“Yes, M. le Baron. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”
“But that’s absurd,” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn
their daily bread in this way!”
“You are wrong, sir. I have considered the subject carefully; the
profits are thirty per cent. And besides, there will be three of us to
sell the goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to
Chanlouineau.”
“What! Chanlouineau?”
“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”
“And his farm--who will take care of that?”
“He will employ day labourers.” And then, as if wishing to make M.
d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough,
Lacheneur began arranging such of the little packages as were intended
for his own pack.
But the baron was not to be got rid of so easily, especially now that
his suspicions had almost ripened into certainty. “I must speak with you
alone,” he said in a curt tone.
M. Lacheneur turned round. “I am very busy,” he replied with evident
reluctance of manner.
“I only ask for five minutes. But if you haven’t the time to spare
to-day, I can return to-morrow--the day after to-morrow--or any day when
I can see you in private.”
Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this
interview, so with a gesture of a man who resigns himself to a
necessity, he bade his son and Chanlouineau withdraw.
They left the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind them,
Lacheneur exclaimed: “I know very well, M. le Baron, the arguments you
intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me
again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice.
Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is
none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of
changing my resolution. Don’t ask my motives; I cannot reveal them; but
rest assured that they are sufficiently weighty.”
“Are we not your friends?” asked M. d’Escorval.
“You--!” exclaimed Lacheneur with affectionate cordiality--”ah! You know
it well!--you are the best, the only friends I have here below. I should
be the greatest wretch living if I did not retain the recollection of
your kindness until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends,
yes, I am devoted to you--and it is for that very reason, that I answer
your proposals with no, no, never!”
There was no longer any room for doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s
hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp, “Unfortunate man!” he
exclaimed, “What do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you
dreaming!”
“I swear to you----”
“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my
experience. I divine your intentions--you hate the Sairmeuse family more
mortally than ever.”
“I----”
“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget the way they treated you, it is
only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly
not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your
power to reassure them. You accept their advances--you kneel before
them--why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you
have lulled their suspicions to rest; and then you can strike them more
surely--”
He paused; the door of the front room opened, and Marie-Anne appeared
upon the threshold. “Father,” said she, “Here is the Marquis de
Sairmeuse.”
The mention of this name at such a juncture was so ominously significant
that M. d’Escorval could not restrain a gesture of surprise and fear.
“He dares to come here!” he thought. “What, is he not afraid the very
walls will fall and crush him?”
M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He suspected her
of a ruse which might force him to reveal his secret; and for a second
his features were distorted by a fit of passionate rage. By an effort,
however, he succeeded in regaining his composure. He sprang to the door,
pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out exclaimed: “Deign to excuse me,
M. le Marquis, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I
am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a few
minutes.”
Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice; but rather,
a respectful deference and a feeling of profound gratitude. Having
spoken in this fashion he closed the door again and turned to M.
d’Escorval. The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed
this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own
senses; and yet he understood the meaning of the incident only too well.
“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.
“Almost every day--not at this hour usually, but a trifle later.”
“And you receive him? You welcome him?”
“Certainly. How can I be insensible to the honour he confers upon me?
Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to discuss. We are now
occupied in legalising the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can also give him
much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the
property.”
“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of
your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes
for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you
dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”
Lacheneur’s glance did not waver. “To whom else could they be
addressed?” he inquired.
This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could
not have received a heavier blow. “Take care Lacheneur,” he said
sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter,
between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and M. de
Sairmeuse, who hopes to make her--”
“Who hopes to make her his mistress--is that what you mean? Oh, say the
word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”
M. d’Escorval shuddered. “In other words,” said he, in bitter
indignation, “you make your daughter’s honour and reputation your stake
in the game you are playing.”
This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no
longer. “Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath; “yes, you have
spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be the instrument of my
plans. A man in my situation is free from the considerations by which
others are guided. Fortune, friends, life, honour--I have been forced to
sacrifice everything. Perish my daughter’s virtue--perish my daughter
herself--what do they signify if I can but succeed?”
Never had M. d’Escorval seen Lacheneur so excited. His eyes flashed, and
as he spoke, shook his clenched fist wildly in the air, as though he
were threatening some miserable enemy. “So you admit it,” exclaimed M.
d’Escorval; “you admit that you propose revenging yourself on the
Sairmeuse family, and that Chanlouineau is to be your accomplice?”
