The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge stood on a hill
overlooking the river. It was a small and humble dwelling, though
scarcely so miserable in its aspect and appointments as most of peasant
abodes round about. It comprised a single storey divided into three
rooms and roofed with thatch. In front was a tiny garden, where a vine
straggling over the walls of the house, a few fruit-trees, and some
withered vegetables just managed to exist. Small as was this garden
patch, and limited as was its production, still Lacheneur’s aunt, to
whom the dwelling had formerly belonged, had only succeeded in
conquering the natural sterility of the soil after long years of patient
perseverance. Day after day, during a lengthy period, she had regularly
spread in front of the cottage three or four basketfulls of arable soil
brought from a couple of miles distant; and though she had been dead for
more than a twelvemonth, one could still detect a narrow pathway across
the waste, worn by her patient feet in the performance of this daily
task.
This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took
the following day, in the hope of obtaining from Marie-Anne’s father
some explanation of his singular conduct. The baron was so engrossed in
his own thoughts that he failed to realise the excessive heat as he
climbed the rough hillside in the full glare of the noonday sun. When
he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while
wiping the perspiration from his brow, turned to look back on the valley
whence he had come. It was the first time he had visited the spot, and
he was surprised at the extent of the landscape offered to his view.
From this point, the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can
survey the course of the Oiselle for many miles; and in the distance a
glimpse may be obtained of the ancient citadel of Montaignac, perched on
an almost inaccessible rock. A man in the baron’s mood could, however,
take but little interest in the picturesqueness of the scenery, though,
when he turned his back to the valley and prepared to resume his walk,
he was certainly struck by the aspect of Lacheneur’s new abode. His
imagination pictured the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only
two days before, had relinquished the splendours of the Chateau du
Sairmeuse to resume the peasant life of his early youth.
“Come in!” cried a female voice when M. d’Escorval rapped at the door of
the cottage. He lifted the latch, and entered a small room with
white-washed walls, having no other ceiling than the thatched roof, and
no other flooring than the bare ground. A table with a wooden bench on
either side stood in the middle of this humble chamber, in one corner of
which was an old bedstead. On a stool near the narrow casement sat
Marie-Anne, working at a piece of embroidery, and clad in a
peasant-girl’s usual garb.
At the sight of M. d’Escorval, she rose to her feet, and for a moment
they remained standing in front of one another, she apparently calm, he
visibly agitated. Lacheneur’s daughter was paler than usual, she seemed
even thinner, but there was a strange, touching charm about her person;
the consciousness of duty nobly fulfilled, of resignation calling for
accomplishment, lending, as it were, a new radiance to her beauty.
Remembering his son, M. d’Escorval was surprised at Marie-Anne’s
tranquillity. “You don’t inquire after Maurice,” he said, with a touch
of reproachfulness in his voice.
“I had news of him this morning, as I have had every day,” quietly
replied Marie-Anne. “I know that he is getting better, and that he was
able to take some food yesterday.”
“You have not forgotten him, then?”
She trembled; a faint blush suffused her cheeks and forehead, but it was
in a calm voice that she replied: “Maurice knows that it would be
impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”
“And yet you told him that you approved your father’s decision!”
“Yes, I told him so; and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”
“But you have made Maurice most wretched and unhappy, my dear child; he
almost died of grief.”
She raised her head proudly, looked M. d’Escorval fully in the face and
answered, “Do you think then that I haven’t suffered myself?”
M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but speedily recovering himself,
he took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and, pressing it affectionately,
exclaimed: “So Maurice loves you, and you love him; you are both
suffering: he has nearly died of grief and still you reject him!”
“It must be so, sir.”
“You say this, my dear child--you say this, and you undoubtedly believe
it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense
sacrifice, have quite failed to find any plausible reason. Explain to me
why it must be so, Marie-Anne. Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an
old friend? It may be that your father in his despair has adopted
extreme resolutions. Let me know them and we will conquer them together.
Lacheneur knows how deeply I am attached to him. I will speak to him: he
will listen to _me_.”
“I can tell you nothing, sir.”
“What! you remain inflexible when a father entreats you to assist him,
when he says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold my son’s happiness, life, and
reason in your hands. Can you be so cruel----’”
“Ah! it is you who are cruel, sir,” answered Marie-Anne with tears
glittering in her eyes; “it is you who are without pity. Cannot you see
what I suffer? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can
say to my father. Why try to unnerve me when I require all my courage to
struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see
me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be
folly. Beseech him to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are
his father, must command him to do so. And you too, in heaven’s name fly
from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our
house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us may ruin you as well.”
