The clock of the St. Lazare terminus was striking eleven as old Tabaret,
after shaking hands with Noel, left his house, still bewildered by what
he had just heard. Obliged to restrain himself at the time, he now fully
appreciated his liberty of action. It was with an unsteady gait that
he took his first steps in the street, like the toper, who, after being
shut up in a warm room, suddenly goes out into the open air. He was
beaming with pleasure, but at the same time felt rather giddy, from that
rapid succession of unexpected revelations, which, so he thought, had
suddenly placed him in possession of the truth.
Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon’s he did not take a
cab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one of those who require
exercise to see things clearly. When he moved about his ideas fitted and
classified themselves in his brain, like grains of wheat when shaken in
a bushel. Without hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chaussee
d’Antin, crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned to
the Rue Richelieu.
He walked along, unconscious of external objects, tripping and stumbling
over the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping on the greasy
pavement. If he followed the proper road, it was a purely mechanical
impulse that guided him. His mind was wandering at random through the
field of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysterious
thread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at La
Jonchere.
Like all persons labouring under strong emotion without knowing it, he
talked aloud, little thinking into what indiscreet ears his exclamations
and disjointed phrases might fall. At every step, we meet in Paris
people babbling to themselves, and unconsciously confiding to the four
winds of heaven their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allow
their contents to steal away. Often the passers-by mistake these
eccentric monologuists for lunatics. Sometimes the curious follow them,
and amuse themselves by receiving these strange confidences. It was
an indiscretion of this kind which told the ruin of Riscara the rich
banker. Lambreth, the assassin of the Rue de Venise, betrayed himself in
a similar manner.
“What luck!” exclaimed old Tabaret. “What an incredible piece of good
fortune! Gevrol may dispute it if he likes, but after all, chance is the
cleverest agent of the police. Who would have imagined such a history? I
was not, however, very far from the reality. I guessed there was a
child in the case. But who would have dreamed of a substitution?--an old
sensational effect, that playwrights no longer dare make use of. This
is a striking example of the danger of following preconceived ideas in
police investigation. We are affrighted at unlikelihood; and, as in this
case, the greatest unlikelihood often proves to be the truth. We
retire before the absurd, and it is the absurd that we should examine.
Everything is possible. I would not take a thousand crowns for what
I have learnt this evening. I shall kill two birds with one stone. I
deliver up the criminal; and I give Noel a hearty lift up to recover his
title and his fortune. There, at least; is one who deserves what he will
get. For once I shall not be sorry to see a lad get on, who has been
brought up in the school of adversity. But, pshaw! he will be like all
the rest. Prosperity will turn his brain. Already he begins to prate of
his ancestors... . Poor humanity he almost made me laugh... . But
it is mother Gerdy who surprises me most. A woman to whom I would have
given absolution without waiting to hear her confess. When I think that
I was on the point of proposing to her, ready to marry her! B-r-r-r!”
At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He saw himself married, and
all on a sudden, discovering the antecedents of Madame Tabaret, becoming
mixed up with a scandalous prosecution, compromised, and rendered
ridiculous.
“When I think,” he continued, “that my worthy Gevrol is running after
the man with the earrings! Run, my boy, run! Travel is a good thing for
youth. Won’t he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But I don’t care. If any
one wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon will protect me. Ah! there is
one to whom I am going to do a good turn. I can see him now, opening his
eyes like saucers, when I say to him, ‘I have the rascal!’ He can boast
of owing me something. This investigation will bring him honour, or
justice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of the
Legion of Honour. So much the better! I like him. If he is asleep, I am
going to give him an agreeable awaking. Won’t he just overpower me with
questions! He will want to know everything at once.”
Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont des Saints-Peres, stopped
suddenly. “But the details!” said he. “By Jove! I have none. I only know
the bare facts.” He resumed his walk, and continued, “They are right
at the office, I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrol
says. When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got hold
of a quantity of useful details; but I did not even think of doing so.
I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the story in a sentence.
All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one does
not stop to shoot a blackbird. But I see very well now, I did not draw
him out enough. On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might have
awakened suspicions in Noel’s mind, and led him to discover that I am
working for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush for my
connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time,
I prefer that no one should know of it. People are so stupid, that
they detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my best
behaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey.”
M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; so
that M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to the
magistrate’s sleeping apartment. At sight of his amateur detective,
M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, “There is something
extraordinary! What have you discovered? have you got a clue?”
“Better than that,” answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure.
“Speak quickly!”
“I know the culprit!”
Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced an
effect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. “Already!” said he. “Is it
possible?”
“I have the honour to repeat to you, sir,” resumed the old fellow, “that
I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere.”
“And I,” said M. Daburon, “I proclaim you the greatest of all
detectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter undertake
an investigation without your assistance.”
“You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in the
matter. The discovery is due to chance alone.”
“You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever, and it is
that which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be seated and proceed.”
Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believed
him capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he had
learned from Noel. He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters,
almost without changing a word.
“These letters,” added he, “I have seen; and I have even taken one, in
order to verify the writing. Here it is.”
“Yes,” murmured the magistrate--“Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered
the criminal. The evidence is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven has
willed this. Crime engenders crime. The great sin of the father has made
the son an assassin.”
