It had cost Blanche an almost superhuman effort to leave Sairmeuse
without treating the duke to a display of violence, such as would have
fairly astonished even that irascible nobleman. She was tortured with
inward rage at the very moment, when, with an assumption of melancholy
dignity, she murmured the words of forgiveness we have previously
recorded. But vanity, after all, was more powerful than resentment. She
thought of the gladiators who fall in the arena with a smile on their
lips, and resolved that no one should see her weep, that no one should
hear her threaten or complain. Indeed, on her return to the Chateau de
Courtornieu her behaviour was truly worthy of a stoic philosopher. Her
face was pale, but not a muscle of her features moved as the servants
glanced at her inquisitively. “I am to be called mademoiselle as
formerly,” she said imperiously. “Any of you forgetting this order will
be at once dismissed.”
One maid did forget the injunction that very day, addressing her young
mistress as “madame,” and the poor girl was instantly dismissed, in
spite of her tears and protestations. All the servants were indignant.
“Does she hope to make us forget that she’s married, and that her
husband has deserted her?” they queried.
Ah! that was what she wished to forget herself. She wished to annihilate
all recollection of the day that had seen her successively maiden, wife,
and widow. For was she not really a widow? A widow, not by her husband’s
death, it is true; but, thanks to the machinations of an odious rival,
an infamous, perfidious creature, lost to all sense of shame. And yet,
though she had been disdained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was no
longer free. She belonged to this man whose name she bore like a badge
of servitude--to this man who hated her, who had fled from her. She was
not yet twenty; still her youth, her hopes, her dreams were ended.
Society condemned her to seclusion, while Martial was free to rove
wheresoever he listed. It was now that she realised the disadvantages of
isolation. She had not been without friends in her school-girl days; but
after leaving the convent she had estranged them by her haughtiness, on
finding them not as high in rank, or as wealthy as herself. So she was
now reduced to the irritating consolations of Aunt Medea, a very worthy
person, no doubt, but whose tears flowed as freely for the loss of a cat
as for the death of a relative. However, Blanche firmly persevered in
her determination to conceal her grief and despair in the deepest
recesses of her heart. She drove about the country, wore her prettiest
dresses, and forced herself to assume a gay and indifferent air. But on
going to church at Sairmeuse on the following Sunday, she realised the
futility of her efforts. Her fellow worshippers did not look at her
haughtily, or even inquisitively, but they turned aside to smile, and
she overheard remarks concerning “the maiden widow,” which pierced her
very soul. So she was an object of mockery and ridicule. “Oh! I will
have my revenge!” she muttered to herself.
She had indeed already thought of vengeance; and had found her father
quite willing to assist her. For the first time the father and the
daughter shared the same views. “The Duke de Sairmeuse shall learn what
it costs to favour a prisoner’s escape, and to insult a man like me,”
said the Marquis bitterly. “Fortune, favour, position--he shall lose
everything, and I will not rest content till I see him ruined and
dishonoured at my feet. And mind me, that day shall surely come!”
Unfortunately, however, for M. de Courtornieu’s projects, he was
extremely ill for three days after the scene at Sairmeuse; and then he
wasted three days more in composing a report, which was intended to
crush his former ally. This delay ruined him, for it gave Martial time
to perfect his plans, and to despatch the Duke de Sairmeuse to Paris
with full instructions. And what did the duke say to the king, who gave
him such a gracious reception? He undoubtedly pronounced the first
reports to be false, reduced the rising at Montaignac to its proper
proportions, represented Lacheneur as a fool, and his followers as
inoffensive idiots. It was said, moreover, that he led his majesty to
suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu might have provoked the outbreak
by undue severity. He had served under Napoleon, and had possibly
thought it necessary to make a display of his zeal, so that his past
apostacy might be forgotten. As far as the duke himself was concerned,
he deeply deplored the mistakes into which he had been led by his
ambitious colleague, on whom he cast most of the responsibility of so
much bloodshed. To be brief, the result of the duke’s journey was, that
when the Marquis de Courtornieu’s report reached Paris, it was answered
by a decree depriving him of his office as provost-marshal of the
province.
