The revelation which had just taken place, irritated much more than
it surprised the Count de Commarin. For twenty years, he had been
constantly expecting to see the truth brought to light. He knew that
there can be no secret so carefully guarded that it may not by some
chance escape; and his had been known to four people, three of whom were
still living.
He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent enough to trust it to
paper, knowing all the while that it ought never to have been written.
How was it that he, a prudent diplomat, a statesman, full of precaution,
had been so foolish? How was it that he had allowed this fatal
correspondence to remain in existence! Why had he not destroyed, at no
matter what cost, these overwhelming proofs, which sooner or later might
be used against him? Such imprudence could only have arisen from an
absurd passion, blind and insensible, even to madness.
So long as he was Valerie’s lover, the count never thought of asking
the return of his letters from his beloved accomplice. If the idea had
occurred to him, he would have repelled it as an insult to the character
of his angel. What reason could he have had to suspect her discretion?
None. He would have been much more likely to have supposed her desirous
of removing every trace, even the slightest, of what had taken place.
Was it not her son who had received the benefits of the deed, who had
usurped another’s name and fortune?
When eight years after, believing her to be unfaithful, the count had
put an end to the connection which had given him so much happiness he
thought of obtaining possession of this unhappy correspondence. But he
knew not how to do so. A thousand reasons prevented his moving in the
matter.
The principal one was, that he did not wish to see this woman, once so
dearly loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger or
of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, resist the tearful pleading
of those eyes, which had so long held complete sway over him?
To look again upon this mistress of his youth would, he feared, result
in his forgiving her; and he had been too cruelly wounded in his pride
and in his affection to admit the idea of a reconciliation.
On the other hand, to obtain the letters though a third party was
entirely out of the question. He abstained, then, from all action,
postponing it indefinitely. “I will go to her,” said he to himself; “but
not until I have so torn her from my heart that she will have become
indifferent to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of my grief.”
So months and years passed on; and finally he began to say and believe
that it was too late. And for now more than twenty years, he had never
passed a day without cursing his inexcusable folly. Never had he been
able to forget that above his head a danger more terrible than the sword
of Damocles hung, suspended by a thread, which the slightest accident
might break.
And now that thread had broken. Often, when considering the possibility
of such a catastrophe, he had asked himself how he should avert it? He
had formed and rejected many plans: he had deluded himself, like all men
of imagination, with innumerable chimerical projects, and now he found
himself quite unprepared.
Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his great armorial
chair, just beneath the large frame in which the genealogical tree
of the illustrious family of Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuriant
branches. The old gentleman completely concealed the cruel apprehensions
which oppressed him. He seemed neither irritated nor dejected; but
his eyes expressed a haughtiness more than usually disdainful, and a
self-reliance full of contempt.
“Now viscount,” he began in a firm voice, “explain yourself. I need say
nothing to you of the position of a father, obliged to blush before his
son; you understand it, and will feel for me. Let us spare each other,
and try to be calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this
correspondence?”
Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare for the present
struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for this interview.
The difficulty he experienced in uttering the first words had now given
place to a dignified and proud demeanor. He expressed himself clearly
and forcibly, without losing himself in those details which in serious
matters needlessly defer the real point at issue.
“Sir,” he replied, “on Sunday morning, a young man called here, stating
that he had business with me of the utmost importance. I received
him. He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son,
substituted through your affection, for the legitimate child borne you
by Madame de Commarin.”
“And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?” exclaimed the
count.
“No, sir. I was about to answer him very sharply, of course; but,
presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to read them before
replying.”
“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin, “you should have thrown them into the fire,
for there was a fire, I suppose? You held them in your hands; and they
still exist! Why was I not there?”
“Sir!” said Albert, reproachfully. And, recalling the position Noel had
occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in which he stood, he
added,--“Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was impracticable.
Besides, at the first glance, I recognised your handwriting. I therefore
took the letters, and read them.”
“And then?”
“And then, sir, I returned the correspondence to the young man, and
asked for a delay of eight days; not to think over it myself--there
was no need of that,--but because I judged an interview with you
indispensable. Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether this
substitution really did take place.
“Certainly it did,” replied the count violently, “yes, certainly. You
know that it did, for you have read what I wrote to Madame Gerdy, your
mother.”
Albert had foreseen, had expected this reply; but it crushed him
nevertheless.
There are misfortunes so great, that one must constantly think of them
to believe in their existence. This flinching, however, lasted but an
instant.
“Pardon me, sir,” he replied. “I was almost convinced; but I had not
received a formal assurance of it. All the letters that I read spoke
distinctly of your purpose, detailed your plan minutely; but not one
pointed to, or in any way confirmed, the execution of your project.”
