Martial De Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu
had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than it had alarmed Blanche. In five
minutes, more ideas passed through the dependent relative’s mind than
during the last five years. In fancy she already saw the gendarmes at
the chateau; her niece arrested, confined in the Montaignac prison, and
brought before the Assize Court. She might herself remain quiet if that
were all there was to fear! But suppose she were compromised, suspected
of complicity as well, dragged before the judges, and even accused of
being the only culprit! At this thought her anxiety reached a climax,
and finding the suspense intolerable, she ventured downstairs. She stole
on tiptoe into the great ball room, and applying her ear to the keyhole
of the door leading into the blue salon, she listened attentively to
Blanche and Martial’s conversation. What she heard convinced her that
her fears were groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden
had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow,
flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her mind. When Martial
left the room, she at once opened the door by which she had been
standing, and entered the blue reception room, thus admitting as it were
that she had been a listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not
even have dreamed of committing such an audacious act. “Well,” she
exclaimed, “Blanche, we were frightened for nothing.”
Blanche did not reply. The young marchioness was weighing in her mind
the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each
other with such marvellous rapidity. “Perhaps the hour of my revenge is
nigh,” she murmured, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be the Marchioness de
Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me,
and then--oh! then.”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In her secret heart she
had but scant faith in this prediction, and cared very little whether it
was realized or not. However, in that low tone which accomplices
habitually employ, she ventured to add: “If what you say proves true, it
will only be another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and
that--that what you did at the Borderie was a perfectly unnecessary
act.”
Such had indeed been Blanche’s opinion; but now she shook her head, and
gloomily replied: “You are wrong; what took place at the Borderie has
brought my husband back to me again. I understand everything now. It is
true that Marie-Anne was not his mistress; but he loved her. He loved
her, and her repulses only increased his passion. It was for her sake
that he abandoned me; and while she lived he would never have thought of
me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of an emotion which she had
awakened. His tenderness was only the expression of his grief. Whatever
happens, I shall only have her leavings--the leavings of what she
disdained!” The young marchioness spoke bitterly, her eyes flashed, and
she stamped her foot as she added: “So I shan’t regret what I have done!
no, never--never!” As she spoke she felt herself again brave and
determined.
But horrible fears assailed her when the enquiry into the circumstances
of the murder commenced. Officials had been sent from Montaignac to
investigate the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was
even some talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled
in unravelling all the mysteries of crime. This prospect quite terrified
Aunt Medea; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great
anxiety. “You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.
“Ah! I can’t control my fears.”
“If that is the case, don’t leave your room.”
“It would be more prudent, certainly.”
“You can say you are not well; your meals shall be served you upstairs.”
Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her heart, she was delighted. It had
long been her dream and ambition to have her meals served in her own
room, in bed in the morning and on a little table by the fire in the
evening; but as yet she had never been able to realise this fancy. On
two or three occasions, feeling slightly indisposed, she had asked to
have her breakfast brought to her room, but her request had each time
been harshly refused. “If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come
downstairs, and take her place at the table as usual,” had been
Blanche’s imperious reply.
It was hard, indeed, to be treated in this way in a chateau where there
were always a dozen servants idling about. But now, in obedience to the
young marchioness’s formal orders, the head cook himself came up every
morning into Aunt Medea’s room, to receive her instructions; and she
was at perfect liberty to dictate each day’s bill of fare, and to order
the particular dishes she preferred. This change in the dependent
relative’s situation awakened many strange thoughts in her mind, and
stifled such regret as she had felt for the crime at Borderie. Still
both she and her niece followed the enquiry which had been set on foot
with a keen interest. They obtained all the latest information
concerning the investigation through the butler of the chateau, who
seemed much interested in the case, and who had won the goodwill of the
Montaignac police agents, by making them familiar with the contents of
his wine cellar. It was from this major-domo that Blanche and her aunt
learned that all suspicions pointed to the deceased Chupin, who had been
seen prowling round about the Borderie on the very night the crime was
committed. This testimony was given by the same young peasant who had
warned Jean Lacheneur of the old poacher’s doings. As regards the motive
of the crime, fully a score of persons had heard Chupin declare that he
should never enjoy any piece of mind as long as a single Lacheneur was
left on earth. So thus it happened that the very incidents which might
have ruined Blanche, saved her; and she really came to consider the old
poacher’s death as a providential occurrence, for she at least had no
reason to suspect that he had revealed her secret before expiring. When
the butler told her that the magistrate and the police agents had
returned to Montaignac, she could scarcely conceal her joy; and drawing
a long breath of relief, she turned towards Aunt Medea with the remark:
“Ah, now there’s nothing more to be feared.”
