A VILLAIN'S REVENGE.
The whole family were still in the _salon_, when, about half-past
eight, they heard an unusual noise out of doors, and people seemed to
be moving about in the darkness. In a few moments, a servant entered
and said a few words to Mr. Smithson in a low tone. He immediately rose
and started to go out; but, before leaving the room, he said: "I shall
not be gone long. I wish you all to remain here till my return."
Eugénie continued to drum furiously on the piano; then, weary of this
monotonous employment, she took a book, and pretended to read. Mme.
Smithson and Albert were far from being at ease. Triumphant as they
were, they stood in awe of Eugénie. To keep themselves in countenance,
they began a game of cards.
What was Mr. Smithson doing meanwhile? He forbade his servants
mentioning a word of what had happened, which they were aware of as
well as he. Sure of being obeyed, he went directly to Louis' apartment.
Entering the room, he found him lying all dressed on his bed, groaning
and unable to utter a word. A bloody handkerchief was tied across his
forehead, as if he had received a severe wound. At a sign from Mr.
Smithson, the servant dismissed all the men--hands at the mill--who
had brought the engineer to his room. When they were gone, the servant
removed the handkerchief that concealed the wound. It was a long gash,
which was still bleeding. Louis opened his eyes, and put his hand to
his neck, as if there was another wound there. The servant untied
his cravat. The unfortunate young man's neck, in fact, bore marks of
violence.
The servant seemed greatly affected at the sight. He placed the wounded
man in as comfortable a position as he could, bandaged his wounds,
and tried to revive him with _eau-de-Cologne_. Louis came to himself a
little, and, extending his hand, pressed that of the good fellow who
was tending him so kindly. Mr. Smithson stood a few steps from the
bed, looking on as calmly as if gazing at some unreal spectacle in a
theatre. No one would have divined his thoughts from the expression of
his countenance; but at the bottom of his heart there was a feeling
of animosity against Louis, which was scarcely lessened by the sight
of his sufferings. At that moment, he believed Louis guilty, and what
had happened only a chastisement he merited. Nevertheless, he sent in
haste for a physician, who arrived in a short time. Louis' clothes were
removed, and his wounds dressed with the greatest care. The relief he
experienced, the warmth of the bed, and the skill of the attentive
physician, produced a speedy and favorable reaction. He recovered the
perfect use of speech, and, addressing those around him with an attempt
at a smile, he said:
"They have brought me to a sad condition."
"You will get over it," replied the doctor.
"How did it happen?" asked Mr. Smithson coldly.
"It is a long story to tell," replied Louis. "I have not recovered
from the violent concussion, and am still in severe pain; but I will
endeavor to tell you how it happened. It is time for you to know the
truth about many things, Mr. Smithson. What is your opinion of Durand?"
"He is a capable hand, but somewhat unaccountable."
"Well, I have found him out.... He is a dangerous man. The condition
you see me in is owing to him."
"What induced him to ill-treat you in this way?"
"He has hated me for a long time, though secretly. Before I came here,
he did somewhat as he pleased, and was guilty of many base acts. He
robbed you in many ways--saying he had paid the workmen money that was
never given them, and having an understanding with one and another, in
order to cheat you. I found out his dishonest trafficking, and put a
stop to it. This was the origin of his dislike."
"Why did you not notify me at once?"
"My silence proceeded from motives of delicacy. You will recollect the
man came here with excellent recommendations; he was a Protestant; and
you liked him, and thought more of him than of many others."
"That is true. Go on."
"I afterwards discovered he lent money on security. My reproaches
offended him still more. Within a short time, he has become intimate
with that drunken Vinceneau and his indolent wife, and, since the
inundation drove them here for shelter, he has permanently installed
himself in their house. He only did this to annoy their poor
daughter, Madeleine, with his audacious attentions. The girl was
indignant. Young as she is, she felt there was something vile--I may
say criminal--in the depths of his deceitful soul. But her father
and mother countenanced him. They hoped a son-in-law so much richer
than they would enable them to give themselves up to their shameful
inclinations--the husband to drink, and the wife to idleness. Madeleine
was, therefore, ordered--and in such a way!--to accept Durand's offer.
