The Storm.
The Baron de Pradines, late of the Royal Musketeers and now captain in
the Auvergne Dragoons, was small and fair, like his sister, and about
thirty-five years of age. He looked, however, some years older, pale,
_ennuye_, and languid--as might be expected in a man who had spent a
dissipated youth in the gayest court of Europe.
Madame de Peyrelade, on the contrary, was scarcely changed since Jacques
had last seen her. She was then sixteen; she was now five-and-twenty;
and, save in a more melancholy expression, a sadder smile, and a bearing
more dignified and self-possessed, the good herdsman told himself that
nine years had left no trace of their flight over the head of "_la belle
Marguerite_." The Countess, being still in mourning, wore a riding-dress
of grey cloth ornamented with black velvet, with a hat and plume of the
same colours. Thus attired, she so strongly resembled the portraits of
her namesake, the beautiful Marguerite de Navarre, that one might almost
have fancied she had just stepped out of the canvas upon that wild
precipice amidst a group of still wilder mountaineers, such as Salvator
loved to paint.
There were some minutes of uneasy silence. The wondering herdsmen had
retreated into a little knot; the captain bit his glove, and glanced at
his sister under his eyelashes; the Countess tapped her little foot
impatiently upon the ground; and the Cure of St. Saturnin, with an
awkward assumption of indifference, bent his sallow face over the
wounded partridge, which was nestled within the folds of his black serge
cassock.
"_Mordieu!_ sister," exclaimed the Baron, with his unpleasant laugh,
"are we all struck dumb at this woeful catastrophe--this woodland
tragedy? Being the culprit, I am, however, ready to throw myself at your
feet. You prayed to me for mercy just now, for a white partridge, and I
denied it. I now entreat it for myself, having offended you."
The Countess, smiling somewhat sadly, held out her hand, which the
dragoon kissed with an air of profound respect.
"George," she said, "I am foolishly superstitious about these white
partridges. A person who was very dear to me gave me once upon a time a
white partridge. One day it escaped. Was it an evil omen? I know not;
but I never saw that person again."
The young man frowned impatiently, and, changing the conversation,
exclaimed, with a disdainful movement of the head:--
"We have the honour, Madame, to be the object of your herdsmen's
curiosity all this time. The fellows, I should imagine, would be more
fitly occupied among their cows. Or is it the custom on your estates,
my amiable sister, that these people should pass their time in idleness.
A word to the steward would not, methinks, be altogether out of place on
this subject."
The herdsmen shrank back at these words, which, though uttered in the
purest French of Versailles, were sufficiently intelligible to their
ears; but the Countess, with a kindly smile, and a quick glance towards
the priest, undertook their defence.
It was holiday, she said, doubtless in consequence of his own arrival in
Auvergne; and besides, did he not see that M. the good Cure has been
delivering to them some pious exhortation, as was his wont?
The priest blushed and bowed, and made an inward resolution of penance
that same night, for participation in that innocent falsehood. It was
his first sin against truth.
At this moment the lady, looking towards the little group of men,
recognized Pere Jacques.
"If I do not mistake," she exclaimed, making use of the mountain
_patois_, "I see one of my oldest friends yonder--a herdsman who used to
be in my father's service! Pere Jacques, is it really you?"
The herdsman stepped forward eagerly.
"Ah, Mam'selle Marguerite," he stammered, "is it possible that--that you
remember me?"
And he scarcely dared to touch with his lips the gloved hand that his
mistress gave him to kiss.
"George," said the Countess, "do you not remember Pere Jacques?"
"Ah!--yes," replied the Baron, carelessly; adding, half aloud, "my dear
sister, do not let us stay here talking with these boors."
"Nay, brother, this place is not Versailles, _Dieu merci!_ Let me talk a
little with my old friend--he reminds me of the days when I was so
happy."
"And so poor," muttered the dragoon between his teeth, as he turned away
and began talking _chasse_ with the Cure of St. Saturnin.
"And now tell me, Pere Jacques," said the young Countess, seating
herself at the foot of a chestnut-tree, "why have you left the chateau
de Pradines?"
