Edouard Riviere was unhappy. She never came out now. This alone made the
days dark to him. And then he began to fear it was him she shunned. She
must have seen him lie in wait for her; and so she would come out no
more. He prowled about and contrived to fall in with Jacintha; he told
her his grief. She assured him the simple fact was their mourning was
worn out, and they were ashamed to go abroad in colors. This revelation
made his heart yearn still more.
“O Jacintha,” said he, “if I could only make a beginning; but here we
might live a century in the same parish, and not one chance for a poor
wretch to make acquaintance.”
Jacintha admitted this, and said gentlefolks were to be pitied. “Why, if
it was the likes of me, you and I should have made friends long before
now.”
Jacintha herself was puzzled what to do; she would have told Rose if she
had felt sure it would be well received; but she could not find out that
the young lady had even noticed the existence of Edouard. But her brain
worked, and lay in wait for an opportunity.
One came sooner than she expected. One morning at about six o’clock, as
she came home from milking the cow, she caught sight of young Riviere
trying to open the iron gate. “What is up now?” thought she; suddenly
the truth flashed upon her, clear as day. She put her pail down and
stole upon him. “You want to leave us another purse,” said she. He
colored all over and panted.
“How did you know? how could you know? you won’t betray me? you won’t be
so cruel? you promised.”
“Me betray you,” said Jacintha; “why, I’ll help you; and then they will
be able to buy mourning, you know, and then they will come out, and give
you a chance. You can’t open that gate, for it’s locked. But you come
round to the lane, and I’ll get you the key; it is hanging up in the
kitchen.”
The key was in her pocket. But the sly jade wanted him away from that
gate; it commanded a view of the Pleasaunce. He was no sooner safe in
the lane, than she tore up-stairs to her young ladies, and asked them
with affected calm whether they would like to know who left the purse.
“Oh, yes, yes!” screamed Rose.
“Then come with me. You ARE dressed; never mind your bonnets, or you
will be too late.”
Questions poured on her; but she waived all explanation, and did not
give them time to think, or Josephine, for one, she knew would raise
objections. She led the way to the Pleasaunce, and, when she got to the
ancestral oak, she said hurriedly, “Now, mesdemoiselles, hide in there,
and as still as mice. You’ll soon know who leaves the purses.”
With this she scudded to the lane, and gave Edouard the key. “Look
sharp,” said she, “before they get up; it’s almost their dressing time.”
“YOU’LL SOON KNOW WHO LEAVES THE PURSES!”
Curiosity, delicious curiosity, thrilled our two daughters of Eve.
This soon began to alternate with chill misgivings at the novelty of the
situation.
“She is not coming back,” said Josephine ruefully.
“No,” said Rose, “and suppose when we pounce out on him, it should be a
stranger.”
“Pounce on him? surely we are not to do that?”
“Oh, y-yes; that is the p-p-programme,” quavered Rose.
A key grated, and the iron gate creaked on its hinges. They ran together
and pinched one another for mutual support, but did not dare to speak.
Presently a man’s shadow came slap into the tree. They crouched and
quivered, and expected to be caught instead of catching, and wished
themselves safe back in bed, and all this a nightmare, and no worse.
At last they recovered themselves enough to observe that this shadow,
one half of which lay on the ground, while the head and shoulders went a
little way up the wall of the tree, represented a man’s profile, not his
front face. The figure, in short, was standing between them and the sun,
and was contemplating the chateau, not the tree.
The shadow took off its hat to Josephine, in the tree. Then would she
have screamed if she had not bitten her white hand instead, and made a
red mark thereon.
It wiped its brow with a handkerchief; it had walked fast, poor thing!
The next moment it was away.
They looked at one another and panted. They scarcely dared do it before.
Then Rose, with one hand on her heaving bosom, shook her little white
fist viciously at where the figure must be, and perhaps a comical
desire of vengeance stimulated her curiosity. She now glided through the
fissure like a cautious panther from her den; and noiseless and supple
as a serpent began to wind slowly round the tree. She soon came to a
great protuberance in the tree, and twining and peering round it with
diamond eye, she saw a very young, very handsome gentleman, stealing on
tiptoe to the nearest flower-bed. Then she saw him take a purse out of
his bosom, and drop it on the bed. This done, he came slowly past the
tree again, and was even heard to vent a little innocent chuckle of
intense satisfaction: but of brief duration; for, when Rose saw the
purse leave his hand, she made a rapid signal to Josephine to wheel
round the other side of the tree, and, starting together with admirable
concert, both the daughters of Beaurepaire glided into sight with a vast
appearance of composure.
Two women together are really braver than fifteen separate; but still,
most of this tranquillity was merely put on, but so admirably that
Edouard Riviere had no chance with them. He knew nothing about their
tremors; all he saw or heard was, a rustle, then a flap on each side of
him as of great wings, and two lovely women were upon him with angelic
swiftness. “Ah!” he cried out with a start, and glanced from the
first-comer, Rose, to the gate. But Josephine was on that side by this
time, and put up her hand, as much as to say, “You can’t pass here.” In
such situations, the mind works quicker than lightning. He took off his
hat, and stammered an excuse--“Come to look at the oak.” At this moment
Rose pounced on the purse, and held it up to Josephine. He was caught.
His only chance now was to bolt for the mark and run; but it was not
the notary, it was a novice who lost his presence of mind, or perhaps
thought it rude to run when a lady told him to stand still. All he did
was to crush his face into his two hands, round which his cheeks and
neck now blushed red as blood. Blush? they could both see the color rush
like a wave to the very roots of his hair and the tips of his fingers.
The moment our heroines, who, in that desperation which is one of
the forms of cowardice, had hurled themselves on the foe, saw this,
flash--the quick-witted poltroons exchanged purple lightning over
Edouard’s drooping head, and enacted lionesses in a moment.
It was with the quiet composure of lofty and powerful natures that
Josephine opened on him. “Compose yourself, sir; and be so good as
to tell us who you are.” Edouard must answer. Now he could not speak
through his hands; and he could not face a brace of tranquil lionesses:
so he took a middle course, removed one hand, and shading himself from
Josephine with the other, he gasped out, “I am--my name is Riviere; and
I--I--ladies!”
“I am afraid we frighten you,” said Josephine, demurely.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Rose, majestically; “we are not VERY angry,
only a LITTLE curious to know why you water our flowers with gold.”
