The Champdoce Mystery
by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #2736 · 574,857 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Champdoce Mystery
Author: Emile Gaboriau
Release date: March 28, 2006 [eBook #2736]
Most recently updated: September 23, 2016
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2736
Credits: Produced by Dagny; Emma Dudding; John Bickers; David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHAMPDOCE MYSTERY ***
Produced by Dagny; Emma Dudding; John Bickers
THE CHAMPDOCE MYSTERY
by Emile Gaboriau
This novel is a sequel to Caught in the Net. [Etext #2451]
CHAPTER I.
A DUCAL MONOMANIAC.
The traveller who wishes to go from Poitiers to London by the shortest
route will find that the simplest way is to take a seat in the
stage-coach which runs to Saumur; and when you book your place, the
polite clerk tells you that you must take your seat punctually at six
o’clock. The next morning, therefore, the traveller has to rise from his
bed at a very early hour, and make a hurried and incomplete toilet, and
on arriving, flushed and panting, at the office, discover that there was
no occasion for such extreme haste.
In the hotel from whence the coach starts every one seems to be asleep,
and a waiter, whose eyes are scarcely open, wanders languidly about.
There is not the slightest good in losing your temper, or in pouring out
a string of violent remonstrances. In a small restaurant opposite a cup
of hot coffee can be procured, and it is there that the disappointed
travellers congregate, to await the hour when the coach really makes a
start.
At length, however, all is ready, the conductor utters a tremendous
execration, the coachman cracks his whip, the horses spring forward, the
wheels rattle, and the coach is off at last. Whilst the conductor smokes
his pipe tranquilly, the passengers gaze out of the windows and admire
the beautiful aspect of the surrounding country. On each side stretch
the woods and fields of Bevron. The covers are full of game, which has
increased enormously, as the owner of the property has never allowed a
shot to be fired since he had the misfortune, some twenty years ago, to
kill one of his dependents whilst out shooting. On the right hand side
some distance off rise the tower and battlements of the Chateau de
Mussidan. It is two years ago since the Dowager Countess of Chevanche
died, leaving all her fortune to her niece, Mademoiselle Sabine de
Mussidan. She was a kind-hearted woman, rough and ready in her manner,
but very popular amongst the peasantry. Farther off, on the top of some
rising ground, appears an imposing structure, of an ancient style of
architecture; this is the ancient residence of the Dukes of Champdoce.
The left wing is a picturesque mass of ruins; the roof has fallen
in, and the mullions of the windows are dotted with a thick growth of
clustering ivy. Rain, storm, and sunshine have all done their work, and
painted the mouldering walls with a hundred varied tints. In 1840 the
inheritor of one of the noblest names of France resided here with
his only son. The name of the present proprietor was Caesar Guillaume
Duepair de Champdoce. He was looked upon both by the gentry and
peasantry of the country side as a most eccentric individual. He could
be seen any day wandering about, dressed in the most shabby manner, and
wearing a coat that was frequently in urgent need of repair, a leathern
cap on his head, wooden shoes, and a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. In
winter he supplemented to these an ancient sheepskin coat. He was sixty
years of age, very powerfully built, and possessing enormous strength.
The expression upon his face showed that his will was as strong as
his thews and sinews. Beneath his shaggy eyebrows twinkled a pair of
light-gray eyes, which darkened when a fit of passion overtook him, and
this was no unusual occurrence.
During his military career in the army of the Conde, he had received
a sabre cut across his cheek, and the cicatrice imparted a strange and
unpleasant expression to his face. He was not a bad-hearted man, but
headstrong, violent, and tyrannical to a degree. The peasants saluted
him with a mixture of respect and dread as he walked to the chapel, to
which he was a regular attendant on Sundays, with his son. During the
Mass he made the responses in an audible voice, and at its conclusion
invariably put a five-franc piece into the plate. This, his subscription
to the newspaper, and the sum he paid for being shaved twice each week,
constituted the whole of his outlay upon himself. He kept an excellent
table, however; plump fowls, vegetables of all kinds, and the most
delicious fruit were never absent from it. Everything, however, that
appeared upon his well-plenished board was the produce of his fields,
gardens, or woods. The nobility and gentry of the neighborhood
frequently invited him to their hospitable tables, for they looked upon
him as the head and chief of the nobility of the county; but he always
refused their invitations, saying plainly, “No man who has the slightest
respect for himself will accept hospitalities which he is not in a
position to return.” It was not the grinding clutch of poverty that
drove the Duke to this exercise of severe economy, for his income from
his estates brought him in fifty thousand francs per annum; and it was
reported that his investments brought him in as much more. As a matter
of course, therefore, he was looked upon as a miser, and a victim to the
sordid vice of avarice.
His past life might, in some degree, offer an explanation of this
conduct. Born in 1780, the Duke de Champdoce had joined the band of
emigrants which swelled the ranks of Conde’s army. An implacable opposer
of the Revolution, he resided, during the glorious days of the Empire,
in London, where dire poverty compelled him to gain a livelihood as a
fencing master at the Restoration. He came back with the Bourbons to
his native land, and, by an almost miraculous chance, was put again in
possession of his ancestral domains. But in his opinion he was living
in a state of utter destitution as compared to the enormous revenues
enjoyed by the dead-and-gone members of the Champdoce family; and what
pained him more was to see rise up by the side of the old aristocracy a
new race which had attached itself to commerce and entered into business
transactions. As he gazed upon the new order of things, the man whose
pride of birth and position almost amounted to insanity, conceived the
project to which he determined to devote the remainder of his life. He
imagined that he had discovered a means by which he could restore the
ancient house of Champdoce to all its former splendor and position. “I
can,” said he, “by living like a peasant and resorting to no unnecessary
expense, treble my capital in twenty years; and if my son and my
grandson will only follow my example, the race of Champdoce will again
recover the proud position that it formerly held.” Faithful to this idea,
he wedded, in 1820, although his heart was entirely untouched, a young
girl of noble birth but utterly devoid of beauty, though possessed of
a magnificent dowry. Their union was an extremely unhappy one, and many
persons did not hesitate to accuse the Duke of treating with harshness
and severity a young girl, who, having brought her husband five hundred
thousand francs, could not understand why she should be refused a new
dress when she urgently needed it. After twelve months of inconceivable
unhappiness, she gave birth to a son who was baptized Louis Norbert, and
six months afterwards she sank into an untimely grave.
The Duke did not seem to regret his loss very deeply. The boy appeared
to be of a strong and robust constitution, and his mother’s dowry would
go to swell the revenues of the Champdoce family. He made his recent
loss, too, the pretext for further retrenchments and economies.
Norbert was brought up exactly as a farmer’s son would have been. Every
morning he started off to work, carrying his day’s provisions in a
basket slung upon his back. As he grew older, he was taught to sow and
reap, to estimate the value of a standing crop at a glance, and, last
but not least, to drive a hard bargain. For a long time the Duke debated
the expediency of permitting his son to be taught to read or write; and
if he did so at last, it was owing to some severe remarks by the parish
priest upon the day on which Norbert took the sacrament for the first
time.
All went on well and smoothly until the day when Norbert, on his
sixteenth birthday, accompanied his father to Poitiers for the first
time.
At sixteen years of age, Louis Norbert de Champdoce looked fully twenty,
and was as handsome a youth as could be seen for miles round. The sun
had given a bronzed tint to his features which was exceedingly becoming.
He had black hair, with a slight curl running through it, and large
melancholy blue eyes, which he inherited from his mother. Poor girl! it
was the sole beauty that she had possessed. He was utterly uncultured,
and had been ruled with such a rod of iron by his father that he had
never been a league from the Chateau. His ideas were barred by the
little town of Bevron, with its sixty houses, its town hall, its small
chapel, and principal river; and to him it seemed a spot full of noise
and confusion. In the whole course of his life he had never spoken
to three persons who did not belong to the district. Bred up in this
secluded manner, it was almost impossible for him to understand that
any one could lead a different existence to that of his own. His only
pleasure was in procuring an abundant harvest, and his sole idea of
excitement was High Mass on Sunday.
For more than a year the village girls had cast sly glances at him, but
he was far too simple and innocent to notice this. When Mass was over,
he generally walked over the farm with his father to inspect the work
of the past week, or to set snares for the birds. His father at last
determined to give him a wider experience, and one day said that he was
to accompany him to Poitiers.
At a very early hour in the morning they started in one of the low
country carts of the district, and under the seat were small sacks,
containing over forty thousand francs in silver money. Norbert had
long wished to visit Poitiers, but had never done so, though it was
but fifteen miles off. Poitiers is a quaint old town, with dilapidated
pavements and tall, gloomy houses, the architecture of which dates from
the tenth century; but Norbert thought that it must be one of the most
magnificent cities in the world. It was market day when they drove in,
and he was absolutely stupefied with surprise and excitement. He had
never believed there could be so many people in one place, and hardly
noticed that the cart had pulled up opposite a lawyer’s office. His
father shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“Come, Norbert, lad, we are there,” said he.
The young man jumped to the ground, and assisted mechanically to remove
the sacks. The servile manner of the lawyer did not strike him, nor did
he listen to the conversation between him and his father. Finally, the
business being concluded, they took their departure, and, driving to the
Market Place, put up the horse and cart at an old-fashioned, dingy inn,
where they took their breakfast in the public room at a table where
the wagoners were having a violent quarrel over their meal. The Duke,
however, had other business to transact than the investment of his
money, for he wanted to find the whereabouts of a miller who was
somewhat in his debt. Norbert waited for him in front of the inn, and
could not help feeling rather uncomfortable at finding himself alone.
All at once some one came up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He
turned round sharply, and found himself face to face with a young man,
who, seeing his look of surprise, said,--
“What! have you entirely forgotten your old friend Montlouis?”
Montlouis was the son of one of the Duke’s farmers, and he and Norbert
had often played together in past years. They had driven their cows
to the meadows together, and had spent long days together fishing or
searching for birds’ nests. The dress now worn by Montlouis had at
first prevented Norbert from recognizing him, for he was attired in
the uniform of the college at which his father had placed him, being
desirous of making something more than a mere farmer of his son.
“What are you doing here?” asked Norbert.
“I am waiting for my father.”
“So am I. Let us have a cup of coffee together.”
Montlouis led his playmate into a small wine shop near at hand. He
seemed a little disposed to presume upon the superior knowledge of the
world which he had recently acquired.
“If there was a billiard-table here,” said he, “we could pass away the
time with a game, though, to be sure, it runs into money.”
Norbert never had had more than a few pence in his pocket at one
time, and at this remark the color rose to his face, and he felt much
humiliated.
“My father,” added the young collegian, “gives me all I ask for. I am
certain of getting one, if not two prizes at the next examination; and
when I have taken my degree, the Count de Mussidan has promised to make
me his steward. What do you think that you will do?”
“I--I don’t know,” stammered Norbert.
“You will, I suppose, dig and toil in the fields, as your father has
done before you. You are the son of the noblest and the richest man for
miles round, and yet you are not so happy as I am.”
Upon the return of the Duke de Champdoce some little time after this
conversation, he did not detect any change in his son’s manner; but the
words spoken by Montlouis had fallen into Norbert’s brain like a subtle
poison, and a few careless sentences uttered by an inconsiderate lad had
annihilated the education of sixteen years, and a complete change had
taken place in Norbert’s mind, a change which was utterly unsuspected by
those around him, for his manner of bringing up had taught him to keep
his own counsel.
The fixed smile on his features entirely masked the angry feelings that
were working in his breast. He went through his daily tasks, which had
once been a pleasure to him, with utter disgust and loathing. His eyes
had been suddenly opened, and he now understood a host of things which
he had never before even endeavored to comprehend. He saw now that his
proper position was among the nobles, whom he never saw except when they
attended Mass at the little chapel in Bevron. The Count de Mussidan, so
haughty and imposing, with his snow-white hair; the aristocratic-looking
Marquis de Laurebourg, of whom the peasants stood in the greatest awe,
were always courteous and even cordial in their salutations, while the
noble dames smiled graciously upon him. Proud and haughty as they were,
they evidently looked upon his father and himself as their equals, in
spite of the coarse garments that they wore. The realization of these
facts effected a great change in Norbert. He was the equal of all these
people, and yet how great a gulf separated him from them. While he and
his father tramped to Mass in heavy shoes, the others drove up in
their carriages with powdered footmen to open the doors. Why was this
extraordinary difference? He knew enough of the value of crops and land
to know that his father was as wealthy as any of these gentlemen. The
laborers on the farm said that his father was a miser, and the villagers
asserted that he got up at night and gazed with rapture upon the
treasure that was hidden away from men’s eyes.
“Norbert is an unhappy lad,” they would say. “He who ought to be able to
command all the pleasures of life is worse off than our own children.”
He also recollected that one day, as his father was talking to the
Marquis de Laurebourg, an old lady, who was doubtless the Marchioness,
had said, “Poor boy! he was so early deprived of a mother’s care!” What
did that mean unless it was a reflection upon the arbitrary behavior of
his father? Norbert saw that these people always had their children with
them, and the sight of this filled him with jealousy, and brought tears
of anguish to his eyes. Sometimes, as he trudged wearily behind his yoke
of oxen, goad in hand, he would see some of these young scions of the
aristocracy canter by on horseback, and the friendly wave of the hand
with which they greeted him almost appeared to his jaundiced mind a
premeditated insult. What could they find to do in Paris, to which they
all took wing at the first breath of winter? This was a question which
he found himself utterly unable to solve. To drink to intoxication
offered no charms to him, and yet this was the only pleasure which the
villagers seemed to enjoy. Those young men must have some higher class
of entertainment, but in what could it consist? Norbert could hardly
read a line without spelling every word; but these new thoughts running
through his mind caused him to study, so as to improve his education.
His father had often told him that he did not like lads who where always
poring over books; and so Norbert did not discontinue his studies, but
simply avoided bringing them under his father’s notice. He knew that
there was a large collection of books in one of the upstairs rooms of
the Chateau. He managed to force the lock of the door, and he found some
thousands of volumes, of which at least two hundred were novels, which
had been the solace of his mother’s unhappy life. With all the eagerness
of a man who is at the point of starvation and finds an unexpected
store of provisions, Norbert seized upon them. At first he had great
difficulty in dividing fact from fiction.
He arrived at two conclusions from perusing this heterogeneous mass of
literature--one was, that he was most unhappy; and the other was, that
he hated his father with a cold and determined loathing. Had he dared,
he would have shown this feeling openly, but the Duke de Champdoce
inspired him with an unconquerable feeling of terror. This state of
affairs continued for some months, and at the end of that time the Duke
felt that he ought to make his son acquainted with his projects. One
Sunday, after supper, he commenced this task. Norbert had never seen
his father so animated as he was at this moment, when all his ancestral
pride blazed in his eyes. He explained at length the acts and deeds of
those heroes who had been the ornament of their house, and enumerated
the influential marriages which had been made by them in the days when
their very name was a power in the land. And what remained of all their
power and rank, save their Parisian domicile, their old Chateau, and
some two hundred thousand francs of income?
Norbert could hardly credit what he heard; he had never believed that
his father possessed such enormous wealth. “Why, it is inconceivable!”
he muttered. And yet, as he looked round, he saw that the surroundings
were those of a peasant’s cottage. How could he endure so many
discomforts and wounds to his pride? In his anger he absolutely started
to his feet with the intention of reproaching his father, but his
courage failed him, and he fell back into a chair, quivering with
emotion.
The Duke de Champdoce was pacing up and down the room.
“Do you think it so little?” asked he angrily.
Norbert knew that not one of the neighboring nobility who had the
reputation of being wealthy possessed half this annual income, and it
was with a feeling of bitter anger in his heart that he listened to the
broken words which fell from his father’s lips. All at once the Duke
halted in front of his son’s chair.
“What fortune I have now,” said he in a hoarse voice, “is little or
nothing in times like these, when the tradesman contrives to make an
almost unlimited income, and, setting up as a gentleman, imitates, not
our virtues, but our vices; while the nobles, not understanding the
present hour, are in poverty and want. Without money, nothing can be
done. To hold his own against these mushroom fortunes, a Champdoce
should possess millions. Neither you nor I, my son, will see our coffers
overflowing with millions, but our descendants will reap the benefit
of our toil. Our ancestors gained their name and glory by their
determination; let us show that we are their worthy offspring.”
As he approached the subject which had occupied his mind entirely for
years, the old noble’s voice quivered and shook.
“I have done my duty,” said he, calming himself by a mighty effort, “and
it is now your turn to do yours. You shall marry some wealthy heiress,
and you shall bring up your son as I have reared and nurtured you. You
will be able to leave him fifteen millions; and if he will only follow
in our footsteps, he will be able to bequeath to his heir a fortune that
a monarch might envy. And this shall and will come to pass, because it
is my fixed determination.”
The strange outburst of confidence petrified Norbert.
“The task is heavy and painful,” continued the Duke, “but it is one that
several scores of illustrious houses have accomplished. He who wishes
to revive the fallen fortunes of some mighty house must live only in the
future, and have no thought but for the prosperity of his descendants.
More than once I have faltered and hesitated, but I have conquered
my weakness, and now only live to make the line of Champdoce the most
wealthy in France. You have seen me haggle for an hour over a wretched
louis, but it was for the reason that at a future day one of our
descendants might fling it to a beggar from the window of his
magnificent equipage. Next year I will take you to Paris and show
you our house there. You will see in it the most wonderful tapestry,
pictures by the best masters, for I have ornamented and embellished
it as a lover adorns a house for a beloved mistress, and that house,
Norbert, is the home that your grandchildren will dwell in.”
The Duke uttered these words in a tone of jubilant triumph.
“I have spoken to you thus,” resumed he, after a short pause, “because
you are now of an age to listen to the truth, and because I wished you
to understand the rules by which you are to regulate your life. You have
now arrived at years of discretion, and must do of your own free will
what you have up to this time done at my bidding. This is all that I
have to say. To-morrow you will take twenty-five sacks of wheat to the
miller at Bevron.”
Like all tyrannical despots, the Duke never contemplated for a moment
the possibility of any one disobeying his commands; yet at this very
moment Norbert was registering a solemn mental oath that he would never
carry out his father’s wishes. His anger, which his fears had so long
restrained, now burst all bounds, and it was in the broad chestnut tree
avenue, behind the Chateau, far from any listening ear, that he gave way
to his despair. So long as he had only looked upon his father as a
mere miser, he had permitted himself to indulge in hope; but now he
understood him better, and saw that life-long plans, such as the Duke
had framed, were not to be easily overruled.
“My father is mad,” said he; “yes; decidedly mad.”
He had made up his mind that for the present he would yield to his
despotism, but afterwards, in the future, what was he to do?
It is an easy thing to find persons to give you bad advice, and the
very next day Norbert found one at Bevron in the shape of a certain man
called Daumon, a bitter enemy of the Duke.
CHAPTER II.
A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE.
Daumon was not a native of this part of the country, and no one knew
from whence he came. He said that he had been an attorney’s clerk, and
had certainly resided for a long time in Paris. He was a little man
of fifty years of age, clean shaved, and with a sharp and cunning
expression of countenance. His long nose, sharp, restless eyes, and thin
lips, attracted attention at first sight. His whole aspect aroused a
feeling of distrust. He had come to Bevron, some fifteen years before,
with all his provisions in a cotton handkerchief slung over his
shoulder. He was willing to make money in any way, and he prospered
and rose. He owned fields, vineyards, and a cottage, which is at the
juncture of the highway to Poitiers and the cross road that leads
to Bevron. His aim and object were to be seen everywhere, to know
everybody, and to have a finger in every pie in the neighborhood around.
If any of the farmers or the laborers wanted small advances, they went
to him, and he granted them loans at exorbitant rates of interest. He
gave most disputants counsel, and had every point of law at his
fingers’ ends. He could teach people how to sail as close to the wind as
possible, and yet to be beyond the reach of the law. He affected to be
only too anxious to ameliorate the lot of the peasant class, and yet he
was drawing heavy sums from them by way of interest. He endeavored by
every means in his power to rouse their feelings of animosity against
both the priesthood and the gentry. His artful way of talking, and
the long black coat which he wore, had given him the nickname of the
“Counsellor” in the district. The reason why he disliked the Duke was
because the latter had more than once shown himself hostile to him,
and had taken him before the court of justice, from which Daumon only
escaped by means of bribery of suborned witnesses. He vowed that he
would be revenged for this, and for five years had been watching his
opportunity, and this was the man whom Norbert met when he went to
deliver his corn to the miller. As he was coming back with his empty
wagon, Daumon asked for a lift back as far as the cross road that led to
his cottage.
“I trust, sir,” said he with the most servile courtesy, “that you will
excuse the liberty I take, but I am so utterly crippled with rheumatism
that I can hardly walk, Marquis.”
