Courtin had hardly taken a hundred steps on the
path that led to his farmhouse before he heard a rustling in the
bushes near which he passed.
"Who's there?" he said, standing in the middle of the path, and
putting himself on guard with the heavy stick he carried.
"Friend," replied a youthful voice.
And the owner of the voice came through the bushes.
"Why, it is Monsieur le baron!" cried the farmer.
"I, myself, Courtin," replied Michel.
"Where are you going at this time of night? Good God! if Madame la
baronne knew you were roaming about in the darkness, what do you
suppose she would say?" said the farmer, pretending surprise.
"That's just it, Courtin."
"Hang it! I suppose Monsieur le baron has his reasons," said the
farmer, in his jeering tone.
"Yes; and you shall hear them as soon as we get to your house."
"My house! Are you going to my house?" said Courtin, surprised.
"You don't refuse to take me in, do you?" asked Michel.
"Good heavens, no! Refuse to take you into a house which, after all,
is yours?"
"Then don't let us lose time, it is so late. You walk first, I'll
follow."
Courtin, rather uneasy at the imperative tone of his young master,
obeyed. A few steps farther on he climbed a bank, crossed an orchard,
and reached the door of his farmhouse. As soon as he entered the lower
room, which served him as kitchen and living-room, he drew a few
scattered brands together on the hearth and blew up a blaze; then he
lighted a candle of yellow wax and stuck it on the chimney-piece. By
the light of this candle he saw what he could not see by the light of
the moon,--namely, that Michel was as pale as death.
"My God! what's the matter with you, Monsieur le baron?" he exclaimed.
"Courtin," said the young man, frowning, "I heard every word of your
conversation with my mother."
"Confound it! were you listening?" said the farmer, a good deal
surprised. But, recovering instantly, he added, "Well, what of it?"
"You want your lease renewed next year?"
"I, Monsieur le baron?"
"You, Courtin; and you want it much more than you choose to own."
"Of course I shouldn't be sorry to have it renewed, Monsieur le baron;
but if there's any objection it wouldn't be the death of me."
"Courtin, I am the person who will renew your lease, because I shall
be of age by that time."
"Yes, that's so, Monsieur le baron."
"But you will understand," continued the young man, to whom the desire
of saving the Comte de Bonneville and staying near Mary gave a
firmness and resolution quite foreign to his character, "you
understand, don't you, that if you do as you said to-night,--that is,
if you denounce my friends,--I shall most certainly not renew the
lease of an informer?"
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Courtin.
"That is certain. Once out of this farm you may say good-bye to it,
Courtin; you shall never return to it."
"But my duty to the government and Madame la baronne?"
"All that is nothing to me. I am Baron Michel de la Logerie; the
estate and château de la Logerie belong to me; my mother resigns them
when I come of age; I shall be of age in eleven months, and your lease
falls in eight weeks later."
"But suppose I renounce my intention, Monsieur le baron?"
"If you renounce your intention, your lease shall be renewed."
"On the same conditions as before?"
"On the same conditions as before."
"Oh, Monsieur le baron, if I were not afraid of compromising you,"
said Courtin, fetching pen, ink, and paper from the drawer of a desk.
"What does all this mean?" demanded Michel.
"Oh, hang it! if Monsieur le baron would only have the kindness to
write down what he has just said,--who knows which of us will die
first? For my part, I am ready to swear,--here's a crucifix,--well, I
swear by Christ--"
"I don't want your oaths, Courtin, for I shall go from here to Souday
and warn Jean Oullier to be on his guard, and Bonneville to get
another resting-place."
"So much the more reason," said Courtin, offering a pen to his young
master.
Michel took the pen and wrote as follows on the paper which the farmer
laid before him:--
"I, the undersigned, Auguste-François Michel, Baron de la Logerie,
agree to renew the lease of farmer Courtin on the same conditions as
the present lease."
Then, as he was about to date it, Courtin stopped him.
"Don't put the date, if you please, my young master," he said. "We
will date it the day after you come of age."
"So be it," said Michel.
He then merely signed it, and left, between the pledge and the
signature, a line to receive the future date.
"If Monsieur le baron would like to be more comfortable for the night
than on that stool," said Courtin, "I will take the liberty to mention
that there is, at his service upstairs, a bed that is not so bad."
"No," replied Michel; "did you not hear me say I was going to Souday?"
"What for? Monsieur le baron has my promise, I pledge him my word to
say nothing. He has time enough."
"What you saw, Courtin, another may have seen. You may keep silence
because you have promised it; but the other, who did not promise, will
speak. Good-bye to you."
"Monsieur le baron will do as he likes," said Courtin; "but he makes a
mistake, yes, a great mistake, in going back into that mouse-trap."
"Pooh! I thank you for your advice; but I am not sorry to let you know
I am of an age now to do as I choose."
Rising as he said the words, with a firmness of which the farmer had
supposed him incapable, he went to the door and left the house.
Courtin followed him with his eyes till the door was closed; after
which, snatching up the written promise, he read it over, folded it
carefully in four, and put it away in his pocket-book. Then, fancying
he heard voices at a little distance, he went to the window and,
drawing back the curtain, saw the young baron face to face with his
mother.
"Ha, ha, my young cockerel!" he said; "you crowed pretty loud with me,
but there's an old hen who'll make you lower your comb."
The baroness, finding that her son did not return, thought that
Courtin might be right when he suggested that Michel was possibly at
the farmhouse. She hesitated a moment, partly from pride, partly from
fear of going out alone at night; but, finally, her maternal
uneasiness got the better of her reluctance, and wrapping herself in a
large shawl, she set out for the farmhouse. As she approached the door
her son came out of it. Then, relieved of her fears for his safety,
and seeing him sound and well, her imperious nature reasserted itself.