At this point-blank thrust, and from her, Edouard was so confounded and
distressed, they both began to pity him. He stammered out that he was
so confused he did not know what to say. He couldn’t think how ever he
could have taken such a liberty; might he be permitted to retire? and
with this he tried to slip away.
“Let me detain you one instant,” said Josephine, and made for the house.
Left alone so suddenly with the culprit, the dignity, and majesty, and
valor of Rose seemed to ooze gently out; and she stood blushing, and had
not a word to say; no more had Edouard. But he hung his head, and she
hung her head. And, somehow or other, whenever she raised her eyes
to glance at him, he raised his to steal a look at her, and mutual
discomfiture resulted.
This awkward, embarrassing delirium was interrupted by Josephine’s
return. She now held another purse in her hand, and quietly poured the
rest of the coin into it. She then, with a blush, requested him to take
back the money.
At that he found his tongue. “No, no,” he cried, and put up his hands in
supplication. “Ladies, do let me speak ONE word to you. Do not reject my
friendship. You are alone in the world; your father is dead; your mother
has but you to lean on. After all, I am your neighbor, and neighbors
should be friends. And I am your debtor; I owe you more than you could
ever owe me; for ever since I came into this neighborhood I have been
happy. No man was ever so happy as I, ever since one day I was
walking, and met for the first time an angel. I don’t say it was you,
Mademoiselle Rose. It might be Mademoiselle Josephine.”
“How pat he has got our names,” said Rose, smiling.
“A look from that angel has made me so good, so happy. I used to
vegetate, but now I live. Live! I walk on wings, and tread on roses. Yet
you insist on declining a few miserable louis d’or from him who owes you
so much. Well, don’t be angry; I’ll take them back, and throw them into
the nearest pond, for they are really no use to me. But then you will
be generous in your turn. You will accept my devotion, my services.
You have no brother, you know; well, I have no sisters; let me be your
brother, and your servant forever.”
At all this, delivered in as many little earnest pants as there were
sentences, the water stood in the fair eyes he was looking into so
piteously.
Josephine was firm, but angelical. “We thank you, Monsieur Riviere,”
said she, softly, “for showing us that the world is still embellished
with hearts like yours. Here is the money;” and she held it out in her
creamy hand.
“But we are very grateful,” put in Rose, softly and earnestly.
“That we are,” said Josephine, “and we beg to keep the purse as a
souvenir of one who tried to do us a kindness without mortifying us. And
now, Monsieur Riviere, you will permit us to bid you adieu.”
Edouard was obliged to take the hint. “It is I who am the intruder,”
said he. “Mesdemoiselles, conceive, if you can, my pride and my
disappointment.” He then bowed low; they courtesied low to him in
return; and he retired slowly in a state of mixed feeling indescribable.
With all their sweetness and graciousness, he felt overpowered by their
high breeding, their reserve, and their composure, in a situation that
had set his heart beating itself nearly out of his bosom. He acted the
scene over again, only much more adroitly, and concocted speeches for
past use, and was very hot and very cold by turns.
I wish he could have heard what passed between the sisters as soon as
ever he was out of earshot. It would have opened his eyes, and given him
a little peep into what certain writers call “the sex.”
“Poor boy,” murmured Josephine, “he has gone away unhappy.”
“Oh, I dare say he hasn’t gone far,” replied Rose, gayly. “I shouldn’t
if I was a boy.”
Josephine held up her finger like an elder sister; then went on to say
she really hardly knew why she had dismissed him.
“Well, dear,” said Rose, dryly, “since you admit so much, I must say I
couldn’t help thinking--while you were doing it--we were letting ‘the
poor boy’ off ridiculously cheap.”
“At least I did my duty?” suggested Josephine, inquiringly.
“Magnificently; you overawed even me. So now to business, as the
gentlemen say. Which of us two takes him?”
“Takes whom?” inquired Josephine, opening her lovely eyes.
“Edouard,” murmured Rose, lowering hers.
Josephine glared on the lovely minx with wonder and comical horror.
“Oh! you shall have him,” said Rose, “if you like. You are the eldest,
you know.”
“Fie!”
“Do now; TO OBLIGE ME.”
“For shame! Rose. Is this you? talking like that!”
“Oh! there’s no compulsion, dear; I never force young ladies’
inclinations. So you decline him?”
“Of course I decline him.”
“Then, oh, you dear, darling Josephine, this is the prettiest present
you ever made me,” and she kissed her vehemently.
Josephine was frightened now. She held Rose out at arm’s length with
both hands, and looked earnestly into her, and implored her not to play
with fire. “Take warning by me.”
Rose recommended her to keep her pity for Monsieur Riviere, “who had
fallen into nice hands,” she said. That no doubt might remain on that
head, she whispered mysteriously, but with much gravity and conviction,
“I am an Imp;” and aimed at Josephine with her forefinger to point the
remark. For one second she stood and watched this important statement
sink into her sister’s mind, then set-to and gambolled elfishly round
her as she moved stately and thoughtful across the grass to the chateau.
Two days after this a large tree was blown down in Beaurepaire park,
and made quite a gap in the prospect. You never know what a big thing a
leafy tree is till it comes down. And this ill wind blew Edouard good;
for it laid bare the chateau to his inquiring telescope. He had not
gazed above half an hour, when a female figure emerged from the chateau.
His heart beat. It was only Jacintha. He saw her look this way and that,
and presently Dard appeared, and she sent him with his axe to the fallen
tree. Edouard watched him hacking away at it. Presently his heart gave a
violent leap; for why? two ladies emerged from the Pleasaunce and walked
across the park. They came up to Dard, and stood looking at the tree and
Dard hacking it, and Edouard watched them greedily. You know we all love
to magnify her we love. And this was a delightful way of doing it. It
is “a system of espionage” that prevails under every form of government.
How he gazed, and gazed, on his now polar star; studied every turn,
every gesture, with eager delight, and tried to gather what she said, or
at least the nature of it.
But by and by they left Dard and strolled towards the other end of the
park. Then did our astronomer fling down his tube, and come running out
in hopes of intercepting them, and seeming to meet them by some strange
fortuity. Hope whispered he should be blessed with a smile; perhaps
a word even. So another minute and he was running up the road to
Beaurepaire. But his good heart was doomed to be diverted to a much
humbler object than his idol; as he came near the fallen tree he heard
loud cries for help, followed by groans of pain. He bounded over the
hedge, and there was Dard hanging over his axe, moaning. “What is the
matter? what is the matter?” cried Edouard, running to him.
