The next morning, before most of the inhabitants of the chateau had
thought of leaving their beds, or at least their rooms, a man, on
horseback, and alone, took his departure through a door opening from the
stable-yard into the park. He wore a long travelling redingote trimmed
with braid and fur, rather premature clothing for the season, but which
the sharp cold air that was blowing at this moment made appear very
comfortable. He galloped away, and continued this pace for about
three-quarters of a mile, in spite of the unevenness of the road, which
followed a nearly straight line over hilly ground. It would have been
difficult to decide which to admire more, the horse’s limbs or the
rider’s lungs; for the latter, during this rapid ride, had sung without
taking breath, so to speak, the whole overture to Wilhelm Tell. We
must admit that the voice in which he sang the andante of the Swiss
mountaineer’s chorus resembled a reed pipe more than a hautboy; but, to
make amends when he reached the presto, his voice, a rather good bass,
struck the horse’s ears with such force that the latter redoubled his
vigor as if this melody had produced upon him the effect of a trumpet
sounding the charge on the day of battle.
The traveller, whom we have probably recognized by his musical feat,
concluded his concert by stopping at the entrance to some woods which
extended from the top of the rocks to the river, breaking, here and
there, the uniformity of the fields. After gazing about him for some
time, he left the road and, entering the woods on the right, stopped at
the foot of a large tree. Near this tree was a very small brook, which
took its source not far away and descended with a sweet murmur to the
river, making a narrow bed in the clayey ground which it watered. Such
was the modesty of its course that a little brighter green and fresher
grass a few feet away from it were the only indications of its presence.
Nothing was wanting to make this an idyllic place for a rendezvous,
neither the protecting shade, the warbling of birds in the trees, the
picturesque landscape surrounding it, nor the soft grass.
After dismounting from his steed and tying him to the branches of an
oak, thus conforming to the time-honored custom of lovers, the cavalier
struck his foot upon the ground three or four times to start the
circulation in his legs, and then drew from his pocket a very pretty
Breguet watch.
“Ten minutes past eight,” said he; “I am late and yet I am early. It
looks as if the clocks at La Fauconnerie were not very well regulated.”
He walked up and down with a quick step whistling with a vengeance:
“Quand je quittai la Normandie
J’attends--j’attends--”
a refrain which the occasion brought to his mind. When this pastime was
exhausted he had recourse to another, the nature of which proved that if
the expected beauty had not punctuality for a virtue, she was not one of
those little exacting creatures always ready to faint or whose delicate
nerves make them intolerant of their lovers’ imperfections. Plunging his
hand into one of the pockets in his redingote, the waiting cavalier drew
out a sealskin case filled with Havana cigars, and, lighting one, began
to smoke, while continuing his promenade.
But at the end of a few moments this palliative, like the first, had
exhausted its effect.
“Twenty-five minutes past eight!” exclaimed Marillac, as he looked
at his watch a second time; “I should like to know what this little
miniature rose takes me for? It was hardly worth the trouble of
over-straining this poor horse, who looks as wet as if he had come out
of the river. It is enough to give him inflammation of the lungs. If
Bergenheim were to see him sweating and panting like this in this bleak
wind, he would give me a sound blowing-up. Upon my word, it is becoming
comical! There are no more young girls! I shall see her appear presently
as spruce and conceited as if she had been playing the finest trick in
the world. It will do for once; but if we sojourn in these quarters some
time yet, she must be educated and taught to say, ‘If you please’ and
‘Thanks.’ Ah! ha! she has no idea what sort of man she is dealing with!
Half past eight! If she is not here in five minutes I shall go to La
Fauconnerie and raise a terrible uproar. I will break every bit of
crockery there is in the ‘Femme-sans-Tete’ with blows from my whip. What
can I do to kill time?” He raised his head quickly, as he felt himself
suddenly almost smothered under a shower of dust. This was a fatal
movement for him, for his eyes received part of the libation destined
for his hair. He closed them with a disagreeable sensation, after seeing
Mademoiselle Reine Gobillot’s fresh, chubby face, her figure prim beyond
measure in a lilac-and-green plaid gingham dress, and carrying a basket
on her arm, a necessary burden to maidens of a certain class who play
truant.