The count gazed at his son with a look of intense surprise. He
recollected distinctly all the letters; and he could remember, that,
in writing to Valerie, he had over and over again rejoiced at their
success, thanking her for having acted in accordance with his wishes.
“You did not go to the end of them, then, viscount,” he said, “you did
not read them all?”
“Every line, sir, and with an attention that you may well understand.
The last letter shown me simply announced to Madame Gerdy the arrival
of Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with accomplishing the
substitution. I know nothing beyond that.”
“These proofs amount to nothing,” muttered the count. “A man may form a
plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last moment abandon it; it
often happens so.”
He reproached himself for having answered so hastily. Albert had had
only serious suspicions, and he had changed them to certainty. What
stupidity!
“There can be no possible doubt,” he said to himself; “Valerie has
destroyed the most conclusive letters, those which appeared to her the
most dangerous, those I wrote after the substitution. But why has she
preserved these others, compromising enough in themselves? and why,
after having preserved them, has she let them go out of her possession?”
Without moving, Albert awaited a word from the count. What would it be?
No doubt, the old nobleman was at that moment deciding what he should
do.
“Perhaps she is dead!” said M. de Commarin aloud.
And at the thought that Valerie was dead, without his having again seen
her, he started painfully. His heart, after more than twenty years of
voluntary separation, still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first
love of his youth. He had cursed her; at this moment he pardoned her.
True, she had deceived him; but did he not owe to her the only years of
happiness he had ever known? Had she not formed all the poetry of his
youth? Had he experienced, since leaving her, one single hour of joy
or forgetfulness? In his present frame of mind, his heart retained only
happy memories, like a vase which, once filled with precious perfumes,
retains the odour until it is destroyed.
“Poor woman!” he murmured.
He sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids trembled, as if a tear
were about to fall. Albert watched him with anxious curiosity. This was
the first time since the viscount had grown to man’s estate that he had
surprised in his father’s countenance other emotion than ambition or
pride, triumphant or defeated. But M. de Commarin was not the man to
yield long to sentiment.
“You have not told me, viscount,” he said, “who sent you that messenger
of misfortune.”
“He came in person, sir, not wishing, he told me to mix any others up in
this sad affair. The young man was no other than he whose place I have
occupied,--your legitimate son, M. Noel Gerdy himself.”
“Yes,” said the count in a low tone, “Noel, that is his name, I
remember.” And then, with evident hesitation, he added: “Did he speak to
you of his--of your mother?”
“Scarcely, sir. He only told me that he came unknown to her; that he had
accidentally discovered the secret which he revealed to me.”
M. de Commarin asked nothing further. There was more for him to learn.
He remained for some time deep in thought. The decisive moment had come;
and he saw but one way to escape.
“Come, viscount,” he said, in a tone so affectionate that Albert was
astonished, “do not stand; sit down here by me, and let us discuss
this matter. Let us unite our efforts to shun, if possible, this great
misfortune. Confide in me, as a son should in his father. Have you
thought of what is to be done? have you formed any determination?”
“It seems to me, sir, that hesitation is impossible.”
“In what way?”
“My duty, father, is very plain. Before your legitimate son, I ought
to give way without a murmur, if not without regret. Let him come. I
am ready to yield to him everything that I have so long kept from him
without a suspicion of the truth--his father’s love, his fortune and his
name.”
At this most praiseworthy reply, the old nobleman could scarcely
preserve the calmness he had recommended to his son in the earlier part
of the interview. His face grew purple; and he struck the table with his
fist more furiously than he had ever done in his life. He, usually so
guarded, so decorous on all occasions, uttered a volley of oaths that
would not have done discredit to an old cavalry officer.
“And I tell you, sir, that this dream of yours shall never take place.
No; that it sha’n’t. I swear it. I promise you, whatever happens,
understand, that things shall remain as they are; because it is my will.
You are Viscount de Commarin, and Viscount de Commarin you shall remain,
in spite of yourself, if necessary. You shall retain the title to your
death, or at least to mine; for never, while I live, shall your absurd
idea be carried out.”
“But, sir,” began Albert, timidly.
“You are very daring to interrupt me while I am speaking, sir,”
exclaimed the count. “Do I not know all your objections beforehand? You
are going to tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a wicked robbery.
I confess it, and grieve over it more than you possibly can. Do you
think that I now for the first time repent of my youthful folly? For
twenty years, sir, I have lamented my true son; for twenty years I have
cursed the wickedness of which he is the victim. And yet I learnt how to
keep silence, and to hide the sorrow and remorse which have covered my
pillow with thorns. In a single instant, your senseless yielding would
render my long sufferings of no avail. No, I will never permit it!”
The count read a reply on his son’s lips: he stopped him with a
withering glance.
