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The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #38142 · 725,577 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

Author: Eugène Sue

Illustrator: Adrian Marcel


        
Release date: November 26, 2011 [eBook #38142]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS: ENVY AND INDOLENCE ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)






[Illustration: image of the book's cover]


THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS

ENVY AND INDOLENCE

[Illustration: frontispiece]




The Dagobert Edition

THE SEVEN
CARDINAL SINS

_In Five Volumes_

By
Eugene Sue

INDOLENCE--ENVY

Illustrated

[Illustration: colophon]

New York and Boston
H. M. Caldwell Company
Publishers

_Copyright, 1899_
BY FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.




FREDERICK BASTIEN




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


    ENVY.

                                              PAGE

"'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?'"         _Frontispiece_

"THE PROCESSION BEGAN"                          70

"HE BROUGHT HIS GUN TO HIS SHOULDER"           118

"SEIZING THE PROW OF THE LITTLE BOAT"          230

"SHE SAW HER HUSBAND"                          321


    INDOLENCE.

"'HERE IS THE LETTER; READ IT, MONSIEUR'"      292

"FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON"  370




ENVY.




CHAPTER I.


In the year 1828 any tourist who was on his way from Blois to the little
town of Pont Brillant to visit--as travellers seldom fail to do--the
famous castle of that name, the magnificent feudal abode of the
Marquises Pont Brillant, would have been obliged to pass a farmhouse
standing near the edge of the road, about two miles from the chateau.

If this lonely dwelling attracted the attention of the traveller, he
would have been almost certain to have regarded it with mingled
melancholy and disgust as one of the too numerous specimens of hideous
rural architecture in France, even when these habitations belong to
persons possessed of a competence. This establishment consisted of a
large barn and storehouse, with two long wings in the rear. The interior
of the sort of parallelogram thus formed served as a courtyard, and was
filled with piles of manure rotting in pools of stagnant water, for cow,
horse, and sheep stables all opened into this enclosure, where all sorts
of domestic animals, from poultry to hogs, were scratching and rooting.

One of the wings in the rear served as the abode of the family. It was a
story and a half high, and had no outlook save this loathsome courtyard,
with the dirty, worm-eaten doors of the cow-stable for a horizon. On
the other side of the structure, where no window pierced the wall, stood
a superb grove of century-old oaks, a couple of acres in extent, through
which flowed a beautiful stream that served as an outlet for several
distant lakes. But this grove, in spite of its beauty, had become
well-nigh a desert on account of the large amount of gravel that had
been deposited there, and the thick growth of rushes and thistles that
covered it; besides, the stream, for want of cleaning out and of a
sufficient fall, was becoming turbid and stagnant.

But if this same tourist had passed this same farmhouse one year
afterward, he would have been struck by the sudden metamorphosis that
the place had undergone, though it still belonged to the same owner. A
beautiful lawn, close and fine as velvet, and ornamented with big clumps
of rose-bushes, had taken the place of the dirty manure-strewn
courtyard. New doors had been cut on the other side of the horse and cow
stables; the old doors had been walled up, and the house itself, as well
as the big barn at the foot of the courtyard, had been whitewashed and
covered with a green trellis up which vigorous shoots of honeysuckle,
clematis, and woodbine were already climbing.

The wing in which the family lived had been surrounded with flowering
plants and shrubbery. A gravel path led up to the main doorway, which
was now shaded by a broad, rustic porch with a thatched roof in which
big clumps of houseleek and dwarf iris were growing. This rustic porch,
overhung with luxuriant vines, evidently served as the family
sitting-room. The window-frames, which were painted a dark green,
contrasted strikingly with the dazzling whiteness of the curtains and
the clearness of the window-panes, and on each sill was a small
jardiniere made of silver birch bark, and filled with freshly gathered
flowers. A light fence, half concealed by roses, lilacs, and acacias,
had been run from one wing of the establishment to the other, parallel
with the barn, thus enclosing this charming garden. The grove had
undergone a no less complete transformation. A rich carpet of velvety
turf, cut with winding walks of shining yellow sand, had superseded the
rushes and thistles; the formerly sluggish stream, turned into a new bed
and checked in the middle of its course by a pile of large, moss-covered
rocks three or four feet high, plunged from the height in a little
bubbling, dancing waterfall, then continued its clear and rapid course
on a level with its grassy borders.