She came to consult me on the subject, and said the man inspired her
with invincible horror. On the other hand, her parents threatened her
with the worst treatment possible if she resisted their orders--a
treatment already begun. Now, I had learned only a few days previous
the following particulars respecting Durand: His name is not Durand,
but Renaud. He is not a Protestant, but a Catholic, if such a man can
be said to have any religion. His fine recommendations did not come
from his employers; he wrote them himself. He is not a bachelor, but is
married, and the father of three children. Be good enough to open my
desk, Mr. Smithson.... You will find a letter from Durand's wife, in
which all these facts are stated with a minuteness of detail, and such
an accent of truth, that there can be no doubt after reading it. It was
addressed to the _curé_, begging him to threaten Durand--or rather,
Renaud--with the law if he did not send for his wife and children. They
are dying of want at Lille, whence he fled without saying anything to
them. They lost all trace of him for a year, and only heard of him
again about six months ago."
Mr. Smithson opened Louis' desk, and took out the letter. The details
it contained were, in truth, so numerous and so precise that there
could be no doubt they really referred to the so-called Durand.
"What an infamous impostor!" exclaimed he, as he finished the letter.
"Continue your account, monsieur. I am eager to know how this sad
affair terminated."
"My friend, Mme. Barnier," continued Louis, "has not been able to leave
St. Denis, where she took refuge at the time of the inundation. A
violent affection of the muscular system obliges her to keep her bed.
I learned this morning from a letter that she was worse, and wished to
see me immediately. I went to St. Denis. On my way back this evening on
foot, I met Durand not three hundred steps from the mill. I cannot say
he was waiting for me, but am inclined to think so. When he perceived
me by the light of the moon, a gleam of fury lighted up his features. I
had no weapon of defence. He, as usual, carried a strong, knotty cane
in his hand.
"'Where is Madeleine?' said he.
"'At my sister's,' I replied. In fact, I had sent her there with a
letter of recommendation.
"'Why did you send her away?'
"'Because I wished to withdraw her from your criminal pursuit.'
"'Criminal?... How was my pursuit criminal? I wished to marry her.'
"'You have not the right.'
"'What do you say? I haven't a right to marry?'
"'No, you have not. You are married already.'
"'It is false.'
"'I have the proof in my possession--a letter from your wife.' Then I
told him what I knew of his history, and ended thus: 'You have hitherto
gone from one crime to another. It is time for you to reform. Promise
to begin a new life, and I pledge my word to keep what I know to
myself.'
"'I promise--humble myself--and to you!... There is one man too many in
the world, you or I. By heaven! this must be ended.'
"I heard no more. Before I could ward off the blow, he hit me, causing
the wound you see on my head. Then he continued striking me with
diabolical fury. I could not defend myself, but called for help. Two
men heard me in the mill, and came running with all their might. As
soon as Durand saw them, he fled I know not where. I beg he may not be
pursued; the crime is too serious."
Louis had ended his account.
"Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "you have been strangely unfortunate
since you came here. It has all arisen from a misunderstanding. I
distrusted you. I was wrong. You have a noble heart. I see it now.
What you have said explains many things I did not understand. You
have been odiously calumniated, monsieur! Now that we have come to an
understanding, promise not to leave me. I will go further: forgive me."
Louis was affected to tears, and could not reply.
"And now, monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "can I render you any service?"
"I wish my father and sister to be cautiously informed of what has
happened to me."
"I will go myself," said Mr. Smithson, "and give them an account of
your unfortunate adventure. You may rely on my making the communication
with all the discretion you could wish. Will to-morrow be soon enough?"
"Oh! yes. To go this evening would made them think me in great danger."
They continued to converse some minutes longer, then Mr. Smithson
returned to the house. When he entered the _salon_, he found the family
exceedingly anxious. They suspected something serious had occurred, but
the servants had not dared communicate the slightest particular. Mr.
