not be that the marquis should learn from the newspapers of the episode
of the Hugueville inventory. Landri owed it to himself as well as to him
to conduct himself in his relations with him exactly as if the terrible
revelation had never been made. But by what name should he call him?
Thrice the young man dipped his pen in the ink and thrice he laid it
down. His hand refused to trace the two affectionate syllables. At last,
with a sort of devout horror, he wrote, "Dear father."--Rapidly, without
choosing his words,--he was simply narrating facts now,--he filled four
pages with his long, nervous handwriting, and signed, as usual, "Your
respectful and affectionate son."
"I am entitled to it," he said, as he closed the envelope, which he
sealed with the Claviers arms; "I have paid dearly enough for it."
These letters written and mailed, Landri was surprised to feel a sort of
peace, depressed and gloomy to be sure, but peace none the less. How he
had dreaded that turning-point of his destiny, that hour when he must
cease to serve, when he would become once more, to use his own words,
"an idler and useless,--a rich man with the most authentic coat-of-arms
on his carriage,--an _émigré_ within the country!" That hour had
struck, and he was almost calm. The misfortune that has happened has
this merit at least: the tumult of ideas aroused by uncertainty subsides
before the accomplished fact, and there ensues within us a sudden
silence, as it were, which gives to the heart a simulacrum of repose.
Assuredly Landri was very sad at the thought that he had taken part for
the last time in the life of the regiment. But at all events he _knew_
that it was for the last time. The discomfort of indecision was at an
end. During those long days of enforced retirement he would be able to
apply the powers of his mind to his plans of a new future, without
wondering whether or no that future was possible. It was possible--less
simple, less in conformity with the aspirations of his youth than if he
had remained a soldier while marrying Valentine; but as he still had
Valentine, nothing was lost.
On that first afternoon of his compulsory seclusion, in order not to
abandon himself to discouragement, he tried to concentrate his thoughts
upon the plan of that existence _à deux_, wherein he would find, if not
happiness, at least a balm for the smarting wound open forever in his
heart. He looked on his shelves for books relating to the different
French provinces, in order to study the conditions of an establishment
in the country. That was what he looked forward to--a life of retirement
on a large estate, at a distance from Paris, with all that an extensive
rural undertaking represents in the way of profitable activity.
But ere nightfall the inward silence was broken and the tempest of ideas
swept down upon him anew. He had been for years too zealous an officer
not to feel a certain remorse, which was sure to increase upon
reflection, for having been governed, throughout the incident of that
morning, by motives so entirely unconnected with the military service.
He had transformed an act in the line of his duty into an episode of his
personal, sentimental life. That was a much more serious offence, from
the professional point of view, than the breach of discipline. He would
not have felt remorse if he had had, for refusing to act, the motives of
a Despois, the subordination of military law to religious law, which
latter such men regard as primordial and imprescriptible. He, Landri,
had acted upon impulse. He had not even been governed by the argument he
had used upon himself from the first day--that of a debt that he owed
the Claviers-Grandchamps. Had he, in truth, acted at all? He had been
acted upon, in the literal meaning of the words. The marquis's powerful
personality had, as it were, prevailed with him from afar.
To this remorse for having consulted, under such circumstances, not his
conscience, but only his affection and compassion for that man, was
added the fear that the same influence would find him weak once more in
the second assault that he would have to repel. He did not suspect that,
with his inheritance as a love-child, he would display far greater
energy in defending his passion. In him the source of strength was not
in the reasoning power, it was in the heart. He was not to learn that
until he was put to the test. What he did know was that, with the most
imperative motives for making an irreparable breach between M. de
Claviers and himself, the opportunity had been offered him and he had
not grasped it. He could not do it. Those motives were still as strong
as ever. The affection by which he had allowed himself to be mastered
when he was on the point of doing what would set him free, was a wounded
and poisoned affection. It had made him incapable of inflicting great
suffering on that man. It would make him incapable of living with him,
as he would be called upon to do, every day, now that he was free. How
could he fail to say to himself again and again that, even outside the
binding engagement that he had entered into with Madame Olier, to throw
away this second opportunity to break with the marquis was to condemn
himself in the future to an endless succession of painful scenes in one
of which his secret would be discovered. M. de Claviers could not fail
to see that he had changed. He would be anxious about it. He would
investigate.