A few beds of scarlet geraniums, whose brilliant hues contrasted vividly
with the rich, green turf, brightened this charming spot, in which the
few bright sunbeams that forced their way through dense foliage made a
bewitching play of light and shade, especially in the vista through
which one could see in the distance the forest of Pont Brillant,
dominated by its ancient castle.

The details of this complete transformation, effected in so short a time
by such simple and inexpensive means, seem puerile, perhaps, but are
really highly significant as the expression of one of the thousand
different phases of maternal love. Yes, a young woman sixteen years of
age, married when only a little over fifteen, exiled here in this
solitude, had thus metamorphosed it.

It was the desire to surround her expected child with bright and
beautiful objects here in this lonely spot where he was to live, that
had thus developed the young mother's taste, and each pleasing
innovation which she had effected in this gloomy, unattractive place,
had been planned merely with the purpose of providing a suitable setting
for this dear little eagerly expected child.

On the greensward in the carefully enclosed courtyard the child could
play as an infant. The porch would afford a healthful shelter in case it
rained or the sun was too hot. Later, when he outgrew his babyhood, he
could play and run about in the shady grove, under his mother's
watchful eye, and amuse himself by listening to the soft murmur of the
waterfall, or by watching it dance and sparkle along over the mossy
rocks. The limpid stream, kept at a uniform depth of barely two feet
now, held no dangers for the child, who, on the contrary, as soon as the
warm summer days came, could bathe, whenever the desire seized him, in
the crystal-clear water that filtered through a bed of fine gravel.

In this, as in many other details, as we shall see by and by, a sort of
inspiration seemed to have guided this young mother in her plan of
changing this untidy, ugly farmhouse into a cheerful and attractive
home.

At the date at which this story begins,--the last of the month of June,
1845,--the young mother had been residing in this farmhouse for
seventeen years. The shrubs in the courtyard had become trees; the
buildings were almost completely hidden under a luxuriant mantle of
flowering vines, while even in winter the walls and porch were thickly
covered with ivy; while in the adjoining grove the melancholy murmur of
the little cascade and the stream were still heard. The glass door of a
large room which served at the same time as a parlour for the mother and
a schoolroom for her son, now sixteen years of age, opened out upon this
grove. This room likewise served as a sort of museum--one might be
disposed to smile at this rather pretentious word, so we will say
instead a maternal shrine or reliquary, for a large but inexpensive
cabinet contained a host of articles which the fond mother had carefully
preserved as precious mementoes of different epochs in her son's life.

Everything bore a date, from the infant's rattle to the crown of oak
leaves which the youth had won at a competitive examination in the
neighbouring town of Pont Brillant, where the proud mother had sent her
son to test his powers. There, too, everything had its significance,
from the little broken toy gun to the emblem of white satin fringed with
gold, which neophytes wear so proudly at their first communion.

These relics were puerile, even ridiculous perhaps, and yet, when we
remember that all the incidents of her son's life with which these
articles were associated had been important, touching, or deeply solemn
events to this young mother living in complete solitude and idolising
her son, we can forgive this worship of the past and also understand the
feeling that had prompted her to place among these relics a small
porcelain lamp, by the subdued light of which the mother had watched
over her son during a long and dangerous illness from which his life had
been saved by a modest but clever physician of Pont Brillant.

It is almost needless to say, too, that the walls of the room were
ornamented with frames containing here a page of infantile, almost
unformed handwriting, there a couple of verses which the youth had
composed for his mother's birthday the year before. Besides there were
the inevitable heads of Andromache and of Niobe, upon which the
inexperienced crayon of the beginner usually bestows such drawn mouths
and squinting eyes, apparently gazing in a sort of sullen surprise at a
pretty water-colour representing a scene on the banks of the Loire;
while the lad's first books were no less carefully preserved by the
mother in a bookcase containing some admirably chosen works on history,
geography, travel, and literature. A piano, a music-rack, and a
drawing-table completed the modest furnishings of the room.