“I have not given you the names, sir,” resumed old Tabaret. “I wished
first to hear your opinion.”
“Oh! you can name them,” interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degree
of animation, “no matter how high he may have to strike, a French
magistrate has never hesitated.”
“I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time. The father who
has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is Count
Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard,
Viscount Albert de Commarin!”
M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these words slowly,
and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently expecting to produce a
great impression. His expectation was more than realized. M. Daburon
was struck with stupor. He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with
astonishment. Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning which
he was trying to impress upon his memory: “Albert de Commarin! Albert de
Commarin!”
“Yes,” insisted old Tabaret, “the noble viscount. It is incredible, I
know.” But he perceived the alteration in the magistrate’s face, and
a little frightened, he approached the bed. “Are you unwell, sir?” he
asked.
“No,” answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said. “I am
very well; but the surprise, the emotion,--”
“I understand that,” said the old fellow.
“Yes, it is not surprising, is it? I should like to be alone a few
minutes. Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some length
on this business. Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a
fire burning there. I will join you directly.”
Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and
seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to which
in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the
immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his
eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,
so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful
recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This name
recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and
spoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this
epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it had
seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;
one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed
up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.
Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.
Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most
important positions in the province. Why, then, had they not bequeathed
a title and a coat of arms to their descendants?
The magistrate’s father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateau
which he inhabits, more than eight hundred thousand francs’ worth of the
most valuable land. By his mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related to
the highest nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists in
France, as every one knows.
When he received his nomination in Paris, his relationship caused him to
be received at once by five or six aristocratic families, and it was not
long before he extended his circle of acquaintance.
He possessed, however, none of the qualifications which ensure social
success. He was cold and grave even to sadness, reserved and timid
even to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lacked
the facility of repartee, and the amiable art of conversing without a
subject; he could neither tell a lie, nor pay an insipid compliment.
Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret his
impressions immediately. He required to reflect and consider within
himself.
However, he was sought after for more solid qualities than these: for
the nobleness of his sentiments, his pleasant disposition, and the
certainty of his connections. Those who knew him intimately quickly
learned to esteem his sound judgment, his keen sense of honour, and to
discover under his cold exterior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility,
and a delicacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be eclipsed
in a room full of strangers or simpletons, he charmed all hearts in a
smaller circle, where he felt warmed by an atmosphere of sympathy.
He accustomed himself to go about a great deal. He reasoned, wisely
perhaps, that a magistrate can make better use of his time than by
remaining shut up in his study, in company with books of law. He thought
that a man called upon to judge others, ought to know them, and for that
purpose study them. An attentive and discreet observer, he examined the
play of human interests and passions, exercised himself in disentangling
and manoeuvring at need the strings of the puppets he saw moving around
him. Piece by piece, so to say, he laboured to comprehend the working
of the complicated machine called society, of which he was charged to
overlook the movements, regulate the springs, and keep the wheels in
order.
And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1860 and 1861, M.
Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere to
be met with. What could he be doing? Inquiry resulted in the discovery
that he passed nearly all his evenings at the house of the Marchioness
d’Arlange. The surprise was as great as it was natural.
This dear marchioness was, or rather is,--for she is still in the land
of the living,--a personage whom one would consider rather out of date.
She is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eighteenth
century. How, and by what marvellous process she had been preserved
such as we see her, it is impossible to say. Listening to her, you would
swear that she was yesterday at one of those parties given by the queen
where cards and high stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance of
Louis XIV., and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of
each other.
Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has preserved everything
belonging to that period about which authors have written only to
display the defects. Her appearance alone will tell more than an
exhaustive article, and an hour’s conversation with her, more than a
volume.
She was born in a little principality, where her parents had taken
refuge whilst awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring and
rebellious people. She had been brought up amongst the old nobles of
the emigration, in some very ancient and very gilded apartment, just as
though she had been in a cabinet of curiosities. Her mind had awakened
amid the hum of antediluvian conversations, her imagination had first
been aroused by arguments a little less profitable than those of an
assembly of deaf persons convoked to decide upon the merits of the work
of some distinguished musician. Here she imbibed a fund of ideas, which,
applied to the forms of society of to-day, are as grotesque as would
be those of a child shut up until twenty years of age in an Assyrian
museum.
The first empire, the restoration, the monarchy of July, the second
republic, the second empire, have passed beneath her windows, but she
has not taken the trouble to open them. All that has happened since ‘89
she considers as never having been. For her it is a nightmare from which
she is still awaiting a release. She has looked at everything, but then
she looks through her own pretty glasses which show her everything as
she would wish it, and which are to be obtained of dealers in illusions.
Though over sixty-eight years old she is as straight as a poplar, and
has never been ill. She is vivacious, and active to excess, and can only
keep still when asleep, or when playing her favorite game of piquet. She
has her four meals a day, eats like a vintager, and takes her wine neat.
She professes an undisguised contempt for the silly women of our century
who live for a week on a partridge, and inundate with water grand
sentiments which they entangle in long phrases. She has always been, and
still is, very positive, and her word is prompt and easily understood.
She never shrinks from using the most appropriate word to express her
meaning. So much the worse, if some delicate ears object! She heartily
detests hypocrisy.