"You were there no longer, Madame," said the mountaineer, standing
before her in a respectful attitude.
"But I was not here either."
"True; but Madame might, some day, grow weary of the court; and I knew
that sooner or later she would come to Auvergne. Besides, here I worked
on Madame's property, and ate of her bread."
"Poor Pere Jacques! you also think sometimes of the old days at
Pradines?"
"Sometimes!--it seems as if it were but yesterday, Mam'selle, that I
carried you in my arms, and ran beside you when you rode Fifine, the
black pony, and heard your laugh in the courtyard and your foot in the
garden! Ah, Madame, those were the happy times, when the hunt came
round, and Monsieur your father, and yourself, and Monsieur the
Chevalier de Fon----. Oh, pardon, Madame! pardon!--what have I said!"
And the herdsmen stopped, terrified and remorseful; for at that name the
lady had turned deathly white.
"Hush, my good friend," she said, falteringly. "It is nothing." Then,
after at brief pause and a rapid glance towards her brother and the
priest, "Come nearer, Jacques," she said, in a subdued tone. "One
word--_Was the body ever discovered?_"
"No, Madame."
She shaded her face with her hand, and so remained for some moments
without speaking. She then resumed in a low voice:--
"A terrible death, Jacques! He must have fallen down some precipice."
"Alas! Madame, it may have been so."
"Do you remember the last day that we all hunted together at Pradines?
The anniversary of that day comes round again to-morrow. Poor Eugene!...
Take my purse, Pere Jacques, and share its contents with your
companions--but reserve a louis to purchase some masses for the repose
of his soul. Say that they are for your friend and benefactor--for he
was always good to you. He has often spoken of you to me. Will you
promise me this, Pere Jacques?"
The herdsman was yet assuring her of his obedience, when the priest and
her brother came forward and interrupted them.
"My dear sister," said M. de Pradines, "the sun is fast going down, and
we have but another hour of daylight. Our friend here, M. le Cure,
apprehends a storm. It were best we rejoined our huntsmen, and began to
return."
"A storm, _mon frere_," said Madame de Peyrelade with surprise.
"Impossible! The sky is perfectly clear. Besides, it is so delightful
under these old trees--I should like to remain a short time longer."
"It might be imprudent, Madame la Comtesse," said the Cure timidly, as
he cast a hurried glance along the horizon. "Do you not see those light
vapours about the summit of Mont Cantal, and that low bank of clouds
behind the forest? I greatly mistake if we have not a heavy storm before
an hour, and I should counsel you to take the road for the chateau
without delay."
"Come hither, Pere Jacques," said the lady, smiling, "you used to be my
oracle at Pradines. Will there be a storm to-night?"
The old mountaineer raised his head, and snuffed the breeze like a
stag-hound.
"M. le Cure is right," he said. "The night-wind is rising, and there is
a tempest close at hand. See the cows, how they are coming up the valley
for shelter in the stalls! They know what this wind says."
"To horse! to horse!" cried the dragoon, as he raised his silver horn
and blew a prolonged blast. "We have no time to lose; the roads are long
and difficult."
A clear blast from the valley instantly echoed to his summons, and the
next moment a group of men and dogs were seen hurrying up the slope.
"Farewell, my friends," said the Countess; "farewell, Pere Jacques! M.
le Cure, you will return and dine with us?"
"Madame, I thank you; but--but this is a fast-day with me."
"Well, to-morrow. You will come to-morrow? I will sing you some of those
old songs you are so fond of! Say yes, M. le Cure."
"Madame la Comtesse will graciously excuse me. I must catechise the
children of the district to-morrow."
"But my brother returns to-morrow to his regiment--you will come to bid
him farewell?"
"Monsieur de Pradines has already accepted my good wishes and
compliments."
"The day after to-morrow, then, M. le Cure?"
"Madame, I will endeavour."
"But you promise nothing. Ah, monsieur, for some time past you have been
very sparing of your visits. Have I offended you that you will no longer
honour me with your company?"