“Do you think,” he continued, “that I have never wept over the thought
of my legitimate son passing his life struggling for a competence? Do
you think that I have never felt a burning desire to repair the wrong
done him? There have been times, sir, when I would have given half of my
fortune simply to embrace that child of a wife too tardily appreciated.
The fear of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your birth prevented me.
I have sacrificed myself to the great name I bear. I received it from my
ancestors without a stain. May you hand it down to your children equally
spotless! Your first impulse was a worthy one, generous and noble;
but you must forget it. Think of the scandal, if our secret should
be disclosed to the public gaze. Can you not foresee the joy of our
enemies, of that herd of upstarts which surrounds us? I shudder at the
thought of the odium and the ridicule which would cling to our name. Too
many families already have stains upon their escutcheons; I will have
none on mine.”
M. de Commarin remained silent for several minutes, during which Albert
did not dare say a word, so much had he been accustomed since infancy to
respect the least wish of the terrible old gentleman.
“There is no possible way out of it,” continued the count. “Can I
discard you to-morrow, and present this Noel as my son, saying, ‘Excuse
me, but there has been a slight mistake; this one is the viscount?’ And
then the tribunals will get hold of it. What does it matter who is named
Benoit, Durand, or Bernard? But, when one is called Commarin, even but
for a single day, one must retain that name through life. The same
moral does not do for everyone; because we have not the same duties to
perform. In our position, errors are irreparable. Take courage, then,
and show yourself worthy of the name you bear. The storm is upon you;
raise your head to meet it.”
Albert’s impassibility contributed not a little to increase M. de
Commarin’s irritation. Firm in an unchangeable resolution, the viscount
listened like one fulfilling a duty: and his face reflected no emotion.
The count saw that he was not shaken.
“What have you to reply?” he asked.
“It seems to me sir, that you have no idea of all the dangers which I
foresee. It is difficult to master the revolts of conscience.”
“Indeed!” interrupted the count contemptuously; “your conscience
revolts, does it? It has chosen its time badly. Your scruples come
too late. So long as you saw that your inheritance consisted of an
illustrious title and a dozen or so of millions, it pleased you. To-day
the name appears to you laden with a heavy fault, a crime, if you will;
and your conscience revolts. Renounce this folly. Children, sir, are
accountable to their fathers; and they should obey them. Willing or
unwilling, you must be my accomplice; willing or unwilling, you must
bear the burden, as I have borne it. And, however much you may suffer,
be assured your sufferings can never approach what I have endured for so
many years.”
“Ah, sir!” cried Albert, “is it then I, the dispossessor, who has made
this trouble? is it not, on the contrary, the dispossessed! It is not I
who you have to convince, it is M. Noel Gerdy.”
“Noel!” repeated the count.
“Your legitimate son, yes, sir. You act as if the issue of this unhappy
affair depended solely upon my will. Do you then, imagine that M. Gerdy
will be so easily disposed of, so easily silenced? And, if he should
raise his voice, do you hope to move him by the considerations you have
just mentioned?”
“I do not fear him.”
“Then you are wrong, sir, permit me to tell you. Suppose for a moment
that this young man has a soul sufficiently noble to relinquish his
claim upon your rank and your fortune. Is there not now the accumulated
rancour of years to urge him to oppose you? He cannot help feeling a
fierce resentment for the horrible injustice of which he has been the
victim. He must passionately long for vengeance, or rather reparation.”
“He has no proofs.”
“He has your letters, sir.”
“They are not decisive, you yourself have told me so.”
“That is true, sir; and yet they convinced me, who have an interest in
not being convinced. Besides, if he needs witnesses, he will find them.”
“Who? Yourself, viscount?”
“Yourself, sir. The day when he wishes it, you will betray us. Suppose
you were summoned before a tribunal, and that there, under oath, you
should be required to speak the truth, what answer would you make?”
M. de Commarin’s face darkened at this very natural supposition. He
hesitated, he whose honour was usually so great.
“I would save the name of my ancestors,” he said at last.
Albert shook his head doubtfully. “At the price of a lie, my father,”
he said. “I never will believe it. But let us suppose even that. He
will then call Madame Gerdy.”
“Oh, I will answer for her!” cried the count, “her interests are the
same as ours. If necessary, I will see her. Yes,” he added with an
effort, “I will call on her, I will speak to her; and I will guarantee
that she will not betray us.”
“And Claudine,” continued the young man; “will she be silent, too?”
“For money, yes; and I will give her whatever she asks.”
“And you would trust, father, to a paid silence, as if one could ever
be sure of a purchased conscience? What is sold to you may be sold to
another. A certain sum may close her mouth; a larger will open it.”