She believes in God, but she believes also in M. de Voltaire, so that
her devotion is, to say the least, problematical. However, she is on
good terms with the curate of her parish, and is very particular about
the arrangement of her dinner on the days she honours him with an
invitation to her table. She seems to consider him a subaltern, very
useful to her salvation, and capable of opening the gate of paradise for
her.
Such as she is, she is shunned like the plague. Everybody dreads her
loud voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frankness of speech which
she affects, in order to have the right of saying the most unpleasant
things which pass through her head. Of all her family, there only
remains her granddaughter, whose father died very young.
Of a fortune originally large, and partly restored by the indemnity
allowed by the government, but since administered in the most careless
manner, she has only been able to preserve an income of twenty thousand
francs, which diminishes day by day. She is, also, proprietor of the
pretty little house which she inhabits, situated near the Invalides,
between a rather narrow court-yard, and a very extensive garden.
So circumstanced, she considers herself the most unfortunate of God’s
creatures, and passes the greater part of her life complaining of her
poverty. From time to time, especially after some exceptionally bad
speculation, she confesses that what she fears most is to die in a
pauper’s bed.
A friend of M. Daburon’s presented him one evening to the Marchioness
d’Arlange, having dragged him to her house in a mirthful mood, saying,
“Come with me, and I will show you a phenomenon, a ghost of the past in
flesh and bone.”
The marchioness rather puzzled the magistrate the first time he was
admitted to her presence. On his second visit, she amused him very much;
for which reason, he came again. But after a while she no longer amused
him, though he still continued a faithful and constant visitor to the
rose-coloured boudoir wherein she passed the greater part of her life.
Madame d’Arlange conceived a violent friendship for him, and became
eloquent in his praises.
“A most charming young man,” she declared, “delicate and sensible! What
a pity he is not born!” (Her ladyship meant born of noble parentage,
but used the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfortunates who are
not noble having been born at all) “One can receive him though, all
the same; his forefathers were very decent people, and his mother was a
Cottevise who, however, went wrong. I wish him well, and will do all I
can to push him forward.”
The strongest proof of friendship he received from her was, that she
condescended to pronounce his name like the rest of the world. She had
preserved that ridiculous affectation of forgetfulness of the names of
people who were not of noble birth, and who in her opinion had no right
to names. She was so confirmed in this habit, that, if by accident she
pronounced such a name correctly, she immediately repeated it with some
ludicrous alteration. During his first visit, M. Daburon was extremely
amused at hearing his name altered every time she addressed him.
Successively she made it Taburon, Dabiron, Maliron, Laliron, Laridon;
but, in three months time, she called him Daburon as distinctly as if he
had been a duke of something, and a lord of somewhere.
Occasionally she exerted herself to prove to the worthy magistrate that
he was a nobleman, or at least ought to be. She would have been happy,
if she could have persuaded him to adopt some title, and have a helmet
engraved upon his visiting cards.
“How is it possible,” said she, “that your ancestors, eminent, wealthy,
and influential, never thought of being raised from the common herd
and securing a title for their descendants? Today you would possess a
presentable pedigree.--”
“My ancestors were wise,” responded M. Daburon. “They preferred being
foremost among their fellow-citizens to becoming last among the nobles.”
Upon which the marchioness explained, and proved to demonstration, that
between the most influential and wealthy citizen and the smallest scion
of nobility, there was an abyss that all the money in the world could
not fill up.
They who were so surprised at the frequency of the magistrate’s
visits to this celebrated “relic of the past” did not know that lady’s
granddaughter, or, at least, did not recollect her; she went out so
seldom! The old marchioness did not care, so she said, to be bothered
with a young spy who would be in her way when she related some of her
choice anecdotes.
Claire d’Arlange was just seventeen years old. She was extremely
graceful and gentle in manner, and lovely in her natural innocence. She
had a profusion of fine light brown hair, which fell in ringlets over
her well-shaped neck and shoulders. Her figure was still rather slender;
but her features recalled Guide’s most celestial faces. Her blue eyes,
shaded by long lashes of a hue darker than her hair, had above all an
adorable expression.
A certain air of antiquity, the result of her association with her
grandmother, added yet another charm to the young girl’s manner. She had
more sense, however, than her relative; and, as her education had not
been neglected, she had imbibed pretty correct ideas of the world in
which she lived. This education, these practical ideas, Claire owed
to her governess, upon whose shoulders the marchioness had thrown the
entire responsibility of cultivating her mind.
This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, chosen at hazard, happened by
the most fortunate chance to be both well informed and possessed of
principle. She was, what is often met with on the other side of
the Rhine, a woman at once romantic and practical, of the tenderest
sensibility and the severest virtue. This good woman, while she carried
her pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy and poetical imaginings,
gave her at the same time the most practical instruction in matters
relating to actual life. She revealed to Claire all the peculiarities
of thought and manner that rendered her grandmother so ridiculous, and
taught her to avoid them, but without ceasing to respect them.
Every evening, on arriving at Madame d’Arlange’s, M. Daburon was sure to
find Claire seated beside her grandmother, and it was for that that
he called. Whilst listening with an inattentive ear to the old lady’s
rigmaroles and her interminable anecdotes of the emigration, he gazed
upon Claire, as a fanatic upon his idol. Often in his ecstasy he forgot
where he was for the moment and became absolutely oblivious of the old
lady’s presence, although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanum
of his ear like a needle. Then he would answer her at cross-purposes,
committing the most singular blunders, which he labored afterwards to
explain. But he need not have taken the trouble. Madame d’Arlange did
not perceive her courtier’s absence of mind; her questions were of such
a length, that she did not care about the answers. Having a listener,
she was satisfied, provided that from time to time he gave signs of
life.
