The Supper of All-Saints' Eve.
Two months quickly passed away in the Chateau de Peyrelade, during which
the Chevalier de Fontane had recovered from his accident, and the
Countess from her melancholy. Preparations had been making for the last
three weeks for the celebration of their marriage. Workmen from Paris
had been decorating the rooms; a dignitary of the church was invited to
perform the ceremony; and all the nobility for miles around were invited
to the _fete_. Even the Baron de Pradines, mortally offended as he was
by the whole business, had at last consented to be friends, and had
accepted an invitation to the wedding. In a word, the contract was to be
signed on the evening of All-Saints' Day, and the marriage was to take
place the following morning.
At length All-Saints' Day arrived, a grey, cold, snowing morning. Autumn
is wintry enough, sometimes, in the Haute Auvergne. The earth looks bare
and hard, the chestnut-trees are all stripped of their thick foliage,
and the snow has encroached half-way down the sides of the mountains.
The raw north-east wind rushes howling through the passes and along the
valley, carrying with it at sunrise and sunset drifting sleet and fine
snow, Soon it will come down thick and fast, and bury all the bushes in
its white mantle. Now the herdsmen's huts are empty, and the cows are
transferred to the warm stabling of the chateau.
Marguerite de Peyrelade, sitting in her _salon_, surrounded by a gay and
noble company, is ill at ease, thinking of the dark night, of the
falling snow, of the howling wolves, and of the Chevalier de Fontane,
who has been out since morning and is momentarily expected at the
chateau. He has been to the notary's in the neighbouring town respecting
the marriage-settlements, and has promised to return in time for the
great supper of All-Saints' Eve. The Baron de Pradines is also to arrive
to-night to be present at the signing of the contract; and the young
Countess, whose heart is overflowing with love and charity, is even a
little concerned for the safety of her ungracious brother.
Parisian workmen have effected wondrous changes in the great dark
_salon_ of the Chateau de Peyrelade. Who would recognize, in the
brilliantly lighted reception-room blazing with chandeliers and mirrors,
furnished with exquisite taste, garlanded with evergreens, and crowded
with all the rank and pride of Auvergne, the gloomy, cavernous hall with
the rusty armour and ghostly antlers of two months since?
Uniforms and glittering orders were abundant. There was the Marquis de
Florac, gorgeous with the ribbon and decoration of St. John of
Jerusalem; the Count de Saint Flour, in his uniform as Colonel of the
St. Flour cavalry; the Commander de Fontane, cousin of the bridegroom,
in a rich court dress redolent of Versailles; the Lieutenant of Police;
the Seigneur de Rochevert, who owned the adjoining estate; several
officers, a cabinet minister, some diplomatic gentlemen, and one or two
younger sons from the colleges and the Polytechnique. The gentlemen were
gathered in little knots, playing at ombre and piquet: the ladies were
assembled round _la belle reine Marguerite_.
But the queen of the fete was anxious and abstracted, and her thoughts
wandered away to the Chevalier de Fontane and his lonely journey. The
time-piece in the ante-chamber struck nine. No one heard it but
Marguerite. Neither laughter, nor music, nor the sound of many voices
could drown that silvery reverberation, however, for her listening ears.
Her impatience became intolerable, for the Chevalier should have
returned full three hours before. At last she rose and slipped quietly
out of the room, through the ante-chamber, along the corridor, and so
into her little quiet boudoir, far away from the jarring merriment of
her guests. There she wrapped herself in a great cloak lined with
sables, opened the window, and stepped out on the terrace.
It was a gloomy night. The moon shone fitfully through masses of black
cloud. There was snow upon the terrace; snow in the garden beneath; snow
in the valley; snow on the distant mountains. The silence was profound;
not a sound was audible from the noisy _salon_; not a sound from the
distant forest. All around lay deep shadow and spectral moonlight; and
upon all the scene a stillness as of death. Suddenly, in the midst of
the silence, Marguerite de Peyrelade heard the sharp, clear report of a
distant musket shot. She listened, trembling and terrified. It was
instantly followed by another.
"_Oh, mon Dieu!_" murmured the young woman, leaning for support against
the window-frame; "what Christian hunts at such an hour as this? Heaven
protect Eugene!"
And now another sound almost as deadly--a prolonged howling of wolves
startled in their lair--came up from the valley. Then the moon became
obscured by heavy clouds, and snow began to fall.
The Countess re-entered her boudoir, closed the windows hastily, and was
glad once more to find herself in the noisy _salon_.