“I admit nothing,” Lacheneur replied. “Let me reassure you.” Then
raising his hand as if to take an oath, he added in a solemn voice:
“Before God, who hears my word, by all that I hold sacred in this world,
by the memory of the wife I loved and whom I mourn to-day, I swear to
you, that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I
have no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only
because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me
without injuring themselves.”
For a moment the baron remained silent. He was evidently trying to
reconcile Lacheneur’s conflicting utterances. “How can one believe this
assurance after your previous avowal?” he evidently enquired.
“Oh, you may refuse to believe me if you choose,” rejoined Lacheneur,
who had now regained all his self-possession. “But whether you believe
me or not I must decline to speak any further on the subject. I have
said too much already. I know that your visit and your questions have
been solely prompted by your friendship, and I cannot help feeling both
proud and grateful. Still I can tell you no more. The events of the last
few days demand that we should separate. Our paths in life lie far
apart, and I can only say to you what I said yesterday to the
Abbe-Midon. If you are my friend never come here again under any pretext
whatever. Even if you hear I am dying, do not come, and should you meet
me, turn aside, shun me as you would some deadly pestilence.”
Lacheneur paused, as if expecting some further observation from the
baron, but the latter remained silent, reflecting that the words he had
just heard were substantially a repetition of what Marie-Anne had
previously told him.
“There is still a wiser course you might pursue,” resumed the ex-lord of
Sairmeuse, after a brief interval. “Here in the district there is but
little chance of your son’s sorrow soon subsiding. Turn which way he
will--alas, I know myself, that even the very trees and flowers will
remind him of a happier time. So leave this neighborhood, take him with
you, and go far away.”
“Ah! how can I do that when Fouche has virtually imprisoned me here!”
“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice. You were one of
the emperor’s friends, hence you are regarded with suspicion. You are
surrounded by spies, and your enemies are watching for an opportunity to
ruin you. They would seize on the slightest pretext to throw you into
prison--a letter, a word, an act capable of misconstruction. The
frontier is not far off; so I repeat, go and wait in a foreign land for
happier times.”
“That I will never do,” said M. d’Escorval proudly. His words and accent
showing plainly enough how futile further discussion would be.
“Ah! you are like the Abbe Midon,” sadly rejoined Lacheneur; “you won’t
believe me. Who knows how much your coming here this morning may cost
you? It is said that no one can escape his destiny. But if some day the
executioner lays his hand on your shoulder, remember that I warned you,
and don’t curse me for what may happen.”
Lacheneur paused once more, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy
produced no impression on the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid
him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de
Sairmeuse. Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M d’Escorval; but he
nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively
conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had
selected at the chateau were at that moment on their way.
M. d’Escorval could do no more. It was quite impossible for him to speak
with Marie-Anne, over whom Chanlouineau and Jean were both jealously
mounting guard. Accordingly, he reluctantly took his leave, and
oppressed by cruel forebodings, slowly descended the hill which he had
climbed an hour before so full of hope.
What should he say to Maurice? He was revolving this query in his mind
and had just reached the little pine grove skirting the waste, when the
sound of hurried footsteps behind induced him to look back. Perceiving
to his great surprise that the young Marquis de Sairmeuse was
approaching and motioning him to stop, the baron paused, wondering what
Martial could possibly want of him.
The latter’s features wore a most ingenuous air, as he hastily raised
his hat and exclaimed: “I hope, sir, that you will excuse me for having
followed you when you hear what I have to say. I do not belong to your
party and our doctrines and preferences are very different. Still I have
none of your enemies’ passion and malice. For this reason I tell you
that if I were in your place I would take a journey abroad. The frontier
is but a few miles off; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have
crossed it. A word to the wise is--salvation!”
Having thus spoken and without waiting for any reply, Martial abruptly
turned and retraced his steps.
“One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive me away!” murmured M.
d’Escorval in his amazement. “But I have good reason to distrust this
young man’s disinterestedness.” The young marquis was already far off.
Had he been less preoccupied, he would have perceived two figures in the
grove--Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevitable
Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.