he loved everything and everybody, without exception: the family, the
old ruins, even the domestic animals and the plants. But to enjoy the
happiness of passing his life there, he must scale the walls of heaven;
and as he must needs fall back to the earth after his dream, Emile found
that the fall was less severe at Boisguilbault than at Gargilesse.
Boisguilbault was a sort of half-way station between the bottomless pit
and heaven; the _limbo_ between purgatory and paradise. He was so warmly
welcomed there, and so warmly urged to remain, that he became accustomed
to the idea that he was at home there. He busied himself about the park,
arranged the books, and took riding-lessons in the main courtyard.
Gradually the old marquis yielded to the pleasures of companionship, and
sometimes his smile indicated genuine cheerfulness. He did not realize
the fact or did not choose to admit it: but the young man became
necessary to him and brought life to him. For hours at a time he seemed
to accept the boon indifferently, but when Emile was about to leave him
that pale face would gradually change its expression, and the wheeze of
asthma would become a sigh of affection and regret when the young man
leaped upon his horse, impatient to descend the hill.
At last it became evident to Emile, who was learning day by day to
decipher that mysterious book, that the old man's heart was affectionate
and sympathetic, that he regretted, secretly but constantly, that he had
adopted a life of solitude, and that he had other reasons for taking
that course than a misanthropic temperament simply.
He believed that the time had come to probe the wound and suggest the
remedy. The name of Antoine de Châteaubrun, which he had already
mentioned many times to no purpose, and which had died away, leaving no
echo, in the silence of the park, came once more to his lips and clung
there more obstinately. The marquis was forced to hear it and make some
reply.
"My dear Emile," he said, in the most solemn tone he had as yet assumed
with him, "you can cause me much pain, and if such is your purpose, I
will furnish you with the means, namely, to speak to me of the person
you have just mentioned."
"I know," replied the young man, "but----"
"You know!" Monsieur de Boisguilbault interrupted him; "what do you
know?"
And, as he asked this question, he seemed so indignant, and his lifeless
eyes were filled with such threatening fire, that Emile, taken by
surprise, remembered what was said at their first interview about his
alleged irascibility, although it was said in such a tone that at the
time he had been unable to view it in any other light than as a boastful
joke.
"Answer me!" continued Monsieur de Boisguilbault, in a milder voice but
with a bitter smile. "If you know the causes of my resentment, how dare
you remind me of them?"
"If they are serious," replied Emile, "I certainly know nothing of them;
for what I have been told is so frivolous that I am entirely unable to
credit it, seeing how angry you are with me."
"Frivolous! frivolous! In heaven's name what has anyone told you? Be
honest: don't hope to deceive me!"
"Since when, pray, have I given you the right to suspect me of anything
so base as falsehood?" retorted Emile, becoming a little heated in his
turn.
"Monsieur Cardonnet," said the marquis, taking the young man's arm in a
hand that trembled like the leaf fluttering in the autumn breeze, "I do
not think that you will seek to make sport of my suffering. Speak,
therefore, and tell me what you know, for I must hear it."
"I know what people say and no more. They say that you broke off a
friendship of twenty years' standing because of a quarrel about a deer.
One of those creatures, which you had tamed for your amusement, escaped
from your enclosure, and Monsieur de Châteaubrun, having fallen in with
it a short distance from your park, was inconsiderate enough to kill it.
It would have been exceedingly inconsiderate, it is true, as there are
no deer in this region, so that he must have known that it was one of
your pets; Monsieur de Châteaubrun has always been very absent-minded,
and that is not an injury of the sort for which one cannot forgive a
friend."
"Who told you that story? He, I suppose?"
"He has never mentioned the subject to me. It was Jean, the carpenter,
another man whom you won't talk about, although you have been very kind
to him, who told me that he has never known of any other reason for
misunderstanding between you."
"And from whom did he obtain this interesting explanation? from the
maid-servant, doubtless?"
"No, monsieur le marquis. The servant never mentions you any more than
the master does. What I have told you is the story generally believed
among the peasants."
"And the basis of it is true," rejoined Monsieur de Boisguilbault, after
a long pause, which seemed to restore his tranquillity entirely. "Why
should you be surprised, Emile? Don't you know that it only takes a drop
of water to make a lake overflow?"
