ALONE IN THE WORLD.
The condition of the old Count de Laborde grew steadily worse. The
change to the land had done him no good, nor was all the loving care
of Mimi of any avail whatever. Every one felt that he was doomed: and
Mimi herself, though she struggled against that thought, still had in
her heart a dark terror of the truth. This truth could at last be
concealed no longer even from herself, for Pere Michel came to
administer the holy eucharist to the dying man, and to receive his
last confession. Mimi could not be present while the dying man
unfolded to his priest the secrets of his heart, nor could she hope
to know what those secrets were. But dark indeed must they have been,
and far, very far, beyond the scope of ordinary confessions, for the
face of Pere Michel, as he came forth from that room, was pale and
sombre; and so occupied was he with his own thoughts that he took no
notice of the weeping girl who stood there, longing to hear from him
some word of comfort. But Pere Michel had none to give. He left the
house, and did not return till the next day.
By that time all was over. Laborde had passed away in the night. The
priest went in to look upon the form of the dead. Mimi was there,
bowed down in the deepest grief, for she felt herself all alone in
the world. The priest stood looking at the face of the dead for some
time with that same gloom upon his face which had been there on the
preceding day, when he left that bedside. At length he turned to
Mimi.
"Child," said he, in a voice full of pity, "I will not attempt to
utter any words of condolence. I know well how the heart feels during
the first emotions of sorrow over bereavement. Words are useless. I
can only point you to Heaven, where all comfort dwells, and direct
you to remember in your prayers him who lies here. The church is
yours, with all her holy offices. The dearest friend must turn away
from the dead, but the church remains, and follows him into the other
world. Your heart may still be consoled, for you can still do
something for the dear father whom you loved. You can pray for the
soul of the departed, and thus it will seem to you as though you have
not altogether lost him. He will seem near you yet when you pray for
him; your spirit will seem to blend with his; his presence will seem
about you. And besides, my dear child, this also I wish to say: you
are not altogether alone in the world. I will watch over you till you
go wherever you may wish. It is not much that I can do; but perhaps I
can do for you all that you may now wish to be done for yourself.
Think of this, then, dear child, and whenever you wish to have a
friend's advice or assistance, come to me."
To this Mimi listened with streaming eyes; and as the priest ended,
she pressed his hand gratefully, and uttered some unintelligible
words. His offer had come to her like balm. It did not seem now as
though she was so desolate, for she had learned already to love the
good priest with something of a daughter's feelings, and to trust in
him profoundly.
Laborde was buried in the little churchyard of Grand Pre; and now,
in addition to the pangs of bereavement, Mimi began to feel other
cares about her future. What was she to do? Could she go back to
France? That was her only present course. But how? She could not go
in the Aigle, for that frigate had left the day after her arrival,
not having any time to spare. There was no other way of going to
France now, except by going first to Louisbourg, and taking a ship
from that place. But she was not left very long in suspense, for, two
or three days after her father's burial, the Count de Cazeneau came
to see her.
"I hope," he began, "that it is not necessary for me to say to you
how deeply I sympathize with you in your bereavement, for I myself
have my own bereavement to mourn over--the loss of my best, my only
friend, the friend of a lifetime, the high-minded, the noble Laborde.
The loss to me is irrevocable, and never can I hope to find any mere
friend who may fill his place. We were always inseparable. We were
congenial in taste and in spirit. My coming to America was largely
due to his unfortunate resolve to come here, a resolve which I always
combated to the best of my ability, and over which you and I must now
mourn. But regrets are useless, and it remains for both of us to see
about the future."
This somewhat formal opening was quite characteristic of Cazeneau,
who, being of a distant, reserved nature, very seldom allowed himself
to unbend; and, though he threw as much softness into his voice and
manner as he was capable of using, yet Mimi felt repelled, and
dreaded what might be coming.
"When we were first picked up by the Aigle," he continued, "it was in
my power either to go direct to Louisbourg, or to come here, and then
go on by land. I chose to come here, for two reasons; first, because
I hoped that my dear friend would be benefited by reaching the land
as soon as possible, and I thought that the pure, fresh air, and
genial climate, and beautiful scenery of this lovely place would
exercise upon him an immediate effect for the better. Another purpose
which I had was an official one. I wished to see this place and this
people with reference to my own administration and designs for the
future. Unhappily, my hopes for my friend have proved unfounded, and
my only consolation is that, though I have been disappointed as a
private man in my affections, yet, as a public official, I have been
able, during my short stay here, to do good service to my country, in
a way which my country's enemies shall feel at a vital point before
another year has passed away."