“What sort of breeding is this?” exclaimed Marillac, rubbing his eyes;
“you have made me dance attendance for an hour and now you have blinded
me. I do not like this at all, you understand.”
“How you scold me, just for a little pinch of dust!” replied Reine,
turning as red as a cherry as she threw the remainder of the handful
which she had taken from a mole-heap close by them.
“It is because it smarts like the devil,” replied the artist, in a
milder tone, for he realized the ridiculousness of his anger; “since you
have hurt me, try at least to ease the pain; they say that to blow in
the eye will cure it.”
“No. I’ll do nothing of the kind--I don’t like to be spoken to harshly.”
The artist arose at once as he saw the young girl make a movement as if
to go; he put his arm about her waist and half forced her to sit beside
him.
“The grass is damp and I shall stain my dress,” said she, as a last
resistance.
A handkerchief was at once spread upon the ground, in lieu of a carpet,
by the lover, who had suddenly become very polite again.
“Now, my dear Reine,” continued he, “will you tell me why you come
so late? Do you know that for an hour I have been tearing my hair in
despair?”
“Perhaps the dust will make it grow again,” she replied, with a
malicious glance at Marillac, whose head was powdered with brown dust as
if a tobacco-box had been emptied upon it.
“Naughty girl!” he exclaimed, laughing, although his eyes looked as
if he were crying; and, acting upon the principle of retaliation less
odious in love than in war, he tried to snatch a kiss to punish her.
“Stop that, Monsieur Marillac! you know very well what you promised me.”
“To love you forever, you entrancing creature,” said he, in the voice of
a crocodile that sighs to attract his prey.
Reine pursed up her lips and assumed important airs, but, in order to
obey the feminine instinct which prescribes changing the subject of
conversation after too direct an avowal, with the firm intention of
returning to it later through another channel, she said:
“What were you doing just as I arrived? You were so busy you did not
hear me coming. You were so droll; you waved your arms in the air and
struck your forehead as you talked.”
“I was thinking of you.”
“But it was not necessary, in order to do that, to strike your head with
your fist. It must have hurt you.”
“Adorable woman!” exclaimed the artist, in a passionate tone.
“Mon Dieu! how you frighten me. If I had known I would not have come
here at all. I must go away directly.”
“Leave me already, queen of my heart! No! do not expect to do that; I
would sooner lose my life--”
“Will you stop! what if some one should hear you? they might be
passing,” said Reine, gazing anxiously about her. “If you knew how
frightened I was in coming! I told mamma that I was going to the mill
to see my uncle; but that horrid old Lambernier met me just as I entered
the woods. What shall I do if he tells that he saw me? This is not
the road to the mill. It is to be hoped that he has not followed me! I
should be in a pretty plight!”
“You can say that you came to gather berries or nuts, or to hear the
nightingale sing; Mother Gobillot will not think anything of it. Who is
this Lambernier?”
“You know--the carpenter. You saw him at our house the other day.”
“Ah! ah!” said Marillac, with interest, “the one who was turned away
from the chateau?”
“Yes, and they did well to do it, too; he is a downright bad man.”
“He is the one who told you something about Madame de Bergenheim. Tell
me the story. Your mother interrupted us yesterday just as you began
telling it to me.--What was it that he said?”
“Oh! falsehoods probably. One can not believe anything that he says.”
“But what did he tell you?”
“What difference does it make to you what is said about the Baroness?”
replied the young girl, rather spitefully, as she saw that Marillac was
not occupied in thinking of her exclusively.
“Pure curiosity. He told you then that he would tell the Baron what he
knew, and that the latter would give him plenty of money to make him
keep silent?”
“It makes no difference what he told me. Ask him if you wish to know.
Why did you not stay at the chateau if you can think only of the
Baroness? Are you in love with her?”
