Listen to me and heed me!
If this contract
Thou holdst me to, abide thou the result!
Answer to heaven for what I suffer! act!
Prepare thyself for such calamity
To fall on me, and those whose evil
Have linked them with me, as no past mishap,
However rare and marvellously Sad,
Can parallel.
Knowles--The Hunchback.
At the moment that Paul went into the study, the marchioness appeared
at the door of the drawing-room, followed by the notary, and the
several persons who had been invited to be present at the signing of the
contract. Notwithstanding the nature of the meeting, the marchioness
had not considered it proper to lay aside, even for one evening, her
mourning garments, and dressed in complete black, as she had been always
during twenty years, she came into the room a few moments before the
marquis. None of the persons present, not even his son, had seen the
marquis for many years. Such attention was in those days paid to ancient
forms, that the marchioness would not allow the marriage contract of her
daughter to be signed, without the head of the family, although deprived
of reason, being present; at the ceremony. However little accustomed
Lectoure was to feel intimidated, the marchioness produced upon him the
effect which she did on every one that approached her, and on seeing her
enter the room with so grave and dignified an aspect, he bowed to her
with a feeling of profound respect.
“I am grateful to you, gentlemen,” said the marchioness, bowing to the
persons who accompanied her, “for the honor you have been pleased
to confer upon me, by being present at the betrothal of Mademoiselle
Marguerite d’Auray, with the Baron de Lectoure. I, in consequence, was
desirous that the marquis, although suffering from illness, should also
be present at this meeting, to thank you at least by his presence, if he
cannot do so verbally. You are all aware of his unfortunate malady, and
you will, therefore, not be astonished, should some disjointed words--”
“Yes, madam,” said Lectoure, interrupting her, “we know the misfortune
which has befallen him, and we admire the devoted wife, who for twenty
years has borne half the weight of this sad visitation.”
“You see, madam,” said Emanuel, addressing in his turn, and kissing
the hand of his mother, “all the world bows down in admiration of your
conjugal piety.”
“Where is Marguerite?” murmured the marchioness, in a hair whisper.
“She was here not a moment ago,” said Emanuel. “Let her know that we are
all assembled,” rejoined the marchioness, in the same tone.
A servant then announced “the Marquis d’Auray.” All present drew to
one side, so as to leave free passage from the door, and all eyes were
directed to the spot at which this new personage was to appear. It
was not long before their curiosity was satisfied; the marquis came in
almost immediately, supported by two servants.
He was an old man, whose countenance, notwithstanding that the traces
of suffering had deeply furrowed it, still retained that noble
and dignified appearance which had rendered him one of the most
distinguished men of the court of Louis XV. His large, hollow, and
feverish eyes, glanced around the assembly with a strange expression of
astonishment. He was dressed in his costume of Steward of the Household,
wore the order of the Holy Ghost suspended from his neck, and that of
St. Louis, at his button hole. He advanced slowly, and without uttering
a word. The two servants led him forward amid the most profound silence,
to an arm-chair, in which he seated himself, and the servants left the
room. The marchioness then placed herself at his right hand. The notary
opened the portfolio, drew from it the marriage contract and read it
aloud. The marquis and the marchioness made over the sum of five hundred
thousand francs to Lectoure, and gave a like sum to Marguerite, as her
dowry.
During the whole of the time occupied by the reading of the contract,
the marchioness, notwithstanding her great self command, had betrayed
some symptoms of uneasiness. But just at the moment when the notary had
placed the contract open on the table, Emanuel returned and approached
his mother.
“And Marguerite?” said the marchioness.
“She will be here instantly.”
“Madam,” murmured Marguerite, half opening the door, and clasping her
hands.
The marchioness pretended not to hear her, and pointed with her finger
at the pen.
“Baron, it is you who are first to sign.”
Lectoure immediately approached the table and signed the contract.
“Madam!” cried Marguerite, in a tone of supplication, and advancing one
step toward her mother.