“Oh! oh! cut my foot. Oh!”
Edouard looked, and turned sick, for there was a gash right through
Dard’s shoe, and the blood welling up through it. But, recovering
himself by an effort of the will, he cried out, “Courage, my lad!
don’t give in. Thank Heaven there’s no artery there. Oh, dear, it is
a terrible cut! Let us get you home, that is the first thing. Can you
walk?”
“Lord bless you, no! nor stand neither without help.”
Edouard flew to the wheelbarrow, and, reversing it, spun a lot of billet
out. “Ye must not do that,” said Dard with all the energy he was capable
of in his present condition. “Why, that is Jacintha’s wood.”--“To the
devil with Jacintha and her wood too!” cried Edouard, “a man is worth
more than a fagot. Come, I shall wheel you home: it is only just across
the park.”
With some difficulty he lifted him into the barrow. Luckily he had his
shooting-jacket on with a brandy-flask in it: he administered it with
excellent effect.
The ladies, as they walked, saw a man wheeling a barrow across the park,
and took no particular notice; but, as Riviere was making for the same
point they were, though at another angle, presently the barrow came near
enough for them to see Dard’s head and arms in it. Rose was the first to
notice this. “Look! look! if he is not wheeling Dard in the barrow now.”
“Who?”
“Can you ask? Who provides all our excitement?”
Josephine instantly divined there was something amiss. “Consider,” said
she, “Monsieur Riviere would not wheel Dard all across the park for
amusement.”
Rose assented; and in another minute, by a strange caprice of fate,
those Edouard had come to intercept, quickened their pace to intercept
him. As soon as he saw their intention he thrilled all over, but did not
slacken his pace. He told Dard to take his coat and throw it over his
foot, for here were the young ladies coming.
“What for?” said Dard sulkily. “No! let them see what they have done
with their little odd jobs: this is my last for one while. I sha’n’t go
on two legs again this year.”
The ladies came up with them.
“O monsieur!” said Josephine, “what is the matter?”
“We have met with a little accident, mademoiselle, that is all. Dard has
hurt his foot; nothing to speak of, but I thought he would be best at
home.”
Rose raised the coat which Riviere, in spite of Dard, had flung over his
foot.
“He is bleeding! Dard is bleeding! Oh, my poor Dard. Oh! oh!”
“Hush, Rose!”
“No, don’t put him out of heart, mademoiselle. Take another pull at the
flask, Dard. If you please, ladies, I must have him home without delay.”
“Oh yes, but I want him to have a surgeon,” cried Josephine. “And we
have no horses nor people to send off as we used to have.”
“But you have me, mademoiselle,” said Edouard tenderly. “Me, who would
go to the world’s end for you.” He said this to Josephine, but his eye
sought Rose. “I’m a famous runner,” he added, a little bumptiously;
“I’ll be at the town in half an hour, and send a surgeon up full
gallop.”
“You have a good heart,” said Rose simply.
He bowed his blushing, delighted face, and wheeled Dard to his cottage
hard by with almost more than mortal vigor. How softly, how nobly, that
frolicsome girl could speak! Those sweet words rang in his ears and ran
warm round and round his heart, as he straightened his arms and his back
to the work. When they had gone about a hundred yards, a single snivel
went off in the wheelbarrow. Five minutes after, Dard was at home in
charge of his grandmother, his shoe off, his foot in a wet linen cloth;
and Edouard, his coat tied round the neck, squared his shoulders, and
ran the two short leagues out. He ran them in forty minutes, found the
surgeon at home, told the case, pooh-poohed that worthy’s promise to
go to the patient presently, darted into his stable, saddled the horse,
brought him round, saw the surgeon into the saddle, started him, dined
at the restaurateur’s, strolled back, and was in time to get a good look
at the chateau of Beaurepaire just as the sun set on it.
Jacintha came into Dard’s cottage that evening.
“So you have been at it, my man,” cried she cheerfully and rather
roughly, then sat down and rocked herself, with her apron over her head.
She explained this anomalous proceeding to his grandmother privately. “I
thought I would keep his heart up anyway, but you see I was not fit.”
Next morning, as Riviere sat writing, he received an unexpected visit
from Jacintha. She came in with her finger to her lips, and said, “You
prowl about Dard’s cottage. They are sure to go and see him every day,
and him wounded in their service.”
“Oh, you good girl! you dear girl!” cried Edouard.
She did not reply in words, but, after going to the door, returned and
gave him a great kiss without ceremony. “Dare say you know what that’s
for,” said she, and went off with a clear conscience and reddish cheeks.
Dard’s grandmother had a little house, a little land, a little money,
and a little cow. She could just maintain Dard and herself, and her
resources enabled Dard to do so many little odd jobs for love, yet keep
his main organ tolerably filled.
“Go to bed, my little son, since you have got hashed,” said she.--“Bed
be hanged,” cried he. “What good is bed? That’s a silly old custom wants
doing away with. It weakens you: it turns you into train oil: it is the
doctor’s friend, and the sick man’s bane. Many a one dies through taking
to bed, that could have kept his life if he had kept his feet like a
man. If I had cut myself in two I would not go to bed,--till I go to the
bed with a spade in it. No! sit up like Julius Caesar; and die as you
lived, in your clothes: don’t strip yourself: let the old women strip
you; that is their delight laying out a chap; that is the time they
brighten up, the old sorceresses.” He concluded this amiable rhapsody,
the latter part of which was levelled at a lugubrious weakness of his
grandmother’s for the superfluous embellishment of the dead, by telling
her it was bad enough to be tied by the foot like an ass, without
settling down on his back like a cast sheep. “Give me the armchair. I’ll
sit in it, and, if I have any friends, they will show it now: they will
come and tell me what is going on in the village, for I can’t get out to
see it and hear it, they must know that.”
Seated in state in his granny’s easy-chair, the loss of which after
thirty years’ use made her miserable, she couldn’t tell why, le Sieur
Dard awaited his friends.
They did not come.
The rain did, and poured all the afternoon. Night succeeded, and
solitude. Dard boiled over with bitterness. “They are a lot of pigs
then, all those fellows I have drunk with at Bigot’s and Simmet’s. Down
with all fair-weather friends.”