“I will frighten her.”
“You forget, father, that Claudine Lerouge was Noel Gerdy’s nurse, that
she takes an interest in his happiness, that she loves him. How do you
know that he has not already secured her aid? She lives at Bougival. I
went there, I remember, with you. No doubt, he sees her often; perhaps
it is she who put him on the track of this correspondence. He spoke to
me of her, as though he were sure of her testimony. He almost proposed
my going to her for information.”
“Alas!” cried the count, “why is not Claudine dead instead of my
faithful Germain?”
“You see, sir,” concluded Albert, “Claudine Lerouge would alone render
all your efforts useless.”
“Ah, no!” cried the count; “I shall find some expedient.”
The obstinate old gentleman was not willing to give in to this argument,
the very clearness of which blinded him. The pride of his blood
paralyzed his usual practical good sense. To acknowledge that he was
conquered humiliated him, and seemed to him unworthy of himself. He did
not remember to have met during his long career an invincible resistance
or an absolute impediment. He was like all men of imagination, who
fall in love with their projects, and who expect them to succeed on all
occasions, as if wishing hard was all that was necessary to change their
dreams into realities.
Albert this time broke the silence, which threatened to be prolonged.
“I see, sir,” he said, “that you fear, above all things, the publicity
of this sad history; the possible scandal renders you desperate. But,
unless we yield, the scandal will be terrible. There will be a trial
which will be the talk of all Europe. The newspapers will print the
facts, accompanied by heavens knows what comments of their own. Our
name, however the trial results, will appear in all the papers of the
world. This might be borne, if we were sure of succeeding; but we are
bound to lose, my father, we shall lose. Then think of the exposure!
think of the dishonour branded upon us by public opinion.”
“I think,” said the count, “that you can have neither respect nor
affection for me, when you speak in that way.”
“It is my duty, sir, to point out to you the evils I see threatening,
and which there is yet time to shun. M. Noel Gerdy is your legitimate
son, recognize him, acknowledge his just pretensions, and receive him.
We can make the change very quietly. It is easy to account for it,
through a mistake of the nurse, Claudine Lerouge, for instance. All
parties being agreeable, there can be no trouble about it. What is
to prevent the new Viscount de Commarin from quitting Paris, and
disappearing for a time? He might travel about Europe for four or five
years; by the end of that time, all will be forgotten, and no one will
remember me.”
M. de Commarin was not listening; he was deep in thought.
“But instead of contesting, viscount,” he cried, “we might compromise.
We may be able to purchase these letters. What does this young fellow
want? A position and a fortune? I will give him both. I will make him
as rich as he can wish. I will give him a million; if need be, two,
three,--half of all I possess. With money, you see, much money--”
“Spare him, sir; he is your son.”
“Unfortunately! and I wish him to the devil! I will see him, and he will
agree to what I wish. I will prove to him the bad policy of the earthen
pot struggling with the iron kettle; and, if he is not a fool, he will
understand.”
The count rubbed his hands while speaking. He was delighted with this
brilliant plan of negotiation. It could not fail to result favorably. A
crowd of arguments occurred to his mind in support of it. He would buy
back again his lost rest.
But Albert did not seem to share his father’s hopes, “You will perhaps
think it unkind in me, sir,” said he, sadly, “to dispel this last
illusion of yours; but I must. Do not delude yourself with the idea of
an amicable arrangement; the awakening will only be the more painful.
I have seen M. Gerdy, my father, and he is not one, I assure you, to be
intimidated. If there is an energetic will in the world, it is his.
He is truly your son; and his expression, like yours, shows an iron
resolution, that may be broken but never bent. I can still hear his
voice trembling with resentment, while he spoke to me. I can still see
the dark fire of his eyes. No, he will never accept a compromise. He
will have all or nothing; and I cannot say that he is wrong. If you
resist, he will attack you without the slightest consideration. Strong
in his rights, he will cling to you with stubborn animosity. He will
drag you from court to court; he will not stop short of utter defeat or
complete triumph.”
Accustomed to absolute obedience from his son, the old nobleman was
astounded at this unexpected obstinacy.
“What is your object in saying all this?” he asked.
“It is this, sir. I should utterly despise myself, if I did not spare
your old age this greatest of calamities. Your name does not belong to
me; I will take my own. I am your natural son; I will give up my place
to your legitimate son. Permit me to withdraw with at least the honour
of having freely done my duty. Do not force me to wait till I am driven
out in disgrace.”
“What!” cried the count, stunned, “you will abandon me? You refuse to
help me, you turn against me, you recognize the rights of this man in
spite of my wishes?”
Albert bowed his head. He was much moved, but still remained firm.
“My resolution is irrevocably taken,” he replied. “I can never consent
to despoil your son.”