“I am in love with you, my dear. [The devil take me if she is not
jealous now! How shall I make her talk?] I am of the same opinion as
you,” he replied, in a loud voice, “that all this talk of Lambernier’s
is pure calumny.”
“There is no doubt about it. He is well known about the place; he has a
wicked tongue and watches everything that one does or says in order to
report it at cross-purposes. Mon Dieu! suppose he should make some story
out of his seeing me enter these woods!”
“Madame de Bergenheim,” continued the artist, with affectation, “is
certainly far above the gossip of a scoundrel of this kind.”
Reine pursed up her lips, but made no reply.
“She has too many good qualities and virtues for people to believe
anything he says.”
“Oh, as to that, there are hypocrites among the Parisian ladies as well
as elsewhere,” said the young girl, with a sour look.
“Bless me!” thought Marillac, “we have it now. I’d wager my last franc
that I’ll loosen her tongue.”
“Madame de Bergenheim,” he replied, emphasizing each word, “is such a
good woman, so sensible and so pretty!”
“Mon Dieu! say that you love her at once, then--that’ll be plain talk,”
exclaimed Reine, suddenly disengaging herself from the arm which was
still about her waist. “A great lady who has her carriages and footmen
in livery is a conquest to boast of! While a country girl, who has only
her virtue--”
She lowered her eyes with an air of affected modesty, and did not finish
her sentence.
“A virtue which grants a rendezvous at the end of three days’
acquaintance, and in the depths of the woods! That is amusing!” thought
the artist.
“Still, you will not be the first of the fine lady’s lovers,” she
continued, raising her head and trying to conceal her vexation under an
ironical air.
“These are falsehoods.”
“Falsehoods, when I tell you that I know what I am speaking about!
Lambernier is not a liar.”
“Lambernier is not a liar?” repeated a harsh, hoarse voice, which seemed
to come from the cavity of the tree under which they were seated. “Who
has said that Lambernier was a liar?”
At the same moment, the carpenter in person suddenly appeared upon the
scene. He stood before the amazed pair with his brown coat thrown over
his shoulders, as usual, and his broad-brimmed gray hat pulled down over
his ears, gazing at them with his deep, ugly eyes and a sardonic laugh
escaping from his lips.
Mademoiselle Reine uttered a shriek as if she had seen Satan rise up
from the ground at her feet; Marillac rose with a bound and seized his
whip.
“You are a very insolent fellow,” said he, in his ringing bass voice.
“Go your way!”
“I receive no such orders,” replied the workman, in a tone which
justified the epithet which had just been bestowed upon him; “we are
upon public ground, and I have a right to be here as well as you.”
“If you do not take to your heels at once,” said the artist, becoming
purple with rage, “I will cut your face in two.”
“Apples are sometimes cut in two,” said Lambernier, sneeringly advancing
his face with an air of bravado. “My face is not afraid of your whip;
you can not frighten me because you are a gentleman and I am a workman!
I snap my fingers at bourgeois like--”
This time he did not have time to finish his comparison; a blow from the
whip cut him in the face and made him reel in spite of himself.
“By heaven!” he exclaimed, in a voice like thunder, “may I lose my name
if I do not polish you off well!”
He threw his coat on the grass, spat, in his hands and rubbed them
together, assuming the position of an athlete ready for a boxing-bout.
Mademoiselle Gobillot, arose, trembling with fright at this
demonstration, and uttered two or three inarticulate cries; but, instead
of throwing herself between the combatants in the approved style, she
ran away as fast as she could.
Although the weapons of the adversaries were not of a nature to
spill blood upon the turf, there was something warlike about their
countenances which would have done honor to ancient paladins. Lambernier
squatting upon his legs, according to the rules of pugilism, and with
his fists on a level with his shoulders, resembled, somewhat, a cat
ready to bound upon its prey. The artist stood with his body thrown
backward, his legs on a tension, his chin buried up to his moustache
in the fur collar of his coat, with whip lowered, watching all his
adversary’s movements with a steady eye. When he saw the carpenter
advancing toward him, he raised his arm and gave him on the left side a
second lash from his whip, so vigorously applied that the workman beat a
retreat once more, rubbing his hands and roaring:
“Thunder! I’ll finish you--”
He put his hands in his trousers’ pockets and drew out one of those
large iron compasses such as carpenters use, and opened it with a rapid
movement. He then seized it in the centre and was thus armed with a
sort of double-pointed stiletto, which he brandished with a threatening
gesture.