"But if your lake of bitterness was filled with such drops of water
only, how can I fail to be surprised by your sensitiveness? I can
discover no other fault in Monsieur de Châteaubrun than constant
inertia and heedlessness. If it was a series of absent-minded freaks and
_gaucheries_ that made his presence insupportable to you, I must say
that I do not recognize your accustomed good judgment and tolerant
spirit. I, whom you often call a volcano in eruption, should have been
more patient than you, for Monsieur Antoine's fits of abstraction amuse
me rather than irritate me, and I see in them a proof of his openness of
heart and the artlessness of his mind."
"Emile, Emile, you are not qualified to judge of such matters," rejoined
Monsieur de Boisguilbault with an embarrassed air. "I am very
absent-minded myself, and I suffer from my own mistakes. Those of other
people are evidently more than I can stand, you see. Affection lives
only upon contrasts, they say. Two deaf or two blind men are sadly bored
together. In short, I was tired of that man! say no more to me about
him."
"I cannot believe that prohibition is intended seriously. O my
noble-hearted friend, turn your wrath upon me alone; if I insist; but it
is impossible for me to avoid seeing that this rupture is one of the
principal causes of your sadness. At the bottom of your heart you
reproach yourself with it as an act of injustice; and who can say that
it is not the only source of your misanthropy? We find it difficult to
tolerate other men when there is in the depths of our minds something
for which we cannot give ourselves absolution. I believe, and I dare to
tell you, that you would be comforted if you should repair the injury
which you inflicted on one of your fellow-men so many years ago."
"The injury I inflicted on him? What injury, pray? What revenge did I
take on him? to whom did I ever say an unkind word of him? to whom have
I complained? what do you yourself know of my inmost feelings toward
him? The miserable fellow had better hold his peace! he will commit a
great sin if he complains of my conduct."
"He does not complain of it, monsieur le marquis, but he deplores the
loss of your friendship. That regret disturbs his sleep and sometimes
obscures the serenity of his amiable and resigned heart. He does not of
his own accord mention your name, but if anybody mentions it in his
presence, he speaks of you in the highest terms and his eyes fill with
tears. And then, too, there is some one very near to him who suffers
even more than himself in his sorrow, some one who respects you, who
fears you and who dares not implore you, but whose affection and
gratitude would be a blessing in your loneliness and a support in your
old age."
"What do you mean, Emile?" said the marquis, painfully affected. "Are
you speaking of yourself? Does your friendship for me depend upon that
condition? That would be very cruel on your part."
"There is no question of me in this matter," Emile replied. "My
attachment to you is too profound, and my sympathy too instinctive for
me to put any price on them. I am speaking of some one who knows you
only through me, but who had already divined your character and who does
full justice to your noble qualities; of a person a thousand times more
estimable than I, whom you would love with a father's affection if you
knew her; in a word, I am speaking of an angel, of Mademoiselle Gilberte
de Châteaubrun."
Emile had no sooner pronounced that name, upon which he relied as a
magic charm, than he saw his host's expression change in an alarming
manner. The knobs of his thin, sallow cheeks flushed purple; his eyes
started from their sockets; his arms and legs twitched convulsively. He
tried to speak and stammered unintelligible words. At last he succeeded
in saying this:
"Enough, monsieur, that is enough, too much. Never be so misguided as to
mention that _demoiselle's_ name to me!"
And, leaving the cliff in the park, where this conversation took place,
he entered the chalet and closed the door violently behind him.
XIX
THE PORTRAIT
Emile did not return to Boisguilbault for several days. His sorrow was
deep-seated. At first he was annoyed and angry at the marquis's
distressing and incomprehensible caprice. But soon, after reflecting
upon that strange episode, he conceived an immense pity for that
diseased mind, which, amid ideas so lucid and instincts so affectionate,
nourished a deplorable sort of mania, paroxysms of hatred or resentment
closely akin to mental alienation.
That was the only explanation that the young man could conceive of the
violent effect produced on his venerable friend by the adored name of
Gilberte. He was so dismayed by the discovery, that he no longer felt
the courage to pursue so hopeless an undertaking and determined to
inform Mademoiselle frankly of his failure.