“Cruel, ungrateful boy!” cried M. de Commarin. His wrath was such,
that, when he found he could do nothing by abuse, he passed at once to
jeering. “But no,” he continued, “you are great, you are noble, you are
generous; you are acting after the most approved pattern of chivalry,
viscount, I should say, my dear M. Gerdy; after the fashion of
Plutarch’s time! So you give up my name and my fortune, and you leave
me. You will shake the dust from your shoes upon the threshold of my
house; and you will go out into the world. I see only one difficulty in
your way. How do you expect to live, my stoic philosopher? Have you a
trade at your fingers’ ends, like Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Emile? Or,
worthy M. Gerdy, have you learned economy from the four thousand francs
a month I allow you for waxing your moustache? Perhaps you have made
money on the Bourse! Then my name must have seemed very burdensome to
you to bear, since you so eagerly introduced it into such a place! Has
dirt, then, so great an attraction for you that you must jump from
your carriage so quickly? Say, rather, that the company of my friends
embarrasses you, and that you are anxious to go where you will be among
your equals.”
“I am very wretched, sir,” replied Albert to this avalanche of insults,
“and you would crush me!”
“You wretched! Well, whose fault is it? But let us get back to my
question. How and on what will you live?”
“I am not so romantic as you are pleased to say, sir. I must confess
that, as regards the future, I have counted upon your kindness. You are
so rich, that five hundred thousand francs would not materially affect
your fortune; and, on the interest of that sum, I could live quietly, if
not happily.”
“And suppose I refuse you this money?”
“I know you well enough, sir, to feel sure that you will not do so. You
are too just to wish that I alone should expiate wrongs that are not of
my making. Left to myself, I should at my present age have achieved a
position. It is late for me to try and make one now; but I will do my
best.”
“Superb!” interrupted the count; “you are really superb! One never heard
of such a hero of romance. What a character! But tell me, what do you
expect from all this astonishing disinterestedness?”
“Nothing, sir.”
The count shrugged his shoulders, looked sarcastically at his son, and
observed: “The compensation is very slight. And you expect me to believe
all this! No, sir, mankind is not in the habit of indulging in such fine
actions for its pleasure alone. You must have some reason for acting so
grandly; some reason which I fail to see.”
“None but what I have already told you.”
“Therefore it is understood you intend to relinquish everything;
you will even abandon your proposed union with Mademoiselle Claire
d’Arlange? You forget that for two years I have in vain constantly
expressed my disappointment of this marriage.”
“No, sir. I have seen Mademoiselle Claire; I have explained my unhappy
position to her. Whatever happens, she has sworn to be my wife.”
“And do you think that Madame d’Arlange will give her granddaughter to
M. Gerdy?”
“We hope so, sir. The marchioness is sufficiently infected with
aristocratic ideas to prefer a nobleman’s bastard to the son of some
honest tradesman; but should she refuse, we would await her death,
though without desiring it.”
The calm manner in which Albert said this enraged the count.
“Can this be my son?” he cried. “Never! What blood have you then in your
veins, sir? Your worthy mother alone might tell us, provided, however,
she herself knows.”
“Sir,” cried Albert menacingly, “think well before you speak! She is
my mother, and that is sufficient. I am her son, not her judge. No one
shall insult her in my presence, I will not permit it, sir; and I will
suffer it least of all from you.”
The count made great efforts to keep his anger within bounds, but
Albert’s behavior thoroughly enraged him. What, his son rebelled, he
dared to brave him to his face, he threatened him! The old fellow jumped
from his chair, and moved towards the young man as if he would strike
him.
“Leave the room,” he cried, in a voice choking with rage, “leave the
room instantly! Retire to your apartments, and take care not to leave
them without my orders. To-morrow I will let you know my decision.”
Albert bowed respectfully, but without lowering his eyes and walked
slowly to the door. He had already opened it, when M. de Commarin
experienced one of those revulsions of feeling, so frequent in violent
natures.
“Albert,” said he, “come here and listen to me.”
The young man turned back, much affected by this change.
“Do not go,” continued the count, “until I have told you what I think.
You are worthy of being the heir of a great house, sir. I may be angry
with you; but I can never lose my esteem for you. You are a noble man,
Albert. Give me your hand.”
It was a happy moment for these two men, and such a one as they had
scarcely ever experienced in their lives, restrained as they had been by
cold etiquette. The count felt proud of his son, and recognised in
him himself at that age. For a long time their hands remained clasped,
without either being able to utter a word.
At last, M. de Commarin resumed his seat.
“I must ask you to leave me, Albert,” he said kindly. “I must be alone
to reflect, to try and accustom myself to this terrible blow.”