“Pass the pen to your betrothed, Baron,” said the marchioness.
The Baron walked round the table, and drew near to Marguerite.
“Madam!” again cried the latter, with an accent so melancholy, that
it struck to the heart of every person present, and even the marquis
himself raised his head.
“Sign!” said the marchioness, pointing to the marriage contract.
“Oh! my father! my father!” exclaimed Marguerite throwing herself at the
feet of the marquis.
“What does this mean?” said the marchioness, leaning upon the arm of the
marquis’ chair, and bending over him, “are you mad, mademoiselle?”
“My father! oh! my father!” again cried Marguerite, throwing her arms
around him, “my father, have pity, save your daughter!”
“Marguerite!” murmured the marchioness, in a threatening accent.
“Madam!” replied Marguerite, “I cannot address myself to you--permit me,
then, to implore my father’s pity; unless,” she added, pointing to the
notary with a firm and determined gesture, “you would prefer my invoking
the protection of the law.”
“Come, come,” said the marchioness, rising, and in a tone of bitter
irony, “this is a family scene, and which, although highly interesting
to near relations, must be sufficiently tedious to strangers. Gentlemen,
you will find refreshments in the adjoining rooms. My son, conduct these
gentlemen, and do the honors. Baron, I must beg your pardon for a short
time.” Emanuel and Lectoure bowed in silence and withdrew, followed by
all the company. The marchioness remained motionless until the last of
them had withdrawn, and then she closed all the doors leading into the
room, when, returning to the marquis, whom Marguerite still held clasped
in her arms.
“And now,” said she, “that there is no one present excepting those
who have the right to lay their commands upon you, sign that paper,
mademoiselle, or leave the room.”
“For pity’s sake, madam, for pity’s sake, do not compel me to commit so
infamous an act!”
“Have you not heard me?” said the marchioness, giving to her voice an
imperative tone, which she thought impossible to be resisted, “or must I
repeat my words? ‘Sign, or leave the room.’”
“Oh! my father!” cried Marguerite, “mercy! mercy! No, it shall not be
said, that after having been banished from my father’s presence for ten
years, I was torn from his arms the first time I again beheld him--and
that, before he had recognized me, before he has embraced me. Oh!
father! father!--it is I, it is your daughter!”
“What is that voice that is imploring me?” murmured the marquis. “Who
is this child who calls me father?”
“That voice,” said the marchioness, seizing the arm of her daughter,
“is a voice that is raised against the rights of nature. That child is a
rebellious daughter.”
“My father!” cried Marguerite imploringly, “look at me. Oh! my father,
save me I defend me! I am Marguerite.”
“Marguerite? Marguerite?” stammered the marquis, “I had formerly a child
of that name.”
“It is I! it is I!” rejoined Marguerite: “I am your child--I am your
daughter.”
“There are no children but those who obey. Obey! and you will then have
the right to call yourself our daughter,” rejoined the marchioness.
“To you, my father, yes,--to you I am ready to obey. But you do
not command this sacrifice! you do not wish that I should be
unhappy--unhappy even to despair--unhappy even to death.”
“Come! come!” said the marquis holding her in his turn, and pressing her
to his heart. “Oh! this is a delicious and unknown feeling to me. And
now--wait! wait!” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “It seems to me
that I recollect.”
“Sir!” cried the marchioness, “tell her that she ought to obey; that
the malediction of God awaits rebellious children. Tell her that, rather
than to encourage her in her impiety!”
The marquis slowly raised his head, and fixed his piercing eyes upon his
wife, and then slowly pronounced the following words: “Take care! madam,
take care. Have I not told you that I begin to remember!” and then again
bending down his head to that of Marguerite, so that his grey hairs
mingled with the dark tresses, of his daughter--“Speak--speak!” said he,
“what is it that disturbs you, my child--tell me all.”
“Oh! I am most unhappy!”