The next day the sun shone, the air was clear, and the sky blue. “Ah!
let us see now,” cried Dard.
Alas! no fellow-drinkers, no fellow-smokers, came to console their hurt
fellow. And Dard, who had boiled with anger yesterday, was now sad and
despondent. “Down with egotists,” he groaned.
About three in the afternoon came a tap at the door.
“Ah! at last,” cried Dard: “come in!”
The door was slowly opened, and two lovely faces appeared at the
threshold. The demoiselles De Beaurepaire wore a tender look of
interest and pity when they caught sight of Dard, and on the old woman
courtesying to them they courtesied to her and Dard. The next moment
they were close to him, one a little to his right, the other to his
left, and two pair of sapphire eyes with the mild lustre of sympathy
playing down incessantly upon him. How was he? How had he slept? Was he
in pain? Was he in much pain? tell the truth now. Was there anything to
eat or drink he could fancy? Jacintha should make it and bring it, if
it was within their means. A prince could not have had more solicitous
attendants, nor a fairy king lovelier and less earthly ones.
He looked in heavy amazement from one to the other. Rose bent, and was
by some supple process on one knee, taking the measure of the wounded
foot. When she first approached it he winced: but the next moment he
smiled. He had never been touched like this--it was contact and no
contact--she treated his foot as the zephyr the violets--she handled
it as if it had been some sacred thing. By the help of his eye he
could just know she was touching him. Presently she informed him he
was measured for a list shoe: and she would run home for the materials.
During her absence came a timid tap to the door; and Edouard Riviere
entered. He was delighted to see Josephine, and made sure Rose was not
far off. It was Dard who let out that she was gone to Beaurepaire for
some cloth to make him a shoe. This information set Edouard fidgeting
on his chair. He saw such a chance as was not likely to occur again. He
rose with feigned nonchalance, and saying, “I leave you in good hands;
angel visitors are best enjoyed alone,” slowly retired, with a deep
obeisance. Once outside the door, dignity vanished in alacrity; he flew
off into the park, and ran as hard as he could towards the chateau.
He was within fifty yards of the little gate, when sure enough Rose
emerged. They met; his heart beat violently. “Mademoiselle,” he
faltered.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,” said Rose, coolly; all over
blushes though.
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath. Mademoiselle Josephine
awaits you at Dard’s house.”
“She sent you for me?” inquired Rose, demurely.
“Not positively. But I could see I should please her by coming for you;
there is, I believe, a bull or so about.”
“A bull or two! don’t talk in that reckless way about such things. She
has done well to send you; let us make haste.”
“But I am a little out of breath.”
“Oh, never mind that! I abhor bulls.”
“But, mademoiselle, we are not come to them yet, and the faster we go
now the sooner we shall.”
“Yes; but I always like to get a disagreeable thing over as soon as
possible,” said Rose, slyly.
“Ah,” replied Edouard, mournfully, “in that case let us make haste.”
After a little spurt, mademoiselle relaxed the pace of her own accord,
and even went slower than before. There was an awkward silence. Edouard
eyed the park boundary, and thought, “Now what I have to say I must say
before we get to you;” and being thus impressed with the necessity of
immediate action, he turned to lead.
Rose eyed him and the ground, alternately, from under her long lashes.
At last he began to color and flutter. She saw something was coming, and
all the woman donned defensive armor.
“Mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur.”
“Is it quite decided that your family refuse my acquaintance, my
services, which I still--forgive me--press on you? Ah! Mademoiselle
Rose, am I never to have the happiness of--of--even speaking to you?”
“It seems so,” said Rose, ironically.
“Have you then decided against me too?”
“I?” asked Rose. “What have I to do with questions of etiquette? I am
only a child: so considered at least.”
“You a child--an angel like you?”
“Ask any of them, they will tell you I am a child; and it is to that I
owe this conversation, no doubt; if you did not look on me as a child,
you would not take this liberty with me,” said the young cat, scratching
without a moment’s notice.
“Mademoiselle, do not be angry. I was wrong.”
“Oh! never mind. Children are little creatures without reserve, and
treated accordingly, and to notice them is to honor them.”
“Adieu then, mademoiselle. Try to believe no one respects you more than
I do.”
“Yes, let us part, for there is Dard’s house; and I begin to suspect
that Josephine never sent you.”
“I confess it.”
“There, he confesses it. I thought so all along; WHAT A DUPE I HAVE
BEEN!”
“I will offend no more,” said poor silly Edouard. “Adieu, mademoiselle.
May you find friends as sincere as I am, and more to your taste!”
“Heaven hear your prayers!” replied the malicious thing, casting up her
eyes with a mock tragic air.
Edouard sighed; a chill conviction that she was both heartless and empty
fell on him. He turned away without another word. She called to him
with a sudden airy cheerfulness that made him start. “Stay, monsieur, I
forgot--I have a favor to ask you.”
“I wish I could believe that:” and his eyes brightened.
Rose stopped, and began to play with her parasol. “You seem,” said
she softly, “to be pretty generous in bestowing your acquaintance on
strangers. I should be glad if I might secure you for a dear friend of
mine, Dr. Aubertin. He will not discredit my recommendation; and he will
not make so many difficulties as we do; shall I tell you why? Because
he is really worth knowing. In short, believe me, it will be a valuable
acquaintance for you--and for him,” added she with all the grace of the
De Beaurepaires.
Many a man, inferior in a general way to Edouard Riviere, would have
made a sensible reply to this. Such as, “Oh, any friend of yours,
mademoiselle, must be welcome to me,” or the like. But the proposal
caught Edouard on his foible, his vanity, to wit; and our foibles are
our manias. He was mortified to the heart’s core. “She refuses to know
me herself,” thought he, “but she will use my love to make me amuse that
old man.” His heart swelled against her injustice and ingratitude,
and his crushed vanity turned to strychnine. “Mademoiselle,” said he,
bitterly and doggedly, but sadly, “were I so happy as to have your
esteem, my heart would overflow, not only on the doctor but on every
honest person around. But if I must not have the acquaintance I value
more than life, suffer me to be alone in the world, and never to say a
word either to Dr. Aubertin, or to any human creature if I can help it.”
The imperious young beauty drew herself up directly. “So be it,
monsieur; you teach me how a child should be answered that forgets
herself, and asks a favor of a stranger--a perfect stranger,” added she,
maliciously.
