On the same day that the crime of La Jonchere was discovered, and
precisely at the hour that M. Tabaret made his memorable examination
in the victim’s chamber, the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered his
carriage, and proceeded to the Northern railway station, to meet his
father.
The young man was very pale: his pinched features, his dull eyes, his
blanched lips, in fact his whole appearance denoted either overwhelming
fatigue or unusual sorrow. All the servants had observed, that, during
the past five days, their young master had not been in his ordinary
condition: he spoke but little, ate almost nothing, and refused to see
any visitors. His valet noticed that this singular change dated from
the visit, on Sunday morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, who had been
closeted with him for three hours in the library.
The Viscount, gay as a lark until the arrival of this person, had, from
the moment of his departure, the appearance of a man at the point of
death. When setting forth to meet his father, the viscount appeared to
suffer so acutely that M. Lubin, his valet, entreated him not to go out;
suggesting that it would be more prudent to retire to his room, and call
in the doctor.
But the Count de Commarin was exacting on the score of filial duty, and
would overlook the worst of youthful indiscretions sooner than what he
termed a want of reverence. He had announced his intended arrival
by telegraph, twenty-four hours in advance; therefore the house was
expected to be in perfect readiness to receive him, and the absence of
Albert at the railway station would have been resented as a flagrant
omission of duty.
The viscount had been but five minutes in the waiting-room, when the
bell announced the arrival of the train. Soon the doors leading on
to the platform were opened, and the travelers crowded in. The throng
beginning to thin a little, the count appeared, followed by a servant,
who carried a travelling pelisse lined with rare and valuable fur.
The Count de Commarin looked a good ten years less than his age. His
beard and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely gray. He was tall and
muscular, held himself upright, and carried his head high. His
appearance was noble, his movements easy. His regular features presented
a study to the physiognomist, all expressing easy, careless good
nature, even to the handsome, smiling mouth; but in his eyes flashed the
fiercest and the most arrogant pride. This contrast revealed the secret
of his character. Imbued quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudice
as the Marchioness d’Arlange, he had progressed with his century or at
least appeared to have done so. As fully as the marchioness, he held in
contempt all who were not noble; but his disdain expressed itself in a
different fashion. The marchioness proclaimed her contempt loudly and
coarsely; the count had kept eyes and ears open and had seen and heard
a good deal. She was stupid, and without a shade of common sense. He was
witty and sensible, and possessed enlarged views of life and politics.
She dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age;
he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth. He was
sincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would yet recover slowly
and silently, but surely, all their lost power, with its prestige and
influence.
In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; the
marchioness its caricature. It should be added, that M. de Commarin knew
how to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of his
equals. There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient,
and intractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse the
application of the spur. In his own house, he was a despot.
Perceiving his father, Albert advanced towards him. They shook hands
and embraced with an air as noble as ceremonious, and, in less than
a minute, had exchanged all the news that had transpired during the
count’s absence. Then only did M. de Commarin perceive the alteration in
his son’s face.
“You are unwell, viscount,” said he.
“Oh, no, sir,” answered Albert, laconically.
The count uttered “Ah!” accompanied by a certain movement of the head,
which, with him, expressed perfect incredulity; then, turning to his
servant, he gave him some orders briefly.
“Now,” resumed he, “let us go quickly to the house. I am in haste to
feel at home; and I am hungry, having had nothing to-day, but some
detestable broth, at I know not what way station.”
M. de Commarin had returned to Paris in a very bad temper, his journey
to Austria had not brought the results he had hoped for. To crown his
dissatisfaction, he had rested, on his homeward way, at the chateau of
an old friend, with whom he had had so violent a discussion that they
had parted without shaking hands. The count was hardly seated in his
carriage before he entered upon the subject of this disagreement.
“I have quarrelled with the Duke de Sairmeuse,” said he to his son.
“That seems to me to happen whenever you meet,” answered Albert, without
intending any raillery.
“True,” said the count: “but this is serious. I passed four days at his
country-seat, in a state of inconceivable exasperation. He has entirely
forfeited my esteem. Sairmeuse has sold his estate of Gondresy, one of
the finest in the north of France. He has cut down the timber, and
put up to auction the old chateau, a princely dwelling, which is to be
converted into a sugar refinery; all this for the purpose, as he says,
of raising money to increase his income!”
“And was that the cause of your rupture?” inquired Albert, without much
surprise.
“Certainly it was! Do you not think it a sufficient one?”
“But, sir, you know the duke has a large family, and is far from rich.”
“What of that? A French noble who sells his land commits an unworthy
act. He is guilty of treason against his order!”
“Oh, sir,” said Albert, deprecatingly.