“Everybody, then, is unhappy here,” exclaimed the marquis, “whether
their hair be grey or black--an old man or a child.. Oh! and I also--I
am unhappy--be assured.
“Sir, go up stairs into your room again: you must,” said the
marchioness.
“Yes, that I may again be face to face with you; shut up like a
prisoner! That may be very well, when I am mad.”
“Yes, yes, my father, you are right. My mother has devoted herself to
you long enough; it is now time that your daughter should perform that
duty. Take me with you, father. I will not leave you day or night. You
will only have to make a sign, to utter a word, and I will serve you on
my knees.”
“Oh! you would not have the strength to do it.”
“Yes, yes, my father, I will--as truly as I am your daughter.”
The marchioness wrung her hands with impatience.
“If you are my daughter, how is it that I have not seen you for ten
years?”
“Because I was told that you would not see me, my father; because they
told me that you did not love me.”
“You were told that I would not see you--not see that angel face!” said
he, taking her head between his hands, and looking at her with intense
auction; “they told you that--they told you that a poor condemned soul
did not wish for heaven! Who was it, then, that told you a father would
not see his child? Who has dared to say, child, your father loves you
not?”
“I!----” said the marchioness, again endeavoring to take Marguerite from
her father’s arms.
“You!” exclaimed the marquis, interrupting her: “it was you? To you
then, has been confided the fatal mission of deceiving me in all my
affections. All my griefs, then, must find their source in you? You
wish, then, now to break the father’s heart, as twenty years ago, you
did that of the husband.”
“You are delirious, sir,” said the marchioness, loosing the arm of her
daughter; and going to the right of the marquis, she whispered--“be
silent!”
“No, madam, no, I am not now delirious,” replied the marquis, “No! no!
Say rather, say that,--and it will be the truth,--say that I am now
between an angel who would recall me to reason, and a demon who wishes
me again to become insane. No! No! I am not mad. Do you wish that I
should prove it to you?” He rose, supporting himself on the arms of his
chair. “Must I speak to you of letters, of adultery, of a duel?”
“I say,” said the marchioness, grasping his arm, “I tell you that you
are more forsaken by heaven than ever, when you utter such things,
without reflecting as to whose ears are listening. Cast down your eyes,
sir--look who is standing yonder, and then dare assert that you are not
mad!”
“You are right;” said the marquis, falling back in his chair. “Your
mother is right,” continued he, addressing Marguerite--“I am mad, and
you must not believe what I say, but what she says. Your mother is
devotedness, virtue itself, and therefore, she has not sleepless nights,
nor remorse, nor madness. What does your mother wish?”
“My misery, father; my everlasting misery.”
“And how can I prevent this misery?” said the unhappy old man, with a
most heart-rending anguish; “how can I, a poor, insane old man, prevent
it? who thinks he always sees the blood issuing from a wound--who thinks
he constantly hears a voice proceeding from a tomb!”
“Oh you can do all; say but one word and I am saved! They wish me to
marry--”
The marquis listlessly reclined his head on the back of his chair.
“Listen to me! they wish to marry me to a man whom I do not love--do you
understand me?--to a wretch!--and you have been brought here--placed
in that arm-chair, before the table--you, you my father! to sign this
infamous contract--this contract which I now hand to you.”
“Without consulting me,” said the marquis, taking the contract; “without
asking me whether I will, or I will not! Do they believe me dead? And if
they think me dead, do they fear me less than they would a spectre? This
marriage would cause your misery, you say?”
“My eternal misery!” exclaimed Marguerite. “The marriage, then, shall
not take place.”
“I have pledged your word and mine,” said the marchioness, and with
the more energy, that she felt her influence over her husband about to
escape her.
“This marriage, I tell you, shall not take place!” replied the marquis,
in a tone louder than that of his wife. “It is too dreadful a thing,”
continued he, in a gloomy sepulchral tone, “to be permitted. A marriage
in which a wife loves not her husband--why, it causes madness! As
to myself, the marchioness has always loved me, and loved me
faithfully--that which drove me mad--oh! that was a different matter.”