He bent his steps toward the ruins one evening, depressed by his
discomfiture, and for the first time he was sad on his arrival. But love
is a magician who overturns all our anticipations by unexpected favors
or cruelties.
Gilberte was alone. To be sure, Janille was not far away; but as she
left the house to find one of her goats, and as Gilberte did not know in
what direction she had gone, so that they could not go to meet her, they
had a plausible excuse for indulging in a tête-à-tête. Gilberte also
seemed a little sad. She would have been sorely embarrassed to say why,
or how it happened that, after passing five minutes with Emile, she
entirely forgot that she had had any gloomy thoughts prior to his
arrival.
They had dined at Châteaubrun long before: according to a custom of
many years' standing, they ate at the same hours as the peasants, that
is to say, in the morning, at noon, and after the day's work--a
perfectly logical arrangement for those who do not turn night into day.
The sun was sinking when Emile arrived: it was the hour when all things
are lovely--grave and smiling at once. Emile fancied that he had never
before appreciated Gilberte's beauty, he was so impressed by it at that
moment; as if it were the first time, as if he had not been living for
six weeks in an ecstasy of contemplation.
No matter; he persuaded himself that he had hitherto noticed only the
half of her hair and only the hundredth part of the charms contained in
her smile, of her grace of movement, of the inestimable treasures of her
glance.
He had some important things to say to her, he remembered nothing. He
could think of nothing but looking at her and listening to her. All that
she said was so striking, so novel to him! How redolent she was of the
richness of nature, how she made him realize the perfection of its most
trivial details! If she showed him a flower, he discovered shades of
coloring therein whose delicacy or beauty he had never before
appreciated; if she spoke in terms of admiration of the sky, he
discovered that he had never seen the sky so lovely. The landscape at
which she gazed assumed a magical aspect and he could think of nothing
to say, except:
"Oh! yes, how lovely it is! Oh! you are right. Of course, of course,
what you see and what you say is so true!"
There is a delicious stupidity in the mind of a lover: everything means
_I love you_! and it would be a vain task to seek any other meaning to
their monotonous agreement on all subjects. Still, although she was even
less experienced than Emile, Gilberte, being a woman, understood a
little more clearly what she herself felt, whereas Emile loved, as we
breathe, without reflecting that a problem or a prodigy is connected
with every minute of our lives.
Gilberte questioned herself more and was more overcome with
astonishment. She speedily made an effort to change the form of their
conversation, in which, by dint of saying nothing at all, they said far
too much.
She mentioned Monsieur de Boisguilbault, and Emile was compelled to say
that he had no hope. All his disappointment reawoke at that admission
and he bitterly lamented the destiny that deprived him of his sole
opportunity to make himself useful to Monsieur de Châteaubrun and to
gratify Gilberte.
"Oh! have no fear on that score," said the girl innocently, "I shall be
none the less under obligation to you; for thanks to your zeal and
courage my mind is at rest on the main point. Let me tell you what
worried me most. In view of the marquis's haughty obstinacy and my
father's generous humility, an intolerable suspicion had found its way
into my mind. I fancied that my dear father might have inflicted some
grave injury upon him--unintentionally, I am sure,--and I was anxious to
discover the secret so that I could take upon myself to repair it. Oh! I
would have done it at the cost of my life! But now----"
"But now! well, now," said Monsieur Antoine, suddenly appearing around a
clump of wild shrubs, and smiling with his usual expression of frank
trustfulness, "what the deuce are you telling in such a serious tone,
and what is it that you would repair at the cost of your life, my dear
love? I see, Emile, that she has taken you for her confessor, and that
she is accusing herself of killing a fly with too much temper. What is
it? Come, speak out; for your embarrassed air makes me long to laugh.
Can it be by any chance that you have secrets from your old father?"
"Oh! no, father! I never will have a secret from you!" cried Gilberte,
throwing an arm around Antoine's neck and laying her pink cheek against
his copper-colored one. "And then you listen at keyholes in the open
air, so you are going to be compelled to hear what is under
consideration. If you find any reason to blame us, remember that you
have forfeited the right to do it by taking me by surprise and
criticising my words. Listen, Monsieur Emile, I am going to tell him
everything, for it is much better that he should know it. My dear
father, you are unhappy over Monsieur de Boisguilbault's unjust
resentment against you on account of a mere trifle."