All this Landri told himself. His conclusion was that at any cost, and
at the earliest possible moment, the marquis must be informed of his
betrothal. And then he doubted his courage to make that declaration,
reminding himself how he had weakened, how he had suddenly lost heart on
the platform of the church at Hugueville, to which he had gone up with
such firm determination! Thereupon he wondered if it would not be the
safer way to take advantage of his arrest to write. Colonel Charbonnier
certainly would not depart from his customary severity so far as to
authorize him to receive a single visit, even from his father.
Consequently, if M. de Claviers were informed by letter of the marriage
engagement between Landri and Valentine, he would be unable to express
his dissatisfaction otherwise than by letter.
The lieutenant was too manly, despite the reflex action of a
sensitiveness that was very near being morbid, and he had too much
respect for his affection for Valentine, not to shrink from so cowardly
a proceeding. The explanation must be, should be, by word of mouth, from
man to man. It should take place the first time that he was alone with
the marquis; and to cut short a state of vacillation that humiliated
him, he said to himself aloud:--
"Yes, the very first time. I pledge my word of honor."
It was on Friday evening that he made this pledge, which was so definite
that it procured him another interval of comparative tranquillity.
Saturday passed with his mind still in a state of feverish confusion,
but with his resolution unshaken.
Sunday brought three new facts in the shape of three letters, one from
the marquis, one from Valentine, one from Métivier the notary. The old
nobleman was not a letter-writer. He congratulated Landri, "in the name
of all the Claviers-Grandchamps, past, present and future;" and then
concluded: "You will exalt your old father's joy and pride to their
highest point by talking to the judges as he suggested."
How like blows from a dagger were such words from him! And again, how
like such blows were the words in which the gentle recluse of Rue
Monsieur poured forth all her sympathy! She spoke to him whom she
regarded as her fiancé of the happiness that the Hugueville incident
must have afforded his father! Had she not then guessed the whole truth?
The young man foresaw a new source of torture in the efforts that the
dear woman would make, when they were united, to reconcile him to the
marquis, and his own efforts to resist that pressure without betraying
himself. Ah! he had not come to the end of his suffering!
The notary's letter was, also, very short, but it contained one line so
enigmatical that Landri, under existing circumstances, could not help
being disturbed by it. Maître Métivier apologized for answering
somewhat tardily on the ground that he had desired first to institute a
little investigation. He added that Landri's presence in Paris was not
at all necessary, and that, thanks to "the unexpected incident of which
he was aware," the deplorable affair was on the road to speedy and final
adjustment. What incident? Was Chaffin really dishonest, as his former
pupil had intuitively suspected, and as Jaubourg had declared on his
death-bed? Had they detected him and discovered a way to put an end to
his manœuvres? Had he confessed? Or--Already, it will be remembered,
Landri had trembled at the thought that Jaubourg might have made his
will in his favor.--But no; he would have been officially advised ere
this. In such perplexity, the best way was to request from Métivier, at
once, an explanation of that obscure passage in his letter. That was the
simplest and wisest solution. But so great is the emotional strain, the
anxious anticipation of misfortune, caused by a too violent shock, that
Landri had not the courage to adopt it. If it did not refer to a legacy
from Jaubourg, the "unexpected incident" was really a matter of
indifference to him. If the contrary were true, he should know it soon
enough.