Daumon had read somewhere that the eldest son of a Duke was entitled
to be styled _Marquis_, and it was the first time that Norbert had been
thus addressed. Before this he would have laughed at the appellation,
but now his wounded vanity, and his exasperation at the unhappy
condition in which he found himself, tempted him to accept the title
without remonstrance.
“All right, I can give you a lift,” said he, and the Counsellor
clambered into the cart.
All the time that he was showering thanks upon Norbert for his courtesy
he was watching the young man’s face carefully.
“Evidently,” thought the Counsellor to himself, “something unusual has
taken place at the Chateau de Champdoce. Was not the opportunity for
revenge here?”
Long since he had decided that through the son he could strike the
father. But he must be cautious.
“You must have been up very early, Marquis,” said he.
The young man made no reply.
“The Duke,” resumed Daumon, “is most fortunate in having such a son as
you. I know more than one father who says to his children, ‘See what an
excellent example the young Marquis de Champdoce sets to you all. He
is not afraid of hard work, though he is noble by birth, and should not
soil his hands by labor.’”
A sudden lurch brought the Counsellor’s eloquence to a sudden close, but
he speedily resumed again.
“I was watching you as you hefted the sacks. Heavens! what muscles! what
a pair of shoulders!”
At any other moment Norbert would have gloried in such laudation, but
now he felt displeased and annoyed, and vented his anger by a sharp cut
at his team.
“When people say that you are as innocent as a girl,” continued Daumon,
“I always say that you are a sensible young fellow after all, and that
if you choose to lead a regular life, it is far better than wasting your
future fortune in wine, billiards, cards, or women.”
“I don’t know that I might not do something of the kind,” returned
Norbert.
“What did you say?” answered his wily companion.
“I said that if I were my own master, I would live as other young men.”
The lad paused abruptly, and Daumon’s eyes gleamed with joy.
“Aha,” murmured he to himself; “I have the game in my own hands. I will
teach his Grace to interfere with me.”
Then, in a voice which could reach Norbert’s ears, he continued,--
“Of course some parents are far too strict.”
An impatient gesture from Norbert showed him that he had wounded him
deeply.
“Yes, yes,” put in the wily Counsellor, “as the head grows bald, and the
blood begins to stagnate, they forget,--they forget the days when all
was so different. They forget the time when they were young, and when
they sowed their wild oats with so lavish a hand. When your father
was twenty-five, he was precious wild. Ask your father, if you do not
believe me.”
At this moment the wagon passed the cross road, and Norbert pulled up.
“I cannot thank you enough, Marquis,” said the Counsellor as he alighted
with difficulty; “but if you would condescend to come and taste my
brandy, I would esteem it a great honor.”
Norbert hesitated for an instant: his reasoning powers urged him to
decline the offer, but he refused to listen to them, and, fastening his
horses to a tree, he followed Daumon down the by-road. The cottage was
an excellent one, and extremely well furnished. A woman, who acted as
Daumon’s housekeeper, served the refreshments. The office--for he
called his room an office, just as if he was a professional man--was
a strange-looking place. On one side was a desk covered with account
books, and against the wall were sacks of seed. A number of books on
legal matters crowded the shelves, and from the ceiling hung a quantity
of dried herbs. The Counsellor welcomed the heir to the dukedom of
Champdoce with the greatest deference, seated him in his own capacious
leathern arm-chair, and pressed the brandy which he had refused upon
him.
“I got this brandy from a man down Arcachon way in return for a kindness
that I did him; for, without boasting, I may say that I have done
kindnesses for many people in my time.” He raised his glass to his lips
as he spoke. “It is good, is it not?” said he. “You can’t get stuff with
an aroma like that hereabouts.”
The extreme deference of the man, coupled with the excellence of the
spirit, opened Norbert’s heart in a very short space of time. Up to the
present the conduct of poor Norbert had been blameless, but now, without
knowing anything of the Counsellor’s character or reputation, he poured
out all the secret sorrows of his heart, while Daumon chuckled secretly,
preserving all the time the imperturbable face of a physician called in
to visit a patient.
“Dear me! dear me!” said he; “this is really too bad. Poor fellow! I
really pity you. Were it not for the deep respect that I have for the
Duke, your father, I should feel inclined to say that he was not quite
in his right senses.”
“Yes,” continued Norbert, the tears starting to his eyes, “this is
just how I am situated. My destiny has been marked out for me, and I am
helpless to alter it. I had better a thousand times be lying under the
cold greensward, than vegetate thus above ground.”
The peculiar smile on Daumon’s lips caused him to pause in his
complaint.
“Perhaps,” he went on, “you think that I am childish in talking thus?”
“Not at all, Marquis, you have suffered too deeply; but forgive me if
I say that you are foolish to despond so much over the future that lies
before you.”
“Future!” repeated Norbert angrily, “what is the use of speaking to me
of the future, when I may be kept in this horrible servitude for the
next thirty years? My father is still hale and hearty.”
“What of that? You will be of age soon, and then you will have full
right to claim your mother’s fortune.”
The extreme surprise displayed by Norbert at this intelligence convinced
the Counsellor that he was much more unsophisticated than he had
supposed him to be.
“A man,” continued he, “can, when he attains his majority, dispose of
his inheritance as he thinks fit, and your mother’s fortune will render
you independent of your father.”
“But I should never dare to claim it; how could I venture to do so?”
“You need not make the application personally; your solicitor would
manage all that for you; but, of course, you must wait until you are of
age.”
“But I cannot wait until then,” said Norbert; “I must at once free
myself from this tyranny.”
“Luckily there are ways.”
“Do you really think so, Daumon?”
“Yes, and I will show you what is done every day. Nothing is more common
in noble families. Would you like to be a soldier?”
“No, I do not care for that, and yet----”
“That is your last resource, Marquis. First, then, we could lay a plaint
before the court.”
“A plaint?”
“Certainly. Do you suppose that our laws do not provide for such a case
as a father exceeding the proper bounds of parental authority? Tell me,
has the Duke, your father, ever struck you?”
“Never once.”
“Well, that is almost a pity. We will say that your father’s property
is worth two millions, and yet you derive so slight a benefit from this
that you are known everywhere as the ‘Young Savage of Champdoce’!”
Norbert started to his feet.
“Who dares speak of me like that?” said he furiously. “Tell me his
name.”
This outburst of passion did not in the smallest degree discompose
Daumon.
“Your father has many enemies, Marquis,” he resumed, “for his manners
are overbearing and exacting; but you have many friends, and among
them all you will find none more devoted than myself, humble though my
position may be. Many ladies of high rank take a great interest in you.
Only a day or two ago some persons were speaking of you in the presence
of Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, and she blushed crimson at your name. Do
you know Mademoiselle Diana?”
Norbert colored.
“Ah, I understand,” replied Daumon. “And when you have broken the
fetters that now bind you, we shall see something one of these days. And
now--”
But at this moment Norbert’s eyes caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned
cuckoo clock that hung on the wall in one corner of the room. He started
to his feet.
“Why, it is dinner-time!” said he. “What upon earth will my father say?”
“What, does he keep you in such order as that?”
But, never heeding the sarcastic question of the Counsellor, Norbert had
regained his cart, and was driving off at full speed.
CHAPTER III.
A BOLD ADVENTURE.
Daumon had in no way exaggerated when he said that Norbert was spoken of
as the “Young Savage of Champdoce,” though no one used this appellation
in an insulting form. Public opinion had changed considerably regarding
the Duke of Champdoce. The first time that he had made his appearance,
wearing wooden shoes and a leathern jacket, every one had laughed, but
this did not affect him at all, and in the end people began to term his
dogged obstinacy indomitable perseverance. The gleam that shone from his
hoarded millions imparted a brilliant lustre to his shabby garments. Why
should they waste their pity upon a man who would eventually come into a
gigantic fortune, and have the means of gratifying all his desires?
Mothers, with daughters especially, took a great interest in the young
man, for to get a girl married to the “Young Savage of Champdoce” would
be a feat to be proud of; but unluckily his father watched him with all
the vigilance of a Spanish duenna. But there was a young girl who had
long since secretly formed a design of her own, and this bold-hearted
beauty was Diana de Laurebourg. It was with perfect justice that she
had received the name of the “Belle of Poitiers.” She was tall and very
fair, with a dazzling complexion and masses of lustrous hair; but
her eyes gleamed with a suppressed fire, which plainly showed the
constitution of her nature. She had been brought up in a convent, and
her parents, who had wished her to take the veil, had only been induced
to remove her owing to her obstinate refusal to pronounce the vows,
coupled with the earnest entreaties of the lady superior, who was kept
in a constant state of ferment owing to the mutinous conduct of her
pupil. Her father was wealthy, but all the property went over to her
brother, ten years older than herself; and so Diana was portionless,
with the exception of a paltry sum of forty thousand francs.
“My child!” said her father to her the first day of her return, “you
have come back to us once more, and now all you have to do is to
fascinate some gentleman who is your equal in position and who has
plenty of money. If you fail in that, back you go to the convent.”
“Time enough to talk about that some years hence,” answered the girl
with a smile; “at present I am quite contented with being at home with
you.”
M. de Laurebourg had commented with some severity upon the conduct of
the Duke de Champdoce towards his son, but he was perfectly willing to
sacrifice his daughter’s heart for a suitable marriage.
“I shall gain my end,” murmured the girl, “I am sure of it.”
She had heard a friend of her father’s speaking of Norbert and his
colossal expectations.
“Why should I not marry him?” she asked of her own heart; and, with the
utmost skill, she applied herself to the execution of her design; for
the idea of being a duchess, with an income of two hundred thousand
francs, was a most fascinating one. But how was she to meet Norbert? And
how bring over the money-raking Duke to her side? Before, however, she
could decide on any plan, she felt that she must see Norbert. He was
pointed out to her one day at Mass, and she was struck by his beauty and
by an ease of manner which even his shabby dress could not conceal. By
the quick perception which many women possess, she dived into Norbert’s
inmost soul; she felt that he had suffered, and her sympathy for him
brought with it the dawn of love, and by the time she had left the
chapel she had registered a solemn vow that she would one day be
Norbert’s wife. But she did not acquaint her parents with this
determination on her part, preferring to carry out her plans without
any aid or advice. Mademoiselle Diana was shrewd and practical, and not
likely to err from want of judgment. The frank and open expression of
her features concealed a mind of superior calibre, and one which well
knew how to weigh the advantages of social rank and position. She
affected a sudden sympathy with the poor, and visited them constantly,
and might be frequently met in the lanes carrying soup and other
comforts to them. Her father declared, with a laugh, that she ought
to have been a Sister of Charity, and did not notice the fact that all
Diana’s pensioners resided in the vicinity of Champdoce. But it was
in vain that she wandered about, continually changing the hour of her
visits. The “Savage of Champdoce” was not to be seen, nor was he even
a regular attendant at Mass. At last a mere trifle changed the whole
current of the young man’s existence; for, a week after the conversation
in which the Duke had laid bare his scheme to his son, he again referred
to it, after their dinner, which they had partaken of at the same table
with forty laborers, who had been hired to get in the harvest.
“You need not, my son,” began the old gentleman, “go back with the
laborers to-day.”
“But, sir--”
“Allow me to continue, if you please. My confidential conversation with
you the other night was merely a preliminary to my telling you that
for the future I did not expect you to toil as hard as you had hitherto
done, for I wish you to perform a duty less laborious, but more
responsible; you will for the future act as farm-bailiff.”
Norbert looked up suddenly into his father’s face.
“For I wish you to become accustomed to independent action, so that at
my death your sudden liberty may not intoxicate you.”
The Duke then rose from his seat, and took a highly finished gun from a
cupboard.
“I have been very much pleased with you for some time past,” said he,
“and this is a sign of my satisfaction. The gamekeeper has brought in a
thoroughly trained dog, which will also be yours. Shoot as much as you
like, and, as you cannot go about without money in your pocket, take
this, but be careful of it; for remember that extravagance on your part
will procrastinate the day upon which our descendants will resume their
proper station in the world.”
The Duke spoke for some time longer, but his son paid no heed to his
words, and was too much astonished to accept the six five-franc pieces
which his father tendered to him.
“I suppose,” said the Duke at last in angry accents, “that you will have
the grace to thank me.”
“You will find that I am not ungrateful,” stammered Norbert, aroused by
this reproach.
The Duke turned away impatiently.
“What has the boy got into his head now?” muttered he.
It was owing to the advice of the priest of Bevron that the Duke had
acted as he had done; but this indulgence came too late, for Norbert’s
detestation of his tyrant was too deeply buried in his heart to be
easily eradicated.
A gun was not such a wonderful present after all--a matter of a
few francs, perhaps. Had the Duke offered him the means of a better
education, it would be a different matter; but as it was, he would still
remain the “Young Savage of Champdoce.”
However, Norbert took advantage of the permission accorded to him, and
rambled daily over the estate with his gun and his dog Bruno, to which
he had become very much attached. His thoughts often wandered to Daumon;
but he had made inquiries, and had heard that the Counsellor was a most
dangerous man, who would stick at nothing; but for all that, he had
made up his mind to go back to him again for further advice, though his
better nature warned him of the precipice on the brink of which he was
standing.
CHAPTER IV.
A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION.
Daumon was expecting a visit from the young man, and had been waiting
for him with the cool complacency of a bird-catcher, who, having
arranged all his lines and snares, stands with folded arms until his
feathered victims fall into his net. The line that he had displayed
before the young man’s eyes was the sight of liberty. Daumon had
emissaries everywhere, and knew perfectly well what was going on at the
Chateau de Champdoce, and could have repeated the exact words made use
of by the Duke in his last conversation with his son, and was aware
of the leave of liberty that had been granted to Norbert, and was as
certain as possible that this small concession would only hasten the
rebellion of the young Marquis.
He often took his evening stroll in the direction of Champdoce, and,
pipe in mouth, would meditate over his schemes. Pausing on the brow of a
hill that overlooked the Chateau, he would shake his fist, and mutter,--
“He will come; ah, yes, he must come to me!”
And he was in the right, for, after a week spent in indecision, Norbert
knocked at the door of his father’s bitterest enemy. Daumon, concealed
behind the window curtain, had watched his approach, and it was with the
same air of deference that he had welcomed the Marquis, as he took care
to call him; but he affected to be so overcome by the honor of this
visit that he could only falter out,--
“Marquis, I am your most humble servant.”
And Norbert, who had expected a very warm greeting, was much
disconcerted. For a moment he thought of going away again, but his pride
would not permit him to do so, for he had said to himself that it would
be an act of a fool to go away this time without having accomplished
anything.
“I want to have a bit of advice from you, Counsellor,” said he; “for as
I have but little experience in a certain matter, I should like to avail
myself of your knowledge.”
“You do me too much honor, Marquis,” murmured the Counsellor with a low
bow.
“But surely,” said the young man, “you must feel that you are bound to
assist me after all you told me a day or two back. You mentioned two
means by which I could regain my freedom, and hinted that there was a
third one. I have come to you to-day to ask you what it was.”
Never did any man more successfully assume an air of astonishment than
did Daumon at this moment.
“What,” said he, “do you absolutely remember those idle words I made use
of then?”
“I do most decidedly.”
The villain’s heart of Daumon was filled with delight, but he replied,--
“Oh, Marquis! you must remember that we say many things that really have
no special meaning, for between act and intention there is a tremendous
difference. I often speak too freely, and that has more than once got me
into trouble.”
Norbert was no fool, in spite of his want of education, and the hot
blood of his ancestors coursed freely through his veins. He now struck
the butt-end of his gun heavily upon the floor.
“You treated me like a simpleton, then, it appears?” remarked he
angrily.
“My dear Marquis--”
“And imagined that you could trifle with me. You managed to learn my
real feelings for your own amusement; but, take care; this may cost you
more than you think.”
“Ah, Marquis, can you believe that I would act so basely?”
“What else can I think?”
Daumon paused for a moment, and then said,--
“You will be angry when you hear what I have to say, but I cannot help
speaking the truth.”
“I shall not be angry, and you can speak freely.”
“I am but a very poor and humble man. What have I to gain by securing
any note, and by encouraging you to brave your father’s anger? Just
think what must happen if I opposed the all-powerful Duke de Champdoce;
why, I might find myself in prison in next to no time.”
“And for what reason, if you please?” asked Norbert.
“Have you never studied law in the slightest degree, Marquis? Dear me,
how neglectful some parents are! You are not of age, and there is a
certain article, 354 in the code, that could be so worked that a poor
humble creature like me could be locked up for perhaps five years. The
law deals very hardly when any one has dealings with a minor, the more
especially when the father is a man of untold wealth. If the Duke should
ever discover----”
“But how could he ever do so?”
Daumon made no reply, and his silence so plainly showed Norbert that the
Counsellor did not trust him, that he repeated the question in an angry
voice.
“Your blind subservience to your father is too well known.”
“You believe that I should confess everything to him?”
“You yourself told me that when his eyes were fixed on yours you could
not avoid yielding to his will.”
Norbert’s anger gradually died away, as he replied in accents of intense
bitterness,--
“I may be a savage, but I am not likely to become a traitor. If I once
promised to keep a secret, no measures or tortures would tear it from
me. I may fear my father, but I am a Champdoce, and fear no other mortal
man. Do you understand me?”
“But, Marquis--”
“No other mortal man,” interrupted Norbert sternly, “will ever know from
me that we have ever exchanged words together.”
An expression passed over the features of the Counsellor which cast a
ray of hope upon the young man’s heart.
“Upon my word,” said he, “any one would judge from my hesitation that
I had some wrong motive in acting as I am doing, but I never give bad
advice, and any one will tell you the same about me, and this is the
breviary by which I regulate all my actions.”
As he spoke, he took a book from his desk, and waved it aloft.
Norbert looked puzzled and angry.
“What do you mean?” asked he.
“Nothing, Marquis, nothing; have patience; your majority is not far off,
and you have only a few years to wait. Remember that your father is an
old man; let him carry out his plan for a few years longer, and----”
Norbert struck his fist savagely upon the table, crying out furiously.
“It was not worth my coming here if this was all that you had to say;”
and, whistling to Bruno, the young man prepared to quit the room.
“Ah, Marquis! you are far too hasty,” said the Counsellor humbly.
Norbert paused. “Speak then,” answered he roughly.
In a low, impressive voice, Daumon went on.
“Remember, Marquis, that though I should like to see you have a better
understanding with your father, yet, at the same time, I should like
to work for the happiness of you both. I am like a judge in court, who
endeavors to bring about a compromise between the litigants. Can you
not, while affecting perfect submission, live in a manner more suited
to you? There are many young men of your age in a precisely similar
position.”
Norbert took a step forward and began to listen earnestly.
“You have more liberty now,” continued Daumon. “Pray, does your father
know how you employ your time?”
“He knows that I can do nothing but shoot.”
“Well, I know what I would do if I were your age.”
“And what would that be?”
“First of all, I would stay at home sufficiently often not to arouse
papa’s suspicions, and the rest of my leisure I would spend in Poitiers,
which is a very pleasant town. I could take nice rooms in which I could
be my own master. At Champdoce I could keep to my peasant’s clothes, but
in Poitiers I would be dressed by the best tailor. I should pick up
a few boon companions amongst the jolly students, and have plenty of
friends, ladies as well as gentlemen. I would dance, sing, and drink,
and would dip into every kind of life, so that----”
He paused for a second and then said, “There ought to be a fast horse or
so in your father’s stables, eh? Well then, if there are, why not take
one for your own riding? Then at night, when you are supposed to be
snug between the sheets, creep down to the stable, clap a bridle on
the horse, and, hey, presto! you are in Poitiers. Put on the clothes
suitable to the handsome young noble you are, and have a joyous carouse
with your many companions; and if you do, next day, not choose to go
back until the morning, the servants will only tell your father that you
are out shooting.”
Norbert was a thoroughly strong, honest youth, and the idea of meanness
and duplicity were most repugnant to his feelings in general; and yet he
listened eagerly to this proposition, for oppression had utterly changed
his nature. The career of dissipation and pleasure proposed so adroitly
by Daumon dazzled his imagination and his eyes began to sparkle.
“Well,” asked the Counsellor invidiously, “and, pray, what is there to
prevent you doing all this?”
“Want of funds,” returned Norbert, with a deep sigh; “I should want a
great deal, and I have hardly any; if I were to ask my father for any,
he would refuse me, and wonder----”
“Have you no friends who would find you such a sum as you would require
until you came of age?”
“None at all;” and, overwhelmed with the sense of his utter
helplessness, Norbert sank back upon a chair.
