mother. Heaven has at least vouchsafed that I should leave with you a
sister, a friend! Some day, my daughter, she will tell you what your
mother has never dared to tell you; and you will forgive your mother,
because she loved you dearly and has suffered much for your sake. Now I
am going to join my Adhémar, your father, and from above we will both
watch over our child. But if fate has decreed that he is not dead, and
that you are to see him again some day, oh! tell him that, until my last
hour, his image was always here--in my heart!"
Agathe's tears and Honorine's prayers were powerless to suspend the
decree of destiny! Madame Montoni closed her eyes forever.
"Death's rigors have no like;
Vain our entreaties all;
His tyrant hand will strike;
Our plaints on deaf ears fall."
After Madame Montoni's death, Honorine took Agathe with her, and from
that moment they were never separated.
That which at first was only the affection of a guardian soon became
sisterly affection; for, by the time she was fifteen, Agathe had become
a sister to her companion, who was then but twenty-seven; time abolished
the distance that it had at first set between them. The girl's tastes
and pleasures were no longer those of a child, but were identical with
those of the young woman, who was overjoyed to find a congenial
companion in her to whom at first she had been only a second mother.
But Agathe had not forgotten the last words her own mother had said to
her. There was a secret which Madame Montoni had confided to Honorine,
but which she had not dared to disclose to her daughter. How could that
kind and loving mother have feared to tell her daughter anything? Might
she not always have felt quite certain that that daughter would never
blame any act of hers?
That was what Agathe said to herself, and yet she dared not ask Honorine
to reveal that secret, for she was reluctant to offend even her mother's
shade.
"As she did not confide it to me while she was alive," thought the girl,
"perhaps it is not right for me to try to learn it now that she is no
more."
But one evening, after a long conversation between the two friends, in
which they had talked about the strange disappearance of Agathe's
father, the girl exclaimed:
"If I only owned something that belonged to my father! I have many
things that my mother possessed, which I treasure beyond words; but I
have nothing of my father's, absolutely nothing! that is very cruel."
"But suppose I should tell you," rejoined Honorine, "that I have
something of your father's to give you--something which your poor mother
gave me to keep until I should give it to you?"
"Mon Dieu! is it possible? you have something that belonged to my
father, and you have not given it to me in all the time since my mother
died? Oh! Honorine, then you did not want to make me very happy!"
"My dear Agathe, when I give you this object which was confided to me, I
must also tell you the secret which your mother dreaded to tell
you--because she did not wish to blush before you."
"Blush before me!--my dear mother!--why, that is absurd! Come, speak,
Honorine, speak; do not conceal anything from me now."
"I will speak; indeed, it seems to me necessary that you should know the
truth, that you should learn your father's name at last; otherwise you
might stand by his side some day, and not know it."
"My father's name! Why, his name was Montoni, of course, as my mother's
was Madame Montoni."
Honorine sadly shook her head.
"No," she murmured. "And that is the whole secret: your mother did not
bear his name--for they were not married."
"Not married! Oh! poor mother! poor mother! And that was what she dared
not tell me! Am I any less her child on that account?"
"Now, Agathe, listen to the story of your mother's love, as she herself
told it to me.
"She was born in Italy, but she left that country when she was very
young, with her parents, who settled in Switzerland. They died just as
she reached her sixteenth year. She lived then with an old Swiss woman,
who treated her very badly and reduced her almost to the condition of a
servant. She was keeping a flock of goats, which she drove to pasture on
the mountains, when she fell in with a young foreigner who was
travelling in Switzerland for pleasure. He was a Frenchman, named
Adhémar de Hautmont; he was rich and of noble birth; but he was young,
handsome, attractive and susceptible; and it seems that your mother,
although a goatherd, was exceedingly pretty. In a word, the two young
people were attracted to each other, fell in love and exchanged their
vows; and your poor mother had no one to watch over her but the goats
that she herself guarded!
"This liaison had lasted two months, and young Adhémar could not make up
his mind to part from Julia. It became much harder when she told him
that she bore within her a pledge of his love. At that, the young
Frenchman said to her:
"'You cannot stay in this region, exposed to the cruel treatment of a
woman who is harsh enough with you now, and will be much more so when
she learns of your misstep. You must go with me; I will take you to
France, to Paris, and you shall live there; I will take care that you
lack nothing when I am obliged to leave you and go back to my family.
