“You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public
opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station
deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you
what a woman can do who thinks of her son’s life.”
The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.
Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of
her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her
features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she
forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and
then she said in a clear, firm voice,--
“Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?”
The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and,
offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,--
“You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be
useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here.”
This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had
been current,--no one knew how it had started,--that the “murderer’s
mother,” as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o’clock
train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at
that hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last
new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was
not to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor old
lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole
town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not
hypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed
of it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and
try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.
It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running
strongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against him
but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse,
that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terrible
consequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so
severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the evening
before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre.
In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost
carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had
been brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor’s
office, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four others
clung to her dress.
All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded
with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the
marchioness, with fierce hootings.
“There she is, there she is!” they said in the crowd, when she appeared
in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat’s arm.
But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her
appearance. Immediately two parties were formed. “She puts a bold face
on it,” said some; while others declared, “She is quite sure of her
son’s innocence.”
At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression
she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat’s advice.
It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd some
people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,--
“Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is the
liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion
that enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday by
telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours,
and one of the first lawyers of Paris.”
M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more considerate
words. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she
had said.
“These gentlemen of the court,” he said in measured tones, “will perhaps
be sorry for what they have done.”
Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced
cap, came up to them at this moment.
“M. de Chandore’s carriage is here,” he said.
“Very well,” replied the marchioness.
And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded
by her assurance, she said,--
“Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. I
shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son’s arm.”
The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of the
New-Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly more
than a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon the
municipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuse
to improve. The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at the
side a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos
calls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.
It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, and
for a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could not
boast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas. But
if they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so.
Of the whole great family,--one of the most numerous and most powerful
of the province,--only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and a
girl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia was
an orphan. She was barely three years old, when within five months, she
lost her father, who fell in a duel, and her mother, who had not the
strength to survive the man whom she had loved. This was certainly for
the child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for nor
unloved. Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and the
two sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longer
young, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusively
to their niece. From that day the two good ladies had wished to live
in the baron’s house; but from the beginning he had utterly refused
to listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly able
himself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself.
All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day with
Dionysia whenever they chose.
Hence arose a certain rivalry between the aunts and the grandfather,
which led both parties to most amazing exaggerations. Each one did what
could be done to engage the affections of the little girl; each one was
willing to pay any price for the most trifling caress. At five years
Dionysia had every toy that had ever been invented. At ten she was
dressed like the first lady of the land, and had jewelry in abundance.
The grandfather, in the meantime, had been metamorphosed from head to
foot. Rough, rigid, and severe, he had suddenly become a “love of a
father.” The fierce look had vanished from his eyes, the scorn from his
lips; and both had given way to soft glances and smooth words. He was
seen daily trotting through the streets, and going from shop to shop
on errands for his grandchild. He invited her little friends, arranged
picnics for her, helped her drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in a
cotillion.
If Dionysia looked displeased, he trembled. If she coughed, he turned
pale. Once she was sick: she had the measles. He staid up for twelve
nights in succession, and sent to Paris for doctors, who laughed in his
face.
And yet the two old ladies found means to exceed his folly.
If Dionysia learned any thing at all, it was only because she herself
insisted upon it: otherwise the writing-master and the music-master
would have been sent away at the slightest sign of weariness.
Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its shoulders.
“What a wretched education!” the ladies said. “Such weakness is
absolutely unheard of. They tender the child a sorry service.”
There was no doubt that such almost incredible spoiling, such blind
devotion, and perpetual worship, came very near making of Dionysia the
most disagreeable little person that ever lived. But fortunately she had
one of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides,
she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grew
older she would say with a laugh,--
“Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what we
choose.”
That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affection
with rarer and nobler qualities.
She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was just
seventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. de
Chandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had been
a friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted the
invitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.
Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown to
Grandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and the
flowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up in
her heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.
For Jacques’s eyes remained blind for two years.
But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed.
Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, the
Marquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form asked
Dionysia’s hand for his son.
Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.
He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of his
grandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that he
was getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should have
found her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, very
much as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelings
out. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing her
prefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all.
He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.
Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply
till he had consulted his granddaughter.