After a brief period of reflection, Daumon spoke with apparent
reluctance,--
“No, Marquis, I cannot see you so miserably unhappy without doing my
best to help you. A man is a fool who puts out his hand to interfere
between father and son, but I will find money to lend you what you
want.”
“Will you do so, Counsellor?”
“Unluckily I cannot, I am only a poor fellow, but some of the
neighboring farmers intrust me with their savings for investment. Why
should I not use them to make you comfortable and happy?”
Norbert was almost choked with emotion. “Can this be done?” asked he
eagerly.
“Yes, Marquis; but you understand that you will have to pay very heavy
interest on account of the risk incurred in lending money to a minor.
For the law does not recognize such transactions, and I myself do not
like them. If I were in your place, I would not borrow money on these
terms, but wait until some friend could help me.”
“I have no friends,” again answered the young man.
Daumon shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who says: “Well, I
suppose I must give in, but at any rate I have done my duty.” Then
he began aloud, “I am perfectly aware, Marquis, that, considering the
wealth that must one day be yours, this transaction is a most paltry
one.”
He then went on to enumerate the conditions of the loan, and at each
clause he would stop and say, “Do you understand this?”
Norbert understood him so well that at the end of the conversation,
in exchange for the thousand francs, he handed to the Counsellor the
promissory notes for four thousand francs each, which were made payable
to two farmers, who were entirely in Daumon’s clutches. The young
man, in addition, pledged his solemn word of honor that he would never
disclose that the Counsellor had anything to do with the transaction.
“Remember, Marquis, prudence must be strictly observed. Come here to me
only after the night has set in.”
This was the last piece of advice that Daumon gave his client; and
when he was again left alone, he perused with feelings of intense
gratification, the two notes that Norbert had signed. They were entirely
correct and binding, and drawn up in proper legal form. He had made up
his mind to let the young man have all his savings, amounting to some
forty thousand francs, and not to press for payment until the young man
come into his fortune.
All this, however, hinged upon Norbert’s silence and discretion, for, at
the first inkling of the matter, the Duke would scatter all the edifice
to the winds; but of this happening Daumon had no fear.
As Norbert walked along, followed by his dog, he could not resist
putting his hands into his pockets and fingering the tempting, crisp
banknotes which lurked there, and making sure that it was a reality and
not a dream. That night seemed interminable; and the next morning, with
his gun on his shoulder and his dog at his heels, he walked briskly
along the road to Poitiers. He had determined to follow Daumon’s
advice,--to have suitable rooms, and to make the acquaintance of some of
the students. On his arrival at Poitiers, which he had only once before
visited, Norbert felt like a half-fledged bird who knows not how to use
its wings. He wandered about the streets, not knowing how to commence
what he wanted. Finally, after a sojourn in the town of a very brief
duration, he went to the inn where he had breakfasted with his father
on his former visit, and, after an unsatisfactory meal, returned to
Champdoce, as wretched as he had been joyful and hopeful at his early
start in the morning. But later on he went to Daumon, who put him
in communication with a friend who, for a commission, took the
unsophisticated lad about, hired some furnished rooms, and finally
introduced him to the best ladies in the town, while Norbert ordered
clothes to the tune of five hundred francs. He now thought himself on
the high road to the full gratification of his desires; but, alas! the
reality, compared with what his imagination had pictured, appeared rank
and chilling. His timidity and shyness arrested all his progress; he
required an intimate friend, and where could he hit upon one?
One evening he entered the Café Castille. He found a large number of
students collected there, and was a little disgusted at their turbulent
gayety, and, hastily withdrawing, he spent the rest of the weary
evening in his own rooms with Bruno, who, for his part, would have much
preferred the open country. He had really only enjoyed the four evenings
on which he had visited the Martre; but these limited hours of happiness
did not make up for the web of falsehood in which he had enmeshed
himself, or the daily dread of detection in which he lived.
The Duke had noticed his son’s absence, but his suspicions were very
wide of the truth. One morning he laughed at Norbert on the continued
non-success of his shooting.
“Do your best to-day, my boy,” said he, “and try and bring home some
game, for we shall have a guest to dinner.”
“To dinner, here?”
“Yes,” answered the Duke suppressing a smile. “Yes, actually here; M.
Puymandour is coming, and the dining-room must be opened and put into
proper order.”
“I will try and kill some game,” answered Norbert to himself as he
started on his errand.
This, however, was more easily resolved on than executed. At last he
caught sight of an impudent rabbit near a hedge; he raised his gun and
fired. A shriek of anguish followed the report, and Bruno dashed into
the hedge, barking furiously.
CHAPTER V.
A BAD START.
Diana de Laurebourg was a strange compound; under an appearance of the
most artless simplicity she concealed an iron will, and had hidden from
every one of her family, and even from her most intimate friends, her
firm resolve to become the Duchess of Champdoce. All her rambles in the
neighborhood had turned out of no avail; and as the weather was now very
uncertain, it seemed as if her long strolls in the country roads and
fields would soon come to an end. “The day must eventually come,”
murmured she, “when this invisible prince must make his appearance.” And
at last the long-expected day arrived.
It was in the middle of the month of November, and the weather was
exceedingly soft and balmy for the time of year. The sky was blue,
the few remaining leaves rustled on the trees, and an occasional bird
whistled in the hedgerows. Diana de Laurebourg was walking slowly along
the path leading to Mussidan, when all at once she heard a rustling of
branches. She turned round sharply, and all the blood in her body seemed
to rush suddenly to her heart, for through an opening in the hedge she
caught sight of the man who for the past two months had occupied all
her waking thoughts. Norbert was waiting for something with all the
eagerness of a sportsman, his finger on the trigger of his gun.
Here was the opportunity for which she had waited so long, and with such
ill-concealed impatience; and yet she could derive no advantage from it,
for what would happen? Simply this: Norbert would bow to her, and she
would reply with a slight inclination of her head, and perhaps two
months might pass away before she met him again. Just as she was about
to take some bold and decisive step she saw Norbert raise his gun and
point it in her direction. She endeavored to call out to him, but her
voice failed her, and in another moment the report rang out, and she
felt a sharp pang, like the touch of a red-hot iron upon her ankle. With
a wild shriek she threw up her arms and fell upon the pathway. She did
not lose her senses, for she heard a cry in response to her own, and the
crashing of something forcing its way through the hedge. Then she felt
a hot breath upon her face, and then something cold and wet touched her
cheek. She opened her eyes languidly, and saw Bruno licking her face and
hands.
At the same moment Norbert dashed through the hedge and stood before
her. At once she realized the advantage of her position and closed her
eyes once more. Norbert, as he hung over the seemingly unconscious form
of this fair young creature, felt that his senses were deserting him,
for he greatly feared that he had killed Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. His
first impulse was to fly precipitately, and his second to give what
aid he could to his victim. He knelt down by her, and, to his infinite
relief, found that life was not extinct. He raised her beautiful head.
“Speak to me, mademoiselle, I entreat you,” cried he.
All this time Diana was returning thanks to kind Providence for the
fulfillment of her wishes. After a time she made a slight move, and
Norbert uttered an exclamation of joy. Then, opening her beautiful eyes,
she gazed upon the young man with the air of a person just awaking from
a dream.
“It is I,” faltered the distracted young man. “Norbert de Champdoce. But
forgive me, and tell me if you are in pain?”
Pity came over the wounded girl. She gently drew herself away from the
arm that encircled her, and said softly,--
“It is I who ought to apologize for my foolish weakness; for I am really
more frightened than hurt.”
Norbert felt that heaven had opened before his very eyes. “Let me go for
help,” exclaimed he.
“No, no; it was a mere scratch.” And, raising her skirt, she displayed a
foot that might have turned a steadier head than Norbert’s. “See,” said
she, “it is there that I am in pain.”
And she pointed to a spot of blood upon the delicate white stocking. At
the sight of this the young man’s terror increased, and he started to
his feet.
“Let me run to the Chateau,” said he, “and in less than an hour--”
“Do nothing of the kind,” interrupted the girl; “it is a mere nothing.
Look, I can move my foot with ease.”
“But let me entreat you--”
“Hush! we shall soon see what it is that has happened.” And she
inspected what she laughingly termed his terrible wound.
It was, as she had supposed, a mere nothing. One pellet had grazed the
skin, another had lodged in the flesh, but it was quite on the surface.
“A surgeon must see to this,” said Norbert.
“No, no.” And with the point of a penknife she pulled out the little
leaden shot. The young man remained still, holding his breath, as a
child does when he is putting the topmost story on a house of cards. He
had never heard so soft a voice, never gazed on so perfectly lovely a
face. In the meantime Diana had torn up her handkerchief and bandaged
the wound. “Now that is over,” exclaimed she, with a light laugh, as she
extended her slender fingers to Norbert, so that he might assist her to
rise.
As soon as she was on her feet, she took a few steps with the prettiest
limp imaginable.
“Are you in pain?” said he anxiously.
“No, I am not indeed; and by this evening I shall have forgotten all
about it. But confess, Marquis,” she added, with a coquettish laugh,
“that this is a droll way of making an acquaintance.”
Norbert started at the word Marquis, for no one but Daumon had ever
addressed him thus.
“She does not despise me,” thought he.
“This little incident will be a lesson to me,” continued she. “Mamma
always has told me to keep to the highroad; but I preferred the by-paths
because of the lovely scenery.”
Norbert, for the first time in his life, realized that the view was a
beautiful one.
“I am this way nearly every day,” pursued Diana, “though I am very
wicked to disobey my mother. I go to see poor La Berven. She is dying of
consumption, poor thing, and I take her a little soup and wine every now
and then.”
She spoke like a real Sister of Mercy, and, in Norbert’s opinion, wings
only were lacking to transform her into a perfect angel.
“The poor woman has three children, and their father does nothing for
them, for he drinks what he earns,” the young girl went on.
Berven was one of the identical men to whom Norbert had given his
promissory note for four thousand francs, for he was one of the two
men who had intrusted Daumon with their savings for investment; but
the young man was not in a condition to notice this. Diana had meantime
slung her basket on her arm.
“Before I leave you to-day,” said she, “I should so much like to ask a
favor of you.”
“A favor of me, mademoiselle?”
“Yes; oblige me by saying nothing of what has occurred to-day to any
one; for should it come to my parents’ ears, they would undoubtedly
deprive me of the little liberty that they now grant me.”
“Mademoiselle,” answered Norbert, “be sure that I will never mention the
terrible accident that my awkwardness has caused.”
“Thank you, Marquis,” answered the girl, with a half-mocking courtesy.
“Another time let me advise you, before you shoot, to look that no one
is behind a hedge.”
With these words she tripped away, without her tiny feet showing any
signs of lameness. She had read Norbert’s heart like the pages of a
book, and felt that there was every chance of her winning the game. “I
am sure of it now,” said she; “I shall be the Duchess of Champdoce.” How
grateful she felt for that untimely shot! And she felt sure that Norbert
had understood what she meant when she had said that she went along that
path. She felt certain that the young man had not lost one word. She
believed that the only opposition would come from his father. As she
looked round for a moment, she saw Norbert standing fixed and motionless
as the trees around him.
After Diana had departed, the unhappy lad felt as if she had taken
half his life with her. Was it all a dream? He knelt down, and, after
a slight search, discovered the little pellet, the cause of all the
mischief; and, taking it up carefully, returned home. To his extreme
surprise, he found the main gateway wide open, and from a window he
heard his father’s voice calling out in kindly accents,--
“Come up quickly, my boy, for our guest has arrived.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE COUNT DE PUYMANDOUR.
Since the death of the Duchess of Champdoce the greater portion of the
Chateau had been closed, but the reception rooms were always ready to be
used at a very short notice.
The dining-room was a really magnificent apartment. There were massive
buffets of carved oak, black with age, ornamented with brass mountings.
The shelves groaned beneath their load of goblets and salvers of the
brightest silver, engraved with the haughty armorial bearings of the
house of Champdoce.
Standing near one of the windows, Norbert saw a man, stout, robust, bald
and red-faced, wearing a mustache and slight beard. His clothes were
evidently made by a first-rate tailor, but his appearance was utterly
commonplace.
“This is my son,” said the Duke, “the Marquis de Champdoce. Marquis, let
me introduce you to the Count de Puymandour.”
This was the first time that his father had ever addressed Norbert by
his title, and he was greatly surprised. The great clock in the outer
hall, which had not been going for fifteen years, now struck, and
instantly a butler appeared, bearing a massive silver soup tureen, which
he placed on the table, announcing solemnly that his Grace was served,
and the little party at once seated themselves. A dinner in such a vast
chamber would have been rather dull had it not been enlivened by the
amusing tales and witty anecdotes of the Count de Puymandour, which he
narrated in a jovial but rather vulgar manner, seasoned with bursts of
laughter. He ate with an excellent appetite, and praised the quality of
the wine, which the Duke himself had chosen from the cellar, which he
had filled with an immense stock for the benefit of his descendants.
The Duke, who was generally so silent and morose, smiled buoyantly, and
appeared to enjoy the pleasantries of his guest. Was this only the duty
of the host, or did his geniality conceal some hidden scheme? Norbert
was utterly unable to settle this question, for though not gifted with
much penetration, he had studied his father’s every look as a slave
studies his master, and knew exactly what annoyed and what pleased him.
The Count de Puymandour lived in a magnificent house, with his daughter
Marie, about three miles from Champdoce, and he was exceedingly fond of
entertaining; but the gentry, who did not for a moment decline to accept
his grand dinners, did not hesitate to say that Puymandour was a thief
and a rogue. Had he been convicted of larceny, he could not have been
spoken of with more disdainful contempt. But he was very wealthy,
and possessed at least five millions of francs. Of course this was an
excellent reason for hating him, but the fact was, that Puymandour was
a very worthy man, and had made his money by speculation in wool on the
Spanish frontier. For a long period he had lived happy and respected
in his native town of Orthez, when all at once he was tempted by the
thought of titular rank, and from that time his life was one long
misery. He took the name of one of his estates, he bought his title in
Italy, and ordered his coat-of-arms from a heraldic agent in Paris, and
now his ambition was to be treated as a real nobleman. The mere fact of
dining with the eccentric Duke de Champdoce, who never invited any one
to his table, was to him, as it were, a real patent of nobility.
At ten o’clock he rose and declared he must leave, and the Duke escorted
him the length of the avenue to the great gates opening on the main
road, and Norbert, who walked a few paces in the rear, caught now and
then a few words of their conversation.
“Yes,” remarked Puymandour, “I will give a million down.”
Then came a few words from the Duke, of which Norbert could only catch
the words, “thousands and millions.”
He paid, however, but little attention, for his mind was many miles
away. Since the unlooked-for meeting with that fair young face, he had
thought of nothing else, and he mechanically shook hands with, and bade
his guest “Good-night” when his father did.
When the Duke was sure that M. de Puymandour could not hear his voice,
he took his son by the arm, and the bitterness of feeling which he had
so long repressed burst forth in words.
“This,” said he, “is a specimen of the mushroom aristocracy that has
sprung up, and not a bad sample either; for though he is puffed up by
ridiculous vanity, the man is shrewd and intelligent enough, and his
descendants, who will have the advantages of a better education than
their progenitors, will form a new class, with more wealth and as much
influence as the old one.”
For more than an hour the Duke de Champdoce enlarged on his favorite
topic; but he might as well have been alone, for his son paid no
attention to what he said, for his mind was still dwelling upon his
adventures of the morning. Again that sweet, soft laugh, and that
modulated voice rang in his ears. How foolish he must have seemed to
her! and what a ridiculous figure he must have cut in her eyes! He had
by no means omitted to engrave on the tablet of his memory the fact that
Diana passed daily down the little path on her errand of bounty, and
that there he had the chance of again seeing her. He fancied that he
had so much to say to her; but as he found that his bashfulness would
deprive him of the power of utterance, he determined to commit his
sentiments to paper. That night he composed and destroyed some fifty
letters. He did not dare to say openly, “I love you,” and yet that was
exactly what he wanted to express, and he strove, but in vain, to
find words which would veil its abruptness and yet disclose the whole
strength of his feelings. At last, however, one of his efforts satisfied
him. Rising early, he snatched up his gun, and whistling to Bruno, made
his way to the spot where he had the day before seen Diana stretched
upon the ground. But he waited in vain, and hour after hour passed away,
as he paced up and down in an agony of suspense. Diana did not come. The
young lady had considered her plans thoroughly and kept away. The next
day he might have been again disappointed but for a lucky circumstance.
Norbert was seated on the turf, awaiting with fond expectation the young
girl’s approach and as Diana passed the opening to the pathway Bruno
scented her, and rushed forward with a joyous bark. She had then no
option but to walk up to the spot where Norbert was seated. Both the
young people were for the moment equally embarrassed, and Norbert stood
silent, holding in his hand the letter which had caused him so much
labor to indite.
“I have ventured to wait for you here, mademoiselle,” said he in a voice
which trembled with suppressed emotion, “because I was full of anxiety
to know how you have been. How did you contrive to return home with your
wounded foot?”
He paused, awaiting a word of encouragement, but the girl made no reply,
and he continued,--
“I was tempted to call and make inquiries at your father’s house, but
you had forbidden me to speak of the accident, and I did not dare to
disobey you.”
“I thank you sincerely,” faltered Diana.
“Yesterday,” the young man went on, “I passed the whole day here. Are
you angry with me for my stupidity? I had thought that perhaps you had
noticed my anxiety, and might have deigned to----”
He stopped short, terrified at his own audacity.
“Yesterday,” returned Diana with the most ingenuous air in the world,
and not appearing to perceive the young man’s embarrassment, “I was
detained at home by my mother.”
“Yes,” replied he, “for the past two days your form, lying senseless and
bleeding on the ground, has ever been before my eyes, for I felt as if I
were a murderer. I shall always see your pale, white face, and how,
when I raised up your head it rested on my arm for a moment, and all the
rapture--”
“You must not talk like that, Marquis,” interrupted Diana, but she spoke
in such a low tone that Norbert did not hear her and went on,--
“When I saw you yesterday my feelings so overpowered me that I could not
put them into words; but as soon as you had left me, it appeared as if
all grew dark around me, and throwing myself on my knees, I searched
for the tiny leaden pellet that might have caused your death. I at last
found it, and no treasure upon earth will ever be more prized by me.”
To avoid showing the gleam of joy that flashed from her eyes, Diana was
compelled to turn her head on one side.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Norbert, in despair, as he noticed this
movement; “forgive me if I have offended you. Could you but know how
dreary my past life has been, you would pardon me. It seemed to me,
the very moment that I saw you, I had found a woman who would feel some
slight interest in me, and that for her sweet compassion I would devote
my whole life to her. But now I see how mad and foolish I have been, and
I am plunged into the depths ‘of despair.’”
She accompanied these words with a glance sufficiently tender to restore
all Norbert’s courage.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” said he; “do not trifle with me, for that would be
too cruel.”
She let her head droop on her bosom, and, falling upon his knees, he
poured a stream of impassioned kisses upon her hands. Diana felt herself
swept away by this stream of passion; she gasped, and her fingers
trembled, as she found that she was trapped in the same snare that she
had set for another. Her reason warned her that she must bring this
dangerous interview to a conclusion.
“I am forgetting all about my poor pensioners,” said she.
“Ah, if I might but accompany you!”
“And so you may, but you must walk fast.”
It is quite true that great events spring from very trivial sources; and
had Diana gone to visit La Besson, Norbert might have heard something
concerning Daumon that would have put him on his guard; but,
unfortunately, to-day Diana was bound on a visit to an old woman in
another part of the parish.
Norbert looked on whilst this fair young creature busied herself in her
work of charity, and then he silently placed two louis from the money
he had borrowed, on the table, and left the cottage. Diana followed
him, and, laying her finger upon her lips with the significant word
“to-morrow,” turned down the path that led to her father’s house.
Norbert could hardly believe his senses when he found himself again
alone. Yes, this lovely girl had almost confessed her affection for
him, and he was ready to pour out his life blood for her. He tore up the
letter which had cost him so much trouble to compose, for he felt
that he could make no use of it. He had now no anxieties regarding the
future, and he thanked Providence for having caused him to meet Diana
de Laurebourg. It never entered his brain that this apparently frank and
open-hearted girl had materially furthered the acts of Providence. At
supper that night he was so gay, and in such excellent spirits, that
even his father’s attention was at last attracted.
“I would lay a wager, my boy,” remarked the Duke, “that you have had a
good day’s sport.”
“You would win your wager,” answered the young man boldly.
His father did not pursue the subject; but as Norbert felt that he must
give some color to his assertion, he stopped the next day, and purchased
some quails and a hare. He waited fully half an hour for Diana; and when
she did appear, her pale face and the dark marks under her eyes showed
that anxiety had caused her to pass a sleepless night.
