"M. Saint-Martin, I demand an explanation, of words which are to me
wholly unintelligible."
"M. Deshoulieres, I demand, on my part, firstly, an explanation of your
non-appearance at the Lion d'Or at Pont-huine?"
"So? that is easily given, monsieur. The sudden illness of one of my
patients prevented it. In my stead I sent the notary who drew up
Monsieur Moreau's will, and was equally with myself acquainted with its
particulars. M. Roulleau spent the afternoon at Pont-huine. As no
person appeared, he returned to Charville with the belief that we had
been made the victims of a jest."
M. Fabien laughed. "This, I think, you can disprove," he said, turning
to the cure.
"It was no jest, monsieur," said the cure, sternly. "You will permit me
to remark that all I heard, even from your own lips, of Monsieur
Moreau's last illness, and the extraordinary terms of his will, coupled
with the amazing fact of his having chosen as _depositaire_ a man wholly
unknown to him until the morning of his death, appeared to me so
unaccountable, not to say suspicious, that I felt it my duty to act in
some degree on my own responsibility. I made private inquiries among
those whom I considered likely to aid me, and immediately that I
succeeded in obtaining a slight clew which it appeared to me might lead
to the desired point, I thought it desirable--yes, monsieur, I avow it--
to test the sincerity of your professions, by appointing a meeting at
the Lion d'Or. Permit me to state that from having myself waited there
the whole day in vain, I am in a condition to affirm that no notice was
taken of my communication."
"Allow me, then, in return, to say that you behaved in an indefensible
manner, M. le Cure," replied M. Deshoulieres, promptly. "You had no
right to indulge in anonymous communications. Nevertheless, I have
already informed you of what was done. You can apply to M. Roulleau.
Have you any thing more to remark?"
The cure, who was suspicious but not irritable, glancing at him again,
could not repress another feeling of admiration. Either the man was a
magnificent deceiver or--He was so steadfast, so noble-looking, so
immeasurably above the other. M. le Cure fidgeted, and did not know
what to think. Fabien answered the question hotly.
"A great deal more. During the last year I have twice written to my
uncle, at Chateau Ardron. What has become of these letters?"
"I cannot answer you," said Max, in some surprise. "I cannot answer you
that question. Since the first month only a few unimportant letters
have come to me, and they were brought by M. Roulleau, to whom they
have been forwarded by some mistake."
"We have questioned old Mathieu at Ardron," the cure said dryly; "he
remembers the foreign letters, and will swear to having forwarded them.
As to the mistake, he told us that he had your directions to send all
letters to M. Roulleau, numero 8, Rue St Servan, Charville."
M. Deshoulieres' face, for the first time, looked troubled. "There is
something strange in this which I do not understand," he said slowly.
Fabien interrupted him with his insulting laugh.
"There is a great deal, let me assure you, monsieur, which we do not
understand--"
Max, in his turn, stopped him. "That will do, Monsieur Saint-Martin. I
can pardon much to a person in your position, but my forbearance has its
limits. I shall question M. Roulleau on the points you have named. It
is unnecessary to say more to-night. May I ask what hour you will
appoint for meeting me in Charville to-morrow, when the will can be
read, and the papers delivered into your keeping?"
"Charville, monsieur? On my word, were I to meet you in Charville the
complications might be increased by a second deathbed scene. A thousand
thanks, but I must decline your invitation to that charming fever-hole."
"In that case, monsieur, I regret to state that my unwished-for trust
cannot be brought to an end so quickly as I should desire. The wording
of the will requires your presence in Charville."
"More extraordinary provisions!" said the young man, with a shrug of
annoyance. The cure interrupted him contemptuously.
"It is not the part of a brave man to fear shadows," he said. "M.
Deshoulieres, will twelve o'clock be agreeable to you?"
Max bowed.
"At your own house?"
"I think not. I would suggest the Cygne."
"Good. Before you go, may I trouble you with one question?" said the
cure, whose suspicions and whose impressions were pulling him different
ways.
"Certainly."
"At the beginning of this interview you remarked upon that condition of
M. Moreau's will which forbade the advertisement of the bequest to his
nephew, that it appeared unaccountable to you at the time. I gather
from that, monsieur, that a solution has since presented itself to you.