In fact the Monday was not to pass before he was fully informed and
found himself face to face with another problem of conscience, more
painful perhaps than those of the preceding days. Tragedy engenders
tragedy, by virtue of a law in which consists the hidden moral of this
too truthful narrative of private life. It rarely happens that this is
not the consequence of one of those deep-rooted sins whose expiation
survives the person who committed it. It is one of the forms of that
transmission of sin, whereof it has been said with much truth that
nothing is more distasteful to us, and that "notwithstanding, but for
this, the most incomprehensible of all mysteries, we should be
incomprehensible to ourselves."
During the afternoon of Monday, then, Landri was alone in his salon,
apparently occupied in reading, but in reality absorbed in one of those
fits of melancholy meditation of which he had undergone so many during
the past week, and would, he felt, undergo so many more in the months
and years to come! The sound of the bell announcing a visitor roused him
from his abstraction.
"They're coming to notify me of the inquiry," he thought; "so much the
better!"
He heard his servant go to open the door, and in a moment a loud voice
reached his ears and made him jump to his feet. That imperious accent,
that tone of command--it was M. de Claviers fighting against the order
of seclusion.
"But I am his father!" he said. "I tell you, I'm his father! A father
has a right to see his son, it seems to me, and I will see
him.--However, here he is."
Landri had, in fact, come out of the salon, completely upset by his
father's arrival. He was too familiar with the marquis's indomitable
will not to know that he would throw the orderly aside, with his still
powerful hands, rather than go away.
"Ah! I see you at last, my dear, my son!" He took the young man in his
arms and pressed him to his heart, repeating passionately: "My son! my
son! At last I can say to you what I wrote so badly and briefly! The pen
and I are not on the best of terms since my eyes began to fail. I feel
my age. But not in my heart; and that old heart leaped with joy and
pride when I read your letter. Yes, I am happy. Yes, I am proud. I
should have come Saturday, but I had to see Métivier about some
tiresome business matters,--I'll tell you about it,--and again
yesterday, although it was Sunday. This morning I read in a newspaper
that there is talk of putting you under arrest in a fortress. 'Not
before I have embraced him,' I said to myself, and I did as I did the
other day, when I went to see poor Charles,--I jumped into the train. I
shall return to-night, and I shall be in Paris in good time for my
appointment with Métivier. For that business isn't finished yet. Just
fancy--But later, later. Let's talk about you. Are you well? Let me look
at you. A little thin and pale."
"That's because I don't go out," the young man replied. "I am in strict
confinement."
"I shall not be the cause of your being punished more severely, shall I?
If necessary I will go and ask the colonel for a permit. Although,
according to what you have told me--"
"It's not at all necessary," replied Landri hastily; and he added:
"There's nothing more they can do to me."
In his mouth these words were only too true. The shock that the
marquis's sudden appearance had given him had changed instantly into
inexpressible grief--the same grief that he had felt with such intensity
on their meeting in Jaubourg's death-chamber. M. de Claviers' gestures,
his glance, his voice, his breath, moved him to the lowest depths of his
being; and the other, seeing his perturbation, but attributing it to
disappointment because of his shattered career, said to him:--
"You are sad when I hoped to find you happy to take your leave of the
army with that fine gesture, which I partly suggested to you! Do you
remember? And you must remember, too, how often I have told you, and
again only the other day, in the forest, that you could not stay with
these people. One by one they'll drive all men of heart out of the
service. What they want, these wretched successors of the Dantons and
Carnots, who at least had some patriotism, is a national guard
surrounded by spies!--Stand straight, Landri. Have the pride of the blow
you have dealt them. We will prepare your defence together. It shall be
a manifesto. We'll show these Blues, who think they have exterminated
us, that there are still Whites in the land. We will argue once more a
cause that has been pending more than a hundred years, from the decision
of which we must appeal untiringly,--the cause of Condé's army. We will
proclaim that the country is not one more than half of living Frenchmen,
as their idiotic theory of majorities would have it; that the law is not
one more than half of the representatives of that one more than half. In
the word country [_patrie_] there is the word father [_père_]--_patria,
pater_--The country is France as our fathers made it, or it is nothing.