No sooner had she parted from Norbert than she saw the risk that she was
running by her imprudent conduct. She was endangering her whole future
and her reputation,--all indeed that is most precious to a young girl.
For an instant the thought of confiding all to her parents entered her
brain; but she rejected the idea almost as soon as she had conceived it,
for she felt that her father would believe that the parsimonious Duke
de Champdoce would never consent to such a marriage, and that her entire
liberty would be taken from her, and that she might even be sent back to
the convent.
“I cannot stop now,” she murmured, “and must be content to run all risks
to effect an object in which I am now doubly interested.”
Diana and Norbert had a long conversation together on this day in a spot
which had become so dear to them both, and it was only the approach of a
peasant that recalled the girl to the sense of her rash imprudence, and
she insisted on going on her ostensible errand of charity. Norbert, as
before, escorted her, and even went so far as to offer his arm, upon
which she pressed when the road was steep or uneven.
These meetings took place daily, and after a few short minutes spent in
conversation, the young lovers would set off on a ramble. More than once
they were met by the villagers, and a little scandal began to arise.
This was very imprudent on Diana’s side; but it had been a part of her
plan to permit her actions to be talked of by the tongue of scandal.
Unfortunately the end of November was approaching, and the weather
growing extremely cold. One morning, as Norbert arose from his couch, he
found that a sharp icy blast was swaying the bare branches of the trees,
and that the rain was descending in torrents. On such a day as this
he knew that it was vain to expect Diana, and, with his heart full of
sadness, he took up a book and sat himself down by the huge fire that
blazed in the great hall.
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had, however, gone out, but it was in a
carriage, and she had driven to a cottage to see a poor woman who had
broken her leg, and who had nothing but the scanty earnings of her
daughter Francoise upon which to exist. As soon as Diana entered the
cottage she saw that something had gone wrong.
“What is the matter?” asked she.
The poor creature, with garrulous volubility, exhibited a summons which
she had just received, and said that she owed three hundred francs, and
that as she could no longer pay the interest, she had been summoned,
and that her little property would be seized, and so a finishing stroke
would be put to her troubles.
“It is the Counsellor,” said she, “that rogue Daumon, who has done all
this.”
The poor woman went on to say that when she went to her creditor to
implore a little delay, he had scoffingly told her to send her pretty
daughter to him to plead her cause.
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was disgusted at this narrative, and her eyes
gleamed with anger.
“I will see this wicked man,” said she, “and will come back to you at
once.”
She drove straight to the Counsellor’s house. Daumon was engaged in
writing when the housekeeper ushered Diana into the office. He rose to
his feet, and, taking off his velvet skull cap, made a profound bow,
advancing at the same time a chair for his visitor’s accommodation.
Though Diana knew nothing of this man, she was not so unsophisticated as
Norbert, and was not imposed upon by the air of servile obsequiousness
that he assumed. With a gesture of contempt, she declined the proffered
seat, and this act made Daumon her bitter enemy.
“I have come,” said she in the cold, disdainful words in which young
girls of high birth address their inferiors,--“I have come to you from
Widow Rouleau.”
“Ah! you know the poor creature then?”
“Yes, and I take a great interest in her.”
“You are a very kind young lady,” answered the Counsellor with a
sinister smile.
“The poor woman is in the most terrible distress both of mind and body.
She is confined to her bed with a fractured limb, and without any means
of support.”
“Yes, I heard of her accident.”
“And yet you sent her a summons, and are ready to seize all she
possesses in the world.”
Daumon put on an air of sympathy.
“Poor thing!” said he. “How true it is that misfortunes never come
singly!”
Diana was disgusted at the man’s cool effrontery.
“It seems to me,” answered she, “that her last trouble is of your
making.”
“Is it possible?”
“Why, who is it but you who are the persecutor of this poor lone
creature?”
“I!” answered he in extreme astonishment; “do you really think that
it is I? Ah! mademoiselle, why do you listen to the cruel tongues of
scandal-mongers? To make a long story short, this poor woman bought
barley, corn, potatoes, and three sheep from a man in the neighborhood,
who gave her credit to the extent of I daresay three hundred francs.
Well, in time, the man asked--most naturally--for his money, and failing
to get it, came to me. I urged him to wait, but he would not listen to
me, and vowed that if I did not do as he wished he would go to some one
else. What was I to do? He had the law on his side too. Ah!” continued
he, as though speaking to himself, “if I could only see a way of getting
this poor creature out of her trouble! But that cannot be done without
money.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out about fifty francs.
“This is all my worldly wealth,” said he sadly. “But how foolish I am!
For, of course, when poor Widow Rouleau has a wealthy young lady to take
an interest in her, she must have no further fear.”
“I will speak to my father on the matter,” answered Diana in a voice
which showed that she had but little hope of interesting him in the
widow’s misfortunes.
Daumon’s face fell.
“You will go to the Marquis de Laurebourg?” asked he. “Now, if you
would take my advice, I should say, go to some intimate friend,--to the
Marquis de Champdoce, for instance. I know,” he went on, “that the Duke
does not make his son a very handsome allowance; but the young gentleman
will find no difficulty in raising whatever he may desire--as it will
not be long before he is of age--without counting his marriage, which
will put an enormous sum at his disposal even before that.”
Diana fell in an instant into the trap the wily Daumon had laid for her.
“A marriage!” exclaimed she.
“I know very little about it; only I know that if the young man wishes
to marry without his father’s consent, he will have to wait at least
five years.”
“Five years?”
“Yes; the law requires that a young man who marries against his father’s
desire should be twenty-five years of age.”
This last stroke was so totally unexpected, that the girl lost her head.
“Impossible!” cried she. “Are you not making a mistake?”
The Counsellor gave a quiet smile of triumph.
“I am not mistaken,” said he, and calmly pointed out in the code the
provision to which he had alluded. As Diana read the passage to which
his finger pointed, he watched her as a cat watches a mouse.
“After all, what does it matter to me?” remarked Diana, making an effort
to recover herself. “I will speak about this poor woman’s case to my
father;” and, with her limbs bending under her, she left the room.
As Daumon returned from accompanying her to the door, the Counsellor
rubbed his hands.
“Things are getting decidedly warm,” muttered he.
He felt that he must gain some further information, and this he could
not get from Norbert. It would be also as well, he thought, to tell the
sheriff to stay proceedings relative to the Widow Rouleau. By this means
he might secure another interview with Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, and
perhaps win the poor girl’s confidence.
As Diana rode home, she abandoned herself to the grief which the
intelligence that she had just heard had caused her, for the foresight
of the framers of the law had rendered all her deeply laid plans of no
avail.
“The Duke of Champdoce,” murmured she to herself, “will never consent to
his son’s marriage with so scantily a dowered woman as I am; but as
soon as Norbert is of age he can marry me, in spite of all his father’s
opposition; but, oh! ‘tis a dreary time to wait.”
For a moment she dared to think of the possible death of the old man;
but she shuddered as she remembered how strong and healthy he was,
and felt that the frail edifice of her hope had been crushed into ten
thousand atoms. For all this, however, she did not lose courage. She was
not one of those women who, at the first check, beat a retreat. She had
not yet decided upon a fresh point of departure, but she had fully made
up her mind that she would gain the victory. The first thing was to see
Norbert with as little delay as possible. Just then the carriage pulled
up at the widow’s cottage, which she entered hastily.
“I have seen Daumon,” said she. “Do not be alarmed; all matters will be
arranged shortly.”
Then, without listening to the thanks and blessings which the poor woman
showered upon her, she said,--
“Give me a piece of paper to write on,” and, standing near the casement,
she wrote in pencil on a soiled scrap of paper the following words:--
“Diana would, perhaps, have been at the usual meeting place to-day, in
spite of the weather, had she not been compelled to visit a poor woman
in a contrary direction. Upon the same business, she will have to call
to-morrow at the house of a man called Daumon.”
She folded the note and said,--
“This letter must be taken at once to M. Norbert de Champdoce. Who will
carry it?”
Francoise had made a smock frock for one of the farm servants at
Champdoce, and the delivery of it formed a good excuse for going up to
the Chateau, and she willingly undertook the errand.
The next day, in the midst of a heavy shower of rain, Norbert made his
appearance at Daumon’s office, saying, as a pretext for his visit, that
he had exhausted his stock of money, and required a fresh supply. He too
was feeling very unhappy, for he feared that this father might entertain
matrimonial designs for him which would be utterly opposed to his
passion for Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.
Had not the inexorable old man once said, “You will marry a woman of
wealth?” But in the event of this matter being brought up, Norbert swore
that he would no longer be obedient, but would resist to the last; and
he calculated on receiving assistance from Daumon. He was on the point
of referring to this matter, when a carriage drew up at the door of the
cottage, and Mademoiselle de Laurebourg descended from it. Daumon at
once saw how matters stood, and wasted no time in addressing Diana.
“The sheriff will stop proceedings,” said he. “I can show you his letter
to that effect.”
He turned away, and searched as diligently for the letter as if it had
existed anywhere except in his own imagination.
“Dear me,” said he at length. “I cannot find it. I must have left it in
the other room. I have so much to do, that really there are times when
I forget everything. I must find it, however. Excuse me, I will be back
immediately.”
His sudden departure from the room had been a mere matter of
calculation; for, guessing that an assignation had been planned,
he thought that he might know what took place at it by a little
eavesdropping. He therefore applied first his ear and then his eye to
the keyhole, and by these means acquired all the information he desired.
A moment of privacy with the object of his affections seemed to Norbert
an inestimable boon. When Diana had first entered, he was horrified at
the terrible alteration that had taken place in the expression of her
face. He seized her hand, which she made no effort to withdraw, and
gazed fixedly into her eyes.
“Tell me,” murmured he in accents of love and tenderness, “what it is
that has gone wrong.”
Diana sighed, then a tear coursed slowly down her cheek. Norbert was in
the deepest despair at these signs of grief.
“Great heavens!” cried he. “Will you not trust me? Am not I your truest
and most devoted friend?”
At first she refused to answer him, but at length she yielded to
his entreaties, and confessed that the evening before her father had
informed her that a young man had sought her hand in marriage, and one
who was a perfectly eligible suitor.
Norbert listened to this avowal, trembling from head to foot, with a
sudden access of jealousy.
“And did you make no objections?” asked he.
“How could I?” retorted she. “What can a girl do in opposition to the
will of all her family, when she has to choose between the alternative
that she loathes, or a life-long seclusion in a convent?”
Daumon shook with laughter, as he kept his ear closely to the keyhole.
“Good business,” muttered he. “Not so bad. Here’s a little girl from a
convent. She has a clever brain and a glib tongue, and under my tuition
would be a perfect wonder. If this country booby does not make an open
declaration at once, I wonder what her next move will be?”
“And you hesitated,” said Norbert reproachfully. “Remember you may
escape from the walls of the convent, but not from the bonds of an
ill-assorted marriage.”
Diana, who looked more beautiful than ever in her despair, wrung her
hands.
“What reason can I give to my father for declining this offer?” said
she. “Every one knows that I am almost portionless, and that I am
sacrificed to my brother, immolated upon the altar erected before the
cruel idol of family pride; and how dare I refuse a suitable offer when
one is made for my hand?”
“Have you forgotten me?” cried Norbert. “Have you no love for me?
“Ah, my poor friend, you are no more free than I am.”
“Then you look on me as a mere weak boy?” asked he, biting his lips.
“Your father is very powerful,” answered she in tones of the deepest
resignation; “his determination is inflexible, and his will inexorable.
You are completely in his power.”
“What do I care for my father?” cried the young man fiercely. “Am not
I a Champdoce too? Woe be to any one, father or stranger, who comes
between me and the woman I love devotedly; for I do love you, Diana, and
no mortal man shall take you from me.”
He clasped Diana to his breast, and pressed a loving kiss upon her lips.
“Aha,” muttered Daumon, who had lost nothing from his post of espial,
“this is worth fifty thousand francs at least to me.”
For a moment Diana remained clasped in her lover’s embrace, and then,
with a faint cry, released herself from him. She then felt that she
loved him, and his kiss and caresses sent a thrill like liquid fire
through her veins. She was half pleased and half terrified. She feared
him, but she feared herself more.
“What, Diana! Would you refuse me?” asked he, after a moment’s pause.
“Do you refuse me, when I implore you to be my wife, and to share my
name with me? Will you not be the Duchess of Champdoce?”
Diana only replied with a glance; but if her eyes spoke plainly, that
look said “Yes.”
“Why, then,” returned Norbert, “should we alarm ourselves with empty
phantoms? Do you not trust me? My father may certainly oppose my plans,
but before long I shall escape from his tyrannical sway, for I shall be
of age.”
“Ah, Norbert,” returned she sadly, “you are feeding upon vain hopes.
You must be twenty-five years of age before you can marry and give the
shelter of your name to the woman whom you have chosen for your wife.”
This was exactly the explanation for which Daumon had been waiting.
“Good again, my young lady,” cried he. “And so this is why she came
here. There is some credit in giving a lesson to so apt a pupil.”
“It is impossible,” cried Norbert, violently agitated; “such an
iniquitous thing cannot be.”
“You are mistaken,” answered Diana calmly. “Unfortunately I am telling
you exactly how matters stand. The law clearly fixes the age
at twenty-five. During all this time will you remember that a
broken-hearted girl--”
“Why talk to me of law? When I am of age, I shall have plenty of money,”
broke in Norbert; “and do you think that I will tamely submit to my
father’s oppression? No, I will wrest his consent from him.”
During this conversation the Counsellor was carefully removing the dust
from the knees of his trousers.
“I will pop in suddenly,” thought he, “and catch a word or two which
will do away with the necessity of all lengthy explanations.”
He suited the action to the word, and appeared suddenly before the
lovers. He was not at all disconcerted at the effect his entrance
produced upon them, and remarked placidly, “I could not find the
sheriff’s letter, but I assure you that Widow Rouleau’s matter shall be
speedily and satisfactorily arranged.”
Diana and Norbert exchanged glances of annoyance at finding their secret
at the mercy of such a man. This evident distrust appeared to wound
Daumon deeply.
“You have a perfect right,” remarked he dejectedly, “to say, ‘Mind your
own business;’ but the fact is, that I hate all kinds of injustice so
much that I always take the side of the weakest, and so, when I come in
and find you deploring your troubles, I say to myself, ‘Doubtless here
are two young people made for each other.’”
“You forget yourself,” broke in Diana haughtily.
“I beg your pardon,” stammered Daumon. “I am but a poor peasant, and
sometimes I speak out too plainly. I meant no harm, and I only hope that
you will forgive me.”
Daumon looked at Diana; and as she made no reply, he went on: “‘Well,’
says I to myself, ‘here are two young folks that have fallen in
love, and have every right to do so, and yet they are kept apart by
unreasonable and cruel-minded parents. They are young and know nothing
of the law, and without help they would most certainly get into a
muddle. Now, suppose I take their matter in hand, knowing the law
thoroughly as I do, and being up to its weak as well as its strong
points.’”
He spoke on in this strain for some minutes, and did not notice that
they had withdrawn a little apart, and were whispering to each other.
“Why should we not trust him?” asked Norbert. “He has plenty of
experience.”
“He would betray us; he would do anything for money.”
“That is all the better for us then; for if we promise him a handsome
sum, he will not say a word of what has passed to-day.”
“Do as you think best, Norbert.”
Having thus gained Diana’s assent, the young man turned to Daumon. “I
put every faith in you, and so does Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. You know
our exact situation. What do you advise?”
“Wait and hope,” answered the Counsellor. “The slightest step taken
before you are of age will be fatal to your prospects, but the day you
are twenty-one I will undertake to show you several methods of bringing
the Duke on his knees.”
Nothing could make this speech more explicit; but he was so cheerful and
confident, that when Diana left the office, she felt a fountain of fresh
hope well up in her heart.
This was nearly their last interview that year, for the winter came on
rapidly and with increased severity, so that it was impossible for the
lovers to meet out of doors, and the fear of spying eyes prevented them
from taking advantage of Daumon’s hospitality. Each day, however, the
widow’s daughter, Francoise, carried a letter to Laurebourg, and brought
back a reply to Champdoce. The inhabitants of the various country houses
had fled to more genial climates, and only the Marquis de Laurebourg,
who was an inveterate sportsman, still lingered; but at the first heavy
fall of snow he too determined to take refuge in the magnificent house
that he owned in the town of Poitiers. Norbert had foreseen this, and
had taken his measures accordingly. Two or three times in the week he
mounted his horse and rode to the town. After changing his dress, he
made haste to a certain garden wall in which there was a small door.
At an agreed hour this door would gently open, and as Norbert slipped
through he would find Diana ready to welcome him, looking more
bewitching than ever. This great passion, which now enthralled his whole
life, and the certainty that his love was returned, had done away with
a great deal of his bashfulness and timidity. He had resumed his
acquaintanceship with Montlouis, and had often been with him to the Café
Castille. Montlouis was only for a short time at Poitiers, for as soon
as spring began he was to join the young Count de Mussidan, who had
promised to find some employment for him. The approaching departure was
not at all to Montlouis’ taste, as he was madly in love with a young
girl who resided in the town. He told all to Norbert; and as confidence
begets confidence, he more than once accompanied the young Marquis to
the door in the garden wall of the Count de Laurebourg’s town house.
April came at last. The gentry returned to their country houses, and in
time the happy day arrived when Diana de Laurebourg was to return to her
father’s country mansion. The lovers had now every opportunity to meet,
and would exhort each other to have patience, and a week after Diana’s
return they spent a long day together in the woods. After this delicious
day, Norbert, happy and light-hearted, returned to his father’s house.
“Marquis,” said the Duke, plunging at once into the topic nearest his
heart, “I have found a wife for you, and in two months you will marry
her.”
CHAPTER VII.
AN UNLUCKY BLOW.
The falling of a thunderbolt at his feet would have startled Norbert
less than these words did. The Duke took, or affected to take, no notice
of his son’s extreme agitation, and in a careless manner he continued,--
“I suppose, my son, that it is hardly necessary for me to tell you
the young lady’s name. Mademoiselle Marie de Puymandour cannot fail
to please you. She is excessively pretty, tall, dark, and with a fine
figure. You saw her at Mass one day. What do you think of her?”
“Think!” stammered Norbert. “Really I----”
“Pshaw,” replied the old gentleman; “I thought that you had begun to use
your eyes. And look here, Marquis, you must adopt a different style of
dress. You can go over with me to Poitiers to-morrow, and one of the
tailors there will make you some clothes suitable to your rank, for I
don’t suppose that you wish to alarm your future wife by the uncouthness
of your appearance.”
“But, father--”
“Wait a moment, if you please. I shall have a suite of apartments
reserved for you and your bride, and you can pass your honeymoon here.
Take care you do not prolong it for too lengthened a period; and when it
is all over, we can break the young woman into all our ways.”
“But,” interrupted Norbert hastily, “suppose I do not fancy this young
lady?”
“Well, what then?”
“Suppose I should beg you to save me from a marriage which will render
me most unhappy?”
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “Why this is mere childishness,” said
he. “The marriage is a most suitable one, and it is my desire that it
should take place.”
“But, father,” again commenced Norbert.
“What! Are you opposing my will?” asked his father angrily. “Pray, do
you hesitate?”
“No,” answered his son coldly, “I do not hesitate.”
“Very good, then. A man of no position can consult the dictates of his
heart when he takes a wife, but with a nobleman of rank and station it
is certainly a different matter, for with the latter, marriage should
be looked upon as a mere business transaction. I have made excellent
arrangements. Let me repeat to you the conditions. The Count will give
two-thirds of his fortune, which is estimated at five millions--just
think of that!--and when we get that, we shall be able to screw and
save with better heart. Think of the restoration of our house, and the
colossal fortune that our descendants will one day inherit, and realize
all the beauties of a life of self-denial.”
While the Duke was uttering this string of incoherent sentences, he was
pacing up and down the room, and now he halted immediately in front of
his son. “You understand,” said he; “to-morrow you will go to Poitiers,
and on Sunday we will dine at the house of your future father-in-law.”
In this fearful crisis Norbert did not know what to say or how to act.
“Father,” he once more commenced, “I have no wish to go to Poitiers
to-morrow.”
“What are you saying? What in heaven’s name do you mean?”
“I mean that as I shall never love Mademoiselle de Puymandour, she will
never be my wife.”
The Duke had never foreseen the chance of rebellion on the part of his
son, and he could not bring his mind to receive such an unlooked-for
event.
“You are mad,” said he at last, “and do not know what you are saying.”
“I know very well.”
“Think of what you are doing.”
“I have reflected.”
The Duke was making a violent effort to compose his ordinarily violent
temper.
