With the reader's permission, we must now jump over an interval of
rather more than a year, and bring upon the stage a person who, though
only of secondary importance, can no longer be left behind the scenes.
We have already said that the loves of Quennebert and Madame Rapally
were regarded with a jealous eye by a distant cousin of the lady's late
husband. The love of this rejected suitor, whose name was Trumeau, was
no more sincere than the notary's, nor were his motives more honourable.
Although his personal appearance was not such as to lead him to expect
that his path would be strewn with conquests, he considered that his
charms at least equalled those of his defunct relative; and it may be
said that in thus estimating them he did not lay himself--open to the
charge of overweening vanity. But however persistently he preened him
self before the widow, she vouchsafed him not one glance. Her heart was
filled with the love of his rival, and it is no easy thing to tear a
rooted passion out of a widow's heart when that widow's age is
forty-six, and she is silly enough to believe that the admiration she
feels is equalled by the admiration she inspires, as the unfortunate
Trumeau found to his cost. All his carefully prepared declarations of
love, all his skilful insinuations against Quennebert, brought him
nothing but scornful rebuffs. But Trumeau was nothing if not
persevering, and he could not habituate himself to the idea of seeing
the widow's fortune pass into other hands than his own, so that every
baffled move only increased his determination to spoil his competitor's
game. He was always on the watch for a chance to carry tales to the
widow, and so absorbed did he become in this fruitless pursuit, that he
grew yellower and more dried up from day to day, and to his jaundiced
eye the man who was at first simply his rival became his mortal enemy
and the object of his implacable hate, so that at length merely to get
the better of him, to outwit him, would, after so long-continued and
obstinate a struggle and so many defeats, have seemed to him too mild a
vengeance, too incomplete a victory.
Quennebert was well aware of the zeal with which the indefatigable
Trumeau sought to injure him. But he regarded the manoeuvres of his
rival with supreme unconcern, for he knew that he could at any time
sweep away the network of cunning machinations, underhand insinuations,
and malicious hints, which was spread around him, by allowing the widow
to confer on him the advantages she was so anxious to bestow. The goal,
he knew, was within his reach, but the problem he had to solve was how
to linger on the way thither, how to defer the triumphal moment, how to
keep hope alive in the fair one's breast and yet delay its fruition. His
affairs were in a bad way. Day by day full possession of the fortune
thus dangled before his eyes, and fragments of which came to him
occasionally by way of loan, was becoming more and more indispensable,
and tantalising though it was, yet he dared not put out his hand to
seize it. His creditors dunned him relentlessly: one final reprieve had
been granted him, but that at an end, if he could not meet their
demands, it was all up with his career and reputation.
One morning in the beginning of February 1660, Trumeau called to see his
cousin. He had not been there for nearly a month, and Quennebert and the
widow had begun to think that, hopeless of success, he had retired from
the contest. But, far from that, his hatred had grown more intense than
ever, and having come upon the traces of an event in the past life of
his rival which if proved would be the ruin of that rival's hopes, he
set himself to gather evidence. He now made his appearance with beaming
looks, which expressed a joy too great for words. He held in one hand a
small scroll tied with a ribbon. He found the widow alone, sitting in a
large easy-chair before the fire. She was reading for the twentieth time
a letter which Quenriebert had written her the evening before. To judge
by the happy and contented expression of the widow's face, it must have
been couched in glowing terms. Trumeau guessed at once from whom the
missive came, but the sight of it, instead of irritating him, called
forth a smile.
"Ah! so it's you, cousin?" said the widow, folding the precious paper
and slipping it into the bosom of her dress. "How do you do? It's a long
time since I saw you, more than a fortnight, I think. Have you been
ill?"
"So you remarked my absence! That is very flattering, my dear cousin;
you do not often spoil me by such attentions. No, I have not been ill,
thank God, but I thought it better not to intrude upon you so often. A
friendly call now and then such as to-day's is what you like, is it not?
