As the baron had conjectured, the housemaid whom he had called out of
the nursery to look for Léon's cane, on finding her master had gone
without it, did not hurry back, but stopped talking to some of the other
servants for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when she returned to the
nursery, and to her amazement found the baby was gone. She was not
alarmed at first, except she supposed she should get a scolding from the
nurse, who she imagined had come in and taken the child to another room;
however, having the excellent excuse that her master had called her away
she went in search of the nurse, but now not finding her anywhere, and
hearing from the footman that she was not expected back till very late,
Marie became seriously alarmed.
"Perhaps madame has taken it into her room; she might have heard it
crying, and fetched it," suggested the footman, and Marie, very much
against her will, felt she was in duty bound to go and see.
So, knocking at her mistress's door, she called out, "Madame, has she
taken the baby?"
The poor little baroness, who was asleep, started up, and called to the
servant to come in.
"Madame, has she the baby?" repeated the girl.
"The baby? No, what do you mean? Where is it, and where is nurse?" cried
the baroness, jumping up and slipping on a dressing-gown and slippers.
Marie began to cry, and to pour forth such a volley of words, excuses,
fears, alarms, and wonders that the baroness could make out nothing, and
rushed to the nursery to see for herself what had happened. The empty
cradle did not, however, throw much light upon it, and the servants who
answered the bell, which the baroness clashed wildly, looked as scared
as the sobbing Marie to find the baby had disappeared. A search from
attic to basement was at once instituted, the men-servants were sent
into the grounds with lanterns, the whole house was turned topsy-turvy,
in the midst of which the nurse returned, and finding her baby was gone,
went into violent hysterics, while the young baroness, with flying hair
and dilated eyes, rushed about, wringing her hands, and looking, as she
felt, distracted with grief.
The search was, of course, in vain, and they were just coming to the
conclusion that the baby had been stolen, when the baron returned from
seeing Léon off.
The moment the baroness heard his voice in the hall she flew down the
wide oak staircase, crying, "Arnaud! Arnaud! My precious baby is gone,
it is stolen; find her, find her, or I shall go mad." And a glance at
her wild eyes almost testified she spoke the truth.
"She is not stolen, she is safe enough," said the baron, sulkily.
"Safe? Where? Where? Take me to her, my precious one; where is she?"
cried the baroness, with a loud burst of hysteric laughter on hearing
her child was safe.
"Silence, Mathilde, don't behave in this ridiculous style. Come with
me," said the baron, in a tone his wife had never heard him use to her
before, and which had the effect of reducing her to tears; and, sobbing
wildly, she hung on her husband's arm as he half led, half carried her
upstairs, and laid her on a sofa in her own room.
"Now, Mathilde, if you will try and compose yourself, I will tell you
what I have done with the baby. For some time I have felt sure that you
were ruining the child's health by the absurd way in which you coddle it
up, and, moreover, making yourself a perfect slave to it, neglecting all
your other duties," began the baron, as he seated himself on the edge of
the sofa by the side of his sobbing wife, who was, however, much too
anxious about her baby to be able to listen patiently to the marital
lecture to which the baron was about to treat her.
"But Arnaud! Arnaud! where is the baby? Oh, do tell me; it is cruel to
keep me in this suspense," sobbed the baroness.
Now, to be cruel to his wife was the very last thing the baron intended;
it was only out of the extremity of his jealous love for her that he had
sent the baby away. Thoughtless and selfish he might have been, but
surely no one could say he had been guilty of cruelty to this wife, whom
he loved so madly that even her love for her child had raised the demon
of jealousy within his breast. The word "cruel" stung him to the quick;
it was a new phase of his conduct, one that had never struck him before,
and as he glanced at the poor little baroness, who had half risen on the
sofa, and was looking at him with an agonised look on her pretty face,
he was seized with remorse, and felt it impossible to go on with the
_rôle_ he had attempted to play of the wise father and husband, who had
only acted for the good of his wife and child. Already he was beginning
to repent of his rash act, and if it had been possible to go after the
yacht the chances are the baron would have started at once, and brought
back the baby for the pleasure of seeing its mother smile again. As it
was impossible, the next best thing was to make the best of it, and if
Mathilde could not be comforted in any other way, why he must promise to
let her have it back again. He decided all this as he petted the
baroness, and tried to comfort her by whispering fond nothings into her
ear; but he soon found all his caresses were useless, unless he yielded
to her entreaties and told her where the baby was, and as all he knew
about it was that it was on board Léon's yacht, on which it was being
taken, he believed, to England, though he was by no means sure, this
did not tend to allay the poor mother's anxious fears.
