the truth,--but I hastened to
find my dear Duke, and flung it squarely in his face. 'Is it true, you
dreadful man, that you have been in love with Mlle de Saint-Geneix!' The
Duke sprang like a cat,--no, like a leopard whose paw has been trodden
on. 'There! I was sure of it,' said he, roaring; 'it is our good Léonie
who has invented that.' And then he began to talk of killing her, so I
had to quiet him and tell him I did n't believe it, which was n't quite
true; I did believe it a little bit. And this son of yours, who is n't
dull,--he perceived that, and he flung himself at my feet, and he
swore--O! but he did swear by all that I believe and love, by the true
God, and then by you, that it was an infamous lie; and now I am as sure
of this as I am that I came into the world for nothing else but just to
love his Grace the Duke."
The Duchess had a childish lisp, as natural as Madame d'Arglade's was
affected, and she united with this a tone of resolute sincerity that
made her perfectly charming. The Marchioness had no time to wonder over
what she heard, for the Duke came in as triumphant as his wife.
"There!" cried he. "God be praised, you will never see that viper again!
She has called for her carriage; she is going off furious, but with no
poison in her fangs. I can answer for that. Mother, my poor mother, how
you have been deceived. I can appreciate your suffering. And you would
n't say a word, not even to me, who could in a breath--But I have
confessed her, this odious woman, who would have brought despair into my
household, if Diana were not an angel from heaven, against whom the
Powers of Darkness will never prevail. Well, mother, be a little vexed
with us all; it will do you good. Madame d'Arglade saw,--did she
not?--with her own two eyes, saw Mlle de Saint-Geneix leaning on my arm
and crossing the lawn of Séval at daybreak! She saw me speak to her
affectionately and shake hands with her? Well, she didn't see the whole,
for I kissed her hands one after the other, and what she did n't
overhear I'm going to tell you, for I remember as well as if it happened
yesterday,--I was excited enough for that. I said to her, 'My brother
has been at the point of death to-night, and you have saved him. Pity
him, still keep him under your care, help me to hide his illness from
our mother, and, thanks to you, he will not die.' That is what I said, I
swear it before Heaven, and this is what had taken place."
The Duke recounted the whole, and, going into the matter more thoroughly
still, even confessed his false notions about Caroline and his fruitless
manœuvring which she had not even perceived. He described the outburst
of jealousy against him on the part of the Marquis; their disagreement
for one hour; their passionate reconciliation; the confession of the
one, the solemn oaths of the other; the discovery he made at that moment
of his brother's alarming condition; his own imprudence in leaving him,
thinking him asleep and comfortable; the broken window-pane, the cries
Caroline overheard; and Caroline herself rushing to his aid, reviving
the sick man, staying beside him, devoting herself from that time onward
to caring for him, amusing him, and aiding him in his work.
"And all this," added the Duke, "with a devotedness, a frankness, a
forgetfulness of self, unequalled in all my experience. This Caroline,
you see, is a woman of rare worth, and I have sought in vain for a
person who would suit my brother better in point of age, character,
modesty, or congenial tastes. I do not find one anywhere. You know I
have desired to have him make a more brilliant match. Well, now that he
is safe from serious embarrassment, thanks to this angel here who has
restored us all to freedom and dignity; now that I have seen the
persistence and strength of my brother's love for a person who is, more
than all others, the sincere friend he needs; and, lastly, now that
Diana understands all this better than I and exhorts me to believe in
love-matches, I have, dear mother, only one thing to say, which is, that
we must find Caroline again, and you must cheerfully give her your
blessing as the best friend you ever had, except my wife, and the best
daughter you can wish beside her."
"O my children!" cried the Marchioness, "you make me so happy. I have
hardly lived since this calumny. Urbain's grief, the absence of this
child who was dear to me, the fear of setting at variance two brothers
so perfectly united, if I acknowledged what I supposed to be true, what
I am so glad find false. We must hasten after the Marquis, after
Caroline; but where, for Heaven's sake? You know where your brother is;
but he,--does he know where she is?"
"No, he set out without knowing," replied the Duchess; "but Madame
Heudebert knows."
"Write her, dear mother; tell her the truth, and she will tell
Caroline."
"Yes, yes, I am going to write," said the Marchioness; "but how can I
let poor Urbain know at once?"
"I will take charge of that," said the Duke. "I would go myself, if the
Duchess could go with me, but to leave her for three days,--on my word,
it is too soon!"
"Fie!" cried the Duchess; "as soon as the honeymoon is over do you mean
to be running off without me in that way, light-hearted and light-footed
too? Ah! how mistaken you are, you charming man! I shall keep you in
order, with all your inconstancy."