"Offended me!--oh Madame!"
These words were uttered with an accent and an expression so peculiar
that the young lady looked up in surprise, and saw that the priest's
eyes were full of tears.
For at moment she was silent; then, affecting an air of gaiety, "Adieu,
M. le Cure," she cried as she turned away; "be more neighbourly in
future."
Then, seeing that he still held the wounded partridge, "Alas! that poor
bird," she exclaimed; "it is trembling still!"
"Ah, Madame la Comtesse," said Pere Jacques. "I'll engage that, if M. le
Cure opened his hand, that cunning partridge would be a mile away in
half a minute!"
"Do you think it will live? Well, Pere Jacques, take care of it for my
sake. Feed it for two or three days, and then give the poor bird its
liberty."
"Sister!" said the dragoon, in a tone of impatience, "the storm is
coming on."
"Adieu all!" were the last words of the Countess, as she took her
brother's arm, and went down the rough pathway leading to the valley.
In a few minutes more they had mounted their horses and set off at a
quick gallop towards the turreted chateau that peeped above the trees
three miles away. The priest and the herdsmen stood watching them in
silence till they disappeared round an angle of rock, and listened till
the faint echo of the horns died away in the distance.
"Dear little Queen Marguerite!" exclaimed Pere Jacques, when all was
silent. "Dear little Queen Marguerite, how good and kind she is!"
"And how beautiful!" murmured the priest.
Then taking a little leathern purse from his breast, he slipped an _ecu_
into the mountaineer's hand.
"Good Jacques," said he, "I will take care of the partridge; but say
nothing to the Countess when you see her again. Good evening, friends,
and thanks for your hospitality!"
And the Cure threw his gun across his shoulder, whistled to his dog,
and turned towards the pathway.
At the same moment a gathering peal of thunder rolled over the distant
mountains; and the summit of Mont Cantal, visible a few moments since,
was covered with thick black clouds.
"Monsieur le Cure!" cried the herdsmen, with one voice, "come back! the
storm is beginning. Come back, and take shelter in the Buron!"
"The storm!" replied the priest, raising his eyes to the heavens.
"Thanks, my friends, thanks! God sends the storm. Pray to Him!"
While he spoke, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to rend open
the heavens. The herdsmen crossed themselves devoutly. But the Cure of
St. Saturnin had disappeared already down the pathway.
The storm came on more swiftly than they had expected. All that evening
the mountains, which here extend for more than three leagues in one
unbroken chain, echoed back the thunder. Sturdy oaks and mountain pines
that had weathered every storm for fifty years, were torn up from their
firm rootage. Huge fragments of rock, white and tempest-scarred from
long exposure on bleak mountain-heights, were shivered by the lightning,
and fell like fierce avalanches into the depths below.
All was darkness. The rain came down in pitiless floods; the thunder
never seemed to cease, for before the doubling echoes had half died
away, fresh peals renewed and mocked them. Every flash of lightning
revealed for an instant the desolate landscape, the rocking trees, the
swollen torrents rushing in floods to the valley. It was scarcely like
lightning, but seemed as if the whole sky opened and blinded the world
with fire.
Meanwhile the Countess and her brother arrived safely at the Chateau de
Peyrelade; and, having changed their wet garments, were sitting before a
blazing log-fire, in the big _salon_ overlooking the valley. Both were
silent. Their reconciliation had not been, as yet, of long duration.
Marguerite could not forget her wrongs, and the Baron felt embarrassed
in her presence. It is true that he endeavoured to conceal his
embarrassment under an excess of courteous respect; but his smiles
looked false, and his attentions always appeared, to his sister at
least, to wear an air of mockery. And so they sat in the great _salon_
and listened to the storm.
It was a gloomy place at all times, but gloomier now than ever, with the
winds howling round it and the rain dashing blindly against the windows.