Could one of the dog-days change to mid-winter in a second, it would
hardly seem so cold and cross as Rose de Beaurepaire turned from the
smiling, saucy fairy of the moment before. Edouard felt as it were a
portcullis of ice come down between her and him. She courtesied and
glided away. He bowed and stood frozen to the spot.
He felt so lonely and so bitter, he must go to Jacintha for comfort.
He took advantage of the ladies being with Dard, and marched boldly into
the kitchen of Beaurepaire.
“Well, I never,” cried Jacintha. “But, after all, why not?”
He hurled himself on the kitchen table (clean as china), and told her it
was all over. “She hates me now; but it is not my fault,” and so poured
forth his tale, and feeling sure of sympathy, asked Jacintha whether it
was not bitterly unjust of Rose to refuse him her own acquaintance, yet
ask him to amuse that old fogy.
Jacintha stood with her great arms akimbo, taking it all in, and looking
at him with a droll expression of satirical wonder.
“Now you listen to a parable,” said she. “Once there was a little boy
madly in love with raspberry jam.”
“A thing I hate.”
“Don’t tell me! Who hates raspberry jam? He came to the store closet,
where he knew there were jars of it, and--oh! misery--the door was
locked. He kicked the door, and wept bitterly. His mamma came and said,
‘Here is the key,’ and gave him the key. And what did he do? Why,
he fell to crying and roaring, and kicking the door. ‘I don’t
wa-wa-wa-wa-nt the key-ey-ey. I wa-a-ant the jam--oh! oh! oh! oh!’”
and Jacintha mimicked, after her fashion, the mingled grief and ire of
infancy debarred its jam. Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it was only
for a moment; the next he hid his face in his hands, and cried, “Fool!”
“I shall not contradict you,” said his Mentor.
“She was my best friend. Once acquainted with the doctor, I could visit
at Beaurepaire.”
“Parbleu!”
“She had thought of a way to reconcile my wishes with this terrible
etiquette that reigns here.”
“She thinks to more purpose than you do; that is clear.”
“Nothing is left now but to ask her pardon, and to consent; I am off.”
“No, you are not,” and Jacintha laid a grasp of iron on him. “Will you
be quiet?--is not one blunder a day enough? If you go near her now, she
will affront you, and order the doctor not to speak to you.”
“O Jacintha! your sex then are fiends of malice?”
“While it lasts. Luckily with us nothing lasts very long. Now you don’t
go near her till you have taken advantage of her hint, and made the
doctor’s acquaintance; that is easy done. He walks two hours on the east
road every day, with his feet in the puddles and his head in the clouds.
Them’s HIS two tastes.”
“But how am I to get him out of the clouds and the puddles?” inquired
Riviere half peevishly.
“How?” asked Jacintha, with a dash of that contempt uneducated persons
generally have for any one who does not know some little thing they
happen to know themselves. “How? Why, with the nearest blackbeetle, to
be sure.”
“A blackbeetle?”
“Black or brown; it matters little. Have her ready for use in your
handkerchief: pull a long face: and says you--‘Excuse me, sir, I have
THE MISFORTUNE not to know the Greek name of this merchandise here.’ Say
that, and behold him launched. He will christen you the beast in Hebrew
and Latin as well as Greek, and tell you her history down from the
flood: next he will beg her of you, and out will come a cork and a pin,
and behold the creature impaled. For that is how men love beetles. He
has a thousand pinned down at home--beetles, butterflies, and so forth.
When I go near the rubbish with my duster he trembles like an aspen.
I pretend to be going to clean them, but it is only to see the face he
makes, for even a domestic must laugh now and then--or die. But I never
do clean them, for after all he is more stupid than wicked, poor man: I
have not therefore the sad courage to make him wretched.”
“Let us return to our beetle--what will his tirades about its antiquity
advance me?”
“Oh! one begins about a beetle, but one ends Heaven knows where.”
Riviere profited by this advice. He even improved on it. In due
course he threw himself into Aubertin’s way. He stopped the doctor
reverentially, and said he had heard he was an entomologist. WOULD he
be kind enough to tell him what was this enormous chrysalis he had just
found?
“The death’s head moth!” cried Aubertin with enthusiasm--“the death’s
head moth! a great rarity in this district. Where found you this?”
Riviere undertook to show him the place.
It was half a league distant. Coming and going he had time to make
friends with Aubertin, and this was the easier that the old gentleman,
who was a physiognomist as well as ologist, had seen goodness and
sensibility in Edouard’s face. At the end of the walk he begged the
doctor to accept the chrysalis. The doctor coquetted. “That would be a
robbery. You take an interest in these things yourself--at least I hope
so.”
The young rogue confessed modestly to the sentiment of entomology, but
“the government worked him so hard as to leave him no hopes of shining
in so high a science,” said he sorrowfully.
The doctor pitied him. “A young man of your attainments and tastes to
be debarred from the everlasting secrets of nature, by the fleeting
politics of the day.”
Riviere shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody must do the dirty work,” said
he, chuckling inwardly.
The chrysalis went to Beaurepaire in the pocket of a grateful man,
who that same evening told the whole party his conversation with
young Riviere, on whom he pronounced high encomiums. Rose’s saucy eyes
sparkled with fun: you might have lighted a candle at one and exploded a
mine at the other; but not a syllable did she utter.
The doctor proved a key, and opened the enchanted castle. One fine
day he presented his friend in the Pleasaunce to the baroness and her
daughters.
They received him with perfect politeness. Thus introduced, and as he
was not one to let the grass grow under his feet, he soon obtained a
footing as friend of the family, which, being now advised by Josephine,
he took care not to compromise by making love to Rose before the
baroness. However, he insisted on placing his financial talent at their
service. He surveyed and valued their lands, and soon discovered that
all their farms were grossly underlet. Luckily most of the leases were
run out. He prepared a new rent roll, and showed it Aubertin, now his
fast friend. Aubertin at his request obtained a list of the mortgages,
and Edouard drew a balance-sheet founded on sure data, and proved to the
baroness that in able hands the said estate was now solvent.
This was a great comfort to the old lady: and she said to Aubertin,
“Heaven has sent us a champion, a little republican--with the face of an
angel.”