This unexpected blow quite crushed the old intriguer. What! he had been
duped in this fashion, he so shrewd, so adroit, so subtle minded and
quick witted; he who had successfully battled with so many storms; who,
unlike most of his fellow patricians, had been enriched, not
impoverished, by the Revolution, and who had served with the same
obsequious countenance each master who was willing to accept his
services. “It must be that old imbecile, the Duke de Sairmeuse, who has
manœuvred so skilfully,” he groaned. “But who advised him? I can’t
imagine who it could have been.”
Who it was Blanche knew only too well. Like Marie-Anne, she recognized
Martial’s hand in all this business. “Ah! I was not deceived in him,”
she thought; “he is the great diplomatist I believed him to be. To think
that at his age he has outwitted my father, an old politician of such
experience and acknowledged skill! And he does all this to please
Marie-Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. “It is the first step
towards obtaining pardon for that vile creature’s friends. She has
unbounded influence over him, and so long as she lives there is no hope
for me. But, patience, my time will come.”
She had not yet decided what form the revenge she contemplated should
take; but she already had her eye on a man whom she believed would be
willing to do anything for money. And, strange as it may seem, this man
was none other than our old acquaintance, Father Chupin. Burdened with
remorse, despised and jeered at; stoned whenever he ventured in the
streets, and horror-stricken whenever he thought of Balstain’s vow,
Chupin had left Montaignac, and sought an asylum at the Chateau de
Sairmeuse. In his ignorance, he fancied that the great nobleman who had
incited him to discover Lacheneur owed him, over and above the promised
reward, all needful aid and protection. But the duke’s servants shunned
the so-called traitor. He was not even allowed a seat at the kitchen
table, nor a straw pallet in the stables. The cook threw him a bone, as
he would have thrown it to a dog; and he slept just where he could.
However, he bore all these hardships uncomplainingly, deeming himself
fortunate in being able to purchase comparative safety, even at such a
price. But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy of
forgetfulness and conciliation in his pocket, his grace could no longer
tolerate in his establishment the presence of a man who was the object
of universal execration. He accordingly gave instructions for Chupin to
be dismissed. The latter resisted, however, swearing that he would not
leave Sairmeuse unless he were forcibly expelled, or unless he received
the order from the lips of the duke himself. This obstinate resistance
was reported to the duke, and made him hesitate; but a word from Martial
concerning the necessities of the situation eventually decided him. He
sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse again
under any pretext whatever, softening the harshness of expulsion,
however, by the offer of a small sum of money. But Chupin, sullenly
refusing the proffered coins, gathered his belongings together, and
departed, shaking his clenched fist at the chateau, and vowing vengeance
on the Sairmeuse family. He then went to his old home, where his wife
and his two boys still lived. He seldom left this filthy den, and then
only to satisfy his poaching proclivities. On these occasions, instead
of stealthily firing at a squirrel or a partridge from some safe post of
concealment, as he had done in former times, he walked boldly into the
Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and brought it home
openly, displaying it in an almost defiant manner. He spent the rest of
his time in a state of semi-intoxication, for he drank constantly, and
more and more immoderately. When he had taken more than usual, his wife
and his sons usually attempted to obtain money from him, and if
persuasion failed they often resorted to blows. For he had never so much
as shown them the blood-money paid to him for betraying Lacheneur; and
though he had squandered a small sum at Montaignac, no one knew what he
had done with the great bulk of the 20,000 francs in gold paid to him by
the Duke de Sairmeuse. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but
they tried in vain to wrest his secret from him. All the people in the
neighbourhood were aware of this state of affairs, and one day when the
head gardener at Courtornieu was telling the story to two of his
assistants, Blanche, seated on a bench near by, chanced to overhear him.
“Ah, he’s an old scoundrel!” said the gardener indignantly. “And he
ought to be at the galleys, instead of at large among respectable
people.”
At that same moment the voice of hatred was whispering to Blanche,
“That’s the man to serve your purpose.” But how an opportunity was to be
found to confer with him? she wondered, being too prudent to think of
hazarding a visit to his house. However, she remembered that he
occasionally went shooting in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might
be possible for her to meet him there. “It will only require,” thought
she, “a little perseverance and a few long walks.” But, in point of
fact, it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperone, two long weeks
of almost constant perambulation. “Another freak!” groaned the
impoverished relative, overcome with fatigue; “my niece is certainly
crazy!”