The law is tradition, as they handed it down to us to maintain, or it is
nothing. We will say that, even in 1906, we nobles do not recognize
1789, that we have never recognized the night of the 4th of August, that
we are gentlemen, and that a gentleman does not perform tasks of a
certain sort. You must let me select your advocate and instruct him. A
manifesto, Landri,--I propose to have a manifesto, which will stir up
others!--Come, tell me the whole story. The newspapers are full of lies.
They claim that you hesitated, that you went up the church steps with
the sappers.--How did it happen?"
"Why, just as they say," replied the young man.
"You hesitated?" rejoined the marquis; and, gazing at Landri, with
infinite affection in his clear blue eyes, he continued: "I understand
your pallor now. The sacrifice was very painful. For it is a sacrifice
that you have made to us, that you have made to me," he added, not
realizing how true his words were.
The "Émigré" had been speaking with all the passion of a partisan,
who, being unable to fight the government except in thought, indulges in
that pastime with all his heart. Now he made way for the father.
"Thanks," he said, and pressed his son's hand. "But, do not deceive
yourself," he continued; "it is for France as well that you have made
this sacrifice. You remember that I told you also the other day that I
understood you only too well, that I too had heard, in my youth, the
voice of the tempter: 'One does not serve the government, one serves
France.' One of our princes said it at the trial of the traitor Bazaine:
'France was involved!'--That is why I allowed you to enter Saint-Cyr.
Besides, to wear the sword is no degradation. Only follow the logic of
your own idea, and you will meet mine, for the truth is one.--Once more,
what was your object in putting on the uniform? To serve your
country.--What service could you render her that would be more complete,
more serviceable than this--to maintain intact, before the eyes of all
men, the type of the soldier-chevalier? The chevalier, you see, is the
ideal code of regulations, always permanent under new forms, and summed
up in the words: the flag, military honor, the good of the service. It
is the Chevalier whom the Revolution pursues with its hatred to-day,
under the cape or the cloak, as of yore under the coat of the bodyguard
or the light-horse. It was against him that it invented the abominable
phrase, 'a national army,' which means, 'no army at all, but the common
people armed with muskets, pikes and cannon!'--Well! by refusing to
march against a church you have asserted once more the permanence of the
Chevalier type. In the old days, on their reception they were presented
with a sword in the shape of a cross. Admirable symbol of our
ancestors--force ruled by faith, that is to say, by justice and mercy!
That is what the Cross is, justice tempered by mercy. You have
proclaimed aloud that the Soldier and the Chevalier are but one. You
have made yourself the example. Therein is the whole of military duty.
You and those men who have previously done as you have done have
postponed the hour when France will cease to have an army, by steadfast
adherence to principle. You know the value that I attach to such
adherence. You understand now that one must sometimes lay down life in
order to keep intact the germ of the future--principle, always
principle! That is what the ancients did when they left their cities but
took their gods with them. I have always loved that symbolism. It is
Christian even in its paganism! I have an idea that in the future you
will agree better with your old father. And then, too, you will help him
grow old. You are my witness that I have never complained. I have never
attempted to impose upon you the exactions of my selfishness. But why
should I not confess it? Grandchamp has sometimes seemed very empty to
me, and the house on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré--very empty. My
friends are going, one after another, witness my poor Charles. At my age
one is weary of burying, weary of surviving. You will help me to drive
away these black devils. We will not part any more.--But what's the
matter?"
"The matter is," the young man replied, "that I cannot bear to hear you
talk like this."
He had made a gesture to stop the marquis, and he let a cry of pain
escape him, of which he had at least an explanation to give, although it
was not the true one. Whatever the cost, he felt that he must interrupt
an effusion which caused him too much suffering, and a declaration of
principles which were so unwittingly but so fiendishly ironical when
addressed to him, the child of sin, the nobleman by imposture. It was
necessary to have done with it.