Descending to practice, Edouard actually put three of the farms into
the market, and let them at an advance of twenty per cent on the expired
leases. He brought these leases signed; and the baroness had scarcely
done thanking him, when her other secret friend, Monsieur Perrin, was
announced. Edouard exchanged civilities with him, and then retired to
the Pleasaunce. There he found both sisters, who were all tenderness and
gratitude to him. By this time he had learned to value Josephine: she
was so lovely and so good, and such a true womanly friend to him. Even
Rose could not resist her influence, and was obliged to be kind to him,
when Josephine was by. But let Josephine go, and instead of her being
more tender, as any other girl would, left alone with her lover,
sauciness resumed its empire till sweet Josephine returned. Whereof
cometh an example; for the said Josephine was summoned to a final
conference with the baroness and Monsieur Perrin.
“Don’t be long,” said Rose, as Josephine glided away, and (taking the
precaution to wait till she was quite out of hearing), “I shall be so
dull, dear, till you come back.”
“I shall not though,” said Edouard.
“I am not so sure of that. Now then.”
“Now then, what?”
“Begin.”
“Begin what?”
“Amusing me.” And she made herself look sullen and unamusable all over.
“I will try,” said Riviere. “I’ll tell you what they say of you: that
you are too young to love.”
“So I am, much.”
“No, no, no! I made a mistake. I mean too young to be loved.”
“Oh, I am not too young for that, not a bit.”
This point settled, she suggested that, if he could not amuse her, he
had better do THE NEXT BEST THING, and that was, talk sense.
“I think I had better not talk at all,” said he, “for I am no match
for such a nimble tongue. And then you are so remorseless. I’ll hold my
tongue, and make a sketch of this magnificent oak.”
“Ay, do: draw it as it appeared on a late occasion: with two ladies
flying out of it, and you rooted with dismay.”
“There is no need; that scene is engraved.”
“Where? in all the shops?”
“No; on all our memories.”
“Not on mine; not on mine. How terrified you were--ha, ha! and how
terrified we should have been if you had not. Listen: once upon a
time--don’t be alarmed: it was long after Noah--a frightened hare ran by
a pond; the frogs splashed in the water, smit with awe. Then she said,
‘Ah ha! there are people in the world I frighten in my turn; I am the
thunderbolt of war.’ Excuse my quoting La Fontaine: I am not in ‘Charles
the Twelfth of Sweden’ yet. I am but a child.”
“And it’s a great mercy, for when you grow up, you will be too much
for me, that is evident. Come, then, Mademoiselle the Quizzer, come and
adorn my sketch.”
“Monsieur, shall I make you a confession? You will not be angry: I could
not support your displeasure. I have a strange inclination to walk
up and down this terrace while you go and draw that tree in the
Pleasaunce.”
“Resist that inclination; perhaps it will fly from you.”
“No; you fly from me, and draw. I will rejoin you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, I’m not so stupid. You will step indoors directly.”
“Do you doubt my word, sir?” asked she haughtily.
He had learned to obey all her caprices; so he went and placed himself
on the west side of the oak and took out his sketch-book, and worked
zealously and rapidly. He had done the outlines of the tree and was
finishing in detail a part of the huge trunk, when his eyes were
suddenly dazzled: in the middle of the rugged bark, deformed here and
there with great wart-like bosses, and wrinkled, seamed, and ploughed
all over with age, burst a bit of variegated color; bright as a poppy on
a dungeon wall, it glowed and glittered out through a large hole in the
brown bark; it was Rose’s face peeping. To our young lover’s eye how
divine it shone! None of the half tints of common flesh were there,
but a thing all rose, lily, sapphire, and soul. His pencil dropped, his
mouth opened, he was downright dazzled by the glowing, bewitching face,
sparkling with fun, in the gaunt tree. Tell me, ladies, did she know,
even at that age, the value of that sombre frame to her brightness? The
moment she found herself detected, the gaunt old tree rang musical with
a crystal laugh, and out came the arch-dryad. “I have been there all the
time. How solemn you looked! Now for the result of such profound study.”
He showed her his work; she altered her tone. “Oh, how clever!” she
cried, “and how rapid! What a facility you have! Monsieur is an artist,”
said she gravely; “I will be more respectful,” and she dropped him a low
courtesy. “Mind you promised it me,” she added sharply.
“You will accept it, then?”
“That I will, now it is worth having: dear me, I never reckoned on that.
Finish it directly,” cried this peremptory young person.
“First I must trouble you to stand out there near the tree.”
“Me? what for?”
“Because art loves contrasts. The tree is a picture of age and gradual
decay; by its side then I must place a personification of youth and
growing loveliness.”
She did not answer, but made a sort of defiant pirouette, and went where
she was bid, and stood there with her back to the artist. “That will
never do,” said he; “you really must be so good as to turn round.”
“Oh, very well.” And when she came round, behold her color had risen
mightily. Flattery is sweet.
This child of nature was delighted, and ashamed it should be seen that
she was.
And so he drew her, and kept looking off the paper at her, and had a
right in his character of artist to look her full in the face; and he
did so with long lingering glances. To be sure, they all began severe
and businesslike with half-closed eyes, and the peculiar hostile
expression art puts on; but then they always ended open-eyed, and so
full and tender, that she, poor girl, who was all real gold, though sham
brass, blushed and blushed, and did not know which way to look not to
be scorched up by his eye like a tender flower, or blandly absorbed like
the pearly dew. Ah, happy hour! ah, happy days of youth and innocence
and first love!
Trouble loves to intrude on these halcyon days.
The usually quiet Josephine came flying from the house, pale and
agitated, and clung despairingly to Rose, and then fell to sobbing and
lamenting piteously.
I shall take leave to relate in my own words what had just occurred
to agitate her so. When she entered her mother’s room, she found the
baroness and Perrin the notary seated watching for her. She sat down
after the usual civilities, and Perrin entered upon the subject that had
brought him.
He began by confessing to them that he had not overcome the refractory
creditor without much trouble; and that he had since learned there was
another, a larger creditor, likely to press for payment or for sale of
the estate. The baroness was greatly troubled by this communication: the
notary remained cool as a cucumber, and keenly observant. After a pause
he went on to say all this had caused him grave reflections. “It seems,”
said he with cool candor, “a sad pity the estate should pass from a
family that has held it since the days of Charlemagne.”
“Now God forbid!” cried the baroness, lifting her eyes and her quivering
hands to heaven.
The notary held the republican creed in all its branches. “Providence,
madame, does not interfere--in matters of business,” said he. “Nothing
but money can save the estate. Let us then be practical. Has any means
occurred to you of raising money to pay off these incumbrances?”