When obliged to sit down to play piquet, he cursed below his breath the
game and its detestable inventor. He paid no attention to his cards.
He made mistakes every moment, discarding what he should keep in
and forgetting to cut. The old lady was annoyed by these continual
distractions, but she did scruple to profit by them. She looked at the
discard, changed the cards which did not suit her, while she audaciously
scored points she never made, and pocketed the money thus won without
shame or remorse.
M. Daburon’s timidity was extreme, and Claire was unsociable to excess,
they therefore seldom spoke to each other. During the entire winter, the
magistrate did not directly address the young girl ten times; and, on
these rare occasions, he had learned mechanically by heart the phrase he
proposed to repeat to her, well knowing that, without this precaution,
he would most likely be unable to finish what he had to say.
But at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her, he heard her
voice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his very soul.
By constantly watching her eyes, he learned to understand all their
expressions. He believed he could read in them all her thoughts, and
through them look into her soul like through an open window.
“She is pleased to-day,” he would say to himself; and then he would
be happy. At other times, he thought, “She has met with some annoyance
to-day;” and immediately he became sad.
The idea of asking for her hand many times presented itself to his
imagination; but he never dared to entertain it. Knowing, as he did,
the marchioness’s prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of any
approach to a misalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouth
at the first word by a very decided “no,” which she would maintain. To
attempt the thing would be to risk, without a chance of success, his
present happiness which he thought immense, for love lives upon its own
misery.
“Once repulsed,” thought he, “the house is shut against me; and then
farewell to happiness, for life will end for me.” Upon the other
hand, the very rational thought occurred to him that another might
see Mademoiselle d’Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for and
obtain her. In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating still,
he must certainly lose her in the end. By the commencement of spring,
his mind was made up.
One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps towards the
residence of Madame d’Arlange, having truly need of more bravery than
a soldier about to face a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered to
himself, “Victory or death!” The marchioness who had gone out shortly
after breakfast had just returned in a terrible rage, and was uttering
screams like an eagle.
This was what had taken place. She had some work done by a neighboring
painter some eight or ten months before; and the workman had presented
himself a hundred times to receive payment, without avail. Tired of this
proceeding, he had summoned the high and mighty Marchioness d’Arlange
before the Justice of the Peace.
This summons had exasperated the marchioness; but she kept the matter
to herself, having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon the judge and
request him to reprimand the insolent painter who had dared to plague
her for a paltry sum of money. The result of this fine project may be
guessed. The judge had been compelled to eject her forcibly from his
office; hence her fury.
M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half undressed, her
hair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by the debris of the
glass and china which had fallen under her hands in the first moments of
her passion. Unfortunately, too, Claire and her governess were gone out.
A maid was occupied in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters,
in the hope of calming her nerves.
She received Daburon as a messenger direct from Providence. In a little
more than half an hour, she told her story, interlarded with numerous
interjections and imprecations.
“Do you comprehend this judge?” cried she. “He must be some frantic
Jacobin,--some son of the furies, who washed their hands in the blood of
their king. Ah! my friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance.
He listened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I enabled
to live by employing him! And when I addressed some severe remonstrances
to this judge, as it was my duty to do, he had me turned out! Do you
hear? turned out!”
At this painful recollection, she made a menacing gesture with her arm.
In her sudden movement, she struck a handsome scent bottle that her maid
held in her hand. The force of the blow sent it to the other end of the
room, where it broke into pieces.
“Stupid, awkward fool!” cried the marchioness, venting her anger upon
the frightened girl.
M. Daburon, bewildered at first, now endeavored to calm her
exasperation. She did not allow him to pronounce three words.
“Happily you are here,” she continued; “you are always willing to serve
me, I know. I count upon you! you will exercise your influence, your
powerful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful painter and this
miscreant of a judge flung into some deep ditch, to teach them the
respect due to a woman of my rank.”
The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile at this imperative
demand. He had heard many speeches as absurd issue from her lips without
ever making fun of them. Was she not Claire’s grandmother? for that
alone he loved and venerated her. He blessed her for her granddaughter,
as an admirer of nature blesses heaven for the wild flower that delights
him with its perfume.
The fury of the old lady was terrible; nor was it of short duration. At
the end of an hour, however, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. They
replaced her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toilette, and
picked up the fragments of broken glass and china. Vanquished by her
own violence, the reaction was immediate and complete. She fell back
helpless and exhausted into an arm-chair.
This magnificent result was due to the magistrate. To accomplish it, he
had had to use all his ability, to exercise the most angelic patience,
the greatest tact. His triumph was the more meritorious, because he
came completely unprepared for this adventure, which interfered with his
intended proposal. The first time that he had felt sufficient courage
to speak, fortune seemed to declare against him, for this untoward event
had quite upset his plans.