Late in the month of June, Marie Bastien--for that was the name of this
young mother--found herself in this room with her son. It was nearly
five o'clock in the afternoon, and the golden rays of the declining sun,
though obstructed to some extent by the slats of the Venetian blinds,
were, nevertheless, playing a lively game of hide-and-seek, now with the
dark woodwork, now with the big bouquets of fresh flowers in the china
vases on the mantel.

A dozen or more superb half-open roses in a tall glass vase diffused a
delightful perfume through the room, and brightened the table covered
with books and papers, on either side of which the mother and son were
busily writing.

Madame Bastien, though she was thirty-one years of age, did not look a
day over twenty, so radiant was her enchanting face with youthful, we
might almost say, virginal freshness, for the angelic beauty of this
young woman seemed worthy to inspire the words so often addressed to the
Virgin, "Hail, Mary, full of grace."

Madame Bastien wore a simple dress of pale blue and white striped
percaline; a broad pink ribbon encircled her slender, supple waist,
which a man could have easily spanned with his two hands. Her pretty
arms were bare, or rather only slightly veiled with long lace mitts
which reached above her dimpled elbows. Her luxuriant chestnut hair,
with frequent glints of gold entangled in its meshes, waved naturally
all over her shapely head. It was worn low over her ears, thus framing
the perfect oval of her face, the transparent whiteness of which was
charmingly set off by the delicate rose tint of her cheeks. Her large
eyes, of the deepest and tenderest blue, were fringed with long lashes,
a deep brown like her beautifully arched eyebrows, while the rich coral
of her lips, the brilliant whiteness of her teeth, and the firmness of
her perfect arms were convincing proofs of a naturally pure, rich blood,
preserved so by the regular habits of a quiet, chaste life, a life
concentrated in a single passion, maternal love.

Marie Bastien's physiognomy was singularly contradictory in expression,
for if the shape of the forehead and the contour of the eyebrows
indicated remarkable energy as well as uncommon strength of will
combined with an unusual amount of intelligence, the expression of the
eyes was one of ineffable kindness, and her smile full of sweetness and
gaiety,--gaiety, as two entrancing little dimples, created by the
frequency of her frank smile a little way from the velvety corners of
her lips, indicated beyond a doubt. In fact this young mother fully
equalled her son in joyous animation, and when the time for recreation
came, the younger of the two was not always the most boisterous and gay
and childish by any means, and certainly, seeing the two seated together
writing, one would have taken them for brother and sister instead of
mother and son.

Frederick Bastien strongly resembled his mother, though his beauty was
of a more pronounced and virile type. His skin was darker, and his hair
a deeper brown than his mother's, and his jet black eyebrows imparted a
wonderful charm to his large blue eyes, for Frederick had his mother's
eyes and expression, as well as her straight nose, kindly smile, white
teeth, and scarlet lips, upon which the down of puberty was already
visible.

Reared in the wholesome freedom and simplicity of rural life, Frederick,
whose stature considerably exceeded that of his mother, was a model of
health, youth, and grace, while one seldom saw a more intelligent,
resolute, affectionate, and cheery face.

It was easy to see that maternal pride had presided over the youth's
toilet; though his attire was of the simplest, most inexpensive kind,
yet the pretty cerise satin cravat was remarkably becoming to a person
of his complexion, his shirt front was dazzling in its whiteness, there
were large pearl buttons on his nankeen vest, and his hands, far from
resembling the frightful paws of the average schoolboy, with dirty nails
often bitten down to the quick, and grimy, ink-stained knuckles, were as
well cared for as those of his young mother, and like hers were adorned
with pink, beautifully kept nails of faultless colour. (Mothers of
sixteen-year-old sons will understand and appreciate these apparently
insignificant details.)

