In a straight line it is only a mile from Sauveterre to Valpinson; but
that mile is as long as two elsewhere. M. Seneschal, however, had a good
horse, “the best perhaps in the county,” he said, as he got into his
carriage. In ten minutes they had overtaken the firemen, who had left
some time before them. And yet these good people, all of them master
workmen of Sauveterre, masons, carpenters, and tilers, hurried along as
fast as they could. They had half a dozen smoking torches with them to
light them on the way: they walked, puffing and groaning, on the bad
road, and pulling the two engines, together with the heavy cart on which
they had piled up their ladders and other tools.
“Keep up, my friends!” said the mayor as he passed them,--“keep up!”
Three minutes farther on, a peasant on horseback appeared in the dark,
riding along like a forlorn knight in a romance. M. Daubigeon ordered
him to halt. He stopped.
“You come from Valpinson?” asked M. Seneschal.
“Yes,” replied the peasant.
“How is the count?”
“He has come to at last.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He says he will live. I am going to the druggist to get some
medicines.” M. Galpin, to hear better, was leaning out of the carriage.
He asked,--
“Do they accuse any one?”
“No.”
“And the fire?”
“They have water enough,” replied the peasant, “but no engines: so what
can they do? And the wind is rising again! Oh, what a misfortune!”
He rode off as fast as he could, while M. Seneschal was whipping his
poor horse, which, unaccustomed as it was to such treatment, instead
of going any faster, only reared, and jumped from side to side. The
excellent man was in despair. He looked upon this crime as if it had
been committed on purpose to disgrace him, and to do the greatest
possible injury to his administration.
“For after all,” he said, for the tenth time to his companions, “is it
natural, I ask you, is it sensible, that a man should think of attacking
the Count and the Countess Claudieuse, the most distinguished and the
most esteemed people in the whole county, and especially a lady whose
name is synonymous with virtue and charity?”
And, without minding the ruts and the stones in the road, M. Seneschal
went on repeating all he knew about the owners of Valpinson.
Count Trivulce Claudieuse was the last scion of one of the oldest
families of the county. At sixteen, about 1829, he had entered the navy
as an ensign, and for many years he had appeared at Sauveterre only
rarely, and at long intervals. In 1859 he had become a captain, and was
on the point of being made admiral, when he had all of a sudden sent in
his resignation, and taken up his residence at the Castle of Valpinson,
although the house had nothing to show of its former splendor but two
towers falling to pieces, and an immense mass of ruin and rubbish. For
two years he had lived here alone, busy with building up the old house
as well as it could be done, and by great energy and incessant labor
restoring it to some of its former splendor. It was thought he would
finish his days in this way, when one day the report arose that he was
going to be married. The report, for once, proved true.
One fine day Count Claudieuse had left for Paris; and, a few days later,
his friends had been informed by letter that he had married the daughter
of one of his former colleagues, Miss Genevieve de Tassar. The amazement
had been universal. The count looked like a gentleman, and was very well
preserved; but he was at least forty-seven years old, and Miss Genevieve
was hardly twenty. Now, if the bride had been poor, they would have
understood the match, and approved it: it is but natural that a poor
girl should sacrifice her heart to her daily bread. But here it was not
so. The Marquis de Tassar was considered wealthy; and report said that
his daughter had brought her husband fifty thousand dollars.
Next they had it that the bride was fearfully ugly, infirm, or at least
hunchback, perhaps idiotic, or, at all events, of frightful temper.
By no means. She had come down; and everybody was amazed at her noble,
quiet beauty. She had conversed with them, and charmed everybody.
Was it really a love-match, as people called it at Sauveterre? Perhaps
so. Nevertheless there was no lack of old ladies who shook their heads,
and said twenty-seven years difference between husband and wife was too
much, and such a match could not turn out well.
All these dark forebodings came to nought. The fact was, that, for miles
and miles around, there was not a happier couple to be found than the
Count and the Countess Claudieuse; and two children, girls, who had
appeared at an interval of four years, seemed to have secured the
happiness of the house forever.