Arming himself, however, with his professional eloquence, he talked the
old lady into calmness. He was not so foolish as to contradict her. On
the contrary, he caressed her hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by
turns. He attacked the authors of the revolution, cursed its errors,
deplored its crimes, and almost wept over its disastrous results.
Commencing with the infamous Marat he eventually reached the rascal of a
judge who had offended her. He abused his scandalous conduct in good set
terms, and was exceedingly severe upon the dishonest scamp of a painter.
However, he thought it best to let them off the punishment they so
richly deserved; and ended by suggesting that it would perhaps be
prudent, wise, noble even to pay.
The unfortunate word “pay” brought Madame d’Arlange to her feet in the
fiercest attitude.
“Pay!” she screamed. “In order that these scoundrels may persist in
their obduracy! Encourage them by a culpable weakness! Never! Besides to
pay one must have money! and I have none!”
“Why!” said M. Daburon, “it amounts to but eighty-seven francs!”
“And is that nothing?” asked the marchioness; “you talk very foolishly,
my dear sir. It is easy to see that you have money; your ancestors were
people of no rank; and the revolution passed a hundred feet above their
heads. Who can tell whether they may not have been the gainers by it? It
took all from the d’Arlanges. What will they do to me, if I do not pay?”
“Well, madame, they can do many things; almost ruin you, in costs. They
may seize your furniture.”
“Alas!” cried the old lady, “the revolution is not ended yet. We shall
all be swallowed up by it, my poor Daburon! Ah! you are happy, you who
belong to the people! I see plainly that I must pay this man without
delay, and it is frightfully sad for me, for I have nothing, and am
forced to make such sacrifices for the sake of my grandchild!”
This statement surprised the magistrate so strongly that involuntarily
he repeated half-aloud, “Sacrifices?”
“Certainly!” resumed Madame d’Arlange. “Without her, would I have to
live as I am doing, refusing myself everything to make both ends meet?
Not a bit of it! I would invest my fortune in a life annuity. But I
know, thank heaven, the duties of a mother; and I economise all I can
for my little Claire.”
This devotion appeared so admirable to M. Daburon, that he could not
utter a word.
“Ah! I am terribly anxious about this dear child,” continued the
marchioness. “I confess M. Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder how
I am to marry her.”
The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his opportunity had
arrived; he must take advantage of it at once.
“It seems to me,” stammered he, “that to find Mademoiselle Claire a
husband ought not to be difficult.”
“Unfortunately, it is. She is pretty enough, I admit, although rather
thin, but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing. Men are so mercenary
they think only of money. I do not know of one who has the manhood to
take a d’Arlange with her bright eyes for a dowry.”
“I believe that you exaggerate,” remarked M. Daburon, timidly.
“By no means. Trust to my experience which is far greater than yours.
Besides, when I find a son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand troubles.
Of this, I am assured by my lawyer. I shall be compelled, it seems, to
render an account of Claire’s patrimony. As if ever I kept accounts!
It is shameful! Ah! if Claire had any sense of filial duty, she would
quietly take the veil in some convent. I would use every effort to pay
the necessary dower; but she has no affection for me.”
M. Daburon felt that now was the time to speak. He collected his
courage, as a good horseman pulls his horse together when going to leap
a hedge, and in a voice, which he tried to render firm, he said: “Well!
Madame, I believe I know a party who would suit Mademoiselle Claire,--an
honest man, who loves her, and who will do everything in the world to
make her happy.”
“That,” said Madame d’Arlange, “is always understood.”
“The man of whom I speak,” continued the magistrate, “is still young,
and is rich. He will be only too happy to receive Mademoiselle Claire
without a dowry. Not only will he decline an examination of your
accounts of guardianship, but he will beg you to invest your fortune as
you think fit.”
“Really! Daburon, my friend, you are by no means a fool!” exclaimed the
old lady.
“If you prefer not to invest your fortune in a life-annuity, your
son-in-law will allow you sufficient to make up what you now find
wanting.”
“Ah! really I am stifling,” interrupted the marchioness. “What! you know
such a man, and have never yet mentioned him to me! You ought to have
introduced him long ago.”
“I did not dare, madame, I was afraid--”
“Quick! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law, this white blackbird?
where does he nestle?”
The magistrate felt a strange fluttering of the heart; he was going
to stake his happiness on a word. At length he stammered, “It is I,
madame!”
His voice, his look, his gesture were beseeching. He was surprised at
his own audacity, frightened at having vanquished his timidity, and was
on the point of falling at the old lady’s feet. She, however, laughed
until the tears came into her eyes, then shrugging her shoulders, she
said: “Really, dear Daburon is too ridiculous, he will make me die of
laughing! He is so amusing!” After which she burst out laughing again.
But suddenly she stopped, in the very height of her merriment, and
assumed her most dignified air. “Are you perfectly serious in all you
have told me, M. Daburon?” she asked.
“I have stated the truth,” murmured the magistrate.
“You are then very rich?”
“I inherited, madame, from my mother, about twenty thousand francs a
year. One of my uncles, who died last year, bequeathed me over a hundred
thousand crowns. My father is worth about a million. Were I to ask him
for the half to-morrow, he would give it to me; he would give me all
his fortune, if it were necessary to my happiness, and be but too well
contented, should I leave him the administration of it.”
Madame d’Arlange signed to him to be silent; and, for five good minutes
at least, she remained plunged in reflection, her forehead resting in
her hands. At length she raised her head.
