"You have been much tried, mademoiselle. Let me urge you to go and lie
down."
Old Nannon came round from the foot of the bed. Therese hesitated, half
turned to the door, then back again towards the motionless figure. At
such a time the first departure seems almost a cruelty to the dead. M.
Deshoulieres laid his hand on her arm. "Come," he said, decidedly.
He led her into the adjoining _talon_, and closed the door of
communication, but instead of leaving him, as he anticipated, she walked
to the window and looked out at the fresh sweet morning, at the lights
that were flooding the yellow stone of the Cathedral. It was all very
solemn and tranquil as yet, although the town was just wakening to life.
There was nothing harsh, nothing that seemed to jar upon the quiet
repose of the figure that indeed should never more be vexed by earth's
discordant din. Therese stayed there, and looked out for some minutes.
It may be that she was gaining courage to speak, for when she turned
round her voice was a little tremulous.
"Before I go, will you, who have been so good a friend to us, tell me
whether my poor uncle spoke of--of Fabien, his nephew?"
"M. Fabien Saint-Martin? But certainly. He spoke much of him."
"Ah!"
"Permit me in my turn, mademoiselle, to ask from you whether you will be
able to give us any information as to where Monsieur Saint-Martin is to
be found?"
"You do not know? Surely he said!"
"On the contrary, he refused to answer, when we questioned him. I had
fears, I confess, but yet I hoped you would have been able to enlighten
us."
"But I cannot, I cannot! That was the secret he kept from me. Oh,
monsieur, he has not carried it to the grave!"
She was more moved than she had been yet. She turned impatiently from
the light, not crying, but with eyes full of trouble. M. Deshoulieres,
who did not understand her suppressed emotion, thought it was the result
of the scene she had gone through. She looked at him as if he must know
why these words of his were so terrible to her, but he did not know. He
put her down as tired and sad, and therefore fanciful.
"Go and rest yourself," he said decidedly. "You may be sure we shall
soon learn all we want."
"You do not know him," she said. "He was so--inflexible," the word was
spoken after a pause, as though a remembrance of the still face on the
pillow prevented her from using a harsher one. "Poor Fabien! He went
away partly in a rage, partly in disgrace. I think it was to America,
but even that I scarcely know. My uncle would tell no one--me least of
all," she added under her breath, so that the doctor did not hear.
"How long ago?"
"Two years."
Seeing that she did not move, M. Deshoulieres, in the flush of
annoyance at his own position, could not avoid alluding to it. "By a
strange and a most undesirable arrangement, I am to act as trustee for
the property, until it can be made over to M. Saint-Martin. It will be
necessary that Monsieur Roulleau and I go without delay to Chateau
Ardron. There you may be sure we shall hear some tidings."
Therese shook her head despairingly.
"If he told you nothing himself, you will not hear of my cousin at
Ardron."
M. Deshoulieres thought her perverse. He would not permit such a
possibility to take root in his mind. He went home through the quaint
crooked streets, all bathed in the delicious freshness of a spring
morning,--streets with old arched doorways, bits of bold carving,
clambering vines, and overhead a sky broken into tender pearly tints,
beneath which the blue was deepening every hour. People were already
about, standing on the top of doorsteps, plodding off to their work:
they stared curiously at the doctor, guessing that he was on his way
home from the Cygne, and wondering whether the tragedy was over. No one
ventured to address him, he looked too grave and preoccupied. He was
inwardly wroth with himself for having yielded, and yet he knew very
well that if the whole thing were to be repeated he should yield again.
What was to become of Therese? where was she to live? He caught sight
of a dull grey wall, and remembered with some satisfaction that there
was a convent in the town to which it was possible she might choose to
retire. He could not help thinking that such a course would be the best
she could take. "However," reflected M. Deshoulieres, dismissing the
subject with a sigh of perplexity, "we shall know better after I have
been to Ardron."
Ardron still seemed the goal where things were to be made clear, when he
and little Roulleau started for it on the day after the funeral.
Therese was at the notary's house,--a temporary arrangement which
relieved the doctor of some anxiety. To reach their end required a
journey of some hours, at first through the great sunny corn plains,
then by a cross line into a more diversified country, where was
pasture-land and great trees, under which the cattle stood lazily
content, and where, at last, they stopped at a little station bright
with flowers, and embowered in acacias.