“No. What means can there be? The estate is mortgaged to its full value:
so they say, at least.”
“And they say true,” put in the notary quickly. “But do not distress
yourself, madame: confide in me.”
“Ah, my good friend, may Heaven reward you.”
“Madame, up to the present time I have no complaint to make of Heaven.
I am on the rise: here, mademoiselle, is a gimcrack they have given me;”
and he unbuttoned his overcoat, and showed them a piece of tricolored
ribbon and a clasp. “As for me, I look to ‘the solid;’ I care little for
these things,” said he, swelling visibly, “but the world is dazzled by
them. However, I can show you something better.” He took out a letter.
“This is from the Minister of the Interior to a client of mine: a
promise I shall be the next prefect; and the present prefect--I am happy
to say--is on his death-bed. Thus, madame, your humble servant in a few
short months will be notary no longer, but prefect; I shall then sell my
office of notary: and I flatter myself when I am a prefect you will not
blush to own me.”
“Then, as now, monsieur,” said the baroness politely, “we shall
recognize your merit. But”--
“I understand, madame: like me you look to ‘the solid.’ Thus then it is;
I have money.”
“Ah! all the better for you.”
“I have a good deal of money. But it is dispersed in a great many small
but profitable investments: to call it in suddenly would entail some
loss. Nevertheless, if you and my young lady there have ever so little
of that friendly feeling towards me of which I have so much towards you,
all my investments shall be called in, and two-thirds of your creditors
shall be paid off at once. A single client of mine, no less a man than
the Commandant Raynal, will, I am sure, advance me the remaining third
at an hour’s notice; and so Beaurepaire chateau, park, estate, and
grounds, down to the old oak-tree, shall be saved; and no power shall
alienate them from you, mademoiselle, and from the heirs of your body.”
The baroness clasped her hands in ecstasy.
“But what are we to do for this?” inquired Josephine calmly, “for it
seems to me that it can only be effected by a sacrifice on your part.”
“I thank you, mademoiselle, for your penetration in seeing that I must
make sacrifices. I would never have told you, but you have seen it;
and I do not regret that you have seen it. Madame--mademoiselle--those
sacrifices appear little to me; will seem nothing; will never be
mentioned, or even alluded to after this day, if you, on your part, will
lay me under a far heavier obligation, if in short”--here the contemner
of things unsubstantial reopened his coat, and brought his ribbon to
light again--“if you, madame, will accept me for your son-in-law--if
you, mademoiselle, will take me for your husband.”
The baroness and her daughter looked at one another in silence.
“Is it a jest?” inquired the former of the latter.
“Can you think so? Answer Monsieur Perrin. He has just done us a kind
office, mother.”
“I shall remember it. Monsieur, permit me to regret that having lately
won our gratitude and esteem, you have taken this way of modifying those
feelings. But after all,” she added with gentle courtesy, “we may well
put your good deeds against this--this error in judgment. The balance is
in your favor still, provided you never return to this topic. Come,
is it agreed?” The baroness’s manner was full of tact, and the latter
sentences were said with an open kindliness of manner. There was nothing
to prevent Perrin from dropping the subject, and remaining good friends.
A gentleman or a lover would have so done. Monsieur Perrin was neither.
He said bitterly, “You refuse me, then.”
The tone and the words were each singly too much for the baroness’s
pride. She answered coldly but civilly,--
“I do not refuse you. I do not take an affront into consideration.”
“Be calm, mamma; no affront whatever was intended.”
“Ah! here is one that is more reasonable,” cried Perrin.
“There are men,” continued Josephine without noticing him, “who look
to but one thing--interest. It was an offer made politely in the way of
business: decline it in the same spirit; that is what you have to do.”
“Monsieur, you hear what mademoiselle says? She carries politeness
a long way. After all it is a good fault. Well, monsieur, I need not
answer you, since Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire has answered you; but I
detain you no longer.”
Strictly a weasel has no business with the temper of a tiger, but this
one had, and the long vindictiveness of a Corsican. “Ah! my little lady,
you turn me out of the house, do you?” cried he, grinding his teeth.
“Turn him out of the house? what a phrase! where has this man lived?”
“A man!” snarled Perrin, “whom none ever yet insulted without repenting
it, and repenting in vain. You are under obligations to me, and you
think to turn me out! You are at my mercy, and you think I will let you
turn me to your door! In less than a mouth I will stand here, and say to
you, Beaurepaire is mine. Begone from it!”
When he uttered these terrible words, each of which was like a
sword-stroke to the baroness, the old lady, whose courage was not
equal to her strength, shrank over the side of her arm-chair, and cried
piteously--“He threatens me! he threatens me! I am frightened;” and put
up her trembling hands, for the notary’s eloquence, being accompanied
with abundance of gesture, bordered upon physical violence. His
brutality received an unexpected check. Imagine that a sparrow-hawk had
seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, and with one
lightning-like stroke of body and wing, buffeted him away, and sent him
gaping and glaring and grasping at pigeonless air with his claws. So
swift and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her chair with
one gesture of her body between her mother and the notary, who was
advancing with arms folded in a brutal, menacing way--not the Josephine
we have seen her, the calm languid beauty, but the demoiselle de
Beaurepaire--her great heart on fire--her blood up--not her own only,
but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires--pale as ashes with great
wrath, her purple eyes on fire, and her whole panther-like body full
of spring. “Wretch! you dare to insult her, and before me! Arriere
miserable! or I soil my hand with your face.” And her hand was up with
the word, up, up, higher it seemed than ever a hand was raised before.
And if he had hesitated one moment, I really believe it would have come
down; not heavily, perhaps--the lightning is not heavy. But there was
no need. The towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush
buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled. She followed him as he went,
strong, FOR A MOMENT OR TWO, as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as
Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or could not stand before her: he
writhed and cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she marched
upon him. But the driven serpent hissed horribly as it wriggled away.
“You shall both be turned out of Beaurepaire by me, and forever; I swear
it, parole de Perrin.”