“Listen,” said she. “Had you been so bold as to make this proposal to
Claire’s father, he would have called his servants to show you the door.
For the sake of our name I ought to do the same; but I cannot do so. I
am old and desolate; I am poor; my grandchild’s prospects disquiet me;
that is my excuse. I cannot, however, consent to speak to Claire of this
horrible misalliance. What I can promise you, and that is too much,
is that I will not be against you. Take your own measures; pay your
addresses to Mademoiselle d’Arlange, and try to persuade her. If she
says ‘yes,’ of her own free will, I shall not say ‘no.’”
M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have embraced the
old lady. He thought her the best, the most excellent of women, not
noticing the facility with which this proud spirit had been brought to
yield. He was delirious, almost mad.
“Wait!” said the old lady; “your cause is not yet gained. Your mother,
it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse her for marrying so
wretchedly; but your father is simple M. Daburon. This name, my dear
friend, is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will be easy to make a
Daburon of a young girl who for nearly eighteen years has been called
d’Arlange?”
This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.
“After all,” continued the old lady, “your father gained a Cottevise,
so you may win a d’Arlange. On the strength of marrying into noble
families, the Daburons may perhaps end by ennobling themselves. One last
piece of advice; you believe Claire to be just as she looks,--timid,
sweet, obedient. Undeceive yourself, my friend. Despite her innocent
air, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her father, who
was worse than an Auvergne mule. Now you are warned. Our conditions are
agreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on the subject. I almost
wish you to succeed.”
This scene was so present to the magistrate’s mind, that as he sat at
home in his arm-chair, though many months had passed since these events,
he still seemed to hear the old lady’s voice, and the word “success”
still sounded in his ears.
He departed in triumph from the d’Arlange abode, which he had entered
with a heart swelling with anxiety. He walked with his head erect, his
chest dilated, and breathing the fresh air with the full strength of his
lungs. He was so happy! The sky appeared to him more blue, the sun
more brilliant. This grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the
passers-by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,--“Have you heard?
The marchioness consents!”
He walked, and the earth seemed to him to give way beneath his
footsteps; it was either too small to carry so much happiness, or else
he had become so light that he was going to fly away towards the stars.
What castles in the air he built upon what Madame d’Arlange had said to
him! He would tender his resignation. He would build on the banks of the
Loire, not far from Tours, an enchanting little villa. He already saw
it, with its facade to the rising sun, nestling in the midst of flowers,
and shaded with wide-spreading trees. He furnished this dwelling in the
most luxuriant style. He wished to provide a marvellous casket, worthy
the pearl he was about to possess. For he had not a doubt; not a cloud
obscured the horizon made radiant by his hopes, no voice at the bottom
of his heart raised itself to cry, “Beware!”
From that day, his visits to the marchioness became more frequent.
He might almost be said to live at her house. While he preserved his
respectful and reserved demeanour towards Claire, he strove assiduously
to be something in her life. True love is ingenious. He learnt to
overcome his timidity, to speak to the well-beloved of his soul, to
encourage her to converse with him, to interest her. He went in quest
of all the news, to amuse her. He read all the new books, and brought to
her all that were fit for her to read.
Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the most delicate persistence,
in taming this shy young girl. He began to perceive that her fear of him
had almost disappeared, that she no longer received him with the cold
and haughty air which had previously kept him at a distance. He felt
that he was insensibly gaining her confidence. She still blushed when
she spoke to him; but she no longer hesitated to address the first word.
She even ventured at times to ask him a question. If she had heard a
play well spoken of and wished to know the subject, M. Daburon would at
once go to see it, and commit a complete account of it to writing, which
he would send her through the post. At times she intrusted him with
trifling commissions, the execution of which he would not have exchanged
for the Russian embassy.
Once he ventured to send her a magnificent bouquet. She accepted it with
an air of uneasy surprise, but begged him not to repeat the offering.
The tears came to his eyes; he left her presence broken-hearted, and the
unhappiest of men. “She does not love me,” thought he, “she will never
love me.” But, three days after, as he looked very sad, she begged him
to procure her certain flowers, then very much in fashion, which she
wished to place on her flower-stand. He sent enough to fill the house
from the garret to the cellar. “She will love me,” he whispered to
himself in his joy.
These events, so trifling but yet so great, had not interrupted the
games of piquet; only the young girl now appeared to interest herself
in the play, nearly always taking the magistrate’s side against the
marchioness. She did not understand the game very well; but, when
the old gambler cheated too openly, she would notice it, and say,
laughingly,--“She is robbing you, M. Daburon,--she is robbing you!” He
would willingly have been robbed of his entire fortune, to hear that
sweet voice raised on his behalf.
It was summer time. Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and,
while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair,
they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread with
gravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced the
traces of their footsteps. She chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved
brother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain
from imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the light
breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such
moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, at
the end of which appeared happiness.
When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she would
say: “You know what we agreed upon. Not a word. Already does the
voice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such an
abomination. To think that I may one day have a granddaughter calling
herself Madame Daburon! You must petition the king, my friend, to change
your name.”
If instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this acute
observer had studied the character of his idol, the effect might have
been to put him upon his guard. In the meanwhile, he noticed singular
alterations in her humour. On certain days, she was gay and careless
as a child. Then, for a week, she would remain melancholy and dejected.