“Do you imagine,” answered he disdainfully, “that I shall be satisfied
with an answer of this kind? I hope that you will submit to my wishes,
for I think that, as the head of the family, I have conceived a splendid
plan for its future aggrandizement; and do you think that, for the mere
whim of a boy, I will be turned aside from my fixed determination?”
“No, father,” answered Norbert, “it is no boyish whim that makes me
oppose your wishes. Tell me, have I not ever been a dutiful son to you?
Have I ever refused to do what I was ordered? No; I have obeyed you
implicitly. I am the son of the wealthiest man in Poitiers, and I have
lived like a laborer’s child. Whatever your mandates were, I have never
complained or murmured at them.”
“Well, and now I order you to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour.”
“Anything but that; I do not love her, and I shall never do so. Do
you wish my whole life to be blighted? I entreat you to spare me this
sacrifice!”
“My orders are given, and you must comply with them.”
“No,” answered Norbert quietly, “I will not comply with them.”
A purple flush passed across the Duke’s face, then it faded away,
leaving every feature of a livid whiteness.
“Great heavens!” said he in a voice before which Norbert, at one time,
would have quailed. “Whence comes the audacity that makes you venture to
dispute my orders?”
“From the feeling that I am acting rightly.”
“How long is it that it has been right for children to disobey their
parents’ commands?”
“Ever since parents began to issue unjust commands.”
This speech put the finishing stroke to the Duke’s rage. He made a step
across the room, towards his son, raising the stick that he usually
carried high in the air. For a moment he stood thus, and then, casting
it aside, he exclaimed,--
“No, I cannot strike a Champdoce.”
Perhaps it was Norbert’s intrepid attitude that restrained the Duke’s
frenzy, for he had not moved a muscle, but stood still, with his arms
folded, and his head thrown haughtily back.
“No, this is an act of disobedience that I will not put up with,”
exclaimed the old man in a voice of thunder, and, springing upon his
son, he grasped him by the collar and dragged him up to a room on the
second floor, and thrust him violently through the doorway.
“You have twenty-four hours in which to reflect whether you will be
willing to accept the wife that I have chosen for you,” said he.
“I have already decided on that point,” answered Norbert quietly.
The Duke made no reply, but slammed the door, which was of massive oak,
and secured by a lock of enormous proportions.
Norbert gazed round; the only other exit from the room was by means of a
window some forty feet from the ground. The young man, however, imagined
that some one would surely come to make up his bed for the night; that
would give him two sheets; these he could knot together and thus secure
a means of escape. He might not be able to see Diana at once, but he
could easily send her a message by Daumon, warning her of what had taken
place. Having arranged his plans, he threw himself into an armchair
with a more easy mind than he had experienced for many months past. The
decisive step had been taken, and the relations between his father and
himself clearly defined, and thus he naturally considered great progress
had been made, and the task before him seemed as nothing to what he had
already performed.
“My father,” thought he, “must be half mad with passion.”
And Norbert was not wrong in his opinion. When the Duke, as usual, took
his place at the table, at which the farm laborers ate their meals, not
one of them had the courage to make a single observation. Every one knew
what a serious altercation had taken place between father and son, and
each one was devoured by the pangs of ungratified curiosity.
As soon as the meal was concluded, the Duke called an old and
trustworthy servant, who had been in his employment for over thirty
years.
“Jean,” said he, “your young master is locked in the yellow room. Here
is the key. Take him something to eat.”
“Very good, your Grace.”
“Wait a little. You will spend the night in his room and keep a strict
watch upon him. He may design to make his escape. If he attempts it,
restrain him, if necessary, by physical force. Should he prove too
strong for you, call to me; I shall be near, and will come to your aid.”
This unexpected precaution upon the Duke’s part upset all Norbert’s
plans of escape. He endeavored to persuade Jean to allow him to go out
for a couple of hours, giving his word of honor that he would return
at the expiration of that time. Prayers and menaces, however, had no
effect. Had the young man gazed from the window, he would have seen
his father striding moodily up and down the courtyard, with the thought
gnawing at his heart that perhaps after all these many years of waiting
his plans might yet be frustrated.
“There is a woman at the bottom of all this,” said he to himself. “It
is only woman’s wiles that in this brief space of time would effect so
complete a change in a young man’s disposition. Besides, he would not
have so obstinately declined to listen to the proposal I made him had
not his affections been engaged elsewhere. Who can she be? and by what
means shall I find her out?”
It would be absurd to question Norbert, and the Duke was excessively
unwilling to institute any regular inquiry into the matter. He passed
the whole night in gloomy indecision, but towards morning an inspiration
came to him which he looked upon as a special interposition of
Providence.
“Bruno,” he exclaimed with a mighty oath. “The dog will show me the
place that his master frequents and perhaps lead me to the very woman
who had bewitched him.”
The brilliant idea soothed him a great deal, and at one o’clock he took
his seat as usual at the head of the table, and ordered food to be taken
up to Norbert, but that none of the measures for his safe custody were
to be relaxed.
When he thought the moment was a favorable one, he whistled to Bruno,
and, though the dog rarely followed him, yet in the absence of his
master, he condescended to accompany the Duke down the avenue to the
front gates. Three roads branched off from here, but the dog did not
hesitate for a moment, and took the one to the left, like an animal who
knew his destination perfectly well. Bruno went ahead for nearly half
an hour, until he reached the exact spot where Diana had met with her
accident. He made a cast round, but finding nothing, sat down, clearly
saying,--
“Let us wait.”
“This, then,” muttered the Duke, “is the place where the lovers have
been in the habit of meeting each other.”
The place was a very lonely one, and, standing on the rising ground,
commanded a view of the country for a long way round.
The Duke noticed this, and took up a position where the trunk of a
giant oak almost concealed him from observation. He was delighted at his
sagacity, and was almost in a good humor; for now that he had reflected,
the danger did not seem by any means so great, for to whom could Norbert
have lost his heart? To some little peasant girl, perhaps, who, thinking
that the lad was an easy dupe, had tried to induce him to marry her.
As these thoughts passed through the Duke’s brain, Bruno gave a joyous
bark.
“Here she is,’ muttered he, as he emerged from his hiding place, and at
that moment Diana de Laurebourg made her appearance; but as soon as she
saw the Duke she uttered a faint cry of alarm. She was inclined to turn
and fly, but her strength failed her, and, extending her hands, she
grasped the boughs of a slender birch tree that grew close by, to
prevent herself from falling. The Duke was quite as much astonished as
the young lady. He had expected to see a peasant girl, and here was
the daughter of the Marquis de Laurebourg. But anger soon succeeded to
surprise; for though he might have had nothing to fear from the peasant,
the daughter of the Marquis de Laurebourg was an utterly different
antagonist. He could not rely upon aid from her family, as, for all he
knew, they might be aiding and abetting her.
“Well, my child,” began he, “you do not seem very glad to see me.”
“Your Grace.”
“Yes, when you come out to meet the son, it is annoying to meet the
father; but do not blame poor Norbert, for I assure you he is not in
fault.”
Though Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had been startled at first, she
was possessed of too strong a will to give in, and soon recovered her
self-possession.
She never thought to screen herself by a denial of her reasons for being
on the spot, for such a course she would have looked on as an act of
treacherous cowardice.
“You are quite right,” answered she. “I came here to meet your son, and
therefore you will pardon me if I take my leave of you.”
With a deep courtesy she was about to move away, when the Duke laid a
restraining grip upon her arm.
“Permit me, my child,” said he, endeavoring to put on a kind and
paternal tone,--“let me say a few words to you. Do you know why Norbert
did not come to meet you?”
“He has doubtless some very good reason.”
“My son is locked up in a room, and my servants have my orders to
prevent his making his escape by force, if necessary.”
“Poor fellow! He deserves the deepest commiseration.”
The Duke was much surprised at this piece of impertinence, as he
considered it.
“I will tell you,” returned he in tones of rising anger, “how it comes
that I treat my son, the heir to my rank and fortune, in this manner.”
He looked savagely angry as he spoke, but Diana answered negligently,
“Pray go on; you quite interest me.”
“Well then, listen to me. I have chosen a wife for Norbert; she is as
young as you are--beautiful, clever, and wealthy.”
“And of noble birth, of course.”
The sarcasm conveyed in this reply roused the Duke to fury.
“Fifteen hundred thousand francs as a marriage portion will outweigh a
coat of arms, even though it should be a tower argent on a field azure.”
The Duke paused as he made this allusion to the Laurebourg arms, and
then continued, “In addition to this, she has great expectations; and
yet my son is mad enough to refuse the hand of this wealthy heiress.”
“If you think that this marriage will cause your son’s happiness, you
are quite right in acting as you have done.”
“Happiness! What has that to do with the matter, as long as it adds to
the aggrandizement of our house and name? I have made up my mind that
Norbert shall marry this girl; I have sworn it, and I never break my
oath. I told him this myself.”
Diana suffered acutely, but her pride supported her, whilst her
confidence in Norbert was so great that she had the boldness to inquire,
“And what did he say to that?”
“Norbert will become a dutiful son once more when he is removed from the
malignant influence which has been so injurious to him,” returned the
Duke fiercely.
“Indeed.”
“He will obey me, when I show him that though he may not value his name
and position, there are others who do so; and that many a woman would
fight a brave battle for the honor of being the Duchess of Champdoce.
Young lady, my son is a mere boy; but I have known the world, and when I
prove to the poor fool that it was only grasping ambition which assumed
the garb of love, he will renounce his folly and resume his
allegiance to me. I will tell him what I think of the poverty-stricken
adventuresses of high birth, whose only weapons are their youth and
beauty, and with which they think that they can win a wealthy husband in
the battle of life.”
“Continue, sir,” broke in Diana haughtily. “Insult a defenceless girl
with her poverty! It is a noble act, and one worthy of a high-born
gentleman like yourself!”
“I believed,” said the Duke, “that I was addressing the woman whose
advice had led my son to break into open rebellion against my authority.
Am I right or wrong? You can prove me to be mistaken by urging upon
Norbert the necessity for submission.”
She made no reply, but bent her head upon her bosom.
“You see,” continued the Duke, “that I am correct, and that if you
continue to act as you have done, I shall be justified in retaliating in
any manner that I may deem fit. You have now been warned. Carry on this
intrigue at your peril.”
He placed such an insulting emphasis upon the word “intrigue” that
Diana’s anger rose to boiling point. At that instant, for the sake of
vengeance, she would have risked her honor, her ambition, her very life
itself.
Forgetting all prudence, she cast aside her mask of affected
indifference, and, with her eyes flashing angry gleams of fire, and her
cheeks burning, she said,--
“Listen to me. I, too, have sworn an oath, and it is that Norbert
shall be my husband; and I tell you that he shall be so! Shut him up in
prison, subject him to every indignity at the hands of your menials, but
you will never break his spirit, or make him go back from his plighted
word. If I bid him, he will resist your will even unto the bitter end.
He and I will never yield. Believe me when I tell you, that before you
attack a young girl’s honor, you had better pause; for one day she will
be a member of your family. Farewell.”
Before the Duke could recover his senses, Diana was far down the path
on her way homewards; and then he burst into a wild storm of menaces,
oaths, and insults. He fancied that he was alone, but he was mistaken;
for the whole of that strange scene had a hidden witness, and that
witness was Daumon. He had heard of the treatment of the young Marquis
from one of his servants at the Chateau, and his first thought had been
to acquaint Diana with it. Unfortunately he saw no means of doing this.
He dared not go to Laurebourg, and he would have died sooner than put
pen to paper. He was in a position of the deepest embarrassment when the
idea struck him of going to the lovers’ trysting place. The little cry
that Diana had uttered upon perceiving the Duke had put him upon his
guard. Bruno had found him out; but, as he knew him, merely fawned upon
him. He was delighted at the fury of the Duke, whom he hated with
cold and steady malignity; but the courage of Diana filled him with
admiration. Her sublime audacity won his warmest praises, and he longed
for her as an ally to aid him in his scheme of revenge. He knew that the
girl would find herself in a terribly embarrassing position, and thus
she would be sure to call upon him for advice before returning home.
“Now,” thought he, “if I wish to profit by her anger, I ought to strike
while the iron is hot; and to do so, I should be at home to meet her.”
Without a moment’s delay, he dashed through the woods, striving to
get home without the young girl’s perceiving him. His movements in the
underwood caught the Duke’s eye.
“Who is there?” exclaimed he, moving towards the spot from whence the
rustling came. There was no reply. Surely he had not been mistaken.
Calling to Bruno, he strove to put him on the scent, but the dog showed
no signs of eagerness. He sniffed about for a time, and seemed to linger
near one special spot. The Duke moved towards it, and distinctly saw the
impression of two knees upon the grass.
“Some one has been eavesdropping,” muttered he, much enraged at his
discovery. “Who can it be? Has Norbert escaped from his prison?”
As he returned through the courtyard, he called one of the grooms to
him.
“Where is my son?” asked he.
“Upstairs, your Grace,” was the answer.
The Duke breathed more freely. Norbert was still in security, and
therefore could not have been the person who had been listening.
“But,” added the lad, “the young master is half frantic.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he declared that he would not remain in his room an instant
longer; so old Jean called for help. He is awfully strong, and it took
six of us to hold him. He said that if we would let him go, he would
return in two hours, and that his honor and life were involved.”
The Duke listened with a sarcastic smile. He cared nothing about the
frantic struggles of his son, for his heart had grown cold and hard from
the presence of the fixed idea which had actuated his conduct for so
many years, and it was with the solemn face of a man who was fulfilling
a sacred duty that he ascended to the room in which his son was
imprisoned. Jean threw open the door, and the Duke paused for a moment
on the threshold. The furniture had been overturned, some of it broken,
and there were evident signs of a furious struggle having taken place.
A powerful laborer stood near the window, and Norbert was lying on the
bed, with his face turned to the wall.
“Leave us,” said the Duke, and the man withdrew at once.
“Get up, Norbert,” he added; “I wish to speak to you.”
His son obeyed him. Any one but the Duke would have been alarmed by the
expression of the young man’s face.
“What is the meaning of all this?” asked the old nobleman in his most
severe voice. “Are not my orders sufficient to insure obedience? I hear
that absolute force has had to be used towards you during my absence.
Tell me, my son, what plans you have devised during these hours of
solitude, and what hopes you still venture to cherish.”
“I intend to be free, and I will be so.”
The Duke affected not to hear the reply, uttered as it was in a tone of
derision.
“It was very easy for me to discover, from your obstinacy, that some
woman had endeavored to entrap you, and by her insidious counsels
inducing you to disobey your best friend.”
He paused, but there was no reply.
“This woman--this dangerous woman--I have been in search of, and as you
can conceive, I easily found her. I went to the Forest of Bevron, and
there I need not tell you I found Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I did so, certainly. I told her my opinion of those manoeuvring women
who fascinate the dupes they intend to take advantage of--”
“Father!”
“Can it be possible that you, simple boy even as you are, could have
been deceived by the pretended love of this wily young woman? It is not
you, Marquis, that she loves, but our name and fortune; but _I_ know if
_she_ does not that the law will imprison women who contrive to entrap
young men who are under age.”
Norbert turned deadly pale.
“Did you really say that to her?” asked he, in a low, hoarse voice,
utterly unlike his own. “You dare to insult the woman I love, when you
knew that I was far away and unable to protect her! Take care, or I
shall forget that you are my father.”
“He actually threatens me,” said the Duke, “my son threatens me;” and,
raising the heavy stick he held in his hand, he struck Norbert a violent
blow. By a fortunate movement the unhappy boy drew back, and so avoided
the full force of the stroke, but the end of the stick struck him across
the temple, inflicting a long though not a serious wound. In his blind
rage Norbert was about to throw himself upon his father, when his eyes
caught sight of the open door. Liberty and safety lay before him, and,
with a bound, he was on the stairs, and before the Duke could shout for
aid from the window, his son was tearing across the park with all the
appearance and gesture of a madman.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LITTLE GLASS BOTTLE.
In order to avoid being seen by Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, Daumon had
to take a much longer route to regain his home than the one that Diana
had followed. This, however, he could not help. As soon as he arrived
at his home he ran hastily upstairs and took from a cleverly concealed
hiding-place in the wainscoting of his bedroom a small bottle of dark
green glass, which he hastily slipped into his pocket. When he had
once more descended to his office, he again took it out and examined it
carefully to see that it had in no way been tampered with; then, with
a hard, cruel smile, he placed it upon his desk among his ledgers and
account books. Diana de Laurebourg might pay him a visit as soon as
she liked, for he was quite prepared for her, for he had slipped on his
dressing-gown and placed his velvet skull cap upon his head, as if he
had not quitted the house that day.
“Why on earth does she not come?” muttered he.
He began to be uneasy. He went to the window and glanced eagerly down
the road; then he drew out his watch and examined the face of it,
when all at once his ears detected a gentle tapping at the door of the
office.
“Come in,” said he.
The door opened, and Diana entered slowly, without uttering a word, and
took no notice of the servile obsequiousness of the Counsellor; indeed,
she hardly seemed to notice his presence, and with a deep sigh she threw
herself into a chair.
In his inmost heart Daumon was filled with the utmost delight; he now
understood why Diana had taken so long in reaching his house; it was
because her interview with the Duke had almost overcome her.
She soon, however, recovered her energy, and shook off the languor
that seemed to cling to her limbs, and turning towards her host, said
abruptly,--
“Counsellor, I have come to you for advice, which I sorely need. About
an hour ago--”
With a gesture of sympathy Daumon interrupted her,--
“Alas!” said he; “spare me the recital, I know all.”
“You know----”
“Yes, I know that M. Norbert is a prisoner at the Chateau. Yes,
mademoiselle, I know this, and I know, too, that you have just met the
Duke de Champdoce in the Forest of Bevron. I know, moreover, all that
you said to the old nobleman, for I have heard every word from a person
who has just left.”
In spite of her strong nerves, Diana was unable to restrain a movement
of dismay and terror.
“But who told you of this?” murmured she.
“A man who was out cutting wood. Ah! my dear young lady, the forest is
not a safe place to tell secrets in, for you never know whether watchful
eyes and listening ears are not concealed behind every tree. This
man, and I am afraid some of his companions, heard every word that was
spoken, and as soon as you left the Duke the man scampered off to tell
the story. I made him promise not to say a word, but he is a married man
and is sure to tell it to his wife. Then there are his companions; dear
me! it is most annoying.”
“Then all is lost, and I am ruined,” murmured she.
But her despair did not last long, for she was by no means the woman
to throw down her arms and sue for mercy. She grasped the arm of the
Counsellor.
“The end has not come yet, surely? Speak! What is to be done? You must
have some plan. I am ready for anything, now that I have nothing to
lose. No one shall ever say that that cowardly villain, the Duke de
Champdoce, insulted me with impunity. Tell me, will you help me?”
“In the name of heaven!” cried he, “do not speak so loud. You do not
know the adversary that you have to contend with.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Yes, I do fear him; and what is more, I fear him very much. He is a
determined man, and will gain his object at any cost or risk. Do you
know that he did his best to crush me because I summoned him to court on
behalf of one of my clients? So that now, when any one comes to me and
wishes to proceed against the Duke, I am glad to decline to take up the
matter.”
“And so,” returned the young girl in a tone of cold contempt, “after
leading us to this compromising position, you are ready to abandon us at
the most critical moment?”
“Can you think such a thing, mademoiselle?”
“You can act as you please, Counsellor; Norbert is still left to me; he
will protect me.”
Daumon shook his head with an air of deep sorrow.
“How can we be sure that at this very moment the Marquis has not given
in to all his father’s wishes?”
“No,” exclaimed the girl; “such a supposition is an insult to Norbert.
He would sooner die than give in. He may be timid, but he is not
a coward; the thoughts of me will give him the power to resist his
father’s tyranny.”
Daumon allowed himself to fall into his great armchair as though
overcome by the excitement of this interview.
“We can talk coolly enough here and with no one to threaten us; but the
Marquis, on the other hand, is exposed to all his father’s violence and
ill treatment, moral as well as physical, without any defence for aid
from a soul in the world, and in such times as these the strongest will
may give way.”
“Yes, I see it all; Norbert may give in, he may marry another woman, and
I shall be left alone, with my reputation gone, and the scorn and scoff
of all the neighborhood.”
“But, mademoiselle, you still have--”
“All I have left is life, and that life I would gladly give for
vengeance.”
There was something so terribly determined in the young girl’s voice
that again Daumon started, and this time his start was sincere and not
simulated.
“Yes, you are right,” said he, “and there are many besides myself who
have vowed to have revenge on the Duke, and their time will come, have
no fear. A quiet shot in the woods in the dusk of the evening would
settle many a long account. It has been tried, but the old man seems
to have the luck of the evil one; and if the gun did not miss fire, the
bullets flew wide of the mark. A judge might take a very serious view of
such a matter, and term a crime what was merely an act of justice. Who
can say whether the death of the Duke de Champdoce might not save him
from the commission of many acts of tyranny and oppression and render
many deserving persons happy?”