Marillac, at this sight, drew back a few paces, passed his whip to his
left hand and, arming himself with his Corsican poniard, placed himself
in a position of defence.
“My friend,” said he, with perfect deliberation, “my needle is shorter
than yours, but it pricks better. If you take one step nearer me, if you
raise your hand, I will bleed you like a wild boar.”
Seeing the firm attitude of the artist, whose solid figure seemed to
denote rather uncommon vigor, and whose moustache and sparkling eyes
gave him a rather formidable aspect at this moment; above all, when he
saw the large, sharp blade of the poniard, Lambernier stopped.
“By the gods!” exclaimed Marillac, who saw that his bold looks had
produced their effect, “you are a Provencal, and I a Gascon. You have a
quick hand, comrade--”
“But, by Jove! you are the one who has the quick hand; you struck me
with your whip as if I had been a horse. You have put my eye almost
out. Do you imagine that I am well provided for like yourself and have
nothing to do but to flirt with girls? I need my eyes in order to work,
by God! Because you are a bourgeois and I am a workman--”
“I am not more of a bourgeois than you,” replied the artist, rather glad
to see his adversary’s fury exhaust itself in words, and his attitude
assume a less threatening character; “pick up your compass and return
to your work. Here,” he added, taking two five-franc pieces from his
pocket. “You were a little boorish and I a little hasty. Go and bathe
your eyes with a glass of wine.”
Lambernier scowled and his eyes darted ugly, hateful glances. He
hesitated a moment, as if he were thinking what he had better do, and
was weighing his chances of success in case of a hostile resolve. After
a few moments’ reflection, prudence got the better of his anger. He
closed his compass and put it in his pocket, but he refused the silver
offered him.
“You are generous,” said he, with a bitter smile; “five francs for each
blow of the whip! I know a good many people who would offer you their
cheek twelve hours of the day at that price. But I am not one of that
kind; I ask nothing of nobody.”
“If Leonardo da Vinci could have seen this fellow’s face just now,”
thought the artist, “he would not have had to seek so long for his model
for the face of Judas. Only for my poniard, my fate would have been
settled. This man was ready to murder me.”
“Listen, Lambernier,” said he, “I was wrong to strike you, and I would
like to atone for it. I have been told that you were sent away from
the chateau against your will. I am intimate enough with Monsieur de
Bergenheim to be useful to you; do you wish me to speak to him for you?”
The carpenter stood motionless in his place, with his eyes fixed upon
his adversary while the latter was preparing his horse to mount, eyes
which seemed filled with hatred to their very depths. His face suddenly
changed its expression and became abjectly polite when he heard himself
addressed anew. He shook his head two or three times before replying.
“Unless you are the very devil,” he said, “I defy you to make this
gentleman say yes when he has once said no. He turned me away like a
dog; all right. Let them laugh that win. It was that old idiot of
a Rousselet and that old simpleton of a coachman of Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil’s who told tales about me. I could tell tales also if I
liked.”
“But what motive could they have to send you away?” continued Marillac,
“you are a clever workman. I have seen your work at the chateau; there
are some rooms yet unfinished; there must have been some very grave
reason for their not employing you just at the moment when they needed
you most.”
“They said that I talked with Mademoiselle Justine, and Madame caused me
to be discharged. She is mistress there, is she not? But I am the one to
make her repent for it.”
“And how can you make her repent for it?” asked the artist, whose
curiosity, left ungratified by Mademoiselle Reine, was growing more and
more excited, “what can you have in common with Madame la Baronne?”