"Our hostess looks very pale," whispered the Marquis de Morac to his
partner at ombre. "She is anxious, I suppose, for the arrival of M. de
Fontane."
"Very likely," said his companion--"I play the king."
"Is Madame unwell?" asked a young Colonel of Hussars, going up to her
with a profound salutation. "Madame appears much agitated."
"I have heard something very strange," stammered the Countess, as she
sank into a chair: "the report of a gun!"
"Indeed, Madame!" said the Lieutenant of Police. "That is somewhat
strange at this hour of the evening!"
"And it was followed by--by a second," said the Countess.
"Stranger still!" muttered the Lieutenant.
"Pooh! nothing but the fall of some fragment of rock up in the mountains
yonder," said the Commander de Fontane, with a gay laugh. "The days of
banditti are past. Do not be alarmed, _chere petite cousine_; Eugene is
safe enough, and knows how to take care of himself."
"He should have been here some hours ago, Monsieur," replied the lady.
At this moment the door of the _salon_ was thrown open, and the
Majordomo announced that supper was served.
"But the two principal guests are not yet here," cried the Marquis de
Florac. "Monsieur le Chevalier de Fontane, and Monsieur le Baron de
Pradines!"
"Three are wanting, M. le Marquis," said the Countess, forcing a smile.
"Our good Abbe Bernard, the Cure of St. Saturnin, has not yet arrived;
and how could we take our places at table without his presence on
All-Saints' Eve? We must wait awhile for the three missing guests. I am
surprised at the absence of M. le Cure, for he has the shortest road to
travel; not more than a quarter of a league."
"A quarter of a league, did you say?" exclaimed the Commander: "is that
all? Why, with a good horse it would not take more than five minutes to
go and return. If you command it, Madame, I will fly to M. le Cure, and
bring him to your feet dead or alive!"
"Monsieur, I thank you," said the Countess, smiling; "but here is our
worthy Abbe!"
At the same instant the Cure of St. Saturnin was ushered into the
_salon_. He looked strangely white and wan; his teeth chattered; his
hands were damp and cold.
"At last, Monsieur le Cure!" said the Countess, as she advanced to meet
him.
"At last, Monsieur le Cure!" repeated several voices.
"Five minutes later, Monsieur le Cure, and I protest that Madame's _chef
de cuisine_ would have committed suicide for grief at the ruin of the
_ragouts_, and you would have had murder on your conscience!" exclaimed
the Commander.
"Murder!" echoed Andre Bernard in a hollow voice, staring round him upon
the company--"who speaks here of murder?"
"For shame, Monsieur le Commandeur! you alarm our good Abbe," said
Madame de Peyrelade. "Come to the fire, Monsieur le Cure; you are
trembling from cold."
"The supper is served," said the Majordomo for the second time, with an
appealing look towards his mistress.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will wait no longer for Monsieur de Fontane or
my brother," said the Countess, rising. "The former will doubtless be
here before supper is over; and the Baron de Pradines is possibly
detained at court, and may not arrive till to-morrow. We will defer
supper no longer. Your arm, Monsieur de Florac."
The supper was laid out in the great hall of the chateau. Wine and jests
went round. Even the Countess recovered her spirits, and joined in the
gaiety of her guests.
"Remove those two covers," said she. "We will tell these gentlemen, if
they arrive, that they shall have no supper by way of penance."
"No, no," exclaimed the Commander; "I protest against the sentence! They
will be here soon, and deserve pity rather than reproof. Who knows?
Perhaps my cousin and the Baron have agreed to surprise us at the
supper-table, and will both be in the midst of us in a few minutes."
"Both!" ejaculated the priest, casting a terrified glance at the vacant
chairs.
"And why not, Monsieur le Cure? I remember, when I was some twelve years
younger, being invited to sup with a party of friends at ten leagues'
distance. It was a pouring night, but there was a pretty girl in
question, and so I rode through the rain, and arrived just at the right
time, but wet to the skin. These gentlemen would either of them
undertake a similar expedition, and I will answer for it they will both
be here before supper is over. Come, I bet a hundred crowns! Who will
take it? Will you, Monsieur le Cure?"
"I? Heaven forbid!" cried the priest.
"Well, you will not refuse to drink their healths?" said the Commander,
as he filled the priest's glass and his own. "The health of Messieurs le
Baron de Pradines and le Chevalier de Fontane!"