She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man; but the justice of God
remained. A few weeks previously the thought of divine retribution would
perhaps have made Blanche smile, for she then considered the punishment
of providence as an imaginary evil, invented to hold timorous minds in
check. On the morning that followed her crime, and after her long random
talk with Aunt Medea, she almost shrugged her shoulders at the thought
of Marie-Anne’s dying threats. She remembered her promise; and yet,
despite all she had said, she did not intend to fulfil it. After careful
consideration, she had come to the conclusion that in trying to find the
missing child she would expose herself to terrible risks; and on the
other hand, she felt certain that the child’s father would discover it.
So she dismissed the matter from her mind, and chiefly busied herself
with what Martial had said during his visit, and the prospect that
presented itself of a reconciliation.
But she was destined to realize the power of her victim’s threats that
same night. Worn out with fatigue, she retired to her room at an early
hour, and jumped into bed, exclaiming; “I must sleep!” But sleep had
fled. Her crime was over in her thoughts; and rose before her in all its
horror and atrocity. She knew that she was lying on her bed, at
Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she were still in Chanlouineau’s
house, first pouring out the poison, and then watching its effects,
while concealed in the dressing-room. She was struggling against the
idea; exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible
memories, when she imagined she heard the key turn in the lock. Raising
her head from the pillow with a start, she fancied she could perceive
the door open noiselessly, and then Marie-Anne glided into the room like
a phantom. She seated herself in an arm-chair near the bed, and while
the tears rolled down her cheeks, she looked sadly, yet threateningly
around her. The murderess hid her face under the counterpane. She
shivered with terror, and a cold sweat escaped from every pore in her
skin. For this seemed no mere apparition, but the frightful reality
itself. Blanche did not submit to these tortures without resisting.
Making a vigorous effort, she tried to reason with herself aloud, as if
the sound of her voice would re-assure her. “I am dreaming!” she said.
“The dead don’t return to life? To think that I’m childish enough to be
frightened at phantoms which only exist in my own imagination.”
She said this, but the vision did not fade. When she shut her eyes the
phantom still faced her--even through her closed eyelids, and through
the coverlids drawn up over her face. Say what she would, she did not
succeed in sleeping till daybreak. And, worst of all, night after night,
the same vision haunted her, reviving the terror which she forgot during
the day-time in the broad sunlight. For she would regain her courage and
become sceptical again as soon as the morning broke. “How foolish it is
to be afraid of something that does not exist!” she would remark,
railing at herself. “To-night I will conquer this absurd weakness.” But
when evening came all her resolution vanished, and scarcely had she
retired to her room than the same fears seized hold of her, and the same
phantom rose before her eyes. She fancied that her nocturnal agonies
would cease when the investigation anent the murder was over--that she
would forget both her crime and promise; but the enquiry finished, and
yet the same vision haunted her, and she did not forget. Darwin has
remarked that it is when their safety is assured that great criminals
really feel remorse, and Blanche might have vouched for the truth of
this assertion, made by the deepest thinker and closest observer of the
age.
And yet her sufferings, atrocious as they were, did not induce her for
one moment to abandon the plan she had formed on the occasion of
Martial’s visit. She played her part so well that, moved with pity, if
not with love, he returned to see her frequently, and at last, one day,
besought her to allow him to remain. But even this triumph did not
restore her peace of mind. For between her and her husband rose the
dreadful vision of Marie-Anne’s distorted features. She knew only too
well that Martial had no love to give her, and that she would never have
the slightest influence over him. And to crown her already intolerable
sufferings came an incident which filled her with dismay. Alluding one
evening to Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his
oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he said,
for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch
who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most
frightful tortures. As he spoke his voice vibrated with still powerful
passion, and Blanche, in terror asked herself what would be her fate if
her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit--and he might
discover it. Now it was that she began to regret she had not kept her
promise; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child.