To this Mimi had nothing to say, for it was all preliminary, and she
expected something more. She therefore waited in silence, though with
much trepidation, to see what it might be that this man had in view
with regard to her. Cazeneau then continued:--
"As I have now done all that I intended to do in this place, it is my
intention to set forth for Louisbourg by land. I have some faithful
Indians as guides, and the journey is not very fatiguing. In
Louisbourg you will be able to obtain every comfort, and there will
be friends and associates for you, your own social equals, who may
make your life pleasanter than it has been for a long time."
By this Cazeneau directly stated his intention of taking Mimi with
him to Louisbourg--a statement which did not surprise Mimi, for it
was what she had expected. Now, however, that he said this, and in
this way, without pretending to ask her consent, her trepidation
increased, and she thought with terror over that long and lonely
journey, which she would have to make with this man and a band of
savages. There was nothing else, however, to be done. She could
neither hope nor desire to remain in Grand Pre. Her position was a
painful one, and the only hope remaining was that of returning to
France. And to go to Louisbourg was the surest way of doing that. One
thing, however, she could not help asking, for this she felt to be a
matter of extreme importance.
"Is Pere Michel going?"
"He is," said Cazeneau. "He has asked permission to go with our
party, and I have granted it."
At this answer a great relief was felt by Mimi, and the future seemed
less dark.
"I have granted it," said Cazeneau, "because he seems a harmless man,
and may be useful in various ways to me, hereafter, in my plans. He
seems to know the people about here. I dare say he's been here
before.
"Your position at Louisbourg," continued Cazeneau, "will be one which
will be most honorable: as the daughter of the Count de Laborde, you
will receive universal attention, and my influence shall be exerted
to make everything contribute to your happiness. As commandant, I
shall, of course, be supreme; my house will be like a small
vice-regal court, and the little world of Louisbourg will all do
homage to any one whom I may hold up before them as a worthy object."
Cazeneau paused after he had said this. It was a speech which was
uttered slowly and with emphasis, but its meaning was not altogether
apparent to Mimi. Still there was enough of it intelligible to her to
make it seem excessively unpleasant. What he exactly meant was of no
importance, the general meaning being certainly this: that he
designed for her some prolonged stay there, during which he intended
to secure homage and respect for her. Now, that was a thing that Mimi
recoiled from with distaste. She had always detested this man, she
had always shrunk from him. Her present position of dependence was
most bitter; but to have that position continue was intolerable. It
was as though he tried to put himself into the place of her beloved
father,--he, whom she regarded as her father's evil genius,--as
though he intended to make himself her guardian, and introduce her as
his ward.
"You speak," said she, in a trembling voice, "just as--as if--I--you
supposed that I was going to live at Louisbourg."
"And where else do you wish to live?" asked Cazeneau, placidly.
"I want to go home," said Mimi, her eyes filling with tears, and her
voice sounding like the wail of a child that has lost its way.
"My poor child," said Cazeneau, more tenderly than he had yet spoken,
"you evidently do not understand your position as yet. I did not
intend to say anything about it; but, since you feel this way, and
have spoken so, I suppose I must make some explanation. Well, then,
my poor child, when your father left France on this unfortunate
errand, he turned all his property into money, expecting to use that
money in America in some way, in that mysterious design of his which
brought him out here. All this money was on board the Arethuse with
him, and it is hardly necessary to say that it was all lost. I know
that his grief over this, and the thought that he was leaving you
penniless, did more to shorten his life than the sufferings which he
had on the sea. He sank under it. He told me that he could not rally
from it; and it was his utter hopelessness that made him give way so
completely. So, my poor child, this is your present situation: your
father's estates are sold, and are now in the hands of strangers;
your father's money is now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean; so
that to return to France is, for the present, at least, not to be
thought of.
"For my part," continued Cazeneau, as Mimi sat there dumb with horror
at hearing this fresh and crushing news, "I do not see anything in
your situation which need give you one moment's uneasiness. You have
lost your father, but your father's best friend still lives, and he
will never see the daughter of his friend know one single trouble, if
he can help it. We were more than brothers. Suppose you try to think
of me with something of the same confidence that your father felt. I,
for my part, will put you in his place. You shall never know a care.
You may consider yourself rich. You shall have no trouble except that
deep sorrow which you feel as a fond daughter."