By the way, tell me about your handsome suitor, Maitre Quennebert; how
is he getting along?"
"You look very knowing, Trumeau: have you heard of anything happening to
him?"
"No, and I should be exceedingly sorry to hear that anything unpleasant
had happened to him."
Now you are not saying what you think, you know you can't bear him."
"Well, to speak the truth, I have no great reason to like him. If it
were not for him, I should perhaps have been happy to-day; my love might
have moved your heart. However, I have become resigned to my loss, and
since your choice has fallen on him,"--and here he sighed,--"well, all I
can say is, I hope you may never regret it."
"Many thanks for your goodwill, cousin; I am delighted to find you in
such a benevolent mood. You must not be vexed because I could not give
you the kind of love you wanted; the heart, you know, is not amenable to
reason."
"There is only one thing I should like to ask."
"What is it?"
"I mention it for your good more than for my own. If you want to be
happy, don't let this handsome quill-driver get you entirely into his
hands. You are saying to yourself that because of my ill-success with
you I am trying to injure him; but what if I could prove that he does
not love you as much as he pretends--?"
"Come, come, control your naughty tongue! Are you going to begin
backbiting again? You are playing a mean part, Trumeau. I have never
hinted to Maitre Quennebert all the nasty little ways in which you have
tried to put a spoke in his wheel, for if he knew he would ask you to
prove your words, and then you would look very foolish.".
"Not at all, I swear to you. On the contrary, if I were to tell all I
know in his presence, it is not I who would be disconcerted. Oh! I am
weary of meeting with nothing from you but snubs, scorn, and abuse. You
think me a slanderer when I say, 'This gallant wooer of widows does not
love you for yourself but for your money-bags. He fools you by fine
promises, but as to marrying you--never, never!'"
"May I ask you to repeat that?" broke in Madame Rapally
"Oh! I know what I am saying. You will never be Madame Quennebert."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Jealousy has eaten away whatever brains you used to possess, Trumeau.
Since I saw you last, cousin, important changes have taken place: I was
just going to send you to-day an invitation to my wedding."
"To your wedding?"
"Yes; I am to be married to-morrow."
"To-morrow? To Quennebert?" stammered Trumeau.
"To Quennebert," repeated the widow in a tone of triumph.
"It's not possible!" exclaimed Trumeau.
"It is so possible that you will see us united tomorrow. And for the
future I must beg of you to regard Quennebert no longer as a rival but
as my husband, whom to offend will be to offend me."
The tone in which these words were spoken no longer left room for doubt
as to the truth of the news. Trumeau looked down for a few moments, as
if reflecting deeply before definitely making up his mind. He twisted
the little roll of papers between his fingers, and seemed to be in doubt
whether to open it and give it to Madame Rapally to read or not. In the
end, however, he put it in his pocket, rose, and approaching his cousin,
said--
"I beg your pardon, this news completely changes my opinion. From the
moment Maitre Quennebert becomes your husband I shall not have a word to
say against him. My suspicions were unjust, I confess it frankly, and I
hope that in consideration of the motives which prompted me you will
forget the warmth of my attacks. I shall make no protestations, but
shall let the future show how sincere is my devotion to your interests."
Madame Rapally was too happy, too certain of being loved, not to pardon
easily. With the self-complacency and factitious generosity of a woman
who feels herself the object of two violent passions, she was so good as
to feel pity for the lover who was left out in the cold, and offered him
her hand. Trumeau kissed it with every outward mark of respect, while
his lips curled unseen in a smite of mockery. The cousins parted,
apparently the best of friends, and on the understanding that Trumeau
would be present at the nuptial benediction, which was to be given in a
church beyond the town hall, near the house in which the newly-married
couple were to live; the house on the Pont Saint-Michel having lately
been sold to great advantage.
"On my word," said Trumeau, as he went off, "it would have been a great
mistake to have spoken. I have got that wretch of a Quennebert into my
clutches at last; and there is nobody but himself to blame. He is taking
the plunge of his own free will, there is no need for me to shove him
off the precipice."