“Because she is a lady and I am a workman, you mean? All the same, if I
could only whisper two or three words in her ear, she would give me more
gold than I have earned since I worked at the chateau, I am sure of it.”
“By the powers! if I were in your place, I would say those words to her
this very day.”
“So as to be thrown out by that band of idle fellows in their red coats.
None of that for me. I have my own scheme; let them laugh that win!”
As he repeated this proverb, the workman uttered his usual sardonic
laugh.
“Lambernier,” said the artist, in a serious tone, “I have heard of
certain very strange speeches that you have made within the last few
days. Do you know that there is a punishment by law for those who invent
calumnies?”
“Is it a calumny, when one can prove what he says?” replied the
carpenter, with assurance.
“What is it that you undertake to prove?” exclaimed Marillac, suddenly.
“Eh! you know very well that if Monsieur le Baron--” he did not
continue, but with a coarse gesture he finished explaining his thoughts.
“You can prove this?”
“Before the courts, if necessary.”
“Before the courts would not amount to very much for you; but if you
will cease this talk and never open your mouth about all this, whatever
it may be, and will give to me, and me only, this proof of which you
speak, I will give you ten napoleons.”
For a moment Lambernier gazed at the artist with a singularly
penetrating glance.
“So you have two sweethearts, then--one from the city and one from the
country, a married woman and this poor girl,” said he, in a jeering
tone; “does little Reine know that she is playing second fiddle?”
“What do you mean to insinuate?”
“Oh! you are more clever than I.”
The two men looked at each other in silence, trying to read each other’s
thoughts.
“This is a lover of Madame de Bergenheim,” thought Lambernier, with the
barefaced impudence of his kind; “if I were to tell him what I know,
my vengeance would be in good hands, without my taking the trouble to
commit myself.”
“Here is a sneaking fellow who pretends to be deucedly strong in
diplomacy,” said Marillac to himself; “but he is revengeful and I must
make him explain himself.”
“Ten napoleons are not to be found every day,” continued the carpenter,
after a moment’s silence; “you may give them to me, if you like, in a
week.”
“You will be able to prove to me, then, what you have said,” replied
Marillac, with hesitation, blushing in spite of himself at the part he
was playing at that moment, upon the odious side of which he had not
looked until now. “Bah!” said he to himself, in order to quiet his
conscience, “if this rascal really knows anything it is much better that
I should buy the secret than anybody else. I never should take advantage
of it, and I might be able to render the lady a service. Is it not a
gentleman’s sworn duty to devote himself to the defence of an imprudent
beauty who is in danger?”
“I will bring you the proof you want,” said the carpenter.
“When?”
“Meet me Monday at four o’clock in the afternoon at the cross-roads near
the corner of the Come woods.”
“At the end of the park?”
“Yes, a little above the rocks.”
“I will be there. Until then, you will not say a word to anybody?”
“That is a bargain, since you buy the goods I have for sale--”
“Here is some money to bind the trade,” replied the artist. And he
handed him the silver pieces he still held in his hand; Lambernier took
them this time without any objections, and put them in his pocket.
“Monday, at four o’clock!”
“Monday, at four o’clock!” repeated Marillac, as he mounted his horse
and rode away in great haste as if eager to take leave of his companion.
He turned when he reached the road, and, looking behind him, saw the
workman standing motionless at the foot of the tree.
“There is a scamp,” thought he, “whose ball and chain are waiting for
him at Toulon or Brest, and I have just concluded a devilish treaty with
him. Bah! I have nothing to reproach myself with. Of two evils choose
the least; it remains to be seen whether Gerfaut is the dupe of a
coquette or whether his love is threatened with some catastrophe; at all
events, I am his friend, and I ought to clear up this mystery and put
him on his guard.”
“Ten francs to-day, and ten napoleons Monday,” said Lambernier as, with
an eye in which there was a mixture of scorn and hatred, he watched the
traveller disappear. “I should be a double idiot to refuse. But this
does not pay for the blows from your whip, you puppy; when we have
settled this affair of the fine lady, I shall attend to you.”