Great oaken panellings and frowning ancestral portraits adorned the
walls, with here and there a stand of arms, a rusty helmet and sword, or
a tattered flag that shivered when the storm swept by. Old cabinets
inlaid with tortoiseshell and tarnished _ormolu_ were placed between the
heavy crimson draperies that hung before the windows; a long oaken table
stood in the centre of the room; and above the fire-place the ghastly
skull and antlers of a royal deer seemed to nod spectrally in the
flickering light of the wood-fire.
At length the Baron broke silence:--
"What _are_ you thinking about so intently, Madame?" said he.
"I am wondering," replied the lady, "if any hapless travellers are out
in this heavy storm. If so, heaven have mercy on them!"
"Ah, truly," replied the brother, carelessly. "By the way, that poor
devil of a Cure, who would not come to dinner, I wonder if he got safely
back to his den at Saturnin. Do you know, Marguerite, 'tis my belief
that the holy man is smitten with your beautiful eyes!"
"_Monsieur mon frere!_" exclaimed the lady indignantly, "if you forget
your own position and mine, I must beg you at least to remember the
profession of the holy man whom you calumniate. He is ill repaid for his
goodness towards you by language such as this! But for his intercessions
you would not now be my guest at Peyrelade."
"I beg a thousand pardons, my dear sister," said the Baron lightly.
"Pray do not attach such importance to a mere jest. _Ce cher Cure!_ he
has not at better friend in the world than myself. By-the-by, has he
happened to mention to you the dilapidated state of the chapel at
Pradines? It should be put into proper repair, and would cost a mere
trifle--three hundred louis--which sum, however, I really cannot at
present command. Now, my dear sister, you are so kind...."
"George," said the Countess, gravely, "M. le Cure has not spoken to me
of anything of the kind. I will not, however, refuse this sum to you;
but do not deceive me. Shall you really put the money to this use? Have
you quite given up play?"
"_Au diable la morale!_" muttered the dragoon between his teeth. Then he
added, aloud, "If I ask it for any other use, I wish I may be--"
"No more, M. le Baron," interrupted the lady. "To-morrow morning you
shall have the three hundred louis."
As she spoke these last words, a loud knocking was heard at the outer
gates of the chateau.
"Bravo!" cried the Baron, delighted at this interruption to the
conversation. "Here is a visitor. Yet, no; for what visitor in his
senses would come out on such a night? It must be a message from the
king."
It was neither, for in a few moments a servant entered, saying that an
accident had occurred to a traveller a short distance from the chateau.
His horse, taking fright at the fall of a large fragment of rock, had
become unmanageable, and had flung himself and his rider over a steep
bank. Happily, some bushes had served to break the force of their fall,
or they must inevitably have been much injured. As it was, however, the
gentleman was a good deal hurt, and his servant entreated shelter within
the walls of the chateau.
The Countess desired that the traveller should be brought into the
_salon_, and a horseman be despatched to the nearest town for a
surgeon.
"Ah, brother," said she, "I had a presentiment of evil this night! Alas,
the unfortunate gentleman! Throw on more logs, I beseech you, and draw
this couch nearer to the fire, that we may lay him upon it."
The door was again opened, and the stranger's groom, assisted by the
people of the chateau, brought in the wounded traveller, whom they laid
upon the couch beside the fire. He was a young man of twenty-eight or
thirty, slightly made, and dressed in a foreign military uniform.
The Countess, who had advanced to render some assistance, suddenly
retreated and became very pale.
"What is the matter, Marguerite? What ails you?" cried her brother.
She made no reply, but leaned heavily upon his arm. At this moment the
traveller, who began to recover when placed near the warmth, raised his
head feebly, and looked around him. All at once his vague and wandering
glance rested on Marguerite. Instantly a look of recognition flashed
into his eyes. Then he raised himself by a convulsive effort, and fell
back again, insensible as before.
The Baron de Pradines, who had attentively observed this scene, turned
to the stranger's groom, and asked him in a low voice the name of his
master.
He could not repress a start when the man replied--"My master, Monsieur,
is called the Chevalier de Fontane."
"Ah!" said the ex-captain of Royal Musketeers, as he rent one of his
lace ruffles into tiny shreds that fell upon the floor, "I will not
leave to-morrow!"