As we have already remarked, Frederick and his mother, seated opposite
each other at the same table, were working, or rather digging away hard,
as school-boys say, each having a volume of "The Vicar of Wakefield" to
the left of them, and in front of them a sheet of foolscap which was
already nearly filled.

"Pass me the dictionary, Frederick," said Madame Bastien, without
raising her eyes, but extending her pretty hand to her son.

"Oh, the dictionary," responded Frederick, in a tone of mocking
compassion, "the idea of being obliged to depend upon a dictionary!"

But he gave the book to his mother, not without kissing the pretty hand
extended for it, however.

Marie, still without taking her eyes from her book, smiled without
replying, then, placing her ivory penholder between her little teeth,
which made the penholder look almost yellow in comparison, began to turn
the leaves of the dictionary.

Profiting by this moment of inattention, Frederick rose from his chair,
and placing his two hands upon the table, leaned over to see now far his
mother had proceeded with her translation.

"Ah, ah, Frederick, you are trying to copy," said Marie, gaily, dropping
the dictionary and placing her hands on the paper as if to protect it
from her son's eyes. "I have caught you this time."

"No, nothing of the kind," replied Frederick, dropping into his chair
again. "I only wanted to see if you were as far along as I am."

"All I know is that I have finished," responded Madame Bastien, with a
triumphant air.

"What, already?" exclaimed Frederick, humbly.

As he spoke, the tall clock in the corner, after an ominous creaking and
groaning, began to strike five.

"Good, it is time for recess!" exclaimed Marie, joyfully. "Do you hear,
Frederick?"

And springing up, the young woman ran to her son.

"Give me ten minutes, and I will be done," pleaded Frederick, writing
for dear life; "just ten minutes!"

But with charming petulance the young mother placed a paper-weight on
the unfinished translation, slammed her son's books together, took his
pen out of his hand, and half led, half dragged him out into the grove.

It must be admitted that Frederick offered no very determined resistance
to his mother's despotic will, however.




CHAPTER II.


Five minutes afterward an exciting game of shuttlecock was going on
between Frederick and his mother.

It was a charming picture upon which the few rays of sunshine that
succeeded in making their way through the dense canopy of green shone,
for every movement and attitude of the participants was instinct with
agility and grace.

Marie, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her red lips wreathed with a
charming smile, the rose tint in her cheeks deepening, one shapely foot
extended, but with her supple form thrown well back from her slim waist
upward, met the shuttlecock with her racket, then sent it flying off in
an entirely different direction from what Frederick had anticipated; but
not in the least discomfited, the youth, throwing back the curling locks
of brown hair from his brow by a sudden toss of the head, with a quick,
lithe bound skilfully intercepted the winged messenger as it was about
to touch the earth, and sent it flying back to his mother, who
intercepted it in her turn, and with a no less adroit blow despatched it
swiftly through space again. When, after describing its parabola, it
made straight for Frederick's nose, whereupon the youth, in a violent
effort to interpose his racket between the rapidly descending
shuttlecock and his upturned face, lost his balance and fell headlong on
the thick turf, after which the laughter and oft repeated bursts of
hilarity on the part of the two players necessarily put an end to the
game.

After their mirth had partially subsided, the mother and son, with
crimson cheeks, and eyes still swimming with the tears their merriment
had evoked, walked to a rustic bench in front of the waterfall to rest.

"Goodness, how absurd it is to laugh in this fashion!" exclaimed
Frederick.

"You must admit that it does one good, though. It may be absurd to laugh
so, as you say, but it consoles one to feel that only happy people like
ourselves can ever give way to such mad fits of merriment."

"Yes, mother, you are right," said Frederick, resting his head on his
mother's shoulder, "we are happy. As I sit here in the shade, this
beautiful summer evening, with my head on your shoulder, gazing with
half-closed eyes through the golden sunlight at our pretty home, while
the soft murmur of the cascade fills the air, it seems to me it would be
delightful to remain here just as we are for a hundred years."