However, at last, one lovely afternoon in May, Blanche came across the
object of her quest. She chanced to be standing in a sequestered nook
nigh the mere, situated in the depths of the forest of Courtornieu, when
she perceived Chupin, tramping sullenly along with his gun in his hand,
and glancing suspiciously on either side. Not that he feared either
game-keeper or judicial proceedings, but go wherever he would, still and
ever he fancied he could see Balstain the Piedmontese innkeeper, walking
in his shadow and brandishing the terrible knife, which, by St.
Jean-de-Coche, he had consecrated to his vengeance. Seeing Blanche in
turn, the old rascal would have fled into the cover, but before he could
do so she had called to him: “Eh, Father Chupin!”
He hesitated for a moment, then paused, dropped his gun, and waited.
Aunt Medea was pale with fright. “Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing
her niece’s arm; “what are you calling that terrible man for?”
“I want to speak to him.”
“What Blanche, do you dare----”
“I must!”
“No, I can’t allow it. I must not----”
“There, that’s enough!” said Blanche, with one of those imperious
glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite
enough.” Then, in gentler tones: “I _must_ talk with this man,” she
added. “And you, Aunt Medea, must remain some little distance off. Keep
a close watch on every side, and if you see any one approaching, call me
at once.”
Aunt Medea, submissive as was her wont, immediately obeyed; and Blanche
walked straight towards the old poacher. “Well, my good Father Chupin,
and what sort of sport have you had to-day?” she began, directly she was
a few steps from him.
“What do you want with me?” growled Chupin; “for you do want something,
or you wouldn’t trouble yourself about a man like me.”
The old ruffian’s manner was so surly and aggressive that Blanche needed
all her strength of mind to carry out her purpose. “Yes, it is true that
I have a favour to ask you,” she replied, in a resolute tone.
“Ah, ha! I supposed so.”
“A mere trifle which will cost you no trouble, and for which you shall
be well paid.” She said this so carelessly that an ordinary person would
have supposed she was really asking for some unimportant service; but
cleverly as she played her part, Chupin was not deceived.
“No one asks trifling services of a man like me,” he said coarsely.
“Since I served the good cause, at the peril of my life, people seem to
suppose they’ve a right to come to me with money in their hands whenever
they want any dirty work done. It’s true that I was well paid for that
other job; but I would like to melt all the gold and pour it down the
throats of those who gave it to me. Ah! I know now what it costs the
poor to listen to the words of the great! Go your way; and if you have
any wickedness in your head, do it yourself!”
He shouldered his gun and was moving off, when Blanche coldly observed:
“It was because I knew of your wrongs that I stopped you; I thought you
would be glad to serve me, because I hate the Sairmeuses like you do.”
These words excited the old poacher’s interest, and he paused. “I know
very well that you hate the Sairmeuses now--but--”
“But what?”
“Why, in less than a month you will be reconciled. And then that old
wretch, Chupin--”
“We shall never be reconciled.”
“Hum!” growled the wily rascal, after deliberating awhile. “And if I did
assist you, what compensation will you give me?”
“I will give you whatever you wish for--money, land, a house--”
“Many thanks. I want something quite different.”
“What do you want then? Tell me.”
Chupin reflected for a moment, and then replied: “This is what I want. I
have a good many enemies, and I don’t even feel safe in my own house. My
sons abuse me when I’ve been drinking, and my wife is quite capable of
poisoning my wine. I tremble for my life and for my money. I can’t
endure such an existence much longer. Promise me an asylum at the
Chateau de Courtornieu and I’m yours. I shall be safe in your house. But
let it be understood I won’t be ill-treated by the servants like I was
at Sairmeuse.”
“Oh, I can promise you all that.”
“Swear it then by your hope of heaven.”
“I swear it.”