The face of Diana de Laurebourg turned deadly pale as she listened to
these specious arguments.
“As things go,” continued Daumon, “the Duke may go on living to a
hundred; he is wealthy and influential, and to a certain degree looked
up to. He will die peacefully in his bed, there will be a magnificent
funeral, and masses will be sung for the repose of his soul.”
While he spoke the Counsellor had taken the little bottle from beside
his account books and was turning it over and over between his fingers.
“Yes,” murmured he, thoughtfully; “the Duke is quite likely to outlive
us all, unless, indeed----”
He took the cork from the bottle, and poured a little of the contents
into the palm of his hand. A few grains of fine white powder, glittering
like crystal, appeared on the brown skin of the Counsellor.
“And yet,” he went on, in cold, sinister accents, “let him take but
a small pinch of this, and no one need fear his tyranny again in this
world. No one is much afraid of a man who lies some six feet under
ground, shut up in a strong oak coffin, with a finely carved gravestone
over his head.”
He stopped short, and fixed his keen eyes upon the agitated girl, who
stood in front of him. For at least two minutes the man and the girl
stood face to face, motionless, and without exchanging a word. Through
the dead, weird silence, the pulsations of their hearts were plainly
audible. It seemed as if before speaking again each wished to fathom the
depths of guilt that lay in the other’s heart. It was a compact entered
into by look and not by speech; and Daumon so well understood this, that
at length, when he did speak, his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, as
though he himself feared to listen to the utterance of his own thoughts.
“A man taking this feels no pain. It is like a heavy, stunning blow on
the forehead--in ten seconds all is over, no gasp, no cry, but the heart
ceases to beat forever; and, best of all, it leaves no trace behind it.
A little of this, such a little, in wine or coffee, would be enough. It
is tasteless, colorless, and scentless, its presence is impossible to be
detected.”
“But in the event of a _post-mortem_ examination?”
“By skilful analysts in Paris or the larger towns, there would be a
chance; but in a place like this, never! Never, in fact, anywhere,
unless there had been previous grounds for suspicion. Otherwise only
apoplectic symptoms would be observed; and even if it was traced there
comes the question, By whom was it administered?”
He stopped short, for a word rose to his lips which he did not dare
utter; he raised his hands to his mouth, coughed slightly, and went
on,--
“This substance is not sold by chemists; it is very rarely met with,
difficult to prepare, and terribly expensive. The smallest quantity
might be met with in the first-class laboratories for scientific
purposes, but it is most unlikely for any one in these parts to possess
any of this drug, or even to know of its existence.”
“And yet you----”
“That is quite another matter. Years ago, when I was far away from here,
it was in my power to render a great service to a distinguished chemist,
and he made me a present of this combination of his skill. It would be
impossible to trace this bottle; I have had it ten years, and the man
who gave it to me is dead. Ten years? No, I am wrong, it is now twelve.”
“And in all these years has not this substance lost any of its
destructive powers?”
“I tried it only a month ago. I threw a pinch of it into a basin of milk
and gave it to a powerful mastiff. He drank the milk and in ten seconds
fell stark and dead.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Diana, covering her face with her hand, and
recoiling from the tempter.
A sinister smile quivered upon the thin lips of the Counsellor.
“Why do you say horrible?” asked he; “the dog had shown symptoms of
_rabies_, and had he bitten me, I might have expired in frightful
torture. Was it not fair self-defence? Sometimes, however, a man is more
dangerous than a dog. A man blights the whole of my life; I strike him
down openly, and the law convicts me and puts me to death; but I do not
contemplate doing so, for I would suppress such a man secretly.”
Diana placed her hands on the man’s mouth and stopped a further
exposition of his ideas.
“Listen to me,” said she. But at this moment a heavy step was heard
outside. “It is Norbert,” gasped she.
“Impossible! It is more likely his father.”
“It is Norbert,” cried Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, and snatching the
little bottle from the Counsellor’s hands, she thrust it into her bosom.
The door flew open, and Norbert appeared on the threshold. Diana and the
Counsellor both uttered a shriek of terror. His livid countenance seemed
to indicate that he had passed through some terrible scene; his gait
was unsteady, his clothes torn and disordered, and his face stained with
blood, which had flowed from a cut over his temple. Daumon imagined that
some outrage had taken place.
“You have been wounded, Marquis?” said he.
“Yes, my father struck me.”
“Can it be possible?”
“Yes, he struck me.”
Mademoiselle Diana had feared this, and she trembled with the terror of
her vague conjectures as she made a step towards her lover.
“Permit me to examine your wound,” said she.
She placed both her hands at the side of his head and stood on tip-toe,
the better to inspect the cut. As she did so, she shuddered; an inch
lower, and the consequences might have been fatal.
“Quick,” she said, “give me some rags and water.”
Norbert gently disengaged himself. “It is a mere nothing,” said he, “and
can be looked after later on. Fortunately I did not receive the whole
weight of the blow, which would otherwise have brought me senseless to
the ground, and perhaps I should have been slain by my father’s hand.”
“By the Duke? and for what reason did he strike you?”
“Diana, he had grossly insulted you, and he dared to tell me of it. Had
he forgotten that the blood of the race of Champdoce ran in my veins as
well as in his?”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg burst into a passion of tears.
“I,” sobbed she, “I have brought all this upon you.”
“You? Why, it is to you that he owes his life. He dared to strike me as
if I had been a lackey, but the thoughts of you stayed my hand. I turned
and fled, and never again will I enter that accursed house. I renounce
the Duke de Champdoce, he is no longer my father, and I will never look
upon his face again. Would that I could forget that such a man existed;
but, no, I would rather that I remembered him for the sake of revenge.”
Again the heart of Daumon overflowed with joy. All his deeply malignant
spirit thrilled pleasantly as he heard these words.
“Marquis,” said he, “perhaps you will now believe with me that in all
misfortunes there is an element of luck, for your father has committed
an act of imprudence which will yet cost him dear. It is very strange
that so astute a man as the Duke de Champdoce should have allowed his
passion to carry him away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that you can be freed from the tyranny of your father whenever
you like now. We now have all that is necessary for lodging a formal
plaint in court. We have sequestration of the person, threats and bodily
violence by the aid of third parties, and words and blows which have
endangered life; our case is entirely complete. A surgeon will examine
your wound, and give a written deposition. We can produce plenty of
evidence, and the wound on the head will tell its own story. As a
commencement we will petition that we may not be ordered back to our
father’s custody, and it will further be set forth that our reason for
this is that a father has assaulted a son with undue and unnecessary
violence. We shall be sure to gain the day, and--”
“Enough,” broke in Norbert; “will the decision give me the right to
marry whom I please without my father’s consent?”
Daumon hesitated. Under the circumstances, it seemed to him very likely
that the court would grant Norbert the liberty he desired; he, however,
thought it advisable not to say so, and answered boldly, “No, Marquis,
it will not do so.”
“Well, then, the Champdoce family have never exposed their differences
to the public, nor will I begin to do so,” said Norbert decisively.
The Counsellor seemed surprised at this determination.
“If, Marquis,” he began, “I might venture to advise you--”
“No advice is necessary, my mind is entirely made up, but I need some
help, and in twenty-four hours I require a large sum of money--twenty
thousand francs.”
“You can have them, Marquis, but I warn you that you will have to pay
heavily for the accommodation.”
“That I care nothing for.”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was about to speak, but with a gesture of his
hand Norbert arrested her.
“Do you not comprehend me, Diana?” said he; “we must fly, and that at
once. We can find some safe retreat where we can live happily, where no
one will harm us.”
“But this is mere madness!” cried Diana.
“You will be pursued,” remarked the Counsellor; “and most likely
overtaken.”
“Can you not trust your life to me?” asked Norbert reproachfully. “I
swear that I will devote everything to you, life, thought, and will. On
my knees I entreat you to fly with me.”
“I cannot,” murmured she; “it is impossible.”
“Then you do not love me,” said he in desponding accents. “I have been
a thrice-besotted fool to believe that your heart was mine, for you can
never have loved me.”
“Hear him, merciful powers! he says that I, who am all his, do not love
him.”
“Then why cast aside our only chance of safety?”
“Norbert, dearest Norbert!”
“I understand you too well; you are alarmed at the idea of the world’s
censure, and----”
He paused, checked by the gleam of reproach that shone in Diana’s eyes.
“Must it be so?” said she; “must I condescend to justify myself? You
talk to me of the world’s censure? Have I not already defied it, and has
it not sat in judgment upon me? And what have I done, after all? Every
act and word that has passed between us I can repeat to my mother
without a blush rising to my cheek; but would any one credit my words?
No, not a living soul. Most likely the world has come to a decision. My
reputation is gone, is utterly lost, and yet I am spotless as the driven
snow.”
Norbert was half-mad with anger.
“Who would dare to treat you with anything save the most profound
respect?” said he.
“Alas! my dear Norbert,” replied she, “to-morrow the scandal will be
even greater. While your father was talking to me with such brutal
violence and contempt, he was overheard by a woodcutter and perhaps by
some of his companions.”
“It cannot be.”
“No, it is quite true,” returned Daumon. “I had it from the man myself.”
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg shot one glance at the Counsellor; it was
only a glance, but he comprehended at once that she wished to be left
alone with her lover.
“Pardon me,” said he, “but I think I have a visitor, and I must hinder
any one from coming in here.”
He left the room as he spoke, closing the door noisily behind him.
“And so,” resumed Norbert when alone, “it seems that the Duke de
Champdoce did not even take the ordinary precaution of assuring himself
that you were in privacy before he spoke as he did, and was so carried
away by his fury that he never thought that in casting dishonor upon
you, he was heaping infamy on me. Does he think by these means to compel
me to marry the heiress whom he has chose for me, the Mademoiselle de
Puymandour?”
For the first time Diana learned the name of her rival.
“Ah!” moaned she between her sobs, “so it is Mademoiselle de Puymandour
that he wants you to marry?”
“Yes, the same, or rather her enormous wealth; but may my hand wither
before it clasps hers. Do you hear me, Diana?”
She gave a sad smile and murmured, “Poor Norbert!”
The heart of the young man sank; so melancholy was the tone of her
voice.
“You are very cruel,” said he. “What have I done to deserve this want of
confidence?”
Diana made no reply, and Norbert, believing that he understood the
reason why she refused to fly with him, said, “Is it because you have no
faith in me, that you will not accompany me in my flight?”
“No; I have perfect faith in you.”
“What is it, then? Do I not offer you fortune and happiness? Tell me
what it is then.”
She drew herself up, and said proudly, “Up to this time, my conscience
has enabled me to hold my own against all the scandalous gossip that has
been flying about, but now it says, ‘Halt, Diana de Laurebourg! You have
gone far enough.’ My burden is heavy, my heart is breaking, but I must
draw back now. No, Norbert; I cannot fly with you.”
She paused for a moment, as though unable to proceed, and then went on
with more firmness, “Were I alone and solitary in the world, I might act
differently; but I have a family, whose honor I must guard as I would my
own.”
“A family indeed, which sacrifices you to your elder brother.”
“It may be so, and therefore my task is all the greater. Whoever heard
of virtue as something easy to practise?”
Norbert never remembered what an example of rebellion she had set.
“My heart and my conscience dictate the same course to me. The result
must ever be fatal, when a young girl sets at defiance the rules and
laws of society; and you would never care to look with respect on one
upon whom others gazed with the eye of contempt.”
“What sort of an opinion have you of me, then?”
“I believe you to be a man, Norbert. Let us suppose that I fly with you,
and that the next day I should hear that my father has been killed in a
duel fought on my account; what then? Believe me, that when I tell you
to fly by yourself, I give you the best advice in my power. You will
forget me, I know; but what else can I hope for?”
“Forget you!” said Norbert angrily. “Can you forget me?”
His face was so close to hers that she felt the hot breath upon her
cheek.
“Yes,” stammered she, with a violent effort, “I can.”
Norbert drew a pace back, that he might read her meaning more fully in
her eyes.
“And if I go away,” asked he, “what will become of you?”
A sob burst from the young girl’s breast, and her strength seemed to
desert her limbs.
“I,” answered she, in the calm, resigned voice of a Christian virgin
about to be cast to the lions that roared in the arena, “I have my
destiny. To-day is the last time that we shall ever meet. I shall return
to my home, where everything will shortly be known. I shall find my
father angry and menacing. He will place me in a carriage, and the next
day I shall find myself within the walls of the hated convent.”
“But that life would be one long, slow agony to you. You have told me
this before.”
“Yes,” answered she, “it would be an agony, but it would also be an
expiation; and when the burden grows too heavy, I have this.”
And as she spoke, she drew the little bottle from its hiding-place in
her bosom, and Norbert too well understood her meaning. The young man
endeavored to take it from her, but she resisted. This contest seemed
to exhaust her little strength, her beautiful eyes closed, and she sank
senseless into Norbert’s arms. In an agony of despair, the young man
asked himself if she was dying; and yet there was sufficient life in
her to enable her to whisper, soft and low, these words, “My only
friend--let me have it back, dear Norbert.” And then, with perfect
clearness, she repeated all the deadly properties of the drug, and the
directions for its use that the Counsellor had given to her.
On hearing the woman whom he loved with such intense passion confess
that she would sooner die than live apart from him, Norbert’s brain
reeled.
“Diana, my own Diana!” repeated he, as he hung over her.
But she went on, as though speaking through the promptings of delirium.
“The very day after such a fair prospect! Ah, Duke de Champdoce! You are
a hard and pitiless man. You have robbed me of all I held dear in the
world, blackened my reputation, and tarnished my honor, and now you want
my life.”
Norbert uttered such a cry of anger, that even Daumon in the passage was
startled by it. He placed Diana tenderly in the Counsellor’s arm-chair,
saying,--
“No, you shall not kill yourself, nor shall you leave me.”
She smiled faintly, and held out her arms to him. Her magic spells were
deftly woven.
“No,” cried he; “the poison which you had intended to use on yourself
shall become my weapon of vengeance, and the instrument of punishment of
the one who has wronged you.”
And with the gait of a man walking in his sleep, he left the
Counsellor’s office.
Hardly had the young man’s footsteps died away, than Daumon entered the
room. He had not lost a word or action in the foregoing scene, and he
was terribly agitated; and he could scarcely believe his eyes when
he saw Diana, whom he had supposed to be lying half-sensible in the
arm-chair, standing at the window, gazing after Norbert, as he walked
along the road leading from the Counsellor’s cottage.
“Ah! what a woman!” muttered he. “Gracious powers, what a wonderful
woman!”
When Diana had lost sight of her lover, she turned round to Daumon. Her
face was pale, and her eyelids swollen, but her eyes flashed with the
conviction of success.
“To-morrow, Counsellor,” said she, “to-morrow I shall be the Duchess de
Champdoce.”
Daumon was so overwhelmed that, accustomed as he was to startling events
and underhand trickery, he could find no words to express his feelings.
“That is to say,” added Diana thoughtfully, “if all goes as it should
to-night.”
Daumon felt a cold shiver creep over him, but summoning up all his
self-possession, he said, “I do not understand you. What is this that
you hope will be accomplished to-night?”
She turned so contemptuous and sarcastic a look on him, that the words
died away in his mouth, and he at once saw his mistake in thinking that
he could sport with the girl’s feelings as a cat plays with a mouse; for
it was she who was playing with him, and she, a simple girl, had made
this wily man of the world her dupe.
“Success is, of course, a certainty,” answered she coldly; “but Norbert
is impetuous, and impetuous people are often awkward. But I must return
home at once. Ah, me!” she added, as her self-control gave way for a
moment, “will this cruel night never pass away, and give way to the
gentle light of dawn? Farewell, Counsellor. When we meet again, all
matters will be settled, one way or other.”
The Parthian dart which Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had cast behind
her went true to the mark; the allusion to Norbert’s impetuosity and
awkwardness rendered the Counsellor very unhappy. He sat down in his
arm-chair, and, resting his head on his hands, and his elbows on his
desk, he strove to review the position thoroughly. Perhaps by now
all might be over. Where was Norbert, and what was he doing? he asked
himself.
At the time that Daumon was reflecting, Norbert was on the road leading
to Champdoce. He had entirely lost his head, but he found that his
reason was clear and distinct. Those who have been accustomed to the
treatment of maniacs know with what startling rapidity they form a chain
of action, and the cloud that veiled Norbert’s brain appeared to throw
out into stronger relief the murderous determination he had formed. He
had already decided how the deed was to be done. The common wine of the
country was always served to the laborers at the table, but the Duke
kept a better quality for his own drinking, and the bottle containing
this was after meals placed on a shelf in a cupboard in the dining-room.
It was thus within every one’s reach, but not a soul in the household
would have ventured to lay a finger upon it. Norbert’s thoughts fell
upon this bottle, and in his mind’s eye he could see it standing in its
accustomed place. He crossed the courtyard, and the laborers, engaged
in their tasks, gazed at him curiously. He passed them, and entered the
dining-room, which was untenanted. With a caution that was not to
be expected from the agitation of his mind, he opened each door
successively, in order to be certain that no eyes were gazing upon him.
Then, with the greatest rapidity, he took down the bottle, drew the cork
with his teeth, and dropped into the wine, not one, but two or three
pinches of the contents of the little vial. He shook the bottle gently,
to facilitate the dissolution of the powder. A few particles of the
poison clung to the lip of the bottle; he wiped off these, not with a
napkin, a pile of which lay on the shelf beside him, but with his
own handkerchief. He replaced the bottle in its accustomed place, and
seating himself by the fire, awaited the course of events.
At this moment the Duke de Champdoce was coming up the avenue at a rapid
pace. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, this man perceived that
one of his last acts had been insensate and foolish in the extreme. All
the possibilities of the law to which Daumon had alluded struck the Duke
with over-whelming force, and he at once saw that his violent conduct
had given ample grounds upon which to base a plaint, with results which
he greatly feared. If the court entertained the matter, his son would
most likely be removed from his control. He knew that such an idea would
never cross Norbert’s brain, but there were plenty of persons to suggest
it to him. The danger of his position occurred to him, and at the
same time he felt that he must frame his future conduct with extreme
prudence. He had not given up his views regarding his son’s marriage
with Mademoiselle de Puymandour. No; he would sooner have resigned life
itself, but he felt that he must renounce violence, and gain his ends by
diplomacy. The first thing to be done was to get Norbert to return
home, and the father greatly doubted whether the son would do so. While
thinking over these things, with a settled gloom upon his face, one of
the servants came running up to him with the news of Norbert’s return.
“I hold him at last,” muttered he, and hastened on to the Chateau.
When the Duke entered the dining-room, Norbert did not rise from his
seat, and the Duke was disagreeably impressed by this breach of the
rules of domestic etiquette.
“On my word,” thought he, “it would appear that the young booby thinks
that he owes me no kind of duty whatever.”
He did not, however, allow his anger to be manifest in his features;
besides, the sight of the blood, with which his son’s face was still
smeared, caused him to feel excessively uncomfortable.
“Norbert, my son,” said he, “are you suffering? Why have you not had
that cut attended to?”
The young man made no reply, and the Duke continued,--
“Why have you not washed the blood away? Is it left there as a reproach
to me? There is no need for that, I assure you; for deeply do I deplore
my violence.”
Norbert still made no answer, and the Duke became more and more
embarrassed. To give himself time for reflection, more than because he
was thirsty, he took a glass, and filled it from his own special bottle.
Norbert trembled from head to foot as he saw this act.
“Come, my son,” continued the Duke, “just try if you cannot find some
palliation for what your old father has done. I am ready to ask your
forgiveness, and to apologize, for a man of honor is never ashamed to
acknowledge when he has been in the wrong.”
He raised his glass, and raised it up to the light half mechanically.
Norbert held his breath; the whole world seemed turning round.
“It is hard, very hard,” continued the Duke, “for a father thus to
humiliate himself in vain before his son.”
It was useless for Norbert to turn away his head; he saw the Duke place
the glass to his lips. He was about to drink, but the young man could
endure it no longer, and with a bound he sprang forward, snatched the
glass from his father’s hand, and hurled it from the window, shouting in
a voice utterly unlike his own,--
“Do not drink.”
The Duke read the whole hideous truth in the face and manner of his son.
His features quivered, his face grew purple, and his eyes filled with
blood. He strove to speak, but only an inarticulate rattle could be
heard; he then clasped his hands convulsively, swayed backwards and
forwards, and then fell helplessly backwards, striking his head against
an oaken sideboard that stood near. Norbert tore open the door.
“Quick, help!” cried he. “I have killed my father.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME.