"Ah! _diantre_! do you propose to talk about that? What's the use? You
know well that it's a painful subject to me!" said Monsieur Antoine, his
good-humored face suddenly becoming clouded.
"You must talk about it, as it is for the last time," said Gilberte.
"What I am going to say will pain you, and yet I am sure that it will
take a great weight off your heart. Come, come, dear father, don't turn
your head away, and don't put on that careworn expression that makes
your Gilberte feel so pained. I know very well that you don't want me to
mention the marquis's name before you; you say that it's none of my
affair and that I can do nothing to bring you together. But it is too
bad to treat me as a little girl, and I am quite old enough to know a
little something of your sorrows so that I can help you to find
consolation for them. Very good; I was making inquiries of Monsieur
Cardonnet,--who sees Monsieur de Boisguilbault frequently, and to whom
he has given his confidence on many important matters,--as to that
gentleman's frame of mind toward us. I was saying to him that to relieve
you from the regret which you still feel for having unintentionally
wounded him, I would give my life--wasn't that what I was saying?"
"And then?" queried Monsieur de Châteaubrun, putting his daughter's
pretty hand to his lips with a preoccupied air.
"And then," she continued, "Monsieur Emile had already told me what I
wanted to know, namely, that Monsieur de Boisguilbault still nourishes
an intense resentment, but that we need think no more about it, because
it is founded upon nothing at all, and you have, thank God! nothing with
which to reproach yourself! Indeed, I was sure of it, dearest father; I
simply dreaded one of your fits of absent-mindedness. But now you can
set your mind at rest, although you will be distressed, I am sure, at
your old friend's deplorable condition. Monsieur de Boisguilbault really
is what he is said to be, and you must recognize it as everybody else
does--the poor man is mad."
"Mad!" cried Monsieur Antoine, terror-stricken and grief-stricken at
once, "really mad? Have you heard him talk wildly, Emile? Does he suffer
much? does he complain? has he been pronounced mad by the doctors? Oh!
that is horrible news to me!"
And honest Antoine, sinking upon a bench, tried in vain to repress his
sobs. His robust breast swelled as if it would burst.
"_O mon Dieu_! see how he loves him still!" cried Gilberte, throwing
herself on her knees at her father's feet and covering him with kisses.
"Oh! forgive me, forgive me, father dear! I spoke too hastily! I have
pained you! Come and help me to console him, Emile."
Emile started when Gilberte, in her excitement, forgot for the first
time to call him _monsieur_. It seemed that she looked upon him as a
brother, and, in an outburst of emotion, he too knelt beside poor
Antoine, who seemed to be threatened with an apoplectic stroke, he was
so red and so oppressed.
"Never fear," said Emile, "matters have not reached that point and never
will, I trust. Monsieur de Boisguilbault is not ill; he has the full
enjoyment of all his faculties. His monomania, if we may so describe his
professed repulsion for your family, is not a new disease; only, finding
that strange freak in a man so tranquil and tolerant in all other
respects, I believed for a long while that there must be some serious
reasons for it, and I am forced to admit now that there are none; that
it is a streak of temporary madness, which he will forget if it is not
stirred up again, and that you are not the sole object of it, since
other persons, of whom he has never had any reason to complain, and whom
he does not know at all, inspire the same unhealthy feeling of horror
and repulsion."
"Explain yourself," said Monsieur Antoine, beginning to breathe once
more; "who are these other persons?"
"Why, Jean, for one," replied Emile. "You know very well that he has no
reason to dread his presence as he does, and that excellent man is
entirely at sea as to any possible cause of ill-will the marquis can
have toward him."
"He has no reason to reproach him, nor anyone else; but I know very well
what he imagines. Go on! if Jean is the only other one, the marquis is
not mad in the least degree, he is simply unjust or mistaken as to our
friend the carpenter. But it is as impossible to convince him of his
mistake as to close the wound that is bleeding in his heart. Poor
Boisguilbault! Ah! Gilberte, I would gladly sacrifice my life to enable
him to forget the past. Let us say no more about it."