There was such evident sincerity in her accent that Chupin felt
re-assured. He leant towards her, and in a low voice, remarked: “Now
tell me your business.” His small grey eyes glittered in a threatening
fashion; his thin lips were drawn tightly over his sharp teeth; he
evidently expected some proposition of murder, and was ready to
accomplish it.
His attitude evinced his feelings so plainly that Blanche shuddered.
“Really, what I want of you is almost nothing,” she replied. “I only
want you to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes; my husband. I want to know what he does, where he goes, and what
persons he sees, I want to know how he spends all his time.”
“What! now is that really all you want me to do?” asked Chupin eagerly.
“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided; but circumstances
will guide me.”
“You can rely upon me,” replied Chupin at once; “but I must have a
little time.”
“Yes, I understand that. To-day is Saturday; can you give me a first
report on Thursday?”
“In five days? Yes, probably.”
“In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at the same hour.”
The conversation might have continued a few moments longer, but at this
very moment Aunt Medea was heard exclaiming. “Some one is coming!”
“Quick! we must not be seen together. Conceal yourself,” ejaculated
Blanche, and while the old poacher disappeared with one bound into the
forest, she hastily rejoined her chaperone. A few paces off she could
perceive one of her father’s servants approaching.
“Ah! mademoiselle,” exclaimed the lacquey, “we have been looking for you
everywhere during the last three hours. Your father M. le Marquis--good
heavens! what a misfortune! A physician has been sent for.”
“Whatever has happened? Is my father dead?”
“No, mademoiselle, no; but--how can I tell you. When the marquis went
out this morning his actions were very strange, and--and--when he
returned--” As he spoke the servant tapped his forehead with his
forefinger. “You understand me, mademoiselle--when he came home his
reason seemed to--to have left him!”
Without waiting for the servant to finish, or for her terrified aunt to
follow her, Blanche darted off in the direction of the chateau. “How is
the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant she met.
“He is in bed, and is quieter than he was,” answered the maid.
But Blanche had already reached her father’s room. He was sitting up in
bed, under the supervision of his valet and a footman. His face was
livid, and a white foam had gathered on his lips. Still, he recognized
his daughter. “Here you are,” said he. “I was waiting for you.”
She paused on the threshold, and though she was neither tender-hearted
nor impressionable, the sight seemed to appal her: “My father!” she
faltered. “Good heavens! what has happened?”
“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the marquis, with a discordant laugh. “I met him!
what, you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well;
haven’t I seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month--for
it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille
rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the
trees. I was slowly walking home thinking of him, when suddenly he
sprang up before me, holding out his arms as if to bar my passage.
‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he
fired--”
The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned up sufficient courage to
approach him. For more than a minute she looked at him attentively, with
a cold magnetic glance, such as often exercises great influence over
those who have lost their reason, then shaking him roughly by the arm,
she exclaimed: “Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an
hallucination. It is impossible that you can have seen the man you speak
of.”
Blanche knew only too well who was the man that M. de Courtornieu
alluded to; but she dared not, could not, utter his name.
However, the marquis had resumed his scarcely coherent narrative. “Was I
dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was Lacheneur, Lacheneur and none
other who stood in front of me. I am sure of it, and the proof is that
he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which
was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He
was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in
correspondence with the _emigres_. My property had been confiscated; and
I was every moment expecting to feel the executioner’s hand on my
shoulder, when Lacheneur took me to his house. He concealed me;
furnished me with a passport; saved my money, and saved my life as well;
and yet--and yet I sentenced him to death. That’s the reason why I’ve
seen him again. I must join him; he told me so--I’m a dying man!” With
these words the marquis fell back on his pillows, pulled the bed clothes
over his face, and lied there so rigid and motionless that one might
readily have supposed the counterpane covered some inanimate corpse.
Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances. Such
baseness and ingratitude amazed them. They could not understand why,
under such circumstances, the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur.
Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s
valet, she said: “Hasn’t some one tried to injure my father?”
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, some one most certainly has: a little
more and Monsieur le Marquis would have been killed.”
“How do you know that?”
“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the
head. I also examined his hat, and I found three holes in it, which
could only have been made by bullets.”
“Then some one must have tried to murder my father,” murmured Blanche,
“and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we
find out who the would-be murderer was?”