"I cannot live in America," moaned Mimi, despairingly, recoiling in
her heart from Cazeneau, and dreading him more than ever. "I cannot.
I want to go home; or, if I have no home, I want to go to France. I
will enter a convent."
Cazeneau smiled at this.
"Such a wish, dear child," said he, "is quite natural now, in the
first freshness of your bereavement; but time alleviates all sorrow,
and you may think differently hereafter. As to returning to France,
you shall most certainly do that. I intend to go back after a time;
and you will once more live in our dear, native land. But, for the
present, let us not talk of these things. Louisbourg is now our
destination. Fear nothing. You shall not know a care. You shall be
guarded from every want, and every wish shall be gratified. You shall
find yourself surrounded by the most anxious, and tender, and
solicitous care for your happiness."
These last words were spoken in a warmer and more impassioned manner
than Cazeneau had thus far used, and their effect upon Mimi was so
much the more unpleasant. He then raised her hand to his lips with
respectful affection, and took his departure.
Mimi was for a time quite overwhelmed. The sorrow which she had
experienced for her father gave way to a new feeling--one of terror,
deep, dark, and irremovable--about herself and her own future. All
Cazeneau's words recurred to her, and the more she thought of them,
the more hateful did they seem. Out of them all several things
appeared plain to her mind.
First, that she was a pauper. Of Cazeneau's words she did not doubt
the truth. It seemed in the highest degree probable. She had all
along known that her father had come to America to search after some
of the Montresors, and to made reparation. Cazeneau now had informed
her that he had turned all his property into money. It must have been
for that purpose. The thought had never occurred to her before; but,
now that it was stated, she did not dream of doubting it. It seemed
too true.
Secondly, she saw that Cazeneau, for some reason or other, was
determined to keep her under his control. He was determined not to
allow her to return to France, and not to enter a convent. He was
bent upon associating her with his own life, and causing her to be
admired in Louisbourg. Added to this was his promise to take her back
to France with himself. All this showed that he would on no account
allow her to part with him. What was the meaning of it all? And now
the thought could no longer be kept out of her mind: Cazeneau's
purpose was to make her his wife.
His wife!
The thought was to her most odious; but, having once presented
itself, she could not argue it away, nor could she get rid of it at
all. Yes, that was the meaning that lurked behind his words all the
time. That was the meaning of his promise to make her admired and
happy.
Finally, she remembered how he had stated to her the fact that he was
supreme in Louisbourg, and that through his grandeur she was to
receive homage from all the lesser throng. To her this seemed like a
plain statement that she was in his power, and entirely at his mercy.
And now, what could she do? The future was worse than ever. She was
completely in the power of a man whom she detested--a man upon whom
she looked as her father's evil genius, as one whose evil counsel had
long ago led her father to that act which he had atoned for by
remorse and death. She was now in the hands of this villain. Escape
seemed impossible. He was supreme here. From him there was no appeal.
And she was a beggar. But, even if she were rich, what hope could she
have against him?
As she asked herself this question, there was no answer. She did not
know what she could do, and could scarcely hope that she would ever
know.
It was in this state of mind that Pere Michel found her, on the
evening of that day. Mimi saw his arrival with intense delight. Here
seemed one who might relieve her in her distress. Accordingly she
proceeded to tell him her whole story, all the words of Cazeneau,
with all their implied meaning, and all her own fears, from beginning
to end.
The priest heard her narration in profound silence, and after she had
told him all, he remained in deep thought for some time, while Mimi
sat anxiously awaiting what he might say.
"My dear child," said the priest, at length, "it is difficult for me
to give you advice, for your situation is most unpleasant, and most
distressing to me. I can only entreat you to put your trust in that
Heaven who never deserts the innocent. You must go to
Louisbourg--there is no hope of escaping that. Besides, you yourself
wish to go there. The Count de Cazeneau certainly has the chief power
there; but whether he is omnipotent remains to be seen. Who knows
what other powers may be there? I have known cases where the
commandant has had powerful rivals,--such as the admiral of the
fleet, or some subordinate who had influence at court at home. I have
known places where the bishop could interfere and prevent his doing
wrong. So, be calm, my daughter, put your trust in Heaven, and
recollect that the commandant cannot break through all restraints,
but that there must be some barriers that he cannot force. If you
wish the protection of the church, that will always be yours. Beware
how you do anything rashly. Confide in me. Perhaps, after all, these
troubles may have a good end."