"Thanks cousin, for the honour!" cried a voice from the farther end of
the hall. "When I am a little thawed, I shall be happy to return the
compliment!"
And the Chevalier de Fontane, flushed from riding, and radiant with
happiness, came hastening up to kiss the hand of his betrothed.
"_Mon dieu_, Monsieur de Fontane, what has happened?" cried the lady
beside whom he took his seat; "your neckcloth and ruffles are covered
with blood!"
"A mere trifle, Madame de Rochevert," laughed the young officer, holding
up his hand, round which a handkerchief was bound; "a tussle with a
wolf, who would fain have supped off of your humble servant, instead of
suffering him to occupy this chair by your side--_voila tout!_"
"How horrible!" exclaimed several ladies.
Madame de Peyrelade turned pale, and murmured a prayer of thanks to
Heaven.
Healths went round again. Everyone drank to the Chevalier, and
congratulated him upon his victory. Then the conversation turned upon
the Baron de Pradines.
"It is now too late to hope for his arrival," said Marguerite. "I trust
_he_ has met with no wolves on the road."
"Let us drink to him," said the Commander, "and perhaps, like my cousin
Eugene, he may come upon us at the very moment. The health of M. le
Baron de Pradines!"
"The health of M. le Baron de Pradines!" cried all the voices.
"I denounce M. l'Abbe of high treason," exclaimed a lady. "He never
opened his lips, and put down his glass untasted!"
The Cure was dumb with consternation.
"For shame, M. le Cure!" cried the merry-makers. "We can have no
abstinence to-night. Do penance and drink the health alone."
"To the health of M. le Baron de Pradines!" said the priest in a hollow
voice, and emptied his glass at a draught.
"Bravo! bravo, M. le Cure!" cried the gentlemen, rattling their glasses,
by way of applause. "Nothing like the _amende honorable_!"
At this moment, a succession of thundering blows upon the outer gate
startled the revellers into a momentary silence.
"The Baron de Pradines, for a hundred crowns!" cried the Marquis de
Florac.
Andre Bernard turned paler than before.
"Who comes?" asked the Countess. "Go, Pierre," she said to a servant
behind her chair, "go and see if it be M. de Pradines."
In a moment the valet returned, pale and speechless. A confused murmur
was heard without.
"Who is there?" asked the Countess.
"Doubtless," said the Cure, in a hoarse wandering voice, "doubtless it
is one of the guests who has arrived in time for the dessert."
At these words everyone rose from table, struck by a fatal presentiment.
The door opened, and Pere Jacques appeared, followed by his two
assistants. They carried the body of a man wrapped in a military cloak.
The Countess recognising the body of her brother, uttered a piercing cry
and hid her face in her hands. Silent and terror-stricken, the company
stood looking at each other. The Cure clasped his hands as if in prayer;
the Lieutenant of Police went over and examined the body.
"This is not the work of a robber," said he, "for the jewels and purse
of the Baron are untouched. He has been shot in the temple. Does any
person here present know anything of this murder?"
No one spoke.
"Where was the body found?"
"We discovered it near the foot of Mont Cantal, with M. le Baron's horse
standing beside it, M. le Lieutenant," replied Pere Jacques.
"Does any person know of any enemy whom M. le Baron may have had in this
neighbourhood?" pursued the officer of police.
"Alas, Monsieur," replied the cowkeeper, bluntly, "the Baron de Pradines
had very few friends in these parts, but no enemy, I think, who would
serve him a turn like this."
"Does any person know if M. le Baron had any difference or quarrel
lately with any person?"
There was a profound silence; but more than one glance was directed
towards the Chevalier de Fontane.
The Lieutenant of Police repeated the inquiry. "I--I know of only one
person, Monsieur," stammered the _boutillier_, "and--and----"
He was silent: a stern look from Pere Jacques arrested the words upon
his lips, and he said no more.
"And that person?"
"Pardon, M. le Lieutenant, but--but I will not say."
"Answer, I command you," said the officer, "in the name of the King."
"It is--M. le Chevalier de Fontanel!" gasped the terrified peasant.
"You hear this, Monsieur," said the Lieutenant. "What answer do you
make? Have you had a quarrel with the late Baron?"
"I acknowledge--that is--I----" faltered the young man in evident
confusion and dismay.
"Enough, Monsieur. Appearances, I regret to say, are against you. You
arrive late; your dress is disordered; your apparel is blood-stained,
and your hand is wounded. I am grieved beyond measure; but I am
compelled to arrest you on the charge of murder."