“I said treason!” continued the count. “I maintain the word. Remember
well, viscount, power has been, and always will be, on the side of
wealth, especially on the side of those who hold the soil. The men of
‘93 well understood this principle, and acted upon it. By impoverishing
the nobles, they destroyed their prestige more effectually than by
abolishing their titles. A prince dismounted, and without footmen, is
no more than any one else. The Minister of July, who said to the people,
‘Make yourselves rich,’ was not a fool. He gave them the magic formula
for power. But they have not the sense to understand it. They want to
go too fast. They launch into speculations, and become rich, it is true;
but in what? Stocks, bonds, paper,--rags, in short. It is smoke they are
locking in their coffers. They prefer to invest in merchandise, which
pays eight or ten per cent, to investing in vines or corn which will
return but three. The peasant is not so foolish. From the moment he owns
a piece of ground the size of a handkerchief, he wants to make it as
large as a tablecloth. He is slow as the oxen he ploughs with, but as
patient, as tenacious, and as obstinate. He goes directly to his object,
pressing firmly against the yoke; and nothing can stop or turn him
aside. He knows that stocks may rise or fall, fortunes be won or lost on
‘change; but the land always remains,--the real standard of wealth. To
become landholders, the peasant starves himself, wears sabots in winter;
and the imbeciles who laugh at him will be astonished by and by when he
makes his ‘93, and the peasant becomes a baron in power if not in name.”
“I do not understand the application,” said the viscount.
“You do not understand? Why, what the peasant is doing is what the
nobles ought to have done! Ruined, their duty was to reconstruct their
fortunes. Commerce is interdicted to us; be it so: agriculture remains.
Instead of grumbling uselessly during the half-century, instead of
running themselves into debt, in the ridiculous attempt to support an
appearance of grandeur, they ought to have retreated to their provinces,
shut themselves up in their chateaux; there worked, economised, denied
themselves, as the peasant is doing, purchased the land piece by piece.
Had they taken this course, they would to-day possess France. Their
wealth would be enormous; for the value of land rises year after year.
I have, without effort, doubled my fortune in thirty years. Blauville,
which cost my father a hundred crowns in 1817, is worth to-day more
than a million: so that, when I hear the nobles complain, I shrug the
shoulder. Who but they are to blame? They impoverish themselves from
year to year. They sell their land to the peasants. Soon they will be
reduced to beggary, and their escutcheons. What consoles me is, that
the peasant, having become the proprietor of our domains will then be
all-powerful, and will yoke to his chariot wheels these traders in scrip
and stocks, whom he hates as much as I execrate them myself.”
The carriage at this moment stopped in the court-yard of the de Commarin
mansion, after having described that perfect half-circle, the glory of
coachmen who preserve the old tradition.
The count alighted first, and leaning upon his son’s arm, ascended the
steps of the grand entrance. In the immense vestibule, nearly all the
servants, dressed in rich liveries, stood in a line. The count gave them
a glance, in passing, as an officer might his soldiers on parade, and
proceeded to his apartment on the first floor, above the reception
rooms.
Never was there a better regulated household than that of the Count
de Commarin. He possessed in a high degree the art, more rare than is
generally supposed, of commanding an army of servants. The number of his
domestics caused him neither inconvenience nor embarrassment. They were
necessary to him. So perfect was the organisation of this household,
that its functions were performed like those of a machine,--without
noise, variation, or effort.
Thus when the count returned from his journey, the sleeping hotel was
awakened as if by the spell of an enchanter. Each servant was at his
post; and the occupations, interrupted during the past six weeks,
resumed without confusion. As the count was known to have passed the day
on the road, the dinner was served in advance of the usual hour. All the
establishment, even to the lowest scullion, represented the spirit
of the first article of the rules of the house, “Servants are not to
execute orders, but anticipate them.”
M. de Commarin had hardly removed the traces of his journey, and changed
his dress, when his butler announced that the dinner was served.
He went down at once; and father and son met upon the threshold of the
dining-room. This was a large apartment, with a very high ceiling,
as were all the rooms of the ground floor, and was most magnificently
furnished. The count was not only a great eater, but was vain of his
enormous appetite. He was fond of recalling the names of great men,
noted for their capacity of stomach. Charles V. devoured mountains of
viands. Louis XIV. swallowed at each repast as much as six ordinary men
would eat at a meal. He pretended that one can almost judge of men’s
qualities by their digestive capacities; he compared them to lamps,
whose power of giving light is in proportion to the oil they consume.
During the first half hour, the count and his son both remained silent.
M. de Commarin ate conscientiously, not perceiving or not caring to
notice that Albert ate nothing, but merely sat at the table as if to
countenance him. The old nobleman’s ill-humour and volubility returned
with the dessert, apparently increased by a Burgundy of which he was
particularly fond, and of which he drank freely.
He was partial, moreover, to an after dinner argument, professing a
theory that moderate discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter which
had been delivered to him on his arrival, and which he had found time to
glance over, gave him at once a subject and a point of departure.
“I arrived home but an hour ago;” said he, “and I have already received
a homily from Broisfresnay.”
“He writes a great deal,” observed Albert.
“Too much; he consumes himself in ink. He mentions a lot more of his
ridiculous projects and vain hopes, and he mentions a dozen names of men
of his own stamp who are his associates. On my word of honour, they seem
to have lost their senses! They talk of lifting the world, only
they want a lever and something to rest it on. It makes me die with
laughter!”