And then I shall not be away long; as they allow me to travel often, for
my education, instead of visiting Germany, Spain and England, I will
pass my time with you until the moment when I can call you my wife and
then I shall never have to leave you again.'
"You can imagine that your mother joyfully assented to her young lover's
plan. So they left Switzerland together and came to Paris; young Adhémar
installed his Julia in a small apartment, simple and retired, but
provided with everything that she required. Then, having supplied her
with all the money she was likely to need in his absence, he started for
Toulouse; for he was not yet of age, and he had everything to fear from
his family if they should learn that he had abducted from Switzerland a
young girl who was with child by him.
"But everything went well; Adhémar calculated carefully the length of
his absences, and he loved his Julia so dearly that he found a way to
come to her when he was supposed to be far away in some foreign country.
"Then you came into the world, and when your father pressed you to his
heart, he swore again that he would have no other wife than your mother.
"Several years passed. Some of those talkative people who take delight
in interfering in everything, and who had seen Monsieur Adhémar de
Hautmont in Paris when his relations thought that he was in Vienna, did
not fail to inform them that the young man was in Paris and had a
mistress there. The relations ordered Adhémar to return to Toulouse, but
he was then of age and master of his actions, and he paid no attention
to the commands which they attempted to impose on him. But he had one
great-uncle, who was very old and very rich, and who was very fond of
him; this uncle was expected to leave him his whole fortune. Your father
often said to his sweetheart:
"'I don't dare to marry you while he is alive, for it might make him
angry with me and deprive us of a large fortune hereafter. But when he
is dead, there will be nothing to delay our union'; and your mother, who
was very, very happy because your father still loved her as much as
ever, replied: 'Do just as you think best, my dear; my daughter and I
will always be content, so long as we have your love; to us that is the
greatest of blessings.'
"At last, a few days before his disappearance, your father learned that
his great-uncle had become more indulgent; that he seemed disposed to
forgive his nephew his secret love-affair. Adhémar instantly set about
procuring from his native place all the documents that he required for
his marriage, saying to your mother:
"'As soon as the ceremony is at an end, we will start for Italy with our
little Agathe. We will pass a year there and then return to France,
where my family, knowing that you are my wife, will understand that
there is nothing for them to do but to forgive me, and to love you when
they know you.'
"That, my dear Agathe, is the whole story of your mother's love. Many
women bear their lover's name without right, and assume in society the
title of lawful wife; your mother would never have stooped to do that.
The name of Montoni was her father's; it is the only one she has left
you. Poor Agathe! why did fate decree that, just when you were on the
point of obtaining a noble name, when a brilliant future opened out
before you, he to whom you were to owe it all should suddenly
disappear?"
"Dear Honorine," said Agathe, "the name and wealth are not what I
regret, but my father's love, my father's kisses--But what is it that
you have to give me?"
"The letters he wrote to your mother when he was away from her, which
she always preserved with care."
"Oh! what joy! my father's letters! Give them to me! give them to me!"
Honorine took from her desk a small package which she had kept in safety
there, and handed it to Agathe.
She received with a trembling hand the only heritage her father had left
her; she hastily opened one of the letters, put her lips to it and wet
it with her tears as she faltered:
"My poor father!"
Then she wiped her eyes, so that she could read, and said to Honorine:
"See--what a pretty hand my father wrote! Ah! I can read this easily;
listen:
"'My beloved Julia, the time seems very long when I am far from
you; the days are endless; and what people call amusements--cards,
hunting, concerts and balls--all seem very dull to me and are not
worth a glance from you or a smile from my little Agathe, who, I
love to believe, is still as fresh and rosy as ever, and strong and
well. When shall I be able to embrace you both! My child was
beginning to stammer a few words. You told me that on my return she
would give me that sweet title of father, which I shall be so happy
to hear from her lips. In a fortnight I shall start; I shall pass
two days in England, then hasten to you. Patience, my Julia,
patience; the time will come when I shall leave you no more, when
you will be my wife before men as you now are before God. Be
careful of your health; do not tire yourself by carrying your
child; I told you to hire a servant, and I trust that you have done
so. _A bientôt_, and then _à toujours_, your
'Adhémar, Comte de Hautmont.'"