Her baby confided to the wild Léon's charge, tossed about in a yacht
with not a woman on board to take care of it, her fragile little
daughter, on whom the wind had never been allowed to blow, now at the
mercy of wind and waves for days, and then, supposing the child was
alive, which in her present mood the baroness declared to be impossible,
even if it were, not to know where it was till Léon came back, perhaps
for a week or more, for the baron dare not tell her it would probably be
a month before he returned--oh, it was unbearable! She was sure she
could neither eat nor sleep until she had her baby back. Life until then
would be a burden to her. What could she do without it? Already she was
sure it knew her; and oh, how happy she had been watching by its cradle!
If Arnaud only knew how she delighted in nursing and playing with it,
even to gaze on it while it slept was a joy to her! Oh, if he only
understood, he would never have been so cruel as to send it away.
All the baron's arguments as to the advantages to the baby which were to
be derived from his scheme, and the wonderful health and strength it was
to derive from leading a less luxurious life, failed to reassure the
baroness, and she passed a sleepless night, and looked so ill and
miserable the next morning that the baron was angry with her for looking
ill, and with himself for being the cause. No one in the house but the
baroness had been told the night before what had become of the baby, the
general opinion being that it had been taken or sent to some woman in
the neighbourhood to look after; but when it became known that it was
sent away in Léon's charge no one knew where, the sympathy with the
baroness was universal, and the baron found himself looked upon as a
jealous tyrant, with no real love for either his wife or child.
"A nice father you are," cried his brother Jacques.
"The idea of trusting Léon with a baby. Why, he will pitch it overboard
if it cries," said little Louis, a remark which so annoyed the baron
that he promptly seized Louis by the collar and turned him out of the
room.
"You really must have been mad, Arnaud, to dream of such a thing as
entrusting Léon, of all people in the world, with an infant," said the
old baroness, for once taking the part of her daughter-in-law against
her son.
Père Yvon said nothing just then; it would not have been wise to have
done so while the baron's temper was ruffled by the criticisms of his
family or in their presence, but when he was alone with Arnaud, Père
Yvon spoke his mind pretty freely, and read the baron a severer lecture
than he had ever done all the years he was under his tuition.
It was nothing but jealousy which had prompted such a mad, cruel act,
and jealousy of the most unreasonable--he might almost say
unpardonable--kind: a father to be jealous of his wife's love for his
own child! There was a German saying, excellent in the original, but
which lost the double play upon the words in the translation which Père
Yvon quoted to the baron--
"Die Eifersucht ist eine Leidenschaft,
Der mit Eifer sucht muss Leiden schaffen,"
which means, freely translated, that jealousy is a passion which brings
misery to him who indulges in it; and Père Yvon impressed upon Arnaud
that if any misfortune happened to the baby, he would have no one to
blame but himself, for though all sins bring their own punishment,
jealousy is undoubtedly one that can never be indulged in with impunity.
This, and much more to the same effect, Père Yvon said, and the baron,
lying in an easy chair, listened patiently enough, partly because he was
very fond of the chaplain, and partly because he was so angry with
himself now for his folly that it was a relief to him to be blamed
roundly for it.
All that day the baroness wandered about the house in a vague, restless
way, unable to settle to anything, and trying to amuse herself by
consulting with the nurse as to how they should go and fetch the baby
back when they discovered where it was. She ate little or nothing, and
after another sleepless night looked so worn and ill that the baron sent
for a doctor, who came and urged strongly that the baby should be sent
for at once, or he would not be answerable for the consequences; the
suspense and anxiety were telling so on the baroness that if the strain
lasted much longer he feared she would have an attack of brain fever.
On hearing this the baron was dreadfully alarmed, and telegraphed to
Léon's agent at Havre to let him know immediately he heard from M. Léon
de Thorens, who had sailed two nights before in the Hirondelle for a
cruise in the Channel. The agent telegraphed back that he knew no more
than M. le Baron at present, but so soon as he received any further
information he would let the baron know. This did not reassure the
baroness, who had taken it into her head that something had happened to
the yacht, and not all Arnaud's promises that the moment he knew where
the child was he would go himself and bring her back could comfort the
poor, anxious little mother, who, with pale cheeks and black marks round
her great brown eyes, which were always large but looked bigger than
ever now that they had not been closed since the baby left, wandered
about the château, looking like a picture of despair.