And, as the young man closed the door, he added, as if giving vent to
his inmost thoughts, “If he, in whom I have placed all my hope, deserts
me, what will become of me? And what will the other one be like?”
Albert’s features, when he left the count’s study, bore traces of the
violent emotions he had felt during the interview. The servants whom he
met noticed it the more, as they had heard something of the quarrel.
“Well,” said an old footman who had been in the family thirty years,
“the count has had another unhappy scene with his son. The old fellow
has been in a dreadful passion.”
“I got wind of it at dinner,” spoke up a valet de chambre: “the count
restrained himself enough not to burst out before me; but he rolled his
eyes fiercely.”
“What can be the matter?”
“Pshaw! that’s more than they know themselves. Why, Denis, before
whom they always speak freely, says that they often wrangle for hours
together, like dogs, about things which he can never see through.”
“Ah,” cried out a young fellow, who was being trained to service, “if
I were in the viscount’s place, I’d settle the old gent pretty
effectually!”
“Joseph, my friend,” said the footman pointedly, “you are a fool. You
might give your father his walking ticket very properly, because you
never expect five sous from him; and you have already learned how to
earn your living without doing any work at all. But the viscount, pray
tell me what he is good for, what he knows how to do? Put him in the
centre of Paris, with only his fine hands for capital, and you will
see.”
“Yes, but he has his mother’s property in Normandy,” replied Joseph.
“I can’t for the life of me,” said the valet de chambre, “see what
the count finds to complain of; for his son is a perfect model, and
I shouldn’t be sorry to have one like him. There was a very different
pair, when I was in the Marquis de Courtivois’s service. He was one
who made it a point never to be in good humor. His eldest son, who is
a friend of the viscount’s, and who comes here occasionally, is a pit
without a bottom, as far as money is concerned. He will fritter away a
thousand-franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke a pipe.”
“But the marquis is not rich,” said a little old man, who himself had
perhaps the enormous wages of fifteen francs; “he can’t have more than
sixty thousand francs’ income at the most.”
“That’s why he gets angry. Every day there is some new story about
his son. He had an apartment in the house; he went in and out when he
pleased; he passed his nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up so with
the actresses that the police had to interfere. Besides all this, I have
many a time had to help him up to his room, and put him to bed, when the
waiters from the restaurants brought him home in a carriage, so drunk
that he could scarcely say a word.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Joseph enthusiastically, “this fellow’s service must be
mighty profitable.”
“That was according to circumstances. When he was at play, he was lavish
with his money; but he always lost: and, when he was drunk, he had a
quick temper, and didn’t spare the blows. I must do him the justice to
say, though, that his cigars were splendid. But he was a ruffian; while
the viscount here is a true child of wisdom. He is severe upon our
faults, it is true; but he is never harsh nor brutal to his servants.
Then he is uniformly generous; which in the long run pays us best. I
must say that he is better than the majority, and that the count is very
unreasonable.”
Such was the judgment of the servants. That of society was perhaps less
favorable.
The Viscount de Commarin was not one of those who possess the rather
questionable and at times unenviable accomplishment of pleasing every
one. He was wise enough to distrust those astonishing personages who
are always praising everybody. In looking about us, we often see men of
success and reputation, who are simply dolts, without any merit except
their perfect insignificance. That stupid propriety which offends
no one, that uniform politeness which shocks no one’s vanity, have
peculiarly the gift of pleasing and of succeeding.
One cannot meet certain persons without saying, “I know that face; I
have seen it somewhere, before;” because it has no individuality, but
simply resembles faces seen in a common crowd. It is precisely so with
the minds of certain other people. When they speak, you know exactly
what they are going to say; you have heard the same thing so many times
already from them, you know all their ideas by heart. These people are
welcomed everywhere: because they have nothing peculiar about them; and
peculiarity, especially in the upper classes, is always irritating and
offensive; they detest all innovations.
Albert was peculiar; consequently much discussed, and very differently
estimated. He was charged with sins of the most opposite character, with
faults so contradictory that they were their own defence. Some accused
him, for instance, of entertaining ideas entirely too liberal for one
of his rank; and, at the same time, others complained of his excessive
arrogance. He was charged with treating with insulting levity the most
serious questions, and was then blamed for his affectation of gravity.
People knew him scarcely well enough to love him, while they were
jealous of him and feared him.
He wore a bored look in all fashionable reunions, which was considered
very bad taste. Forced by his relations, by his father, to go into
society a great deal, he was bored, and committed the unpardonable sin
of letting it be seen. Perhaps he had been disgusted by the constant
court made to him, by the rather coarse attentions which were never
spared the noble heir of one of the richest families in France. Having
all the necessary qualities for shining, he despised them. Dreadful sin!