And Frederick settled his head still more comfortably on his mother's
shoulder, as if he would indeed like to spend an eternity there. The
young mother, taking care not to disturb Frederick, bent her head a
little to one side in order to lay her cheek upon his, and taking one of
his hands in hers, replied:

"It is true that this corner of the earth has always been a sort of
paradise for us, and but for the recollection of the month that you were
so ill, I think we should find it difficult to recollect a single
unhappy moment. Is that not so, Frederick?"

"You have always spoiled me so."

"M. Frederick doesn't know what he is talking about, evidently,"
responded Madame Bastien, with an affectation of grave displeasure.
"There is nothing more disagreeable, and above all more unhappy, than a
spoiled child. I should like to know what idle fancies and caprices I
have ever encouraged in you, monsieur. Mention one if you can."

"I should think I could. In the first place you never give me the time
to be bored, but take quite as much interest in my diversions and
pleasures as I do. I really don't know how you manage it, but time
passes so quickly in your company that I cannot believe that this is the
last of June, and when the first of January comes, I know I shall say
the same thing."

"Oh, you needn't try to get out of answering my question by flattering
me, monsieur. Just tell me when I ever spoiled you unduly, and if I am
not, on the contrary, very severe and exacting, especially in relation
to your hours of study?"

"Ah, you do well to boast of being exacting in that particular. Don't
you share my studies as well as my play, so study has always been as
amusing as recreation to me? Consequently, I maintain that if I am
happy, it is due to you. If I know anything, if I am of account, in
short, it is all due to you and solely to you. Have I ever left you?
Everything that is good in me, I owe to you; all that is bad, my
obstinacy, for example--"

"Yes, it is true that this dear little head has a will of its own," said
Madame Bastien, interrupting him and kissing him on the forehead. "I
don't know any one who has a stronger will than yours, but so long as
you will to be the tenderest and best of sons, as you have up to the
present time, why, I am not disposed to complain. Each day brings some
fresh proof of the kindness and generosity of your heart, and if I
needed any auxiliary to convince you, I should invoke the testimony of
the friend I see coming over there," she added, pointing out some one to
Frederick. "He knows you almost as well as I do, and you must admit that
his sincerity is beyond all question."

The newcomer to whom Madame Bastien had alluded, and who was now
advancing through the grove, was about forty years of age, a small,
delicate-looking man, very carelessly dressed. He was singularly ugly,
too, but his ugliness was of the clever, good-humoured type. His name
was Dufour; he practised medicine at Pont Brillant, and, by dint of
skill and unremitting attention, he had cured Frederick of a serious
illness the year before.

"How do you do, my dear Madame Bastien?" he said, cheerfully, as he
approached the pair. "How do you do, my boy?" he added, pressing
Frederick's hand cordially.

"Ah, doctor, you came just in time to get scolded," exclaimed Madame
Bastien, with affectionate gaiety.

"Scolded?"

"Certainly. Isn't it more than a fortnight since you came to see us?"

"Fie! fie!" cried M. Dufour, "you must be egotistical to demand a
doctor's visits with health as flourishing as yours."

"Fie!" retorted Madame Bastien, no less gaily, "and what right have you,
pray, to so disdain the gratitude of those you have saved as to deprive
them of the pleasure of saying to him often, very often,'Thank you, my
preserver, thank you'?"

"Yes, my mother is right, M. Dufour," added Frederick. "You think
because you have restored me to life that all is over between us. How
ungrateful you are!"

"If mother and son have both declared war upon me, there is nothing left
for me but to beat a retreat," exclaimed the doctor, drawing back a step
or two.

"Oh, well, we will not take an unfair advantage; but only upon one
condition, doctor. That is that you will dine with us."

"I left home with that very laudable intention," replied the doctor,
quite seriously this time, "but just as I was leaving Pont Brillant, a
woman stopped me and begged me to come at once to her son. I did so, but
unfortunately his malady is of such a serious character that I shall not
feel easy in mind if I do not see my patient again before seven
o'clock."