This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent
to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England
with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was handed
to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the message
over again and again before the words, though they were burnt indelibly
into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind. Slowly he
grasped the terrible truth; poor Léon, the life of the house, wild,
handsome Léon was drowned, and his own poor innocent baby as well,
drowned, and by his fault. He was little better than a murderer, he
thought, in the first outburst of his grief, and he must tell Mathilde,
and perhaps kill her too. How should he ever have the courage to do
this? Strange to say, though perhaps, after all, it was not strange, the
baron was far more cut up at the sad fate of his little girl, whom, a
few days ago, he had been so anxious to get rid of, for a while, at
least, than he was at the news of poor Léon's death. So much hung on the
baby; Mathilde's life might almost be said to depend upon its recovery,
and now he must go and strike the blow which would perhaps kill her.
Père Yvon was indeed right; his jealousy was truly bringing a terrible
punishment in its train, and the baron buried his face in his hands, and
sobs of bitterest grief shook his whole frame. At last, rousing himself,
he went to the door of the study where the chaplain was engaged teaching
the younger boys, and beckoned him out. Père Yvon saw at a glance by the
baron's pale, scared face, as well as by the telegram he held in his
hand, that something terrible had happened, and drawing Arnaud into the
nearest room, he asked eagerly what was the matter. The baron answered
by placing the telegram in his hands, and paced the room in a frenzy
while Père Yvon read it. The chaplain's first thought was for the poor
widowed mother, whose darling son was thus cut off in the beauty of his
youth. He had known her so many years, and had comforted her in so many
sorrows, it was natural he should think of her first, before the other
mother, who had her husband to comfort her, and whose child was only an
infant of a few months old.
"La pauvre baronne! My poor madame! It will break her heart: her darling
son," murmured the chaplain.
"Ah, poor Léon. I can't realise it yet that we shall never see him
again, and my poor, innocent baby too; it will kill Mathilde. Oh, mon
père, how are we to tell them?" groaned the baron.
"I will tell your mother; it is not the first time I have been the
bearer of ill news to her, and you must break it as gently as you can to
your wife. It is a sad day indeed for this household, but the Lord's
will be done. He knows best, and He will not send any of us more than we
are able to bear," replied Père Yvon, as he went on his sad mission to
the old baroness.
As he had said, he had broken many sorrows to her, but he had never had
to deal a heavier blow than when he told her her favourite son was
drowned, the son of whom she was so proud, whom she loved better than
all her other children; but the baroness was a saintly woman, and one of
her first sayings after she heard the news was, "Mon père, it is hard,
but it is just--he was my idol."
She did not grieve in any extravagant way; she did not absent herself
from any meals; she attended mass, for she was a devout Catholic, in the
private chapel every morning, and, indeed, spent a great deal of time
there in prayer; she never gave up one of her accustomed duties, visited
the poor as regularly as ever, but from the day she heard the sad news
to her death, which happened a few years later, she was scarcely seen
to smile again, and she was never heard to mention Léon's name except to
Père Yvon. Hers was a life-long sorrow, too deep for words, too deep for
even tears to assuage its poignancy; her heart was broken; she had no
further interest in this life; all her hopes were centred on that life
where she hoped to meet her darling son again, never to be separated
from him.
The young baroness bore her trial very differently. She gave way to a
passionate outburst of grief on learning that her baby was drowned--a
grief in which the baron shared, and was, indeed, in more need of
consolation than his wife, for to his sorrow was added remorse and
bitterest stings of conscience for having brought such sorrow to his
wife, about whom he was very anxious, until the doctor assured him the
sad certainty was even better for her than the terrible suspense she had
been enduring for the last week. To a young, passionate nature hitherto
undisciplined by the sorrows of life, like the young baroness's,
anything was easier to bear than suspense, and the doctor assured Arnaud
that the passionate grief in which his wife indulged would do her no
harm--on the contrary, she was more likely to get over it quickly.
Violent grief is rarely lasting; there invariably follows a reaction.