"One word more," said Gilberte, "for that word will enlighten you,
father. Jean Jappeloup is not the only one whom the marquis detests so
bitterly; he has the same feeling against me, whom he has hardly seen,
who have never spoken to him, and of whom he most assuredly can have no
reason to complain. Upon mentioning my name, with the purpose of calming
him, Monsieur Cardonnet, who will tell you so himself, found that his
anger sprang up afresh, and he slammed the door, shouting, as if he had
heard the name of a mortal enemy:
"'Woe to you if you ever mention that _demoiselle_ to me!'"
Monsieur de Châteaubrun hung his head and sat for some moments without
speaking. Several times he wiped the perspiration from his broad brow
with his coarse blue and white handkerchief. Then he took Gilberte's
hand and Emile's in his, unconsciously placing them so that they
touched, so engrossed was he by every other subject except the
possibility of their love.
"My children," he said, "you thought that you were doing me good, and
you have added to my grief. I thank you none the less for your kind
intentions, but I wish you both to give me your word not to refer to
this subject again with me, nor with each other, nor in Janille's
presence or Jean's, nor you, Emile, with Monsieur de Boisguilbault.
Never, never--do you understand?" he added, in the most solemn and
impressive tone of which he was capable. Then, addressing Emile more
particularly, and pressing his hand against Gilberte's with less
consciousness than before of his acts:
"My dear Monsieur Emile," he said, with emotion, "you have been led by
your friendship for me to do a very imprudent thing. Remember that the
first time you went to Boisguilbault I said to you: 'Do not mention my
name in that house, if you do not wish to injure my friend Jean!' And
now you have injured me myself by forgetting my injunction. All that I
can tell you is that Monsieur de Boisguilbault is no more insane than
any of us three, and that, if he is unjust to Jean or my daughter, who
are both innocent of my wrong-doing, it is because one naturally
includes an enemy's friends and kindred in the hatred which he inspires.
Monsieur de Boisguilbault would be very cruel not to forgive me if he
could read my heart; but his suffering is too great to allow him to do
it. Respect his grief, therefore, Emile, and do not call a man insane
whose misfortunes deserve the consolation of your friendship and all the
consideration of which you are capable. Come! promise me that you will
not conspire together for my repose any more, for whatever you do will
really be conspiring against it."
Emile and Gilberte promised, trembling with excitement; whereupon
Antoine said to them: "That is well, my children; there are incurable
diseases and griefs that one must learn to submit to in silence. Now let
us go to see if Janille has found her goat. I have in my basket some
apricots I have been picking for you two; for I saw Emile coming up the
path, and I was determined to regale him with the first ripe fruit from
my old trees."
After divers efforts, Antoine recovered his cheerful humor--with greater
ease than Gilberte and Emile. The latter dared make no further comments
or investigations; for whatever concerned Gilberte was sacred to him,
and Antoine's earnest injunction to give no more thought to the matter
was sufficient inducement for him to try and put it out of his mind. But
there were many other subjects of anxiety in his heart, and love had
taken such deep root there that he fell into fits of abstraction more
complete than Monsieur Antoine's.
When he found himself on the road to Gargilesse, at the point where the
road to Boisguilbault branches off, his horse, which was equally
attached to both places, turned toward Boisguilbault. Emile did not
notice it at first, and, when he did notice it, he said to himself that
Providence willed it so; that he had left the melancholy old man, whom
he had promised to love as his father, all alone for three days; and
that, at the risk of being coldly received, he must go at once and
obtain his pardon.
The gates of the park were not closed for the night when he arrived at
the foot of the hill. He entered and rode in the direction of the
chalet, expecting that, even if he did not find the marquis there, he
would surely arrive as soon as it was dark.
Having hitched _Corbeau_ to the balcony rail of the ground floor, he
knocked softly at the door of the Swiss chalet, and, as a little breeze
had sprung up with the sunset, it seemed to him that he could hear
sounds inside and the marquis's feeble voice bidding him come in. But it
was a pure illusion, for when he had opened the door he noticed that the
interior was empty.
However, Monsieur de Boisguilbault might be in the invisible room to
which he was accustomed to retire at night. Emile coughed and stamped on
the floor to give notice of his presence, determined to go away without
seeing him, rather than pass through the door that was closed to
everybody without exception.