"No," he insisted, "I cannot. This life together that you speak of, you
will not care to live with me when I have told you what I am bound to
tell you. The other day, during our conversation in the forest, to which
you just referred, I spoke to you about a marriage. It is going to take
place. Since last Tuesday I have been engaged--"
"Engaged?" cried the marquis. "Don't tell me, Landri, that it's to that
Madame Olier."
"It is to Madame Olier. I have asked her for her hand. She has promised
it to me. We have exchanged our troths. She will be my wife."
"You asked her for her hand?" M. de Claviers exclaimed. "Then you
knew--"
"That you would refuse your consent? Yes," said the young man.
"And does Madame Olier know that I refused it?"
"I did not tell her that I had spoken to you of her."
"And she agreed to become engaged to you, without troubling herself
about what I would do, your father?"
"She had faith in me," replied Landri.
Could he explain under what conditions of supreme grief, almost of
agony, he and Valentine had united their destinies? And yet that M. de
Claviers should judge her wrongfully, should take her for an
adventuress, was terribly painful to him! He knew his way of thinking.
He had still in his ears the words: "She must be very pure, very
sensitive. She will never consent to marry you against your father's
wish. If her ideas were not exalted to that point, you would not love
her."--And he implored:--
"I ask you not to speak of her. As she is mine now, I cannot permit
anybody to utter in my presence a word derogatory to her--not even you."
"Begin yourself by not telling me of actions on her part which are not
those of the woman that I took her for after your confidences. I say
nothing of her. I don't know her. I speak of your conduct toward our
family. Will she or will she not be of our family if you marry her? Am I
or am I not the head of that family? Have I the right to defend the name
of Claviers-Grandchamp?"--He had risen and he bore down upon his son,
with folded arms and a rush of blood to his aged face, of that blood
whose claims he was asserting--and to whom! "And it is just when I have
lost my dearest friend that you have done this to me, when you knew that
I should be so stricken with grief!--In Heaven's name, who is this
woman, who has so perverted your heart?--But what can she be if not a
seeker of titles and wealth, having planned what she has planned in
order to force herself upon us, upon me first of all, whether I will or
no, by virtue of the accomplished fact?--But no! the fact shall not be
accomplished. This marriage shall not take place. I, your father, do not
wish it to take place--do you hear, Landri,--I do not wish it."
The young man submitted to this formidable attack without replying. He
shuddered when he heard that judgment of Valentine. But M. de Claviers
was the only being on earth against whom he could not defend the woman
he loved. Whence did he derive the right to raise his voice against him,
even if he had the strength? And yet in the attempt to arrest that
torrent of indignation, as to which he could not foresee how far it
would carry the marquis, in view of his natural violence, he said
simply, or, rather, groaned:--
"I shall not defend her against you. Not a word shall come from my mouth
that lacks the respect that I owe you. Because of that, remember that
she is a woman and that I love her."
"She has forgotten that I am your father," retorted the irascible
marquis. But he had not lied when, a few moments earlier, he had uttered
with a sympathetic accent the word "chevalier." The legendary meaning of
that venerable word, profaned by the most unwarranted usage, was still
to him a living truth. That the young man should make that appeal to him
was sufficient to induce him to interrupt his indictment of one who was
absent. He reseated himself, and with his elbows on the table, and his
head in his hands, he continued after a pause, in a tone in which wrath
had given place to sadness:--
"Then you will send me a respectful summons,[5] I suppose?"
"I shall have to," replied Landri, "if you do not give your consent."
He realized that he was lost if he yielded to the emotion with which
that plaint, so affectionate in its manly simplicity, had filled his
heart anew. This constant laying bare to the quick of his sensitive
nature by that man's mere presence proved to him once more how necessary
it was that he should muster energy to complete the rupture. He loved
him, he revered him too deeply to be able to live in falsehood with him.