A few days later the baron received another telegram from the Havre
agents, telling him they had found out that the Hirondelle had left
Yarmouth, on the Norfolk coast, where she had been lying for two or
three days, the day before she was lost, and was then intending to
cruise round the coast of Great Britain. The baron was immediately
raised from the depths of despair to the highest pinnacle of hope on
hearing this, for he felt sure Léon had gone ashore at Yarmouth to place
the baby with some Englishwoman, and had remained there some days on
purpose. Confiding his new hope to Père Yvon, he at once decided to
start that night for England by Dover and Calais, for already steamers
ran once or twice a week between these ports. He would then go on to
Yarmouth by stage-coach, and make all inquiries for his baby. His
difficulty was, he did not know the language, but living near the
Château de Thorens was a Monsieur de Courcy, who had married an English
wife, and spoke English very well. He was intimate with the De Thorens,
and the baron hoped he might be able to help him in his trouble.
Accordingly he called on the De Courcys at once, and, to his great
relief, Monsieur de Courcy offered to go to Yarmouth with him, while
Madame de Courcy suggested that the baroness should come and stay with
her during their husbands' absence, for the château was a very gloomy
place for the poor young mother while the shadow of death rested upon
it. Arnaud jumped at this, for he had never been separated from his wife
since their marriage, and he would far rather leave her with this pretty
young English lady than at the château, while his mother's grief for
Léon saddened the whole household. It was easy to account for his
journey to England, by saying that he was going to get particulars of
the accident from the place off which it happened. This would seem only
natural to Mathilde, who must on no account be told that he had any hope
of finding the child. She had accepted the news of its death without
questioning it, and it was far better to let her continue under this
impression than to raise fresh hopes, which, after all, might never be
realised, and if he could only persuade her to come to Parc du Baffy
while he was away he would feel quite happy about her.
Madame de Courcy and the baroness were on intimate terms with each
other, although Madame de Courcy was a staunch Protestant, and both the
baron and baroness bigoted Romanists; but the great attraction to
Mathilde, as Madame de Courcy guessed, would be her child, a beautiful
boy of three years old, in whom the baroness had delighted until her own
baby was born and absorbed all her time and affection. Knowing this,
Madame de Courcy offered to send her boy to the château with the baron,
hoping to inveigle the baroness to return with him to Parc du Baffy, a
manoeuvre which succeeded admirably, for Mathilde, not having seen the
little Rex for some weeks, was so enraptured with him that she could not
part with him, and as Madame de Courcy could not be asked to spare her
child as well as her husband, the baroness consented to go and stay at
the Parc while the baron was away. The little Rex was too old to remind
her of her own baby, and his pretty mixture of French and English amused
her immensely, and for the moment charmed away her sorrow. Had she known
the real object of her husband's visit to England, the suspense and
anxiety would have made her seriously ill; not knowing it, the change
and Rex's society did her good, so that Madame de Courcy was able, after
a day or two, to write to the baron and tell him his wife was certainly
better and more cheerful since she had been at the Parc du Baffy.
Meanwhile the baron and M. de Courcy reached Yarmouth safely, and
learned the day and hour on which the Hirondelle arrived and also left
Yarmouth, and that the cause of her remaining so long there was the
absconding of an English sailor, named, or, at all events, calling
himself, John Smith. The baron was more elated than ever at hearing
this, for he knew the Englishman was to place the baby out to nurse, and
if he were safe, the chances were that the child was too; but when,
after having run two or three John Smiths to earth and discovered that
they bore no resemblance to the original, it became evident that the
real John Smith had made himself scarce, and was probably not John Smith
at all, the baron's hopes of recovering the child again fell, though he
could not abandon the idea that if he could only find the runaway
sailor he should hear some news of the child. The wish was, perhaps,
father to the thought, but he could not help thinking the child was not
on board the Hirondelle when she went down, now that he found the
English carpenter had left the yacht at Yarmouth. But the baron felt his
inability to speak English a great drawback to prosecuting his inquiries
as fully as he would have liked, although M. de Courcy was very kind and
did all any friend could have been expected to do; still, it was not the
same as speaking the language himself, as the baron felt, and he
bitterly regretted he had never tried to master its difficulties. Many
of the Yarmouth fishermen and boatmen remembered the Hirondelle and the
handsome French gentleman to whom she belonged, but not one had ever
seen the sign of a baby on board her, though this did not throw much
light on the matter, as the baby might easily have been kept below or
removed at night.
At last, after spending a week or ten days in fruitless inquiries, the
baron and his friend returned to France, the baron convinced in his own
mind that some hope of his child being safe still existed, a hope which
he dared not communicate to the baroness, but which, nevertheless,
lingered in his breast for many a long day.
(_To be continued._)