Michel, for his part, on catching sight of his mother, made a step
backward in terror.
"Follow me, sir," said the baroness. "It is not too early, I think, to
return home."
The poor lad never once thought of arguing or resisting; he followed
his mother passively and obediently as a child. Not a word was
exchanged between mother and son the whole way. For that matter,
Michel much preferred this silence to a discussion in which his filial
obedience, or rather, let us say, his weak nature, would have had the
worst of it.
When they reached the château day was breaking. The baroness, still
silent, conducted the young man to his room. There he found a table
prepared with food.
"You must be hungry and very tired," said the baroness. "There you
have food, and here you can rest," she added, waving her hand to the
table and the bed, after which she retired, closing the door after
her.
The young man trembled as he heard the key turned twice in the lock.
He was a prisoner! He fell helplessly into an arm-chair. Events were
rushing on like an avalanche, and a more vigorous organization than
that of Baron Michel might have given way under them. As it was, he
had only a certain small amount of energy, and that was all expended
in his interview with Courtin.
Perhaps he had presumed too much upon his strength when he told
Courtin he should go to the château de Souday; at any rate, he was, as
his mother said, tired out and very hungry. At Michel's age Nature is
a mother, too, who will have her rights. Besides, a certain ease of
mind had stolen over him. His mother's words, as she pointed to the
table and the bed, seemed to imply that she did not mean to return
until he had eaten and slept. It gave him some hours of calm before
the storm of explanation.
Michel ate hastily, and then, after trying the door to make sure that
he was really a prisoner, he went to bed and to sleep.
At ten o'clock he awoke. The beams of a splendid May sun were coming
joyously through his windows. He opened the windows. The birds were
singing in the branches, which were just then covered with their young
and tender leafage. The roses were budding; the first butterflies were
circling in the air. On such a day it seemed as though misfortune were
imprisoned and could not come to any one. The young man found a sort
of strength in this revival of Nature, and awaited the dreaded
interview with his mother with more composure.
But the hours went by. Mid-day struck, and still the baroness did not
appear. Michel then noticed, with a certain uneasiness, that the table
had been amply supplied, not only for his supper of the night before,
but also for the breakfast and dinner of the following day. He began
to fear that his captivity might last much longer than he expected.
This fear grew deeper as two and then three o'clock struck. He
listened for every sound, and after a time he fancied he heard shots
in the direction of Montaigu. These sounds had all the regularity of
platoon firing, and yet it was impossible to say whether they came
actually from a fusillade. Montaigu was six miles from La Logerie, and
a distant thunderstorm might produce somewhat the same sounds.
But no! the sky was cloudless; there was no storm. The sounds lasted
over an hour; then all was silent. The baron's uneasiness now became
so great that he forgot to eat the food prepared for him. He resolved
on one thing,--namely, as soon as night came and the people of the
house were in bed he would cut out the lock of the door with his knife
and leave the château, not by the front entrance, but by some window
on the lower floor.
This possibility of flight restored the prisoner's appetite. He dined
like a man who thinks he has a toilsome night before him, and who
gathers strength to make head against it.
He finished his dinner about seven in the evening. It would be dusk in
another hour. He flung himself on his bed and waited. He would fain
have slept, for sleep would have shortened the time of waiting, but
his mind was too uneasy. He closed his eyes, to be sure, but his ears,
constantly alert, heard every sound. One thing surprised him much; he
had seen nothing of his mother. She would certainly, he thought,
expect him to do what he could to escape as soon as it was dark. No
doubt she was planning something; but what could it be?
Suddenly Michel thought he heard the tinkling of
bells which are usually fastened to the collars of post-horses. He ran
to the window. He seemed to see, coming along the road from Montaigu,
an indistinct group moving rapidly in the gathering darkness toward
the château de la Logerie. The sound of horses' hoofs now mingled with
the tinkling of the bells. Presently the postilion cracked his whip,
probably to announce his coming. No doubt remained; it certainly was a
postilion with post-horses on his way to the château.
Instinctively the young man looked toward the stables, and there he
saw the servants dragging his mother's travelling-carriage from the
coach-house. A flash of light came into his mind. These post-horses
from Montaigu, the postilion cracking his whip, the travelling-carriage
making ready for use,--no doubt, no doubt at all remained; his mother
meant to leave La Logerie and take him with her. That was why she had
locked him up and kept him a prisoner. She meant to come for him at the
last moment, force him to get into the carriage with her, and away,
away from everything he would be forced to go. She knew her ascendency
over her son sufficiently well to be certain he would not venture to
resist her.
The consciousness that his mother had this conviction exasperated the
young man all the more because he knew it was a true one. It was
evident to his own mind that if the baroness once came face to face
with him he would not dare to oppose her.
But to leave Mary, renounce that life of emotion to which the sisters
had introduced him, to take no part in the drama which the Comte de
Bonneville and his mysterious companion had come into La Vendée to
play, seemed to him impossible and dishonoring. What would those young
girls think of him?
Michel resolved to run all risks rather than endure the humiliation of
their contempt.
He went to the window and measured with his eye the height from the
ground; it was thirty feet. The young baron stood in thought for a
moment. Evidently some great struggle was going on within him. At last
it was decided. He went to his desk and took out a large sum of money
in gold, with which he filled his pockets. Just then he thought he
heard steps in the corridor. He hastily closed his desk and threw
himself on his bed, expectant. An observer would have seen by the
unusual firmness of the muscles of his face that his resolution was
taken.
What was that resolution? In all probability we shall sooner or later
discover what it was.