But to do this effectually it was essential she should be in a large
city--in Paris, for instance--where she could procure discreet and
skilful agents. Thus it was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to
the capital. But with the Duke de Sairmeuse’s assistance she did not
find this a very difficult task; and one morning, with a radiant face,
she informed Aunt Medea that she and her husband would leave
Courtornieu at the end of the coming week.
In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt
Medea was no longer the same. The change in the dependent relative’s
tone and manner had, it is true, been a gradual one; it had not struck
the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and now it
showed itself continually. For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over
chaperone no longer trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had
been her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of independence
in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been used to remain
modestly in the background, but now she drew her chair forward, and
unhesitatingly took part in the conversation. At table, she gave free
expression to her preferences and dislikes; and on two or three
occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had
even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders.
One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked Aunt Medea to
accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at
home. And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to
attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intentions of going; and as it
rained she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage,
which was done. All these little incidents could have been nothing
separately, but taken together they plainly showed that the once humble
chaperone’s character had changed. When her niece announced that she and
Martial were about to leave the neighbourhood, Aunt Medea was greatly
surprised, for the project had never been discussed in her presence.
“What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“And where are you going to, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that’s decided. The
capital’s the proper place for my husband, and, with his name, fortune,
talents and the king’s favour, he will secure a high position there. He
will re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently,
so that we shall have a princely establishment.”
Aunt Medea’s expression plainly indicated that she was suffering all the
torments of envy. “And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive
tones.
“You--aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A
trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be
happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. “I shall never have courage
to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! won’t you have the servants, the gardeners, and the
concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the
marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go
mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “What _do_ you wish, then?” she asked,
sarcastically.
“I thought--I wondered--if you wouldn’t take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt, impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. “And what if I told you that I can’t
remain here--that I dare not--that I should die!”
Blanche flushed with impatience. “You weary me beyond endurance,” she
said, roughly. And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her
words, she added: “If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is
nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are
free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and bit her lips. “That is to say,” she
said at last, “that you allow me to take my choice between dying of fear
at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece,
thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less from you. Thanks!” She
raised her head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening
fashion. “Very well! this decides me,” she continued. “I entreated you,
and you brutally refused my request, so now I command you and I say: ‘I
will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris--and I shall go. Ah! so
it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like
this; but I’ve endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now
I rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is true
you’ve given me shelter--fed and lodged me, but you’ve taken my entire
life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I’ve had to endure?
Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me--your own
flesh and blood? And I have had no wages, on the contrary, I was
expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah, you have
made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted
me--humiliated me--trampled me under foot!”
The rebellious chaperone paused again. The bitter rancour which had been
accumulating in her heart for years fairly choked her; but after a
moment, she resumed in a tone of irony: “You ask me what _I_ should do
in Paris? I should enjoy myself, like you. You will go to court, to the
play--into society, won’t you? Very well, I will accompany you. I will
attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilettes too. I have rarely
seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever
thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Twice
a-year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take
good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this
expense. It was for your own sake, and in order that your poor relation
should do honour to your generosity. You dressed me in it, like you put
your lacqueys in livery, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made
myself insignificant and humble; and when I was buffeted on one cheek, I
offered the other. For after all I must live--I must have food. And you,
Blanche, how often haven’t you said to me so that I might do your
bidding, ‘You must obey me, if you wish to remain at Courtornieu!’ And I
obeyed you--I was forced to obey, as I didn’t know where else to go. Ah!
you have abused my poverty in every way; but now my turn has come!”
Blanche was so amazed that she could scarcely articulate a syllable, and
it was in a scarcely audible voice that at last she faltered: “I don’t
understand you, aunt, I don’t understand you.”
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few
moments before. “In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell
you that since you have made me your accomplice against my will, we must
share everything in common. I share the danger; so I will share the
pleasure. Suppose everything should be discovered? Do you ever think of
that? Yes, I’ve no doubt you do, and that’s why you are seeking
diversion. Very well! I desire diversion also, so I shall go to Paris
with you.”
With a desperate effort, Blanche managed to regain some degree of
self-possession. “And if I still said no?” she coldly queried.
“But you won’t say no.”