A bloused porter answered their inquiries. "Chateau Ardron, messieurs?
That road--provided you keep continually to the right--will lead you
there in less than a quarter of an hour." M. Deshoulieres walked
quickly; he was anxious to put an end to his uncertainties; the notary
had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Monsieur Roulleau, who was
always haunted by a fear of accidents, wore a yellow straw hat, and
carried a huge umbrella to ward off sunstroke.
The sun was certainly hot, but a soft breeze rustled through the copse:
by and by they came to a little hill, and then to a turn in the road.
"We shall find the house there," said the doctor, quickening his pace.
He was right. On the top of a mound, stiffly planted on either side
with trees, stood an unmistakable chateau of the ugliest modern type.
It was built of red brick which time had not yet touched or mellowed,
and faced with broad belts of white stone; the windows were numerous,
and set thickly together, like those of a manufactory; at either end of
the front was a small edifice, to represent a tower, and in the centre a
little pretentious lantern.
"As I expected," said M. Deshoulieres, with a grimace which the notary
did not see. "Now for the inside, all gilt and satin."
All gilt and satin it was: the notary was rapturous in his admiration.
"It might have been in the upholsterer's shop yesterday," he said, in a
fervour of enthusiasm. The finery struck the doctor as looking more
desolate and melancholy in this uninhabited house than the most
threadbare furniture could have done. The rooms stared unmeaningly at
the daylight, as the old woman who lived there with her husband threw
back the shutters, and caught off the covers. Every thing seemed new,
gay, and heartless. One room upstairs was different from the others.
It was richly but more simply furnished: little things about it appeared
to resist the general cold formality of the house. It had a delicate
paper, pictures, a pretty little alcove hung with muslin.
"The room of mademoiselle," said the old woman, pushing back the
_persiennes_, and letting in a flood of warm sunlight. M. Deshoulieres
held back his companion at the door, and would not go in.
Therese was right, he began to fear. There were desks, papers, letters,
at the chateau, but no information about M. Saint-Martin. Every thing
was carefully and methodically arranged: only this one item was wanting,
which in M. Deshoulieres' eyes outweighed all the rest. Old Mathieu
and his wife, who knew nothing of their master's death, were full of
wonder, compassion, and, above all, anxiety about their own future. To
them there were no dismals at Chateau Ardron, only a warm kitchen,
plenty of firewood, a roof over their heads, a little monthly instalment
of francs. Monsieur Moreau had dismissed all the servants soon after
his wife's death, had shut up his grand chateau, and gone away with
Therese. It seemed as if a fit of restlessness had seized him. The
poor old people, who had no restlessness, wanted to be assured that they
would not lose their home, and when they understood this, they cheered
up again at once. M. Deshoulieres wondered whether M. Moreau had one
mourner in the world. It seemed as if he had built his own
prison-house, a wall of hard unloving words and deeds, in the midst of
which he had died.
The little notary was hard at work among the papers, tying up bundles,
and sealing them, when M. Deshoulieres rang the bell for the old couple
to answer his questions about Fabien. They knew even less than he
expected. They had heard of him, without doubt, but he had never been
at Ardron since M. Moreau hired them, and no one found it agreeable to
mention his name when it enraged his uncle to such a degree. The
notary, who had been glancing over letters, placed a couple in the
doctor's hands.
"They give no information, I fear; but I conceive it my duty to ask you
to read every thing in which M. Fabien's name appears," he said with an
air of profound caution.
Two boyish letters, written from school, and containing but few words.
They were tied up carefully, and had evidently been much read. Was this
the one human love that could have reached the hard cold man in his
prison-house? There were more letters in another packet of slight
importance, but all preserved; the last was dated two years and a half
ago, during an apparently temporary absence from Rouen, and alluding to
the purchase of Ardron.
"And there are no more?" inquired the doctor.
"No more," answered M. Roulleau, after a momentary pause. "That is to
say, I should prefer your assuring yourself on the matter. Here are the
papers in order."