The ceremony took place next day. Quennebert conducted his interesting
bride to the altar, she hung with ornaments like the shrine of a saint,
and, beaming all over with smiles, looked so ridiculous that the
handsome bridegroom reddened to the roots of his hair with shame. Just
as they entered the church, a coffin, on which lay a sword, and which
was followed by a single mourner, who from his manners and dress seemed
to belong to the class of nobles, was carried in by the same door. The
wedding guests drew back to let the funeral pass on, the living giving
precedence to the dead. The solitary mourner glanced by chance at
Quennebert, and started as if the sight of him was painful.
"What an unlucky meeting!" murmured Madame Rapally; "it is sure to be a
bad omen."
"It's sure to be the exact opposite," said Quennebert smiling.
The two ceremonies took place simultaneously in two adjoining chapels;
the funeral dirges which fell on the widow's ear full of sinister
prediction seemed to have quite another meaning for Quennebert, for his
features lost their look of care, his wrinkles smoothed themselves out,
till the guests, among whom was Trumeau, who did not suspect the secret
of his relief from suspense, began to believe, despite their surprise,
that he was really rejoiced at obtaining legal possession of the
charming Madame Rapally.
As for her, she fleeted the daylight hours by anticipating the joyful
moment when she would have her husband all to herself. When night came,
hardly had she entered the nuptial chamber than she uttered a piercing
shriek. She had just found and read a paper left on the bed by Trumeau,
who before leaving had contrived to glide into the room unseen. Its
contents were of terrible import, so terrible that the new-made wife
fell unconscious to the ground.
Quennebert, who, without a smile, was absorbed in reflections on the
happiness at last within his grasp, heard the noise from the next room,
and rushing in, picked up his wife. Catching sight of the paper, he also
uttered a cry of anger and astonishment, but in whatever circumstances
he found himself he was never long uncertain how to act. Placing Madame
Quennebert, still unconscious, on the bed, he called her maid, and,
having impressed on her that she was to take every care of her mistress,
and above all to tell her from him as soon as she came to herself that
there was no cause for alarm, he left the house at once. An hour later,
in spite of the efforts of the servants, he forced his way into the
presence of Commander de Jars. Holding out the fateful document to him,
he said:
"Speak openly, commander! Is it you who in revenge for your long
constraint have done this? I can hardly think so, for after what has
happened you know that I have nothing to fear any longer. Still, knowing
my secret and unable to do it in any other way, have you perchance taken
your revenge by an attempt to destroy my future happiness by sowing
dissension and disunion between me and my wife?"
The commander solemnly assured him that he had had no hand in bringing
about the discovery.
'Then if it's not you, it must be a worthless being called Trumeau, who,
with the unerring instinct of jealousy, has run the truth to earth. But
he knows only half: I have never been either so much in love or so
stupid as to allow myself to be trapped. I have given you my promise to
be discreet and not to misuse my power, and as long as was compatible
with my own safety I have kept my word. But now you must see that I am
bound to defend myself, and to do that I shall be obliged to summon you
as a witness. So leave Paris tonight and seek out some safe retreat
where no one can find you, for to-morrow I shall speak. Of course if I
am quit for a woman's tears, if no more difficult task lies before me
than to soothe a weeping wife, you can return immediately; but if, as is
too probable, the blow has been struck by the hand of a rival furious at
having been defeated, the matter will not so easily be cut short; the
arm of the law will be invoked, and then I must get my head out of the
noose which some fingers I know of are itching to draw tight."
"You are quite right, sir," answered the commander; "I fear that my
influence at court is not strong enough to enable me to brave the matter
out. Well, my success has cost me dear, but it has cured me for ever of
seeking out similar adventures. My preparations will not take long, and
to-morrow's dawn will find me far from Paris."
Quennebert bowed and withdrew, returning home to console his Ariadne.