Agathe read the letter almost at a breath; then she looked up at
Honorine and said:
"My dear friend, a man doesn't write thus to a person whom he means to
abandon some day. Ah! it must be that my father is dead, as he never
returned to us."
The package contained sixteen letters, all of which gave eloquent
expression to Adhémar de Hautmont's love for Julia Montoni and for
their child. Agathe read them all with deep emotion, then exclaimed:
"Ah! thank you, dear mother; this is indeed a treasure that you left for
me; and it is much more precious than money. Henceforth, when I want to
reward myself, I will read over these letters and imagine that I am
between my father and my mother."
Now that we are fully acquainted with the antecedents of Honorine and
Agathe, we may go with them to inspect the little house at Chelles.
XIII
THE LITTLE HOUSE AT CHELLES
It was the middle of March. There were no leaves on the trees as yet,
but there was plenty of sunshine; it was already soft and penetrating
and announced the return of spring, of that lovely season of the year
when everything seems to be born again--even those persons who are on
the downward path.
Ah! why do not men grow green again like trees and shrubs? To be sure,
their springtime lasts more than three months, but so few of them know
how to make use of it! they do not appreciate it until they have thrown
it away, and then they regret it in vain; decidedly the trees are wiser
than mankind.
Honorine and her young companion dressed in haste in order to arrive
early at the railroad station at the farther end of the Boulevard de
Strasbourg, whence they were to take a train for Chelles. The two women
were ready in a very short time. Agathe, whose quick and cheerful
imagination saw something everywhere to give her pleasure, took the
keenest delight in going into the country, although the season was not
far enough advanced for the fields to have resumed their robes of green.
It was a great diversion to her even to take a short journey by rail.
When one rarely indulges in any amusement, one is not surfeited with all
the different forms of distraction; and the shortest walk is a pleasure
to one who rarely goes out. This is a compensation to those persons who
do not often have an opportunity for enjoyment; little is required to
satisfy them, whereas ennui sometimes besets those who are always
holiday-making. There are compensations everywhere.
In an hour the two friends had reached their destination. When one
arrives at the Chelles station from Paris, the village or hamlet is at
the left on a low hill; it is distant about ten minutes' walk; but then
it rarely happens that the railways take you just where you want to go.
When you arrive at a station, you almost always find yourself in the
open fields. You look about in search of the place at which you are
supposed to have arrived, and you are surprised to see, instead of
houses, fields of cabbages, turnips or potatoes.
Agathe, overjoyed to be in the country, leaped and frolicked about like
a child.
"Oh! how good the fresh air feels!" she cried. "One can run about here
without dread of those horrid omnibuses that are always behind you or in
front of you in Paris! And when everything is in leaf and flower, when
the trees give shade, when there are poppies among the wheat, lilies of
the valley in the woods, and violets in the hedgerows--oh! then it will
be perfectly enchanting! Honorine, don't you think that you'll like
it--doesn't all this delight you?"
"Yes, yes, I am very fond of the country."
"Well, why do you sigh then? why do you look so sad when you say it?"
"Because I am thinking of my poor little boy. If he had lived, he would
be seven years old now. Can't you understand, Agathe, how happy it would
make me to have him by my side, to take him by the hand, or to watch him
running along the road like you? He was such a pretty boy! I am sure he
would have grown to be very fine-looking--my poor little Léon!"
"Mon Dieu! Honorine, if you are going to mourn over that, you will be
sad and sigh--and the doctor said that would make you sick."
"It's over, Agathe--you are right; I do not mean to disturb your joy;
but, you see, when I think of the new life we are going to lead here, of
the sweet peaceful life that is to be ours, when we have left Paris, oh!
then I can't help thinking of my son, who always had a place in my
dreams of happiness and of the future. You have no idea, Agathe, of a
mother's love, and you cannot understand the incurable wound that the
loss of that child has made in my heart! But it's all over now, poor
love! Now you are sad, too. Come, let us turn our thoughts to finding
the house that's for sale; we are to apply to----"
"Monsieur Ledrux, gardener and florist, to see Monsieur Courtivaux's
house."
"That's it. We will inquire of the first peasant we meet; in the country
everybody knows everybody else."