She spoke almost wildly, and her voice was so loud that it reached an
adjoining room, the door of which suddenly opened, M. Lacheneur
appearing upon the threshold. At the sight of M. d’Escorval the whilom
lord of Sairmeuse could not restrain an oath; but there was more sorrow
and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said: “What, you here,
baron?”
The consternation into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval
was so intense that he could only just manage to stammer a reply. “You
have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten
your old friendship? I come to you----”
“Why did you not inform me of the honour that the baron had done me,
Marie-Anne?” said Lacheneur sternly.
She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied;
“Why, I have but just arrived, my dear friend.”
M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter and then at the
baron. His brow was overcast as he was evidently wondering what M.
d’Escorval and Marie-Anne had said to each other whilst they were alone.
Still, however great his disguise may have been, he seemed to master it;
and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M.
d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room. “It is my reception
room and study combined,” he said smilingly.
This room, although much larger than the first, was, however, quite as
scantily furnished, but piled up on the floor and table were a number of
books and packages, which two men were busy sorting and arranging. One
of these men was Chanlouineau, whom M. d’Escorval at once recognized,
though he did not remember having ever seen the other one, a young
fellow of twenty or thereabouts. With the latter’s identity he was,
however, soon made acquainted.
“This is my son, Jean,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last
saw him ten years ago.”
It was true. Fully ten years had elapsed since the baron last saw
Lacheneur’s son. How time flies! He had known Jean as a boy and he now
found him a man. Young Lacheneur was just in his twenty-first year, but
with his haggard features and precocious beard he looked somewhat older.
He was tall and well built, and his face indicated more than average
intelligence. Still he did not convey a favorable impression. His
restless eyes betokened a prying curiosity of mind, and his smile
betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.
He made a deep bow when his father introduced him; but he was evidently
out of temper.
“Having no longer the means to keep Jean in Paris,” resumed M.
Lacheneur, “I have made him return as you see. My ruin will, perhaps,
prove a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good for a
peasant’s son. Fools that we are, we send our children to Paris that
they may learn to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the
kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”
“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait at least until we are
alone!”
“M. d’Escorval is not a stranger,” retorted M. Lacheneur, and then
turning again to the baron, he continued; “I must have wearied you by
telling you again and again; ‘I am very pleased with my son. He has a
commendable ambition; he is working faithfully and is bound to succeed.’
Ah! I was a poor foolish father! The friend whom I commissioned to call
on Jean and tell him to return here has enlightened me as to the truth.
The model young man you see here only left the gaming-house to run to
some public ball. He was in love with a wretched little ballet girl at
some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went on the stage
with his face painted red and white.”
“It’s not a crime to appear on the stage,” interrupted Jean with a
flushed face.
“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues one
doesn’t possess! Have I ever refused you money? No; and yet you have got
into debt on all sides. You owe at least twenty thousand francs!”
Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.
“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight
ago; now I haven’t a halfpenny. I can only hope to obtain this sum
through the generosity of the Duke or the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
The baron uttered an exclamation of surprise. He only knew of the scene
at the parsonage and believed that there would be no further connection
between Lacheneur and the duke’s family. Lacheneur perceived M.
d’Escorval’s amazement, and it was with every token of sincerity and
good faith that he resumed: “What I say astonishes you. Ah! I understand
why. My anger at first led me to indulge in all sorts of absurd threats.
But I am calm now, and realize my injustice. What could I expect the
duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque,
I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau
to select the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me
nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal--everything. I selected
what I wanted, furniture, clothes, linen. Everything is to be brought
here; and I shall be quite a great man.”
“Why not seek another house? This----”
“This pleases me. Its situation suits me perfectly.”
In fact, after all, thought M. d’Escorval, why should not the
Sairmeuse’s have regretted their odious conduct? And if they had done so
might not Lacheneur, in spite of indignation, agree to accept honourable
conditions?
“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued
Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example,
having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he
has promised to send her plants to stock our small garden, and they will
be renewed every month.”
Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This last remark
was too much; it awakened a terrible suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind.
“Good heavens!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate some
crime?” He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased, for on
hearing Lacheneur speak of the marquis and Marie-Anne, the stalwart
young farmer had turned livid.
“It is decided,” resumed Lacheneur with an air of unbounded
satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed
to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as
I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all: they
have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be
allowed to occupy the game-keeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But
on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed a fortune which
did not belong to me during so many years, I am now anxious to amass a
fortune of my own.”
“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”
“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedlar.”