The account that the Duke of Champdoce had given of M. de Puymandour’s
mad longing for rank and title was true, and afforded a melancholy
instance of that peculiar kind of foolish vanity. He was a much happier
man in his younger days, when he was known simply as Palouzet, which was
his father’s name, whose only wish for distinction was to be looked upon
as an honest man. In those days he was much looked up to and respected,
as a man who had possessed brains enough to amass a very large fortune
by strictly honest means. All this vanished, however, when the unhappy
idea occurred to him to affix the title of Count to the name of an
estate that he had recently purchased.
From that moment, all his tribulations in life may have been said to
have commenced. The nobility laughed at his assumption of hereditary
rank, while the middle classes frowned at his pretensions to be superior
to them, so that he passed the existence of a shuttlecock, continually
suspended in the air, and struck at and dismissed from either side.
It may, therefore, be easily imagined how excessively anxious he was to
bring about the marriage between his daughter Marie and the son of that
mighty nobleman, the Duke of Champdoce. He had offered to sacrifice
one-third of his fortune for the honor of forming this connection, and
would have given up the whole of it, could he but have seen a child in
whose veins ran the united blood of Palouzet and the Champdoce seated
upon his knee. A marriage of this kind would have given him a real
position; for to have a Champdoce for a son-in-law would compel all
scoffers to bridle their tongues.
The day after he had received a favorable reply from the Duke, M.
de Puymandour thought that it was time to inform his daughter of his
intentions. He never thought that she would make any opposition, and, of
course, supposed that she would be as delighted as he was at the honor
that awaited her. He was seated in a magnificently furnished room which
he called his library when he arrived at this conclusion, and ringing
the bell, ordered the servant to inquire of mademoiselle’s maid if her
mistress could grant him an interview. He gave this curious message,
which did not appear to surprise the servant in the least, with an
air of the utmost importance. The communication between the father and
daughter was always carried on upon this basis; and scoffers wickedly
asserted that M. de Puymandour had modelled it upon a book of etiquette,
for the guidance of her household, written by a venerable arch-duchess.
Shortly after the man had departed on his errand, a little tap came to
the door.
“Come in,” exclaimed M. de Puymandour.
And Mademoiselle Marie ran in and gave her father a kiss upon each
cheek. He frowned slightly, and extricated himself from her embrace.
“I thought it better to come to you, my dear father,” said she, “than to
give you the trouble of coming all the way to me.”
“You always forget that there are certain forms and ceremonies necessary
for a young lady of your position.”
Marie gave a little gentle smile, for she was no stranger to her
father’s absurd whims; but she never thwarted them, for she was very
fond of him. She was a very charming young lady, and in the description
that the Duke had given of her to his son, he had not flattered her
at all. Though she differed greatly in appearance from Mademoiselle de
Laurebourg, Marie’s beauty was perfect in a style of its own. She was
tall and well proportioned, and had all that easy grace of movement,
characteristic of women of Southern parentage. Her large soft dark eyes
offered a vivid contrast to her creamy complexion; her hair, in utter
disregard of the fashionable mode of dressing, was loosely knotted at
the back of her head. Her nature was soft and affectionate, capable of
the deepest devotion, while she had the most equable temper that can be
imagined.
“Come, my dear papa,” said she; “do not scold me any more. You know
that the Marchioness of Arlanges has promised to teach me how to behave
myself according to all the rules of fashionable society next winter,
and I declare to you that I will so practise them up in secret, that you
will be astonished when you behold them.”
“How woman-like!” muttered her father. “She only scoffs at matters of
the most vital importance.”
He rose from his seat, and, placing his back to the fireplace, took up
an imposing position, one hand buried in his waistcoat, and the other
ready to gesticulate as occasion required.
“Oblige me with your deepest attention,” commenced he. “You were
eighteen years of age last month, and I have an important piece of
intelligence to convey to you. I have had an offer of marriage for you.”
Marie looked down, and endeavored to hide her confusion at these
tidings.
“Before coming to a conclusion upon a matter of such importance,”
continued he, “it was, of course, necessary for me to go into the
question most thoroughly. I spared no means of obtaining information,
and I am quite certain that the proposed connection would be conducive
to your future happiness. The suitor for your hand is but little older
than yourself; he is very handsome, very wealthy, and is a Marquis by
hereditary right.”
“Has he spoken to you then?” inquired Marie in tones of extreme
agitation.
“He! Whom do you mean by he?” asked M. de Puymandour; and as his
daughter did not reply, he repeated his question.
“Who? Why, George de Croisenois.”
“Pray, what have you to do with Croisenois? Who is he, pray? Not that
dandy with a mustache, that I have seen hanging about you this winter?”
“Yes,” faltered Marie; “that is he.”
“And why should you presume that he had asked me for your hand? Did he
tell you that he was going to do so?”
“Father, I declare----”
“What, the daughter of a Puymandour has listened to a declaration of
love unknown to her father? Ten thousand furies! Has he written to you?
Where are those letters?”
“My dear father--”
“Silence; have you those letters? Let me see them. Come, no delay; I
will have those bits of paper, if I turn the whole house upside down.”
With a sigh Marie gave the much prized missives to her father; there
were four only, fastened together with a morsel of blue ribbon.
He took one out at random, and read it aloud, with a running fire of
oaths and invectives as a commentary upon its contents.
“MADEMOISELLE,--
“Though there is nothing upon earth that I dread so much as your anger,
I dare, in spite of your commands to the contrary, to write to you
once again. I have learned that you are about to quit Paris for several
months. I am twenty-four years of age. I have neither father nor mother,
and am entirely my own master. I belong to an ancient and honorable
family. My fortune is a large one, and my love for you is of the most
honorable and devoted kind. My uncle, M. de Saumeuse, knows your father
well; and will convey my proposals to him upon his return from Italy, in
about two or three weeks’ time. Once more intreating you to forgive me,
“I remain,
“Yours respectfully,
“GEORGE DE CROISENOIS.”
“Very pretty indeed,” said M. de Puymandour, as he replaced the letter
in its envelope. “This is sufficient, and I need not read the others;
but pray, what answer did you give?”
“That I must refer him to you, my dear father.”
“Indeed, on my word, you do me too much honor; and did you really think
that I would listen to such proposals? Perhaps you love him?”
She turned her lovely face towards her father, with the great tears
rolling down her cheeks for her sole reply.
This mute confession, for as such he regarded it, put the finishing
touch to M. de Puymandour’s exasperation.
“You absolutely love him, and have the impudence to tell me so?”
Marie glanced at her father, and answered,--
“The Marquis de Croisenois is of good family.”
“Pooh! you know nothing about it. Why, the first Croisenois was one of
Richelieu’s minions, and Louis XIII. conferred the title for some shady
piece of business which he carried out for him. Has this fine Marquis
any means of livelihood?”
“Certainly; about sixty thousand francs a year.”
“Humbug! What did he mean by addressing you secretly? Only to compromise
your name, and so to secure your fortune, and perhaps to break off your
marriage with another.”
“But why suppose this?”
“I suppose nothing; I am merely going upon facts. What does a man of
honor do when he falls in love?”
“My dear father--”
“He goes to his solicitor, acquaints him with his intentions, and
explains what his means are; the solicitor goes to the family solicitor
of the young lady, and when these men of the law have found out that all
is satisfactory, then love is permitted to make his appearance upon the
scene. And now you may as well attend to me. Forget De Croisenois
as soon as you can, for I have chosen a husband for you, and, having
pledged my word of honor, I will abide by it. On Sunday the eligible
suitor will be introduced to you, and on Monday we will visit the
Bishop, asking him to be good enough to perform the ceremony. On Tuesday
you will show yourself in public with him, in order to announce the
betrothal. Wednesday the marriage contract will be read. Thursday a
grand dinner-party. Friday an exhibition of the marriage presents;
Saturday a day of rest; Sunday the publication of the banns, and at the
end of the following week the marriage will take place.”
Mademoiselle Marie listened to her father’s determination with intense
horror.
“For pity’s sake, my dear father, be serious,” cried she.
M. de Puymandour paid no attention to her entreaty, but added, as an
afterthought:
“Perhaps you would wish to know the name of the gentleman I have
selected as a husband for you. He is the Marquis Norbert, the son and
heir of the Duke de Champdoce.”
Marie turned deadly pale.
“But I do not know him; I have never seen him,” faltered she.
“_I_ know him, and that is quite sufficient. I have often told you that
you should be a duchess, and I mean to keep my word.”
Marie’s affection for George de Croisenois was much deeper than she
had told her father, much deeper even than she had dared to confess to
herself, and she resented this disposal of her with more obstinacy than
any one knowing her gentle nature would have supposed her capable of;
but M. de Puymandour was not the man to give up for an instant the
object which he had sworn to attain. He never gave his daughter an
instant’s peace, he argued, insisted, and bullied until, after three
days’ contest, Marie gave her assent with a flood of tears. The word had
scarcely passed her lips, before her father, without even thanking her
for her terrible sacrifice, exclaimed in a voice of triumph:
“I must take these tidings to Champdoce without a moment’s delay.”
He started at once, and as he passed through the doorway said:
“Good-by, my little duchess, good-by.”
He was most desirous of seeing the Duke, for, on taking leave of him,
the old nobleman had said, “You shall hear from me to-morrow;” but no
letter had as yet reached him from Champdoce. This delay however, had
suited M. de Puymandour’s plans, for it had enabled him to wring the
consent from his daughter; but now that this had been done, he began to
feel very anxious, and to fear that there might be some unforeseen hitch
in the affair.
When he reached Bevron, he saw Daumon talking earnestly with Francoise,
the daughter of the Widow Rouleau. M. de Puymandour bowed graciously,
and stopped to talk with the man, for he was just now seeking for
popularity, as he was a candidate, and the elections would shortly take
place; and, besides, he never failed to talk to persons who exercised
any degree of influence, and he knew that Daumon was a most useful man
in electioneering.
“Good morning, Counsellor,” said he gayly. “What is the news to-day?”
Daumon bowed profoundly.
“Bad news, Count,” answered he. “I hear that the Duke de Champdoce is
seriously indisposed.”
“The Duke ill--impossible!”
“This girl has just given me the information. Tell us all about it,
Francoise.”
“I heard to-day at the Chateau that the doctors had quite given him
over.”
“But what is the matter with him?”
“I did not hear.”
M. de Puymandour stood perfectly aghast.
“It is always the way in this world,” Daumon philosophically said. “In
the midst of life we are in death!”
“Good morning, Counsellor,” said De Puymandour; “I must try and find out
something more about this.”
Breathless, and with his mind filled with anxiety, he hurried on.
All the servants and laborers on the Champdoce estate were gathered
together in a group, talking eagerly to each other, and as soon as M. de
Puymandour appeared, one of the servants, disengaging himself from his
fellows, came towards him. This was the Duke’s old, trustworthy servant.
“Well?” exclaimed M. de Puymandour.
“Oh, sir,” cried the old man, “this is too horrible; my poor master will
certainly die.”
“But I do not know what is the matter with him; no one has told me
anything, in fact.”
“It was terribly sudden,” answered the man. “It was about this time
the day before yesterday that the Duke was alone with M. Norbert in the
dining-room. All at once we heard a great outcry. We ran in and saw
my poor master lying senseless on the ground, his face purple and
distorted.”
“He must have had a fit of apoplexy.”
“Not exactly; the doctor called it a rush of blood to the brain; at
least, I think that is what he said, and he added that the reason he
did not die on the spot was because in falling he had cut open his head
against the oaken sideboard, and the wound bled profusely. We carried
him up to his bed; he showed no signs of life, and now----”
“Well, how is he now?”
“No one dare give an opinion; my poor master is quite unconscious, and
should he recover--and I do not think for a moment that he will--the
doctor says his mind will have entirely gone.”
“Horrible! Too horrible! And a man of such intellectual power, too. I
shall not ask you to let me look at him, for I could do no good, and the
sight would upset me. But can I not see M. Norbert?”
“Pray, do not attempt to do so, sir.”
“I was his father’s intimate friend, and if the condolences of such a
one could assuage the affliction under which--”
“Impossible!” answered the man in a quick, eager manner. “M. Norbert was
with his father at the time of his seizure, and has given strict orders
that he is not to be disturbed on any account; but I must go to him at
once, for we are expecting the physicians who are coming from Poitiers.”
“Very well, then I will go now, but to-night I will send up one of my
people for news.”
With these words, M. de Puymandour walked slowly away, absorbed in
thought. The manner and expression of the servant had struck him as
extremely strange. He noted the fact that Norbert was alone with his
father at the time of the seizure, and, recalling to mind the opposition
he had met with from his daughter, he began to imagine that the Duke had
found his son rebellious, and that the apoplectic fit had been brought
on by a sudden access of passion. Interest and ambition working together
brought him singularly near the truth.
“If the Duke dies, or becomes a maniac,” thought he to himself, “the end
as regards us will be the same for Norbert will break off the match to a
certainty.”
He felt that such a proceeding would cause him to be more jeered at and
ridiculed than ever, and that the only path of escape left open to him
was to marry his daughter to the Marquis de Croisenois, which was a
most desirable alliance, in spite of all he had said against it. A
voice close to his ear aroused him from his reflections: it was that of
Daumon, who had come up unperceived.
“Was the girl’s information correct, Count?” asked he. “How are the Duke
and M. Norbert, for of course you have seen them both?”
“M. Norbert is too much agitated by the sad event to see any one.”
“Of course that was to be looked for,” returned the wily Counsellor;
“for the seizure was terribly sudden.”
M. de Puymandour was too much occupied with his own thoughts to spare
much pity for Norbert. He would have given a great deal to have known
what the young man was doing, and especially what he was thinking of at
the present moment.
The poor lad was standing by the bedside of his dying father, watching
eagerly for some indication, however slight, of returning life or
reason. The hours of horror and self-reproach had entirely changed
his feelings and ideas; for it was only at the instant when he saw his
father raise the poisoned wine to his lips that he saw his crime in all
its hideous enormity. His soul rose up in rebellion against his crime,
and the words, “Parricide! murderer!” seemed to ring in his ears like a
trumpet call. When his father fell to the ground, his instinct made him
shout for aid; but an instant afterwards terror took possession of
him, and, rushing from the house, he sought the open country, as though
striving to escape from himself.
Jean, the old servant, who had noticed Norbert’s strange look, was
seized with a terrible fear. Trusted as he was by both the Duke and
his son, he had many means of knowing all that was going on in the
household, and was no stranger to the differences that had arisen
recently between father and son. He knew how violent the tempers of both
were, and he also knew that some woman was urging on Norbert to a course
of open rebellion. He had seen the cruel blow dealt by the Duke, and had
wondered greatly when he saw Norbert return to the Chateau. Why had he
done so? He had been in the courtyard when Norbert threw the glass from
the window. Putting all these circumstances together, as soon as the
inanimate body of the Duke had been laid upon a bed, Jean went into the
dining-room, feeling sure that he should make some discovery which would
confirm his suspicions. The bottle from which the Duke had filled his
glass stood half emptied upon the table. With the greatest care, he
poured a few drops of its contents into the hollow of his hand, and
tasted it with the utmost caution. The wine still retained its customary
taste and scent. Not trusting, however, to this, Jean, after making
sure that he was not observed, carried the bottle to his own room, and
concealed it. After taking this precaution, he ordered one of the other
servants to remain by the side of the Duke until the arrival of the
doctor, and then went in search of Norbert.
For two hours his efforts were fruitless. Giving up his search in
despair, he turned once more to regain the Chateau, and, taking the path
through the wood, suddenly perceived a human form stretched on the turf
beneath a tree. He moved cautiously towards the figure, and at once
recognized Norbert. The faithful servant bent over his young master,
and shook him by the arm to arouse him from his state of stupor. At the
first touch, Norbert started to his feet with a shriek of terror. With
mingled fear and pity, Jean noticed the look that shone in the young
man’s eyes, more like that of some hunted animal than a human being.
“Do not be alarmed, M. Norbert; it is only I,” said he.
“And what do you want?”
“I came to look for you, and to entreat you to come back with me to
Champdoce.”
“Back to Champdoce?” repeated Norbert hoarsely; “no, never!”
“You must, Master Norbert; for your absence now would cause a terrible
scandal. Your place at this critical time is by the bedside of your
father.”
“Never! never!” repeated the poor boy; but he yielded passively when
Jean passed his arm through his, and led him away towards the Chateau.
Supported thus by the old man’s arm, he crossed the courtyard, and
ascended the staircase; but at his father’s door he withdrew his hand,
and struggled to get away.
“I will not; no, no, I cannot,” gasped he.
“You must and you shall,” returned the old man firmly. “Whatever your
feelings may be, no stain shall rest on the family honor.”
These words roused Norbert; he stepped across the room, and dropped on
his knees by the bed, placing his forehead upon his father’s icy hand.
He burst into a passion of tears and sobs, and the simple peasants, who
surrounded the couch of the insensible nobleman, breathed a sigh; for,
from his pallid face and burning eyes, they believed he must be mad.
They were not far out in this surmise; but the tears relieved his
over-wrought brain, and with this relief came the sense of intense
suffering. When the physician arrived, he was able to appear before him
merely as a deeply anxious son.
“There is no hope for the Duke, I regret to say,” said the medical man,
who felt that it was useless to keep Norbert in suspense. “There is a
feeble chance of saving his life; but even should we succeed in doing
so, his intellect will be irretrievably gone. This is a sad truth, but I
feel it my duty to inform you of it. I will come again to-morrow.”
As the doctor left the room, Norbert threw himself into a chair, and
clasped his hands round his head, which throbbed until it seemed as if
it would burst. For more than half an hour he sat motionless, and then
started to his feet with a stifled cry; for he remembered the bottle
into which he had poured the poison, and which had been left on the
table. Had any one drunk from it? What had become of it? The agony of
his mind gave him the necessary strength to descend to the dining-room;
but the bottle was not on the table, nor was it in its customary place
in the cupboard. The unhappy boy was looking for it everywhere, when the
door silently opened, and Jean appeared on the threshold. The expression
upon his young master’s face so startled the faithful old man that he
nearly dropped the lighted candle that he carried in his hand.
“Why are you here, Master Norbert?” asked he in a voice that trembled
with emotion.
“I was looking for----I wanted to find----,” faltered Norbert.
Jean’s suspicions at once became certainties; he walked up to his young
master, and whispered in his ear,--
“You are looking for the Duke’s bottle of wine, are you not? It is quite
safe; for I have taken it to my room. To-morrow the contents shall be
emptied away, and there will be no proof existing.”
Jean spoke in such a low voice that Norbert guessed rather than heard
his words, and yet it seemed that the accusing whisper resounded like
thunder through the Chateau, filling the old house from cellar to
roof-tree.
“Be quiet,” said he, laying his hand on the old man’s lips, and gazing
around him with wild and affrighted glances.
A more complete confession could hardly have been made.
“Fear nothing, Master Norbert,” answered Jean; “we are quite alone. I
know that there are words which should never be even breathed; and if I
have ventured to speak, it was because it was my duty to warn you, and
to inculcate on you the necessity of caution.”
Norbert was filled with horror when he saw that the old man believed him
to be really guilty.
“Jean,” cried he, “you are wrong in your suspicions. I tell you that my
father never tasted that wine. I snatched the glass from him before
his lips had touched it. I flung it out into the courtyard, and, if you
search, you will find its scattered fragments there still.”
“I am not sitting in judgment upon you; what you tell me to believe I am
ready to accept.”
“Ah!” cried Norbert passionately, “he does not believe me; he thinks
that I am guilty. I swear to you by all that I hold most sacred in this
world, that I am innocent of this deed.”
The attached servant shook his head with a melancholy air.
“Of course, of course,” said he; “but it is for us two to save the honor
of the house of Champdoce. Should it happen that any suspicions should
be aroused, put all the guilt upon my shoulders. I will defend myself in
a manner which will only fix the crime more firmly upon me. I will not
throw away the bottle, but will retain it in my room, so that it may be
found there, and its contents will be a damnatory evidence against me.
What matters it how a poor man like me is sent out of the world? but
with you it is different. You--”
Norbert wrung his hands in abject despair; the sublime devotion of the
old servant showed how firmly Jean believed in his criminality. He was
about to assert his innocence further, when the loud sound of a closing
door was heard above stairs.
“Hush!” said the old man; “some one approaches; we must not be seen
whispering together like two plotters, for their suspicions would be
certainly awakened; and I fear that my face or your eyes will reveal the
secret. Quick, go upstairs, and endeavor, as soon as possible, to resume
your calmness. I beg you not to compromise the honor of your name, which
is in deadly peril.”
Without another word Norbert obeyed. His father was alone, and only
the man to whom Jean had delegated the task of watcher remained by his
bedside. At the sight of his young master he rose.