Smithson had forbidden it, and in his house every one obeyed to the
letter.
"M. Louis, ..." began he. At this name, Eugénie turned pale. She still
loved the engineer, and waited with dread for her father to allay the
suspicions so hateful to her, or to confirm them.
"M. Louis came near being killed. He was only wounded, and will soon be
well again."
"What happened to him?" cried Eugénie eagerly.
Mme. Smithson and Albert exchanged a look of intelligence. Mr. Smithson
related the facts he had just learned from Louis. In proportion as he
unveiled the infamy of Durand's conduct, and revealed the nobility
of Louis' nature, an expression of joy, mingled with pride, dawned
on Eugénie's face. It was easy to read the look she gave her mother
and Albert--a look of mingled happiness and triumph which seemed
to say: "He is innocent; it is my turn to rejoice!" Mr. Smithson,
always sincere and ready to acknowledge an error, ended his account
by expressing his regret at having been hard, suspicious, and unjust
towards Louis. "I shall henceforth regard him with the highest respect;
and I hope, if any of you, like me, have been deceived about him, that
my words and example will suffice to correct your mistake."
Mme. Smithson and Albert pretended not to hear his last words; but they
struck Eugénie particularly. Had she dared, she would have thrown her
arms around her father's neck, and given vent to her joy and gratitude.
She was obliged to refrain, but her sentiments were so legible in her
face that no one could mistake them. You will not be surprised to hear
that Mme. Smithson and her nephew cut a sad figure.
A few moments after, they all retired to their rooms. As Eugénie
embraced her father, she could not refrain from timidly asking him one
question: "Is it really true that M. Louis' life is not in danger,
father? It would be very sad for so good a man to be killed by a
villain on our own premises."
"There is no danger, my child, I assure you," replied Mr. Smithson
kindly. He then tenderly kissed his daughter for the second time. This
mark of affection on the part of so cold a man had a special value--I
might even say, a special significance.
"This voluntary expression of love from my father," said Eugénie
to herself, "shows he is aware of all I have suffered, and that he
sympathizes with me." And she went away full of joy and hope. Once
more in her chamber, she reflected on all the events of the last few
days. Louis had been calumniated many times before, and she believed
him guilty; but he had always come out of these attacks justified, so
that the very circumstances which at first seemed against him turned to
his benefit. What had happened during the evening now at an end threw
a new light on the state of affairs. Louis was an upright man. He was
sincere, and the persecution he had undergone made him so much the
worthier of being loved. For the first time, Eugénie ventured to say to
herself boldly: "Yes, I love him!" Then she prayed for him. At length a
new doubt--a cruel doubt--rose in her heart: "But he, does he love me?"
immediately followed by another question: if Louis loved her, would
her father consent to receive him as a son-in-law?... He had won his
esteem--that was a good deal; but Mr. Smithson was not a man to be led
away by enthusiasm. These questions were very embarrassing. Nor were
they all. Eugénie foresaw many other difficulties also: Louis was poor;
he was a Catholic, not only in name, but in heart and deed. His poverty
and his piety were two obstacles to his gaining Mr. Smithson's entire
favor. These two reasons might prevent him from ever consenting to give
Louis his daughter's hand. Such were Eugénie's thoughts. Reflection,
instead of allaying her anxiety, only served to make it more keen.
"One hope remains," thought she, "but that is a powerful one: my father
loves me too well to render me unhappy. I will acknowledge that the
happiness of my life depends on his decision."
At that same hour, Louis, in the midst of his sufferings, was a prey
to similar anxiety. But he had one advantage over Eugénie. "It is not
without some design," he said, "that Providence has directed everything
with such wonderful goodness. I trust that, after giving me so clear
a glimpse of happiness, I shall at last be permitted to attain the
reality."
This was by no means certain, for the designs of God, though ever
merciful, are always unfathomable. No one can tell beforehand how
things will end. But we must pardon a little temerity in the heart of
a lover. It is sad to say, but even in the most upright souls love
overpowers reason.