The valet shook his head. “I suspect that old poacher, who is always
prowling about here, a man named--Chupin.”
“No, it couldn’t have been him.”
“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There’s no one else in the neighbourhood
capable of such an evil deed.”
Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent.
Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met
him, talked with him for more than half-an-hour, and only just parted
from him. So she remained silent.
Soon afterwards the medical man arrived. He removed the coverlet from M.
de Courtornieu’s face, being almost compelled to use force in doing
so--examined the patient with evident anxiety, and then ordered mustard
plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for
which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. Immediately
afterwards all was bustle and confusion in the house. When the physician
left the sickroom, Blanche followed him. “Well, doctor?” she said, with
a questioning look.
The physician hesitated, but at last he replied; “People sometimes
recover from such attacks.”
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or
died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost influence was
now afforded her. If she was to fight successfully against Martial’s
desertion, she must improvise a very different reputation to that which
she at present enjoyed. Now, if she could only appear to the world in
the character of a patient victim, and devoted daughter, public opinion,
which, as she had recently discovered, was after all worth having, might
yet turn in her favour. Such an occasion offering itself must not be
neglected. Accordingly, she lavished the most touching and delicate
attentions on her suffering father. It was impossible to induce her to
leave his bedside for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty
that she would be persuaded to sleep for a couple of hours, in an
arm-chair in the sick-room. But while she was playing this self-imposed
role of sister of charity with a talent worthy of a healthier mind, her
chief thoughts were for Chupin. What was he doing at Montaignac? Was he
watching Martial as he had promised? How slowly the time passed! Would
that Thursday which had been appointed for their meeting never come?
It came at last, and momentarily entrusting her father to Aunt Medea’s
care, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher was waiting for her at
the appointed place near the lake. “Well, what have you got to tell me?”
asked Blanche.
“Next to nothing, I’m sorry to say.”
“What! haven’t you been watching the marquis?”
“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him like his own shadow. But
I’m afraid the news I have of him won’t interest you very much. Since
the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you
wouldn’t recognize him! He’s always busy now. He’s up at cock-crow; and
goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the
afternoon he receives every one who calls upon him. The retired officers
are hand and glove with him. He has re-instated five or six of them, and
has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the
evening.”
He paused, and for a moment Blanche remained silent. A question rose to
her lips, and yet she scarcely dared to propound it. She blushed with
shame, and it was only after a supreme effort that she managed to
articulate, “But he must surely have a mistress?”
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. “Well, we have come to it at last,” he
said, with an air of audacious familiarity that made Blanche positively
shudder. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, don’t you? that
stuck-up minx Marie-Anne?”
Blanche felt that denial was useless. “Yes,” she answered; “I do mean
Marie-Anne.”
“Ah, well! she’s neither been seen nor heard of. She must have fled with
her other lover, Maurice d’Escorval.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs, the only one remaining about
here is Jean the son, who leads a vagabond life, poaching much as I do.
He’s always in the woods, day and night, with his gun slung over his
shoulder. I caught sight of him once. He’s quite frightful to look at, a
perfect skeleton, with eyes that glitter like live coals. If he ever
meets me and sees me, my account will be settled then and there.”
Blanche turned pale. Plainly enough it was Jean Lacheneur who had fired
at her father. However, concealing her agitation, she replied, “I,
myself, feel sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighbourhood, concealed at
Montaignac, probably. I must know. Try and find out where she is by
Monday, when I will meet you here again.”
“All right, I’ll try,” answered Chupin, and he did indeed try; exerting
all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was fettered by the
precautions which he took to shield himself against Balstain and Jean
Lacheneur; while, on the other hand, he had to prosecute his search
personally, as no one in the neighbourhood would have consented to give
him the least information. “Still no news!” he said to Blanche at each
succeeding interview. But she would not admit the possibility of
Marie-Anne having fled with Maurice. Jealousy will not yield even to
evidence. She had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from
her, that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, and it must be so,
all proofs to the contrary notwithstanding. At last, one morning, she
found her spy jubilant. “Good news!” he cried, as soon as he perceived
her; “we have caught the minx at last.”