“And why not, if you please?”
“Because--”
“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head. “I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I
should only compromise myself. No. I shouldn’t do that; but I might,
perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No other threat could have had such influence over
her. “You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she: “I promise it.” And then
in a gentle voice, she added: “But it’s quite unnecessary to threaten
me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time unjust. If you have
been unhappy in our house, you have only yourself to blame. Why haven’t
you ever said anything? I attributed your complaisance to your affection
for me. How was I to know that a woman so quiet and modest as yourself
longed for fine dresses. Confess that it was impossible. Had I
known--But rest easy, aunt, I will atone for my neglect.” And as Aunt
Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse. “Nonsense!”
rejoined Blanche; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me,
don’t you?” And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest
effusion, like two friends, united after a misunderstanding.
Neither of them, however, was in the least degree deceived by this mock
reconciliation. “It will be best for me to keep on the alert,” thought
the dependent relative. “God only knows with what joy my dear niece
would send me to join Marie-Anne.”
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through Blanche’s mind. “I’m bound to
this dangerous, perfidious creature for ever now,” she reflected. “I’m
no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands me, I must
obey, no matter what may be her fancy--and she has forty years’
humiliation and servitude to avenge.” The prospect of such a life made
the young marchioness tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some
way of freeing herself from such intolerable thraldom. Would it be
possible to induce Aunt Medea to live independently in her own house,
served by her own servants? Might she succeed in persuading this silly
old woman, who still longed for finery, to marry? A handsome marriage
portion will always attract a husband. However, in either case, Blanche
would require money--a large sum of money, which no one must be in a
position to claim an account of. With this idea she took possession of
over two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank notes and coin,
belonging to her father, and put away in one of his private drawers.
This sum represented the Marquis de Courtornieu’s savings during the
past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter;
and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche could take it for her own
use, without the slightest danger. “With this,” thought she, “I can
enrich Aunt Medea whenever I please without having recourse to Martial.”
After these incidents there was a constant exchange of delicate
attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies. It was “my
dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until
night; and the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had often commented on
the haughty disdain with which Blanche treated her relative, would have
found abundant food for comment had they known that during the journey
to Paris, Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a
mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marchioness’s own, and
that instead of travelling in the cumbersome berline with the servants,
she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and his
wife.
Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change which had
come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions which his wife lavished on
her, and one day when he was alone with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone
of good-natured raillery: “What’s the meaning of all this attachment? We
shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan’t we?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed. “I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said
she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished on
me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice
of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind was fully occupied. The
agent he had despatched to Paris in advance, to purchase the Hotel de
Sairmeuse, if it were possible, had written asking the marquis to hasten
his journey, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain.
“Plague take the fellow!” angrily said Martial, on receiving this news.
“He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we’ve been
waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his fingers. I
shan’t find any pleasure in Paris, if I can’t own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second day of
their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would travel all
night. “Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I don’t feel the least
tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me.” So they journeyed on
without stopping, and the next morning at about nine o’clock they
alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. “I must go and see my
agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.” Two
hours afterwards he re-appeared with a radiant face. “My agent was a
simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me word that a man, on
whom the conclusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty
thousand francs. He shall have it and welcome.” Then, in a tone of
gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he added: “It
only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won’t do so unless the
house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it
at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Blanche would have been
hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, then one
of the most magnificent in Paris, with a monumental entrance facing the
Rue de Grenelle St. Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to
the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been
occupied for several years, and required considerable repair. “It will
take at least six months to restore everything,” said Martial, “perhaps
more; though in three months, possibly, a portion of it might be
arranged very comfortably.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” observed Blanche,
divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I
will expedite matters as swiftly as possible.”
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de
Sairmeuse knew that one is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when
one serves one’s self, and so he resolved to take the matter into his
own hands. He conferred with the architect, interviewed the contractors,
and hurried on the workmen. As soon as he was up in the morning he
started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned before
dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time in
doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain.
Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of
life in a hotel, all combined to divert her thoughts from herself. She
forgot her fears, a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the
Borderie, and the clamours of conscience were sinking into faint
whispers. Indeed, the past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to
entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant knocked
at the door, and said: “There is a man downstairs who wishes to speak
with madame.”