M. Deshoulieres applied himself to the task. The two men sat there
reading, arranging, making notes, now and then saying a few words, until
the afternoon was far advanced. "There is nothing," exclaimed the
doctor, pushing back his chair impatiently. "Was there ever such a
predicament!"
"There is nothing, as you say," assented the notary, slowly. "After
all, the property is in good hands."
"Do not talk about it," M. Deshoulieres said testily. "One would
suppose you thought it a fine thing. There is the village still, and
the cure. We may hope for something from him."
In the village--which lay about a league behind the chateau, and to
which the doctor and the little notary walked, under a sweet, grave,
evening sky, through trees in which the nightingales were singing with
all their might--in the village there were enough surmises offered to
them to account for the disappearance of half a hundred nephews; but no
facts. Monsieur Fabien desired to see life--Monsieur Fabien could not
have his own will--he was, doubtless, an emigrant in America--in the
Mauritius--he was with the army in Algeria--he was amassing a fortune
among the English--he was a missionary in China. M. Deshoulieres was
too impatient to sift the trifles which were poured into his ear; M.
Roulleau professed himself at his wit's end. It made quite a little
sensation at Ardron to know that these strangers had brought news of
Monsieur Moreau's death, and were seeking tidings of Monsieur
Saint-Martin. The rumour travelled up to the presbytere, and Monsieur
le Cure was prepared when old Jeanneton came hobbling in, to say that
two gentlemen were asking to speak with him. He had an instinctive
aversion to strangers, and the welcome he accorded was not particularly
gracious. As they sat in the little humbly furnished room, with the
cure listening to his story with a grim, unsympathising face, M.
Deshoulieres thought he had never before entirely realised the
disagreeables of his position. Whenever a question was put to him, the
cure slightly raised his shoulders or shook his head. There was an air
of doubt about the manner in which he received every detail, which
irritated the doctor almost beyond bearing. He had never seen M.
Fabien. It was possible that he had been at Ardron. The extraordinary
terms of the will struck him as incomprehensible in a person of M.
Moreau's solidity. Did he understand them to say that they had already
searched the papers at the chateau without success? Had the two
gentlemen before him undertaken the task unaided?
"Monsieur le Cure is not perhaps aware that I have the honour of
belonging to the legal profession," put in the little notary, smoothly.
A dry cough was the cure's only answer. When the doctor said hotly,
that they were departing from the subject on hand, he got up, clasped
his hands behind his back, looked M. Deshoulieres full in the face, and
said--
"Unquestionably this difficulty must have greatly disarranged monsieur.
I regret exceedingly to have no information to offer on the matter."
"Not even a suggestion?" inquired the doctor, after a blank pause.
"_Pardon_. You may call the police to your aid, or you may insert an
appeal in the journals."
"Both means were expressly forbidden by the will, on such serious
conditions for M. Saint-Martin that I do not feel justified in adopting
them. To do so would be to reduce his fortune to 40,000 francs."
"In that case--" the cure concluded with a shrug.
The doctor strode away from the presbytere in great wrath. "Dolts!
idiots!" he muttered, swinging along with the great steps little
Roulleau found it difficult to follow. "No one can so much as use their
eyes and ears in this abominable place. To return to Charville as we
came is an absurdity not to be thought of."
Nevertheless, it was all that remained to be done. They did not reach
the Chateau until the moon had risen, throwing cold lights upon the
formal vases on the terrace, the empty basins of the _jets-d'eau_. The
nightingales had ceased, it was all quiet and a little oppressive. The
house stood up before them, ugly still when no more than its form could
be seen; outside the door old Mathieu and his wife had placed two
chairs, where they were sitting waiting for the return of the gentlemen.
Monsieur Saint-Martin's discovery was no desirable matter in their
eyes. It was an affair which they thought should be left to arrange
itself, and meanwhile Chateau Ardron was a very comfortable home for
their old age. M. Roulleau, meditating upon it, fancied that the
information M. Deshoulieres requested them to seek for, would not be
sought with overmuch eagerness.
"The country is well rid of such _vauriens_," grumbled the old woman to
him confidentially, as he pulled off the yellow bandana he had tied
round his throat for fear of the night air, and made her stand by while
he satisfied himself that his bed was dry. "Leave them alone. They
will come back only too soon."