"And pray how will you do it, then?" asked the Duke, looking at her
fondly.
"By loving you always more and more. We shall see whether you grow weary
of it."
While the Duke was caressing the golden hair of his wife, the
Marchioness was writing to Camille with a youthful sprightliness which
was certainly remarkable. "Here, my children," said she, "is this
right?" The Duchess read, "My dear Madame Heudebert, bring Caroline back
to us, and let me embrace you both. She has been the victim of a
horrible slander; I know all. I weep for having believed in the fall of
an angel. May she forgive me! Let her come back; let her be my daughter
always and never leave me again. There are two of us who cannot live
without her."
"That is delightful! It is kind and just like you," said the Duchess,
sealing up the note; and the Duke rang while his mother was writing the
address.
The message being despatched, she said to them, "Why can't you both go
after the Marquis! Is he so very far off!"
"Twelve hours by post, at the very most," replied the Duke.
"And I cannot know where he is?"
"I ought not to tell you; but I'm convinced he will now have no more
secrets from you. Happiness induces confidence."
"My son," returned the Marchioness, "you alarm me seriously. Perhaps
your brother is here sick, and you are hiding it from me, as you did at
Séval. He is worse even; you make me believe he is away because he is
n't able to be up."
"No, no!" cried Diana, laughing; "he is n't here, he is n't sick. He is
abroad, he is travelling, he is sad, perhaps; but he is going to be
happy now, and he did n't start without some hope of mollifying you."
The Duke solemnly assured his mother that his wife was telling the
truth. "Well, my children," resumed the Marchioness, still uneasy, "I
wish I could know you were with him. How shall I say it?--He has never
been ill but that I have suspected it or at least felt a peculiar
uneasiness. I was conscious of this at Séval, exactly at the period
when he was so ill without my knowledge. I see that what you describe
coincides with a fearful night which I passed then. Well, to-day, this
morning, I was all alone, and I had what I may call a waking dream. I
saw the Marquis pale, wrapped in something white, a shroud, perhaps, and
I heard in my ear his voice, his own voice, saying, 'Mother.'"
"Heavens! what fancies you torment yourself with!" said the Duke.
"I don't torment myself willingly; and I let my presentiments comfort
me, for I want to tell you the whole. For an hour past I have known that
my son is well; but he has been in danger to-day. He has suffered,--or
it may have been an accident. Remember now the day and the hour."
"There! you must go," said the Duchess to her husband. "I don't believe
a word of all this, but we must reassure your mother."
"You shall go with him," said the Marchioness. "I don't want my gloomy
notions, which, after all, are perhaps morbid and nothing else, to give
you the first annoyance of your married life."
"And leave you alone with these ideas!"
"They will all vanish as soon as I see you going after him."
The Marchioness insisted. The Duchess ordered a light trunk; and two
hours afterward she was travelling by post with her husband through
Tulle and Aurillac, on the way to Le Puy.
The Duchess knew the secret of her brother-in-law; she was ignorant of
the mother's name, but aware of the existence of the child. The Marquis
had authorized the Duke to have no secrets from his wife.
At six in the morning they reached Polignac. The first face which
attracted Diana's notice was that of Didier. She was impressed, as
Caroline had been, with a sudden impulse of tenderness toward this dear
little creature, who captivated all hearts. While she was looking at him
and petting him, the Duke inquired for the pretended M. Bernyer. "My
dear," said he to his wife, coming back, "my mother was right; some
accident has happened to my brother. He went away yesterday morning for
a few hours' ramble over the mountain, but has not returned yet. The
people here are uneasy about him."
"Do they know where he went?"
"Yes, it is beyond Le Puy. The post will carry us so far, and I can
leave you there. I shall take a horse and a guide, for there is no road
passable for carriages."
"We will take two horses," said the Duchess. "I'm not tired a bit; let
us start."
An hour after the intrepid Diana, lighter than a bird, was galloping up
the slope of the Gâgne and laughing at her husband's anxiety about her.
At nine o'clock in the morning they were swiftly passing through
Lantriac, to the great wonderment of the townspeople, alighting soon at
the Peyraque-Lanion domicile to the equally great disgust of the village
innkeeper.
The family were at table in the little workshop. The wanderers had
returned the night before after some slight detention, but without
accident. The Marquis, weary but not sick, had accepted the hospitality
of Peyraque's son, who lived near by. Caroline had slept delightfully in
her little room. She was helping Justine to wait upon "the men of the
house," that is, the Marquis and the two Peyraques. Radiant with
happiness she went back and forth, now waiting on the rest, and now
seating herself opposite M. de Villemer, who let her have her own way,
watching her with delight, as if to say, "I permit this now, but how I
shall repay all these attentions, by and by!"