“The prescription which the doctor ordered to be made up has arrived,”
said he. “I have administered a dose to the Duke, and it seems to me
that the result has been favorable.”
Norbert drew up a heavy arm-chair to the foot of the bed, and took his
seat upon it. From this position he could see his father’s face. His
brain was dazed, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he could
recall the chain of events which had drawn him towards the abyss into
which he had so nearly been precipitated.
The veil had been taken from his eyes, and he now saw with perfect
clearness and seemed again to hear his father’s voice as it roughly
warned him that the woman he loved was a mere plotter, who cared not
for him, but was scheming for his fortune and his name. Then he had been
furiously indignant and looked upon the words as almost blasphemous, but
now he saw that his father was right. How was it that he had not before
seen that Diana was flinging herself in his way, and that all her
affected openness and simplicity were merely the perfections of art, and
that step by step she had led him to the brink of the terrible precipice
which yawned before him? The whole hideous part as played by Daumon was
no longer a sealed book to him. She whom he had looked on as a pure and
innocent girl was merely the accomplice of a scheming villain like the
Counsellor, and after exciting his hatred and anger almost to madness,
had placed the poison which was to take his father’s life in his hands.
A cold shiver ran through him as he realized this, and all his ardent
love for Diana de Laurebourg was changed into a feeling of loathing and
disgust.
At last the first pale rays of dawn broke through the casement, but
before that Norbert, worn out with conflicting emotions, had fallen into
a restless and uneasy sleep, and when he awoke the doctor was standing
by the bedside of the sick man. At the first sound made by Norbert as
he stirred in the chair, the doctor came towards him, saying, “We shall
preserve his life.”
This prognostication was complete, for that very evening the Duke de
Champdoce was able to move in his bed, the next day he uttered some
incoherent words, and later on asked for food; but the will of iron had
passed away, the features had lost their expression of determination,
and the eye the glitter of pride and power. Never again would the Duke
be able to exert that keen, stern intellect which had enabled him to
influence all those around him; and in this terrible state of imbecility
the haughty nobleman would ever remain, fed and looked after like a
child, with no thought beyond his desires and his warm fire, and without
a care for anything that was going on in the world around him.
After the enormity of his crime had been brought before him, the
greatness of the punishment that he must endure now came across
Norbert’s mind. It was only now that Jean had ventured to tell him of M.
de Puymandour’s visit; and such a change had taken place in Norbert that
he looked upon this visit as a special arrangement made by Providence.
“My father’s will shall be carried out in every respect,” said he to
himself, and without an hour’s delay he wrote to M. de Puymandour,
begging him to call, and hoping that the grief which had fallen upon him
had in no way altered the plan which had already been arranged.
CHAPTER X.
A THUNDERBOLT.
As the miner, who sets fire to the fuse and seeks shelter from the
coming explosion, so did Diana de Laurebourg return to her father’s
house after her visit to Daumon. During dinner it was impossible for
her to utter a word, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she
succeeded in swallowing a mouthful. Fortunately neither her father
nor mother took any notice of her. They had that day received a letter
announcing the news that their son, for whose future prosperity they
had sacrificed Diana, was lying dangerously ill in Paris, where he was
living in great style. They were in terrible affliction, and spoke of
starting at once, so as to be with him. They therefore expressed no
surprise when, on leaving the table, Diana pleaded a severe headache as
an excuse for retiring to her own room. When once she was alone, having
dismissed her maid, she heaved a deep sigh of relief. She never thought
of retiring to bed, but throwing open her window, leaned out with her
elbow on the window-sill.
It seemed to her that Norbert would certainly make some effort to
see her, or at any rate by some means to let her know whether he had
succeeded or failed.
“But I must be patient,” murmured she, “for I can’t hear anything until
the afternoon of to-morrow.”
In spite, however, of her resolutions, patience fled from her mind, and
as soon as the servants had begun moving about, she went out into the
garden and took up a position which commanded a view of the highroad,
but no one appeared. The bell rang for breakfast. Again she had to seat
herself at table with her parents, and the terrible penance of the
past evening had to be repeated. At three o’clock she could endure the
suspense no longer, and making her escape from the Chateau, she went
over to Daumon, who, she felt, must have obtained some intelligence.
Even if she found that he knew nothing, it would be a relief to speak to
him and to ask him when he thought that this terrible delay would come
to an end. But she got no comfort at Daumon’s, for he had passed as
miserable a night as herself, and was nearly dead with affright. He had
remained in his office all the morning, starting at the slightest sound,
and though he was as anxious as Diana for information, he had only gone
out a little before her arrival. He met Mademoiselle Laurebourg on his
return at the door of his cottage, and taking her inside, he informed
her that at a late hour the night before the doctor had been sent for
to Champdoce to attend the Duke, who was supposed to be dying. Then he
reproved her bitterly for her imprudence in visiting him.
“Do you wish,” said he, “to show all Bevron that you and I are Norbert’s
accomplices?”
“What do you mean?” asked she.
“I mean that if the Duke does not die, we are lost. When I say we, I
mean myself, for you, as the daughter of a noble family, will be sure to
escape scot free, and I shall be left to pay for all.”
“You said that the effect was immediate.”
“I did say so, and I thought so too. Ah, if I had but reflected a
little! You will however see that I do not intend to give in without
a fight. I will defend myself by accusing you. I am an honest man, and
have been your dupe. You have thought to make me a mere tool; your fine
Norbert is a fool, but he will pay for his doings with his head all the
same.”
At these gross insults Mademoiselle de Laurebourg rose to her feet and
attempted to speak, but he cut her short.
“I can’t stop to pick and choose my words, for I feel at the present
moment as if the axe of the guillotine were suspended over my head. Now
just oblige me by getting out of this, and never show your face here
again.”
“As you like. I will communicate with Champdoce.”
“You shall not,” exclaimed Daumon with a gesture of menace. “You might
as well go and ask how the Duke enjoyed the taste of the poison.”
His words, however, did not deter Diana, for any risk seemed preferable
to her than the present state of suspense.
With a glance of contempt at the Counsellor she left the cottage,
determined to act as she thought fit.
After Diana’s departure, Daumon felt too that he must learn how matters
were going on, and going over to the Widow Rouleau’s, he despatched her
daughter Francoise to the Chateau de Champdoce, under the pretext that
he wanted some money which he had lent to one of the Duke’s servants.
He had instructed the girl so cunningly that she had no suspicion of
the real end and object of her mission, and set out on it with the most
implicit confidence. He had not long to wait for her return, for in
about half an hour his messenger returned.
“Well,” said he anxiously, “has the scamp sent my money?”
“No, sir, I am sorry to say that I could not even get to speak to him.”
“How was that? Was he not at Champdoce?”
“I cannot even tell you that. Ever since the Duke has been ill, the
great gates of the Chateau have been bolted, for it seems that the poor
old gentleman is at his last gasp.”
“Did you not hear what was the matter with him?”
“No, sir, the little I have told you I got from a stable boy, who spoke
to me through a grating in the gate, but before he could say ten words
Jean came up and sent him off.”
“Do you mean Jean, the Duke’s confidential man?”
“Just so,” returned the girl, “and very angry he was. He abused the lad
and told him to be off to the stables, and then asked, ‘Well, my girl,
and pray what do you want?’ I told him that I had come with a message
to the man Mechenit; but before I could say any more he broke in with,
‘Well, he isn’t here, you can call again in a month.’”
“You silly little fool, was that all you said?”
“Not quite, for I said that I must see Mechenit. Then, looking at me
very suspiciously, he said, ‘And who sent you here, you little spy?’”
The Counsellor started.
“Indeed! and what did you say in return?” asked he.
“Why, of course I said that you had sent me.”
“Yes, yes, that was right.”
“And then Jean rubbed his hand over his chin, and looking at me very
curiously, said sternly,--
“‘So you have come from the Counsellor, have you? Ah, I see it all, and
so shall he one of these days.’”
At these words Daumon felt his knees give way under him; but all further
questioning was stopped by the appearance of M. de Puymandour on his way
to Champdoce. He therefore dismissed Francoise, and awaited the return
of this gentleman, from whom he hoped to gain the fullest information
regarding the Duke’s malady. The intelligence which he received calmed
him a little, and repenting of his treatment of Diana, he went and hung
about the gates of the Chateau de Laurebourg, until he was lucky enough
to catch sight of the girl in the garden, for her anxiety would not
permit her to remain in the house. He beckoned to her, and then said,--
“M. Norbert did not make the dose strong enough. The Duke is as strong
as a horse; but it is all right, for should he live, he will be an
idiot, and so our end is as much gained as if he had died.”
“But why does not Norbert write to me?” asked Diana seriously.
“Why, because he has some faint glimmerings of common sense. How do you
know that he may not have half a dozen spies about him? You must wait.”
Diana and the Counsellor waited for a week, but Norbert made no sign.
Diana suffered agonies, and the days seemed to pass with leaden feet.
Sunday came at last. The Marchioness de Laurebourg had attended early
Mass, and had given orders that her daughter should go to high Mass
under the escort of her maid. Diana was highly pleased with this
arrangement, for she hoped to have a chance of seeing Norbert, but she
was disappointed. The Mass had commenced when she entered, but the spot
occupied by the Duke and his son was vacant. She followed the service
in a purely mechanical manner, and at last noticed that the priest had
taken his place in the pulpit.
This was generally an exciting moment for the inhabitants of Bevron,
for it was immediately before the sermon that the banns of marriage
were published. The priest gazed blandly down upon the expectant crowd,
coughed slightly, used his handkerchief, and finally took from his
breviary a sheet of paper.
“I have,” said he, “to publish the banns of marriage between----” here
he made a little pause, and all the congregation were on the tenterhooks
of expectation; “between,” he continued, “Monsieur Louis Norbert,
Marquis de Champdoce, a minor, and only legitimate son of Guillaume
Caesar, Duke de Champdoce, and of his wife Isabella de Barnaville, now
deceased, but who both formerly resided in this parish, and Desiree
Anne Marie Palouzet, minor, and legitimate daughter of Rene Augustus
Palouzet, Count de Puymandour, and of Zoe Staplet, his wife, but now
deceased, also residents of this parish.”
This was the thunderbolt launched from the pulpit, which seemed to crush
Diana into the earth, and her heart almost ceased to beat.
“Let any one,” continued the priest, “who knows of any impediment to
this marriage, take warning that he or she must acquaint us with it,
under the penalty of excommunication. At the same time let him be warned
under the same penalty to bring forward nothing in malice or without
some foundation.”
An impediment! What irony lay veiled beneath that word. Mademoiselle
de Laurebourg knew of more than one. A wild desire filled her heart to
start from her seat and cry out,--
“It is impossible for this marriage to take place, for that Norbert was
her affianced husband in the sight of Heaven, and that he was bound to
her by the strongest of all links, that of crime.”
But by a gigantic effort she controlled herself, and remained
motionless, pallid as a spectre, but with a forced smile on her lips,
and with unparalleled audacity made a little sign to one of her female
friends, which plainly meant, “This is, indeed, something unexpected.”
All her mind was concentrated to preserve a calm and unmoved aspect. The
singing of the choir seemed to die away, the strong odor of the incense
almost overpowered her, and she felt that unless the service soon came
to an end, she must fall insensible from her chair. At last the priest
turned again to the congregation and droned out the _Ita missa est_,
and all was over. Diana grasped the arm of her maid and forced her away,
without saying a word. As she reached home, a servant ran up to her with
a face upon which agitation was strongly painted.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” gasped he, “such a frightful calamity. Your father
and mother are expecting you; it is really too terrible.”
Diana hastened to obey the summons. Her father and mother were seated
near each other, evidently in deep distress. She went towards them, and
the Marquis, drawing her to him, pressed her against his heart.
“Poor child! My dear daughter!” murmured he, “you are all that is left
to us now.”
Their son had died, and the sad news had been brought to the Chateau
while Diana was at Mass. By her brother’s death she had succeeded to a
princely fortune, and would now be one of the richest heiresses for many
a mile round. Had this event happened but a week before, her marriage to
Norbert would have met with no opposition from his father, and she would
never have plunged into this abyss of crime. It was more than the irony
of fate; it was the manifest punishment of an angry Divinity. She shed
no tear for her brother’s death. Her thoughts were all firmly fixed on
Norbert, and that fearful announcement made in the house of God rang
still in her ears. What could be the meaning of this sudden arrangement,
and why had the marriage been so suddenly decided on?
She felt that some mystery lay beneath it all, and vowed that she would
fathom it to its nethermost depths. What was it that had taken place
at Champdoce? Had the Duke, contrary to Daumon’s prognostications,
recovered? Had he discovered his son’ insidious attack upon his life,
and only pardoned it upon a blind compliance being given to his will?
She passed away the whole day in these vain suppositions, and tried to
think of every plan to stay the celebration of this union, for she had
not given up her hopes, nor did she yet despair of ultimate success. Her
new and unlooked-for fortune placed a fresh weapon at her disposal, and
she felt that the victory would yet be hers if she could but see Norbert
again, were it but for a single instant. Was she not certain of the
absolute power that she exercised over him, for had she not by a few
words induced him to enter upon the terrible path of crime? She must see
him, and that without a moment’s delay, for the danger was imminent. A
day now would be worth a year hereafter. She determined that, upon that
very night, she would visit Champdoce. A little after midnight, when the
inhabitants of the Chateau were wrapped in slumber, she crept on tiptoe
down the grand staircase, and made her exit by a side door. She had
arranged her plan as to how she would find Norbert, for he had often
described the interior arrangements of the Chateau to her. She knew that
his room was on the ground floor, with two windows looking on to the
courtyard. When, however, she reached the old Chateau, she hesitated.
Suppose that she should go to the wrong window. But she had gone too far
to recede, and determined that if any one else than Norbert should open
the window, she would turn and fly. She tapped at the window softly,
and then more loudly. She had made no mistake. Norbert threw open the
window, with the words,--
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Norbert; I, Diana.”
“What do you want?” asked Norbert in an agitated tone of voice. “What do
you want to do here?”
She looked at him anxiously and hardly recognized his face, so great was
the change that had come over it. It absolutely terrified her.
“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour?” asked she.
“Yes I am.”
“And yet you pretended to love me?”
“Yes, I loved you ardently, devotedly, with a love that drove me to
crime; but you had no love; you cared but for rank and fortune.”
Diana raised her hands to heaven in an agony of despair.
“Should I be here at this hour if what you say is true?” asked she
wildly. “My brother is dead, and I am as wealthy as you are, Norbert,
and yet I am here. You accuse me of being mercenary, and for what
reason? Was it because I refused to fly with you from my father’s house?
Oh, Norbert, it was but the happiness of our future life that I strove
to protect. It was----”
Her speech failed her, and her eyes dilated with horror, for the door
behind Norbert opened, and the Duke de Champdoce entered the room,
uttering a string of meaningless words, and laughing with that mirthless
laugh which is so sure a sign of idiotcy.
“Can you understand now,” exclaimed Norbert, pointing to his
father, “why the remembrance of my love for you has become a hateful
reminiscence? Do you dare to talk of happiness to me, when this spectre
of a meditated crime will ever rise between us?” and with a meaning
gesture he pointed to the open gate of the courtyard.
She turned; but before passing away, she cast a glance upon him full
of the deepest fury and jealousy. She could not forgive Norbert for his
share in the crime that she herself prompted,--for the crime which had
blighted all her hopes of happiness. Her farewell was a menace.
“Norbert,” she said, as she glided through the gate like a spectre of
the night, “I will have revenge, and that right soon.”
CHAPTER XI.
MARRIAGE BELLS; FUNERAL KNELLS.
Three days of hard work had completed all the arrangements necessary
for the marriage of Norbert and Mademoiselle de Puymandour. He had been
presented to the lady, and neither had received a favorable impression
of the other. At the very first glance each one felt that inevitable
repugnance which the lapse of years can never efface. While dreading the
anger of her obdurate father, Marie had at one time thought of confiding
the secret of her attachment to George de Croisenois to Norbert, for she
had the idea that if she told him that her heart was another’s, he
might withdraw his pretensions to her hand; but several times, when
the opportunity occurred, fear restrained her tongue, and she let the
propitious moment pass away. Had she done so, Norbert would at once have
eagerly grasped at a pretext for absolving himself from a promise which
he had made mentally of obeying in all things a father who now, alas!
had no means of enforcing his commands.
Each day he paid his visit to Puymandour as an accepted suitor, bearing
a large bouquet with him, which he regularly presented to his betrothed
upon his entrance into the drawing-room, which she accepted with a
painful flush rising to her cheek. The pair conversed upon indifferent
topics, while an aged female connection sat in the room to play
propriety. For many hours they would remain thus, the girl bending over
her fancy work, and he vainly striving to find topics of conversation,
and, consequently, saying hardly anything, in spite of Marie’s feeble
efforts to assist in the conversation. It was a slight relief when M.
de Puymandour proposed a walk; but this was a rare occurrence, for that
gentleman usually declared that he never had a moment’s leisure. Never
had he seemed so gay and busy since the approaching marriage of
his daughter had been the theme of every tongue. He took all the
preparations for the ceremony into his own hands, for he had determined
that everything should be conducted on a scale of unparalleled
magnificence. The Chateau was refurnished, and all the carriages
repainted and varnished, while the Champdoce and the Puymandour arms
were quartered together on their panels. This coat of arms was to be
seen everywhere--over the doors, on the walls, and engraved on the
silver, and it was believed that M. de Puymandour would have made no
objection to their being branded on his breast.
In the midst of all this turmoil and bustle Norbert and Marie grew
sadder and sadder as each day passed on. One day M. de Puymandour
heard so astounding a piece of intelligence that he hurried into the
drawing-room, where he knew that he should find the lovers (as he styled
them) together.
“Well, my children,” exclaimed he, “you have set such an excellent
example, that everybody seems disposed to copy you, and the mayor and
the priest will be kept to their work rather tightly this year.”
His daughter tried to put on an appearance of interest at this speech.
“Yes,” continued M. de Puymandour, “I have just heard of a marriage that
will come off almost directly after yours has been celebrated, and will
make a stir, I can assure you.”
“And whose is that, pray?”
“You are acquainted, I presume,” returned the father, addressing himself
to Norbert, “with the son of the Count de Mussidan?”
“What, the Viscount Octave?”
“The same.”
“He lives in Paris, does he not?”
“Yes, generally; but he has been staying at Mussidan, and in the short
space of a week has managed to lose his heart here; and to whom do you
think? Come, give a guess.”
“We cannot think who it can be, my dear father,” said Marie, “and we are
devoured with curiosity.”
“It is reported that the Viscount de Mussidan has proposed for the hand
of Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.”
“Why,” remarked Marie, “it is only three weeks since her brother died!”
Norbert flushed scarlet, and then turned a livid white; so great was his
agitation at hearing this news, that he nearly dropped the album which
he held in his hand.
“I like the Viscount,” continued M. de Puymandour, “while Mademoiselle
Diana is a charming girl. She is very handsome, and, I believe, has many
talents; and she is a good model for you to copy, Marie, as you are so
soon to become a duchess.”
When he got upon his favorite hobby, it was very difficult to check M.
de Puymandour. His daughter, therefore, waited until he had concluded,
and then left the room, under the pretext of giving an order to the
servants. The Count hardly noticed her absence, as he had still Norbert
at his mercy.
“Reverting again to Mademoiselle Diana,” said he: “she looks charming
in black, for women should look upon a death in the family as a most
fortunate occurrence; but I ought not to be praising her to you, who are
so well acquainted with her.”
“I?” exclaimed Norbert.
“Yes, you. I do not suppose that you intend to deny that you have had a
little flirtation with her?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Well, _I_ do then, my boy; I heard all about your making love to her.
Why, you are really blushing! What is up now?”
“I can assure you----”
De Puymandour burst into a loud laugh.
“I have heard a good deal of your little country walks, and all the
pretty things that you used to say to each other.”
In vain did Norbert deny the whole thing, for his intended father-in-law
would not believe him; and at last he got so annoyed that he refused to
remain and dine with the Count, alleging anxiety for his father as an
excuse. He returned home as soon as he possibly could, much agitated by
what he had heard; and as he was walking rapidly on, he heard his name
called by some one who was running after him: Norbert turned round, and
found himself face to face with Montlouis.
“I have been here a week,” said the young man. “I am here with my
patron, for I have one now. I am now with the Viscount de Mussidan, as
his private secretary. M. Octave is not the most agreeable man in the
world to get on with, as he gets into the most violent passions on very
trivial occasions; but he has a good heart, after all, and I am very
pleased with the position I have gained.”
“I am very glad to hear it, Montlouis, very much pleased indeed.”
“And you, Marquis, I hear, are to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour; I
could
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