He had not been gone a minute when Josephine’s courage oozed away,
and she ran, or rather tottered, into the Pleasaunce, and clung like a
drowning thing to Rose, and, when Edouard took her hand, she clung to
him. They had to gather what had happened how they could: the account
was constantly interrupted with her sobs and self-reproaches. She said
she had ruined all she loved: ruined her sister, ruined her mother,
ruined the house of Beaurepaire. Why was she ever born? Why had she
not died three years ago? (Query, what was the date at which Camille’s
letters suddenly stopped?) “That coward,” said she, “has the heart of a
fiend. He told us he never forgave an affront; and he holds our fate
in his hands. He will drive our mother from her home, and she will die:
murdered by her own daughter. After all, why did I refuse him? What
should I have sacrificed by marrying him? Rose, write to him, and
say--say--I was taken by surprise, I--I”--a violent flood of tears
interrupted the sentence.
Rose flung her arms round her neck. “My beautiful Josephine marry that
creature? Let house and lands go a thousand times sooner. I love my
sister a thousand times better than the walls of this or any other
house.”
“Come, come,” cried Edouard, “you are forgetting ME all this time. Do
you really think I am the sort of man to stand by with my hands in
my pockets, and let her marry that cur, or you be driven out of
Beaurepaire? Neither, while I live.”
“Alas! dear boy,” sighed Josephine, “what can you do?”
“I’ll soon show you. From this hour forth it is a duel between that
Perrin and me. Now, Josephine--Rose--don’t you cry and fret like that:
but just look quietly on, and enjoy the fight, both of you.”
Josephine shook her head with a sad smile: but Rose delivered herself
thus, after a sob, “La, yes; I forgot: we have got a gentleman now;
that’s one comfort.”
Edouard rose to the situation: he saw that Perrin would lose no time;
and that every day, or even hour, might be precious. He told them that
the first thing he must do for them was to leave the company he loved
best on earth, and run down to the town to consult Picard the rival
notary: he would be back by supper-time, when he hoped they would do
him the honor, in a matter of such importance, to admit him to a family
council.
Josephine assented with perfect simplicity; Rose with a deep blush, for
she was too quick not to see all the consequences of admitting so brisk
a wooer into a family council.
It was a wet evening, and a sad and silent party sat round a wood fire
in the great dining-hall. The baroness was almost prostrated by the
scene with Perrin; and a sombre melancholy and foreboding weighed on
all their spirits, when presently Edouard Riviere entered briskly, and
saluted them all profoundly, and opened the proceedings with a little
favorite pomposity. “Madame the baroness, and you Monsieur Aubertin, who
honor me with your esteem, and you Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire, whom I
adore, and you Mademoiselle Rose, whom I hoped to be permitted--you have
this day done me the honor to admit me as your adviser. I am here to
lay my plans before you. I believe, madame, I have already convinced
you that your farms are under-let, and your property lowered in value by
general mismanagement; this was doubtless known to Perrin, and set him
scheming. Well, I rely on the same circumstance to defeat him. I have
consulted Picard and shown him the rent-roll and balance-sheet I had
already shown you. He has confessed that the estate is worth more
than its debts, so capitalists can safely advance the money. To-morrow
morning, then, I ride to Commandant Raynal for a week’s leave of
absence; then, armed with Picard’s certificate, shall proceed to my
uncle and ask him to lend the money. His estate is very small compared
with Beaurepaire, but he has always farmed it himself. ‘I’ll have no
go-between,’ says he, ‘to impoverish both self and soil.’ He is also a
bit of a misanthrope, and has made me one. I have a very poor opinion of
my fellow-creatures, very.”
“Well, but,” said Rose, “if he is all that, he will not sympathize with
us, who have so mismanaged Beaurepaire. Will he not despise us?”
Edouard was a little staggered, but Aubertin came to his aid.
“Permit me, Josephine,” said he. “Natural history steps in here, and
teaches by me, its mouth-piece. A misanthrope hates all mankind, but is
kind to every individual, generally too kind. A philanthrope loves the
whole human race, but dislikes his wife, his mother, his brother, and
his friends and acquaintances. Misanthrope is the potato: rough and
repulsive outside, but good to the core. Philanthrope is a peach: his
manner all velvet and bloom, his words sweet juice, his heart of hearts
a stone. Let me read Philanthrope’s book, and fall into the hands of
Misanthrope.”
Edouard admitted the shrewdness of this remark.
“And so,” said he, “my misanthrope will say plenty of biting
words,--which, by-the-by, will not hurt you, who will not hear them,
only me,--and then he’ll lend us the money, and Beaurepaire will be
free, and I shall have had a hand in it. Hurrah!”
Then came a delicious hour to Edouard Riviere. Young and old poured out
their glowing thanks and praises upon him till his checks burned like
fire.
The baroness was especially grateful, and expressed a gentle regret that
she could see no way of showing her gratitude except in words. “What can
we do for this little angel?” said she, turning to Josephine.
“Leave that to me, mamma,” replied Josephine, turning her lovely eyes
full on Edouard, with a look the baroness misunderstood directly.
She sat and watched Josephine and Edouard with comical severity all the
rest of the time she was there; and, when she retired, she kissed Rose
affectionately, but whispered her eldest daughter, “I hope you are not
serious. A mere boy compared with you.”
“But such a sweet one,” suggested Josephine, apologetically.
“What will the world come to?” said the baroness out loud, and retreated
with a sour glance at all of them--except Rose.
She had not been gone five minutes when a letter came by messenger to
Edouard. It was from Picard. He read it out.
“Perrin has been with me, to raise money. He wants it in forty-eight
hours. Promises good legal security. I have agreed to try and arrange
the matter for him.”
They were all astonished at this.
“The double-faced traitor!” cried Edouard. “Stay; wait a minute. Let us
read it to an end.”
“This promise is, of course, merely to prevent his going elsewhere. At
the end of the forty-eight hours I shall begin to make difficulties.
Meantime, as Perrin is no fool, you had better profit to the full by
this temporary delay.”
“Well done, Picard!” shouted Edouard. “Notary cut notary. I won’t
lose an hour. I’ll start at five; Commandant Raynal is an early riser
himself.”
Accordingly, at five he was on the road; Raynal’s quarters lay in the
direct line to his uncle’s place. He found the commandant at home, and
was well received. Raynal had observed his zeal, and liked his manners.
He gave him the week’s leave, and kept him to breakfast, and had his
horse well fed. At eight o’clock Edouard rode out of the premises in
high spirits. At the very gate he met a gaunt figure riding in on a
squab pony. It was Perrin the notary coming in hot haste to his friend
and employer, Commandant Raynal.