"You forget, Mere Bourdon, you forget," said the notary, shaking his
head mildly, "if M. Saint-Martin were to return, he would take the
chateau into his own hands. There would be gay doings. The whole
neighbourhood would benefit."
"The saints forbid!" said Mere Bourdon fervently, under her breath.
Such a change of affairs would turn herself and old Mathieu out into the
cold. She thought of their draughty little hut and shivered. Three out
of the four who slept at Chateau Ardron that night were clearly of
opinion that M. Fabien Saint-Martin would do well to remain a mystery.
Early in the morning M. Deshoulieres was in the village again, but he
added nothing to his meagre stock of information. He came back through
the rain--for the weather had changed in the night--vexed and troubled,
and inclined to blame the notary for not suggesting a better plan of
operations. The country people going off to market, bumping along in
carts, or under enormous umbrellas walking sociably with their pigs or
their calves, all bade him good day; there was a sort of impression
already abroad that here was the real master of the chateau. Old
Mathieu and his wife scraped and bowed and wished "_bon voyage_" a dozen
times when the two went away to the railway station. M. Deshoulieres
in his annoyance was disposed to consign the chateau, the village, and
its inhabitants, including the cure, to the bottom of the sea. When
they were in the train he took from a bag a bundle of the papers they
had brought with them, and buried himself in them.
"It is inconceivable," he said at last.
The notary, who had apparently been sleeping, opened his eyes with a
wondering "_comment_?"
"It is inconceivable that in all those papers there should be nothing
relating to this nephew of a later date than the letters we discovered."
Roulleau shrugged his shoulders. "What will you?" he replied. "The man
was, without doubt, an eccentric. They had quarrelled, and he showed
his displeasure by obliterating whatever related to the time and cause
of their quarrel."
"His displeasure? Hum," said the doctor, "it looks more like wounded
affection. I wish, with all my heart, his eccentricities had not vented
themselves upon me. Well, there is no more to be said. `Patience, and
shuffle the cards.' We must wait. But, pray, where is Mademoiselle
Veuillot to wait?"
"You have to provide her with a home?"
"Precisely. And where?"
"Would it be possible for Mademoiselle to remain where she is?"
suggested the notary, doubtfully.
"At your house? My excellent Monsieur Roulleau, is such an arrangement
practicable?"
"There are drawbacks, certainly. But I would do any thing to assist you
in such an emergency."
"Let me hear the drawbacks."
"There is my wife. She is admirable--she is devoted--a paragon!"
exclaimed the little notary, enthusiastically, "nevertheless, monsieur,
she is a woman, and women are but human."
"Is that peculiarity confined to them?" asked M. Deshoulieres, dryly.
"Go on, M. Ignace, I fully comprehend that you must consult your wife."
"Monsieur is too considerate. The other drawback I am averse to
mentioning. Alas, it is not every one who can follow the dictates of
his heart--the sum bequeathed by Monsieur Moreau is so trifling, so
inadequate."
"I will double it," promptly replied the doctor. "So long as Mdlle.
Veuillot remains in your house, and is supplied with all that is
necessary and fitting, I will undertake to pay you twice the sum named
by Monsieur Moreau. When the heir comes, of course he will take the
arrangements in his own hands."
"Without doubt, without doubt," said Roulleau, quickly. "You are
generous indeed, monsieur. When the young lady is aware of what you
have done in her behalf--"
"She will be aware of nothing," M. Deshoulieres interrupted with
decision. "The money matters do not go beyond us. You will find out
from Madame Roulleau whether the arrangement is agreeable to herself,
and if it meets with no opposition from Mademoiselle Veuillot, it may be
considered an affair settled. I shall go to sleep with a mind
relieved."
When M. Deshoulieres was asleep, the little notary took out a
pocket-book, looked at the superscription of two letters, each addressed
to M. Moreau, Chateau Ardron, and replaced them in his pocket with a
grimace of satisfaction.
"Zenobie will acknowledge that I have arranged this little matter well,"
he said to himself, triumphantly. "If only this damp does not injure my
chest!"