A flash of diabolical joy shot from the eyes of the marchioness, for she
at once saw from the violence of the expressions used by her husband,
and the terror depicted on his features, that his insanity was about to
return.
“This contract,” said the marquis, and he raised it in his hands as if
about to tear it.
The marchioness eagerly caught his hand. Marguerite appeared to be
hanging by a thread between heaven and hell.
“That which drives me mad!” reiterated the marquis, “is a tomb which
widely opens, a spectre that issues from the earth, it is a phantom that
speaks to me, and says--”
“Your life is in my hands!” murmured the marchioness in his ear,
repeating the last words of the dying Morlaix: “I could take it.”
“Do you hear that?” cried the marquis, rising, and as if about to rush
from the room.
“My father! oh! my father! recall your senses; there is no tomb, there
is no spectre, there is no phantom; those words were uttered by the
marchioness.”
“But I wish you to live,” continued the latter, concluding the sentence
she had begun, “to forgive me as I forgive you.”
“Pardon, Morlaix, pardon!” cried the marquis, falling back in his
arm-chair, his hair standing on end with terror, and the perspiration
streaming from his forehead.
“Oh! father! father!”
“You see that your father is altogether deranged,” said the
marchioness, triumphantly; “say no more to him.”
“Oh!” cried Marguerite, “God will, I trust perform a miracle! My love,
my caresses, my tears, will restore him to reason.”
“Make the attempt,” replied the marchioness, coldly, abandoning to her
care the marquis, who was powerless, speechless, and almost without
consciousness.
“Oh! my poor father!” exclaimed Marguerite, in a tone of agony.
The marquis remained perfectly impassible.
“Sir!” said the marchioness, in an imperative manner.
“Eh! eh!” cried the marquis, shuddering.
“Save me! oh! save me, father!” cried Marguerite, wringing her hands,
and throwing herself back in despair.
“Take this pen and sign,” said the marchioness, “you must--it is my
will.”
“Now, I am lost indeed!” cried Marguerite, overwhelmed with terror, and
feeling that she had no longer strength to continue the struggle.
But at the moment that the marquis, overpowered, had written the first
letters of his name; when the marchioness was congratulating herself on
the victory she had obtained, and Marguerite was about to leave the room
in despair, an unexpected incident suddenly changed the scene. The door
of the study opened, and Paul, who had been anxiously watching, though
invisibly, the whole of this terrible conflict, issued from it.
“Madam,” said he, “one word before this contract is signed!”
“Who is it calls me!” said the marchioness, endeavoring to distinguish
in the distance that separated them, the person who had thus spoken, and
who stood in a dark corner of the room.
“I know that voice!” exclaimed the marquis, shuddering, as if seared by
a red-hot iron.
Paul advanced three paces, and the light from the lustre hanging in the
centre of the room fell full upon him.
“Is it a spectre?” cried the marchioness, in her turn, struck with the
resemblance of the youth who stood before her to her former lover.
“I know that face!” cried the marquis, believing that he saw the man
whom he had killed.
“My God! my God! protect me,” stammered Marguerite, raising her eyes and
hands to heaven.
“Morlaix! Morlaix!” said the marquis, rising and advancing toward Paul,
“Morlaix!--pardon! mercy!” and he fell at full length upon the floor.
“My father!” cried Marguerite, rushing to his assistance.
At that moment a servant entered the room, with terror in his looks, and
addressing the marchioness said--
“Madam, Achard has sent to request that the priest and the doctor of the
castle, may instantly be ordered to attend him--he is dying.”
“Tell him,” replied the marchioness, pointing to her husband, whom
Marguerite was vainly endeavoring to restore to consciousness, “that
they are both obliged to remain here to attend upon the marquis.”