For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a volley of abuse and
sarcasm against his best friends, without seeming to see that a great
many of their foibles which he ridiculed were also a little his own.
“If,” continued he more seriously,--“if they only possessed a little
confidence in themselves, if they showed the least audacity! But
no! they count upon others to do for them what they ought to do for
themselves. In short, their proceedings are a series of confessions of
helplessness, of premature declarations of failure.”
The coffee having been served, the count made a sign, and the servants
left the room.
“No,” continued he, “I see but one hope for the French aristocracy, but
one plank of salvation, one good little law, establishing the right of
primogeniture.”
“You will never obtain it.”
“You think not? Would you then oppose such a measure, viscount?”
Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground his father was
approaching, and remained silent.
“Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!” resumed the
count. “Then let the nobles do their duty. Let all the younger sons and
the daughters of our great families forego their rights, by giving up
the entire patrimony to the first-born for five generations, contenting
themselves each with a couple of thousand francs a year. By that means
great fortunes can be reconstructed, and families, instead of being
divided by a variety of interests, become united by one common desire.”
“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount, “the time is not favorable to
such devotedness.”
“I know it, sir,” replied the count quickly; “and in my own house I have
the proof of it. I, your father, have conjured you to give up all
idea of marrying the granddaughter of that old fool, the Marchioness
d’Arlange. And all to no purpose; for I have at last been obliged to
yield to your wishes.”
“Father--” Albert commenced.
“It is well,” interrupted the count. “You have my word; but remember my
prediction: you will strike a fatal blow at our house. You will be one
of the largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children,
and they will be hardly rich. If they also have as many, you will
probably see your grandchildren in poverty!”
“You put all at the worst, father.”
“Without doubt: it is the only means of pointing out the danger, and
averting the evil. You talk of your life’s happiness. What is that? A
true noble thinks of his name above all. Mademoiselle d’Arlange is
very pretty, and very attractive; but she is penniless. I had found an
heiress for you.”
“Whom I should never love!”
“And what of that? She would have brought you four millions in her
apron,--more than the kings of to-day give their daughters. Besides
which she had great expectations.”
The discussion upon this subject would have been interminable, had
Albert taken an active share in it; but his thoughts were far away. He
answered from time to time so as not to appear absolutely dumb, and then
only a few syllables. This absence of opposition was more irritating to
the count than the most obstinate contradiction. He therefore directed
his utmost efforts to excite his son to argue.
However he was vainly prodigal of words, and unsparing in unpleasant
allusions, so that at last he fairly lost his temper, and, on receiving
a laconic reply, he burst forth: “Upon my word, the butler’s son would
say the same as you! What blood have you in your veins? You are more
like one of the people than a Viscount de Commarin!”
There are certain conditions of mind in which the least conversation
jars upon the nerves. During the last hour, Albert had suffered an
intolerable punishment. The patience with which he had armed himself at
last escaped him.
“Well, sir,” he answered, “if I resemble one of the people, there are
perhaps good reasons for it.”
The glance with which the viscount accompanied his speech was so
expressive that the count experienced a sudden shock. All his animation
forsook him, and in a hesitating voice, he asked: “What is that you say,
viscount?”
Albert had no sooner uttered the sentence than he regretted his
precipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.
“Sir,” he replied with some embarrassment, “I have to acquaint you with
some important matters. My honour, yours, the honour of our house, are
involved. I intended postponing this conversation till to-morrow, not
desiring to trouble you on the evening of your return. However, as you
wish me to explain, I will do so.”
The count listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He seemed to have divined
what his son was about to say, and was terrified at himself for having
divined it.
“Believe me, sir,” continued Albert slowly, “whatever may have been
your acts, my voice will never be raised to reproach you. Your constant
kindness to me--”
M. de Commarin held up his hand. “A truce to preambles; let me have the
facts without phrases,” said he sternly.
Albert was some time without answering, he hesitated how to commence.
“Sir,” said he at length, “during your absence, I have read all your
correspondence with Madame Gerdy. All!” added he, emphasising the word,
already so significant.
The count, as though stung by a serpent, started up with such violence
that he overturned his chair.
“Not another word!” cried he in a terrible voice. “I forbid you to
speak!” But he no doubt soon felt ashamed of his violence, for he
quietly raised his chair, and resumed in a tone which he strove to
render light and rallying: “Who will hereafter refuse to believe in
presentiments? A couple of hours ago, on seeing your pale face at
the railway station, I felt that you had learned more or less of this
affair. I was sure of it.”
There was a long silence. With one accord, father and son avoided
letting their eyes meet, lest they might encounter glances too eloquent
to bear at so painful a moment.
“You were right, sir,” continued the count, “our honour is involved. It
is important that we should decide on our future conduct without delay.
Will you follow me to my room?”
He rang the bell, and a footman appeared almost immediately.
“Neither the viscount nor I am at home to any one,” said M. de Commarin,
“no matter whom.”