What an outburst of joy and surprise filled Peyraque's house at the
appearance of the travellers! The two brothers gave each other a long
hugging. Diana embraced Caroline, calling her "sister."
They spent an hour talking over everything by snatches, extravagantly,
without comprehending one another, without feeling sure they were not
all dreaming. The Duke was almost famished and found Justine's dishes
excellent, for she prepared another plentiful breakfast, while Caroline
assisted her, laughing and weeping at the same time. Diana was in a
wildly venturesome mood, and wanted to undertake seasoning the dishes,
to her husband's great dismay. At last they seriously resumed their
respective explanations and recitals. The Marquis began by sending off a
courier to Le Puy with a letter for his mother, whose anxiety and
strange presentiments they had mentioned the first thing.
They shed no tears on quitting the Peyraques, for these good people had
promised to come to the wedding. The next day they had reached
Mauveroche again with Didier, whom the Marquis placed in his mother's
lap. She had been prepared for this by her son's letter. She loaded the
child with caresses, and, restoring him to Caroline's arms, she said,
"My daughter, you accept, then, the task of making us all happy? Take my
blessing a thousand times over, and if you would keep me here a long
while, never leave me again. I have done you much harm, my poor angel;
but God has not allowed it to last long, for I should have died from it
sooner than you."
The Marquis and his wife passed the rest of the bright season at
Mauveroche, and a few autumnal days at Séval. This place was very dear
to them; and, in spite of the pleasure at meeting their relatives again
in Paris, it was not without an effort that they tore themselves away
from a nook consecrated by such memories.
The marriage of the Marquis astounded no one; some approved, others
disdainfully predicted that he would repent this eccentricity, that he
would be forsaken by all reasonable people, that his life was a ruin, a
failure. The Marchioness came near suffering a little from these
remarks. Madame d'Arglade pursued Diana, Caroline, and their husbands
with her hatred; but everything fell before the revolution of February,
and people had to think of other matters. The Marchioness was terribly
frightened, and thought it expedient to seek refuge at Séval, where she
was happy in spite of herself. The Marquis, just as his anonymous book
was about to appear, postponed its publication to a more quiet period.
He was unwilling to strike the sufferers of the day. Blest with love and
family joys, he is not impatient for glory.
The old Marchioness is now no more. Feeble in body and far too active in
mind, her days have been numbered. She passed away in the midst of her
children and grandchildren, blessing them all without knowing she was
leaving them, conscious of bodily infirmities, but preserving her
intellectual force and natural kindliness to the last, and laying plans,
as most invalids do, for the next year.
The Duke is growing quite fleshy in his prosperity; but is still
good-humored, handsome, and active enough. He lives in great luxury, but
without extravagance; referring everything to his wife, who governs him,
and keeps him on his good behavior, with rare tact and admirable
judgment, notwithstanding the indulgent spoiling of her fondness for
him. We would not assert that he has never thought of deceiving her; but
she has contrived to counteract his fancies without letting him suspect
it, and her triumph, which still endures, proves once more that there
are sometimes wit and power enough in the brain of a girl of sixteen to
settle the destiny, and that in the best possible way, of a professed
profligate. The Duke, still wonderfully good-natured and somewhat weak,
finds more delight than one would think in giving over his skilfully
planned treacheries toward the fair sex, and in going to sleep, without
further remorse, on the pillow of comfortable propriety.
The Marquis and the new Marchioness de Villemer now pass eight months of
the year at Séval, always occupied--we cannot say with one another,
because they are so united that they think together and answer each
other before the question is asked, but--with the education of their
children, who are all sprightly and intelligent. M. de G---- is dead.
Madame de G---- has been forgotten. Didier is formally recognized by the
Marquis as one of his children. Caroline no longer remembers that she is
not his mother.
Madame Heudebert is established at Séval. All her children are brought
up under the united care of the Marquis and Caroline. The sons of the
Duke, petted more, are not so intelligent or so strong; but they are
amiable and full of precocious graces. The Duke is an excellent father,
and is astonished, though quite needlessly, to find that his children
are already so large.
The Peyraques have been loaded with gifts. Last year Urbain and Caroline
went back to visit them, and, this time, they climbed, under a fine
sunrise, the silvery peak of Mézenc. They also wanted to see once more
the poor cabin where, in spite of the Marquis and his liberality,
nothing is changed for the better; but the father has bought land and
thinks himself wealthy. Caroline seated herself with pleasure by the
miserable hearth, where she had seen at her feet, for the first time,
the man with whom she would have willingly shared a hut in the
Cévennes, and forgetfulness of the whole world.