He did not abuse his advantages; and no one ever heard of his getting
into a scrape.
He had had once, it was said, a very decided liking for Madame Prosny,
perhaps the naughtiest, certainly the most mischievous woman in Paris;
but that was all. Mothers who had daughters to dispose of upheld him;
but, for the last two years, they had turned against him, when his love
for Mademoiselle d’Arlange became well known.
At the club they rallied him on his prudence. He had had, like others,
his run of follies; but he had soon got disgusted with what it is the
fashion to call pleasure. The noble profession of bon vivant appeared
to him very tame and tiresome. He did not enjoy passing his nights at
cards; nor did he appreciate the society of those frail sisters, who in
Paris give notoriety to their lovers. He affirmed that a gentleman
was not necessarily an object of ridicule because he would not expose
himself in the theatre with these women. Finally, none of his friends
could ever inoculate him with a passion for the turf.
As doing nothing wearied him, he attempted, like the parvenu, to give
some meaning to life by work. He purposed, after a while, to take part
in public affairs; and, as he had often been struck with the gross
ignorance of many men in power, he wished to avoid their example. He
busied himself with politics; and this was the cause of all his quarrels
with his father. The one word of “liberal” was enough to throw the count
into convulsions; and he suspected his son of liberalism, ever since
reading an article by the viscount, published in the “Revue des Deux
Mondes.”
His ideas, however, did not prevent his fully sustaining his rank. He
spent most nobly on the world the revenue which placed his father and
himself a little above it. His establishment, distinct from the count’s,
was arranged as that of a wealthy young gentleman’s ought to be. His
liveries left nothing to be desired; and his horses and equipages were
celebrated. Letters of invitation were eagerly sought for to the grand
hunting parties, which he formed every year towards the end of October
at Commarin,--an admirable piece of property, covered with immense
woods.
Albert’s love for Claire--a deep, well-considered love--had contributed
not a little to keep him from the habits and life of the pleasant and
elegant idleness indulged in by his friends. A noble attachment is
always a great safeguard. In contending against it, M. de Commarin had
only succeeded in increasing its intensity and insuring its continuance.
This passion, so annoying to the count, was the source of the most
vivid, the most powerful emotions in the viscount. Ennui was banished
from his existence.
All his thoughts took the same direction; all his actions had but one
aim. Could he look to the right or the left, when, at the end of his
journey, he perceived the reward so ardently desired? He resolved that
he would never have any wife but Claire; his father absolutely refused
his consent. The effort to change this refusal had long been the
business of his life. Finally, after three years of perseverance, he
had triumphed; the count had given his consent. And now, just as he was
reaping the happiness of success, Noel had arrived, implacable as fate,
with his cursed letters.
On leaving M. de Commarin, and while slowly mounting the stairs which
led to his apartments, Albert’s thoughts reverted to Claire. What was
she doing at that moment? Thinking of him no doubt. She knew that the
crisis would come that very evening, or the next day at the latest. She
was probably praying. Albert was thoroughly exhausted; his head felt
dizzy, and seemed ready to burst. He rang for his servant, and ordered
some tea.
“You do wrong in not sending for the doctor, sir,” said Lubin, his
valet. “I ought to disobey you, and send for him myself.”
“It would be useless,” replied Albert sadly; “he could do nothing for
me.”
As the valet was leaving the room, he added,--“Say nothing about my
being unwell to any one, Lubin; it is nothing at all. If I should feel
worse, I will ring.”
At that moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to have to reply, was
more than he could bear. He longed to be left entirely to himself.
After the painful emotions arising from his explanations with the count,
he could not sleep. He opened one of the library windows, and looked
out. It was a beautiful night: and there was a lovely moon. Seen at this
hour, by the mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens attached to
the mansion seemed twice their usual size. The moving tops of the great
trees stretched away like an immense plain, hiding the neighbouring
houses; the flower-beds, set off by the green shrubs, looked like great
black patches, while particles of shell, tiny pieces of glass, and
shining pebbles sparkled in the carefully kept walks. The horses stamped
in the stable and the rattling of their halter chains against the bars
of the manger could be distinctly heard. In the coach-house the men were
putting away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout
the evening, in case the count should wish to go out.
Albert was reminded by these surroundings, of the magnificence of his
past life. He sighed deeply.
“Must I, then, lose all this?” he murmured. “I can scarcely, even for
myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of
Claire makes it hard indeed. Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional
happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without
wealth?”
Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St. Clotilde, and as
the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire,
which he stirred. In the hope of obtaining a respite from his
thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the
assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read: the
lines danced before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
sat down at his desk, and wrote, “My dearly loved Claire,” but he could
go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single
sentence.