When the two young women reached the village they soon met a laboring
man, to whom they said:
"Can you direct us to the house of Monsieur Ledrux, gardener and
florist, please?"
"Ledrux! Well! is it a Ledrux Cailleux or a Ledrux Leblond, or just
plain Ledrux? There's lots of Ledruxes hereabout, you see, and we give
each of 'em a nickname to tell 'em apart. It's like the Thomases and the
Gaillots, there's a swarm of 'em! there's some families where they've
had heaps of children."
"The Monsieur Ledrux whom we wish to find is a gardener and florist."
"Oh! but everybody's a gardener round here; you see, we don't go after
our neighbor when we want to trim our trees or vines."
"But they told us that Ledrux----"
"Then it must be plain Ledrux; yes, he takes care of orange trees for
the folks that go to Paris for the winter. You want to take this road
here in front of you and go straight ahead till you turn to the left;
and then, on the corner of a lane, you'll see a little house with only
two windows in front--and that's where plain Ledrux lives."
"Much obliged, monsieur."
And the two ladies walked on, Agathe saying:
"How funny it is that people in the country should all have the same
name!"
"That speaks well for them; it proves that the members of these families
have never left their native place to seek fortune elsewhere. My father
often used to say to me: 'My child, you may always have confidence in
old families, in old business houses, and in old servants.'"
"Here's the lane, and I see the little house with two windows."
"I trust that it's where our Ledrux lives."
They reached the house and found a small gate which opened by turning a
knob; they passed through the gate and found themselves in a large and
well-kept garden, cleanly raked, where numerous boxes of pomegranates,
laurel-bushes and rhododendrons were taking their first breath of the
spring air. But they saw nobody.
"Let us go in," said Honorine.
"Let's call," said Agathe; "he must be either in the house or in the
garden.--Monsieur Ledrux!"
"Monsieur Ledrux!"
"Perhaps we ought to say: 'plain Monsieur Ledrux.'"
"What a child you are! It seems to me that if he were in the house he
would hear us, for it isn't large, and the gate rang a bell when we
opened it. Let us look around the garden."
"See, there's a man at the further end of the garden; he sees us."
The master of the house was a little old man, thin and wrinkled, tanned
by the sun, but whose face was at once kindly and shrewd. He came toward
them humming between his teeth, which promised well for his disposition.
Honorine walked forward quickly to meet the singer.
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but we were told to apply to you to show us a
house that is for sale in this neighborhood."
"What's that! a house for sale?"
"Monsieur Courtivaux's."
"Ah! you want to see Monsieur Courtivaux's house, do you?"
"We do."
"Do you think of buying it?"
"Why, we may buy it if it suits us."
"Ah, yes! that's so; you must see it first. I'll show it to you."
"We are sorry to give you so much trouble."
"Oh! it ain't very far. And then, you can't go there alone, for you
don't know where it is. Wait a bit, while I go and fetch the keys."
And the little old man walked away, humming: "Tutu--turlututu--lututu!"
"You see, my dear love, we came to the right place."
"Yes; and this old peasant seems a merry old fellow; I like him
already."
"We will take him for our gardener."
Père Ledrux returned, still humming.
"Are you looking at my garden?"
"Yes; it's extremely well kept."
"Oh! it'll be much prettier when the orange trees are put out; but it's
too early yet."
"Aren't you afraid for the pomegranates and laurels?"
"Oh, no! we shan't have any more hard frosts, and they ain't so
delicate."
"You have some very fine espaliers."
"Well! that's because they're well looked out for; but they have to be.
Trees, you see, are just exactly like people; if we didn't give 'em a
bit of a touch-up now and then, what would we look like?"
They left the garden, crossed one broad street, then another bordered by
garden walls.
"Chelles is a large place!" said Honorine.
"Oh, yes; it ain't so small! Bless me! this used to be a famous country;
it used to have a name of its own. Oh! you ought to hear Monsieur
Antoine Beaubichon, the doctor here, talk about it; he's a scholar and
knows a lot--to say nothing of a brother of his in Paris, who's very
famous too for his knowledge of business and teaches you how to manage
books."