It is true the count retained somewhat of the haughty manners, the
reserve, and the imperious tone, which he had acquired during the time
that he controlled the destinies of certain important colonies. He was,
moreover, naturally so passionate, that the slightest excitement made
him turn purple in his face. But the countess was as gentle and as
sweet as he was violent; and as she never failed to step in between her
husband and the object of his wrath, as both he and she were naturally
just, kind to excess, and generous to all, they were beloved by
everybody. There was only one point on which the count was rather
unmanageable, and that was the game laws. He was passionately fond of
hunting, and watched all the year round with almost painful restlessness
over his preserves, employing a number of keepers, and prosecuting
poachers with such energy, that people said he would rather miss a
hundred napoleons than a single bird.
The count and the countess lived quite retired, and gave their whole
time, he to agricultural pursuits, and she to the education of her
children. They entertained but little, and did not come to Sauveterre
more than four times a year, to visit the Misses Lavarande, or the old
Baron de Chandore. Every summer, towards the end of July, they went to
Royan, where they had a cottage. When the season opened, and the count
went hunting, the countess paid a visit to her relatives in Paris, with
whom she usually stayed a few weeks.
It required a storm like that of 1870 to overthrow so peaceful an
existence. When the old captain heard that the Prussians were on French
soil, he felt all the instincts of the soldier and the Frenchman awake
in his heart. He could not be kept at home, and went to headquarters.
Although a royalist at heart, he did not hesitate a moment to offer
his sword to Gambetta, whom he detested. They made him colonel of a
regiment; and he fought like a lion, from the first day to the last,
when he was thrown down and trod under foot in one of those fearful
routs in which a part of Chanzy’s army was utterly destroyed. When the
armistice was signed, he returned to Valpinson; but no one except his
wife ever succeeded in making him say a word about the campaign. He was
asked to become a candidate for the assembly, and would have certainly
been elected; but he refused, saying that he knew how to fight, but not
how to talk.
The commonwealth attorney and the magistrate listened but very
carelessly to these details, with which they were perfectly familiar.
Suddenly M. Galpin asked,--
“Are we not getting near? I look and look; but I see no trace of a
fire.”
“We are in a deep valley,” replied the mayor. “But we are quite near
now, and, at the top of that hill before us, you will see enough.”
This hill is well known in the whole province, and is frequently called
the Sauveterre Mountain. It is so steep, and consists of such hard
granite, that the engineers who laid out the great turnpike turned miles
out of their way to avoid it. It overlooks the whole country; and, when
M. Seneschal and his companions had reached the top, they could not
control their excitement.
“Horresco!” murmured the attorney.
The burning house itself was hid by high trees; but columns of fire rose
high above the tops, and illumined the whole region with their sombre
light. The whole country was in a state of excitement. The short, square
tower of Brechy sent the alarm from its big bell; and in the deep shade
on all sides was heard the strange sound of the huge shells which
the people here use for signals, and for the summoning of laborers at
mealtimes. Hurried steps were heard on all the high-roads and by-roads;
and peasants were continuously rushing by, with a bucket in each hand.
“It is too late for help,” said M. Galpin.
“Such a fine property!” said the mayor, “and so well managed!” And
regardless of danger, he dashed forward, down the hill; for Valpinson
lies in a deep valley, half a mile from the river. Here all was terror,
disorder, and confusion; and yet there was no lack of hands or of
good-will. At the first alarm, all the people of the neighborhood had
hurried up, and there were more coming every moment; but there was no
one there to assume the command. They were mainly engaged in saving the
furniture. The boldest tried to get into the rooms, and in a kind of
rage, threw every thing they could lay hold on out of the window. Thus
the courtyard was already half full of beds and mattresses, chairs and
tables, books, linen, and clothes.
An immense clamor greeted the mayor and his companions.
“Here comes the mayor!” cried the peasants, encouraged by his presence,
and all ready to obey him.