Seeing her in this state the day following a ball, to which her
grandmother had made a point of taking her, he dared to ask her the
reason of her sadness.
“Oh! that,” answered she, heaving a deep sigh, “is my secret,--a secret
of which even my grandmother knows nothing.”
M. Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear between her long
eyelashes.
“One day,” continued she, “I may confide in you: it will perhaps be
necessary.”
The magistrate was blind and deaf. “I also,” answered he, “have a
secret, which I wish to confide to you in return.”
When he retired towards midnight, he said to himself, “To-morrow I will
confess everything to her.” Then passed a little more than fifty days,
during which he kept repeating to himself,--“To-morrow!”
It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat all
day had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leaves
rustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.
They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour,
adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceived
the fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after her
dinner. They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the
perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.
M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl’s hand. It was the first
time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of his
frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain.
“Mademoiselle,” stammered he, “Claire--”
She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.
“Forgive me,” continued he, “forgive me. I have spoken to your
grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do you not
understand me? A word from your lips will decide my future happiness or
misery. Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn me: I love you!”
While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d’Arlange looked at him
as though doubtful of the evidence of her senses; but at the words, “I
love you!” pronounced with the trembling accents of the most devoted
passion, she disengaged her hand sharply, and uttered a stifled cry.
“You,” murmured she, “is this really you?”
M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life was powerless
to utter a word. The presentiment of an immense misfortune oppressed his
heart. What were then his feelings, when he saw Claire burst into tears.
She hid her face in her hands, and kept repeating,--
“I am very unhappy, very unhappy!”
“You unhappy?” exclaimed the magistrate at length, “and through me?
Claire, you are cruel! In heaven’s name, what have I done? What is the
matter? Speak! Anything rather then this anxiety which is killing me.”
He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and again made an attempt to
take her hand. She repulsed him with an imploring gesture.
“Let me weep,” said she: “I suffer so much, you are going to hate me,
I feel it. Who knows! you will, perhaps, despise me, and yet I swear
before heaven that I never expected what you have just said to me, that
I had not even a suspicion of it!”
M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.
“Yes,” continued Claire, “you will think you have been the victim of a
detestable coquetry. I see it now! I comprehend everything! It is not
possible, that, without a profound love, a man can be all that you
have been to me. Alas! I was but a child. I gave myself up to the great
happiness of having a friend! Am I not alone in the world, and as if
lost in a desert? Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you,
as in the best, the most indulgent of fathers.”
These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the extent of
his error. The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed into a thousand
fragments the fragile edifice of his hopes. He raised himself slowly,
and, in a tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,--“Your father!”
Mademoiselle d’Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded this man whose
intense love she dare not even fathom. “Yes,” she resumed, “I love you
as a father! Seeing you, usually so grave and austere, become for me
so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for sending me a protector to
replace those who are dead.”
M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.
“One word,” continued Claire,--“one single word, would have enlightened
me. Why did you not pronounce it! It was with such happiness that I
leant on you as a child on its mother; and with what inward joy I said
to myself, ‘I am sure of one friend, of one heart into which runs the
overflow of mine!’ Ah! why was not my confidence greater? Why did I
withhold my secret from you? I might have avoided this fearful calamity.
I ought to have told you long since. I no longer belong to myself freely
and with happiness, I have given my life to another.”
To hover in the clouds, and suddenly to fall rudely to the earth, such
was M. Daburon’s fate; his sufferings are not to be described.
“Far better to have spoken,” answered he; “yet no. I owe to your
silence, Claire, six months of delicious illusions, six months of
enchanting dreams. This shall be my share of life’s happiness.”
The last beams of closing day still enabled the magistrate to see
Mademoiselle d’Arlange. Her beautiful face had the whiteness and the
immobility of marble. Heavy tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It
seemed to M. Daburon that he was beholding the frightful spectacle of a
weeping statue.
“You love another,” said he at length, “another! And your grandmother
does not know it. Claire, you can only have chosen a man worthy of your
love. How is it the marchioness does not receive him?”
“There are certain obstacles,” murmured Claire, “obstacles which perhaps
we may never be able to remove; but a girl like me can love but once.
She marries him she loves, or she belongs to heaven!”
“Certain obstacles!” said M. Daburon in a hollow voice. “You love a man,
he knows it, and he is stopped by obstacles?”
“I am poor,” answered Mademoiselle d’Arlange, “and his family is
immensely rich. His father is cruel, inexorable.”
“His father,” cried the magistrate, with a bitterness he did not dream
of hiding, “his father, his family, and that withholds him! You are
poor, he is rich, and that stops him! And yet he knows you love him!
Ah! why am I not in his place? and why have I not the entire universe
against me? What sacrifice can compare with love? such as I understand
it. Nay, would it be a sacrifice? That which appears most so, is it not
really an immense joy? To suffer, to struggle, to wait, to hope always,
to devote oneself entirely to another; that is my idea of love.”
“It is thus I love,” said Claire with simplicity.
This answer crushed the magistrate. He could understand it. He knew that
for him there was no hope; but he felt a terrible enjoyment in torturing
himself, and proving his misfortune by intense suffering.