"I know the history of this village," said Honorine with a smile; "I
know that the Abbey of Chelles was very famous; that under the first
race of French kings religious establishments were founded here. King
Chilperic often resided here, and was assassinated here."
"I say! I say! madame knows as much as our doctor!" exclaimed Père
Ledrux, opening his eyes.
"One need only read history to learn that."
"But I am very ignorant, my dear friend; do tell me how King Chilperic
was assassinated here."
"It's a very old story, my dear Agathe; it happened in the year 584, and
between ourselves, all the narratives that we have of those days are
somewhat apocryphal. But this is the way the story runs:
"A mayor of the palace--there were prime ministers then, called mayors
of the palace; this one, whose name was Landry, was, if history is to be
believed, the lover of Queen Frédégonde. Now the king, happening one day
to enter his consort's chamber when he was not expected, found her
leaning over and washing her head; he amused himself by striking her
from behind with his staff. A strange amusement for a king! but in those
days there was very little refinement.
"The queen, not seeing who it was who had entered the room, thought that
none but her favorite would venture to use such freedom, so she said:
'Why do you strike me, Landry?'
"But, on turning her head, she saw the king, her spouse, instead of her
lover; she was stupefied with terror. As for Chilperic, he went off
hunting, without a word.
"When the king had gone, Frédégonde sent for the mayor of the palace and
told him everything that had happened. As they both feared torture and
the death they had merited by their treacherous conduct, they resolved
to kill King Chilperic. He did not return from the hunt until nightfall,
and when he arrived at Chelles and was dismounting from his horse,
cutthroats in Frédégonde's pay stabbed him again and again with knives;
he died on the spot.
"The queen, after causing the report to be spread abroad that the crime
was instigated by King Childebert, had the courage to attend the
obsequies of her deceased husband, which she caused to be celebrated
with great pomp at Paris.
"That, my dear Agathe, is what history tells us; it is not a moral tale,
far from it! and unhappily that sort of thing was too common in those
days, which cannot have been the 'good old days' that so many poets have
extolled. I will not tell you anything more about Chelles, for in truth
it would be even less edifying than what I have just told you."
"My faith!" exclaimed Père Ledrux, who had refrained from humming while
the young woman was speaking; "you do know a lot, all the same; and you
tell it plainer than the doctor, because he uses such long words--words
I don't know; so that he always has to tell us a story seven or eight
times to make me understand it."
"But the house--we don't seem to get to it?"
"Here we are, madame. Look, when we pass this wall which makes an elbow.
There! do you see that building with green blinds? that's Monsieur
Courtivaux's house."
"Oh! my dear friend, just look! how lovely it is! There's a railing in
front, and vases of flowers on the pilasters; it's all very fine!"
Madame Dalmont smiled at her young companion's enthusiasm, but the
aspect of the house pleased her greatly as well, and the nearer they
approached, the better pleased they were.
There was an iron fence in front, through which they could see a pretty
lawn, which stretched in front of the house and formed a charming carpet
of verdure.
"Oh! Honorine, see what lovely turf! Why, monsieur, how is it possible
to have such green turf so early?"
"Pardi, mamzelle--for I see that you're the unmarried one--there's green
turf here all winter, even under the snow. The folks in Paris don't
believe it, but grass grows all the time, you see."
The peasant opened the gate; two paths skirted the lawn and led to the
house; and on both sides were tall trees, whose branches extended over
the grass, so that, in summer, their foliage protected it from the sun's
heat.
Agathe walked beside Honorine, saying every instant in an undertone:
"Oh! how lovely it is! see those fine trees, and those lilac bushes,
with great buds already, and those syringas! Oh! how lovely it must be
in summer!"
"There's a dozen boxes that we put round the lawn," said the gardener,
"six oranges and six pomegranates; but I carried 'em home because I take
care of 'em; in another month I'll put 'em in place. Oh, my! then it
looks nice; it's a pretty sight, I tell you."
The house consisted of two stories and attics. The ground floor was
about three feet from the ground, so that one had to ascend a flight of
steps to the front door. The peasant opened the door and they found
themselves in a handsome hall in which there were four doors. One opened
into a dainty salon, very comfortably furnished; couches filled a large
portion of the space; they and the chairs were covered with light blue
material, and the wall paper was of the same shade.
Agathe uttered a cry of delight.