If I am not mistaken, may I inquire the nature of this solution?"
Ah, Therese, waiting and watching, not knowing yet who was so near! Ah,
faithful heart, that never faltered in its purpose, nor suffered its own
pain to stand before her happiness! Ah, true, patient, noble love, that
gave his face the glory that it wore!
"Monsieur Saint-Martin," he said, turning from the cure, and speaking to
the young man, "I believe that your uncle, in spite of his words, loved
you above all others. I believe he regretted the harshness which had
separated you and Mademoiselle Veuillot, and desired in a certain manner
to atone for it. He may have thought that a voluntary appeal on your
part would be a test of the sincerity of your attachment. At all
events, it appears to me that the provisions of his will, which were
intended to keep Mademoiselle Veuillot in Charville, and to oblige you
to receive your inheritance in the same town, could tend to no other
purpose."
"Ah, by the way, Therese!" said Fabien, lightly. "Is Therese in
Charville?"
"You will see her to-morrow," M. Deshoulieres said gravely. Was this
the first thought of her who had been left so desolate? He bowed and
went away quickly, not daring to trust himself longer. Fabien half
followed him, and then came back and flung himself on a sofa.
"I don't know that we should have let him go, after all," he said,
irresolutely.
"I hardly think you would have had much power to prevent him," remarked
the cure, with a grim smile, coming from the window, and ringing the
bell for lights. He could not help despising the young man with his
weak passionate nature, and yet he tried to keep up a conviction that he
had been wronged.
"And so Therese is here," said Fabien. He laughed a little to himself,
and curled his moustache. "She had a spirit, had Therese, and her eyes
were something to remember. _Parbleu_, though, a visit to that
fever-hole is not too agreeable to contemplate."
"Is Mademoiselle Veuillot your _fiancee_?" asked the cure, severely.
Fabien laughed again. "_Fiancee_? No, _mon pere_, not altogether. We
shall see."
"It is possible that her interests also may have suffered."
"Ah--yes--it is possible. But my uncle had not too great a love for
Therese. I am curious to know how he has provided for her."
"Yet I have understood that your disagreement with your uncle originated
in your attachment for Mademoiselle Veuillot," said the cure, facing
round upon him sharply.
"Precisely," answered Fabien, airily. "But then--what will you?--I was
young, foolish--the truth was that I could not endure my old uncle's
_regime_ in the office. I heard of an opening in Rio Janeiro, and I
worked my way out. On the voyage I wished myself back a hundred times,
I promise you, but once there, somehow or other, I found myself on my
feet--fortune favoured me. I was getting weary of it, though, and this
news came to me just in time through M. l'Abbe, but it is not a bad
place after all. One sees the world."
And so M. Fabien rattled on, while the cure looked at him and listened
with a growing discontent. Before he went to bed, he found it necessary
to repeat to himself all the evidence he had gathered against M.
Deshoulieres. There was no denying it; things bore a very dark
appearance. A suspicious trust; an appointment said to have been kept
in the face of his own knowledge to the contrary; letters suppressed;
rumours that all was not right; a letter from M. l'Abbe at the Eveche:
"M. Deshoulieres is a man well spoken of, but my own opinion of him
does not coincide with that of the world." A letter from the Prefet: "I
consider this doctor a pestilent, discontented individual, always trying
to advance his own schemes. In effect, I doubt him."
"M. le Prefet would not have spoken without reason," said M. le Cure to
himself assuringly, as he folded up the letter. "After all, there are
cases in the world when a man's face does not agree with his actions."
M. Deshoulieres went sadly home that night. It was not of his own grey
future that he was thinking, nor of the accusations that had been heaped
upon him so unexpectedly--he almost smiled as he recalled them. He was
thinking of Therese and of Fabien. Was this man to whom her heart had
gone out, one who would keep it, and treasure it, and cherish it? There
was a deep intolerable pain in the question that would come surging up
in spite of his efforts to still it. The stars shone out, and a fresh
rustling breeze was swaying the stiff sycamores, lights were gleaming
from the old houses, the vines on the balconies had changed into dusky
masses. The shadowy old sounds and sights were very familiar and sweet
to poor Max, but this night they seemed to have lost their power.