At last, at break of day, he threw himself on to a sofa, and fell into a
heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.
At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened, by the noise
of the door being hastily opened. A servant entered, with a scared look
on his face, and so out of breath from having come up the stairs four at
a time, that he could scarcely speak.
“Sir,” said he, “viscount, be quick, fly and hide, save yourself, they
are here, it is the--”
A commissary of police, wearing his sash, appeared at the door. He
was followed by a number of men, among whom M. Tabaret could be seen,
keeping as much out of sight as possible.
The commissary approached Albert.
“You are,” he asked, “Guy Louis Marie Albert de Rheteau de Commarin?”
“Yes, sir.”
The commissary placed his hand upon him, while pronouncing the usual
formula: “M. de Commarin, in the name of the law I arrest you.”
“Me, sir? me?”
Albert, aroused suddenly from his painful dreams, seemed hardly to
comprehend what was taking place, seemed to ask himself,--“Am I really
awake? Is not this some hideous nightmare?”
He threw a stupid, astonished look upon the commissary of police, his
men, and M. Tabaret, who had not taken his eyes off him.
“Here is the warrant,” added the commissary, unfolding the paper.
Mechanically Albert glanced over it.
“Claudine assassinated!” he cried.
Then very low, but distinct enough to be heard by the commissary, by one
of his officers, and by old Tabaret, he added,--“I am lost!”
While the commissary was making inquiries, which immediately follow
all arrests, the police officers spread through the apartments, and
proceeded to a searching examination of them. They had received orders
to obey M. Tabaret, and the old fellow guided them in their search,
made them ransack drawers and closets, and move the furniture to look
underneath or behind. They seized a number of articles belonging to the
viscount,--documents, manuscripts, and a very voluminous correspondence;
but it was with especial delight that M. Tabaret put his hands on
certain articles, which were carefully described in their proper order
in the official report:
1. In the ante-room, hung with all sorts of weapons, a broken foil was
found behind a sofa. This foil has a peculiar handle, and is unlike
those commonly sold. It is ornamented with the count’s coronet, and
the initials A. C. It has been broken at about the middle; and the end
cannot be found. When questioned, the viscount declared that he did not
know what had become of the missing end.
2. In the dressing-room, a pair of black cloth trousers was discovered
still damp, and bearing stains of mud or rather of mould. All one side
is smeared with greenish moss, like that which grows on walls. On the
front are numerous rents; and one near the knee is about four inches
long. These trousers had not been hung up with the other clothes; but
appear to have been hidden between two large trunks full of clothing.
3. In the pocket of the above mentioned trousers was found a pair of
lavender kid gloves. The palm of the right hand glove bears a large
greenish stain, produced by grass or moss. The tips of the fingers
have been worn as if by rubbing. Upon the backs of both gloves are some
scratches, apparently made by finger-nails.
4. There were also found in the dressing-room two pairs of boots, one of
which, though clean and polished, was still very damp; and an umbrella
recently wetted, the end of which was still covered with a light
coloured mud.
5. In a large room, called the library, were found a box of cigars of
the trabucos brand, and on the mantel-shelf a number of cigar-holders in
amber and meerschaum.
The last article noted down, M. Tabaret approached the commissary of
police.
“I have everything I could desire,” he whispered.
“And I have finished,” replied the commissary. “Our prisoner does not
appear to know exactly how to act. You heard what he said. He gave in at
once. I suppose YOU will call it lack of experience.”
“In the middle of the day,” replied the amateur detective in a whisper,
“he would not have been quite so crestfallen. But early in the morning,
suddenly awakened, you know--Always arrest a person early in the
morning, when he’s hungry, and only half awake.”
“I have questioned some of the servants. Their evidence is rather
peculiar.”
“Very well; we shall see. But I must hurry off and find the
investigating magistrate, who is impatiently expecting me.”
Albert was beginning to recover a little from the stupor into which he
had been plunged by the entrance of the commissary of police.
“Sir,” he asked, “will you permit me to say a few words in your presence
to the Count de Commarin? I am the victim of some mistake, which will be
very soon discovered.”
“It’s always a mistake,” muttered old Tabaret.
“What you ask is impossible,” replied the commissary. “I have special
orders of the strictest sort. You must not henceforth communicate with
a living soul. A cab is in waiting below. Have the goodness to accompany
me to it.”
In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed a great stir among the
servants; they all seemed to have lost their senses. M. Denis gave some
orders in a sharp, imperative tone. Then he thought he heard that the
Count de Commarin had been struck down with apoplexy. After that, he
remembered nothing. They almost carried him to the cab which drove off
as fast as the two little horses could go. M. Tabaret had just hastened
away in a more rapid vehicle.