“But,” insisted he, “how have you known him, spoken to him? Where? When?
Madame d’Arlange receives no one.”
“I ought now to tell you everything, sir,” answered Claire proudly.
“I have known him for a long time. It was at the house of one of my
grandmother’s friends, who is a cousin of his,--old Mademoiselle Goello,
that I saw him for the first time. There we spoke to each other; there
we meet each other now.”
“Ah!” exclaimed M. Daburon, whose eyes were suddenly opened, “I remember
now. A few days before your visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer
than usual; and, when you return, you are often sad.”
“That is because I see how much he is pained by the obstacles he cannot
overcome.”
“Is his family, then, so illustrious,” asked the magistrate harshly,
“that it disdains alliance with yours?”
“I should have told you everything, without waiting to be questioned,
sir,” answered Mademoiselle d’Arlange, “even his name. He is called
Albert de Commarin.”
The marchioness at this moment, thinking she had walked enough,
was preparing to return to her rose-coloured boudoir. She therefore
approached the arbour, and exclaimed in her loud voice:--
“Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you.”
Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, “I am coming.”
Claire held him back. “I have not asked you to keep my secret, sir,”
said she.
“O mademoiselle!” said M. Daburon, wounded by this appearance of doubt.
“I know,” resumed Claire, “that I can count upon you; but, come what
will, my tranquillity is gone.”
M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned
her.
“It is certain,” continued she, “that what I, a young and inexperienced
girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother.
That she has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of your
addresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable to
myself.”
“I have already mentioned, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate, “that
the marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes.”
And briefly he related his interview with Madame d’Arlange, having the
delicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question of money, which had
so strongly influenced the old lady.
“I see very plainly what effect this will have on my peace,” said Claire
sadly. “When my grandmother learns that I have not received your homage,
she will be very angry.”
“You misjudge me, mademoiselle,” interrupted M. Daburon. “I have nothing
to say to the marchioness. I will retire, and all will be concluded. No
doubt she will think that I have altered my mind!”
“Oh! you are good and generous, I know!”
“I will go away,” pursued M. Daburon; “and soon you will have forgotten
even the name of the unfortunate whose life’s hopes have just been
shattered.”
“You do not mean what you say,” said the young girl quickly.
“Well, no. I cherish this last illusion, that later on you will remember
me with pleasure. Sometimes you will say, ‘He loved me,’ I wish all the
same to remain your friend, yes, your most devoted friend.”
Claire, in her turn, clasped M. Daburon’s hands, and said with great
emotion:--“Yes, you are right, you must remain my friend. Let us forget
what has happened, what you have said to-night, and remain to me, as in
the past, the best, the most indulgent of brothers.”
Darkness had come, and she could not see him; but she knew he was
weeping, for he was slow to answer.
“Is it possible,” murmured he at length, “what you ask of me? What! is
it you who talk to me of forgetting? Do you feel the power to forget?
Do you not see that I love you a thousand times more than you love--”
He stopped, unable to pronounce the name of Commarin; and then, with an
effort he added: “And I shall love you always.”
They had left the arbour, and were now standing not far from the steps
leading to the house.
“And now, mademoiselle,” resumed M. Daburon, “permit me to say, adieu!
You will see me again but seldom. I shall only return often enough to
avoid the appearance of a rupture.”
His voice trembled, so that it was with difficulty he made it distinct.
“Whatever may happen,” he added, “remember that there is one unfortunate
being in the world who belongs to you absolutely. If ever you have need
of a friend’s devotion, come to me, come to your friend. Now it is over
... I have courage. Claire, mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu!”
She was but little less moved than he was. Instinctively she approached
him, and for the first and last time he touched lightly with his cold
lips the forehead of her he loved so well. They mounted the steps, she
leaning on his arm, and entered the rose-coloured boudoir where the
marchioness was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting
her victim.
“Now, then, incorruptible magistrate,” cried she.
But M. Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have held the cards. He
stammered some absurd excuses, spoke of pressing affairs, of duties to
be attended to, of feeling suddenly unwell, and went out, clinging to
the walls.
His departure made the old card-player highly indignant. She turned to
her grand-daughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away from the
candles of the card table, and asked, “What is the matter with Daburon
this evening?”
“I do not know, madame,” stammered Claire.
“It appears to me,” continued the marchioness, “that the little
magistrate permits himself to take singular liberties. He must be
reminded of his proper place, or he will end by believing himself our
equal.”
Claire tried to explain the magistrate’s conduct: “He has been
complaining all the evening, grandmamma; perhaps he is unwell.”
“And what if he is?” exclaimed the old lady. “Is it not his duty to
exercise some self-denial, in return for the honour of our company? I
think I have already related to you the story of your granduncle, the
Duke de St Hurluge, who, having been chosen to join the king’s card
party on their return from the chase, played all through the evening and
lost with the best grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles.
All the assembly remarked his gaiety and his good humour. On the
following day only it was learned, that, during the hunt, he had fallen
from his horse, and had sat at his majesty’s card table with a broken
rib. Nobody made any remark, so perfectly natural did this act of
ordinary politeness appear in those days. This little Daburon, if he is
unwell, would have given proof of his breeding by saying nothing about
it, and remaining for my piquet. But he is as well as I am. Who can tell
what games he has gone to play elsewhere!”