"Of course I can make no protest under circumstances like these, my dear
doctor," replied Madame Bastien, "and I am doubly grateful to you for
granting us a few moments."

"And I have been looking forward to such a delightful evening," remarked
the doctor. "It would have rounded out my day so well, for this morning
I had a most delightful surprise."

"So some unexpected piece of good fortune has befallen you, my dear
doctor. How glad I am!"

"Yes," replied the doctor; "for some time past I have been extremely
uneasy about my best friend, an inveterate traveller, who had undertaken
a dangerous journey through some of the least known portions of South
America. Having heard nothing from him for more than eight months, I was
beginning to feel very much alarmed, when this morning I received a
letter from him written in London, where he had stopped for a few days
on his return from Lima. He promises to come and spend some time with
me, so you can judge how delighted I am, my dear Madame Bastien. He is
like a brother to me, and not only has the best heart in the world, but
is one of the most interesting as well as the most gifted men I know.
What a pleasure it will be to have him all to myself!"

Here the doctor was interrupted by an elderly servant woman, who was
leading a poorly clad child of seven or eight years by the hand, and
who, from the threshold of the door where she was standing, called to
the youth:

"It is six o'clock, M. Frederick."

"I'll see you again presently, mother," said the lad, kissing his young
mother on the forehead.

Then, turning to the doctor, he added:

"I shall see you, too, doctor, before you go, shall I not?"

After which he hastily joined the child and old servant, and entered the
house in company with them.

"Where is he going?" asked the doctor.

"To give his lesson. Didn't you see his scholar?"

"What scholar?"

"That child is the son of a day labourer who lives too far from Pont
Brillant to be able to send his child to the village school, so
Frederick is teaching the little fellow to read. He gives him two
lessons a day, and I assure you that I am as well pleased with the
teacher as with the pupil, doctor, for Frederick displays in his
teaching a zeal, patience, and sweetness of disposition that delights
me."

"It is certainly a very nice thing for him to do."

"We are obliged to do good in these small ways, you see, doctor," said
Madame Bastien, with a rather sad smile. "You know with what rigid
parsimony my son and I are treated in regard to money matters. Still, I
should not complain. Thanks to this parsimony, Frederick devises all
sorts of expedients. Some of them are, I assure you, very touching, and
if I were not afraid of showing too much pride, I would tell you
something that occurred last week."

"Go on, my dear Madame Bastien; surely you are not going to try to play
the mock modest mother with me."

"No, I am not, so listen. Last Thursday Frederick and I walked over to
Brevan heath--"

"Where they are clearing up some land. I noticed that fact as I passed
there this morning."

"Yes, and you know that is pretty hard work, doctor."

"I should say that it was. Digging up roots and stumps that have been
there three or four centuries."

"Well, while I was walking about with Frederick, we saw a poor,
hungry-looking woman, with a little girl about ten years old, as pale
and emaciated-looking as her mother, working there on the heath."

"A woman and a child of that age! Why, such work was entirely beyond
their strength."

"You are right, doctor, and in spite of their courage, the poor
creatures were making little or no headway. It was almost as much as the
poor mother could do to lift the heavy spade, much less to force it into
the hard earth, and when the root of a sapling at which she must have
been digging a long time became partially uncovered, the woman and
child, now using the spade as a lever, now digging in the ground with
their hands, endeavoured to loosen the root, but in vain. Seeing how
utterly futile their efforts were, the poor woman made an almost
despairing movement, then threw herself down on the ground as if
overcome with grief and fatigue, and covering her head with her tattered
apron, she began to sob bitterly, while the child, kneeling beside her,
also wept pitifully."

"Ah! such poverty as that!"

"I looked at my son. There were tears in his eyes as well as my own. I
approached the poor woman and asked her how it happened that she was
trying to do work so much beyond her strength, and she told me that her
husband had contracted to clear up one quarter of the land, that he had
become ill from overwork a couple of days before, that some of the work
was still to be done, but that if the job was not finished by Saturday
night, he would lose the fruit of nearly a fortnight's labour, for it
was on these terms that her husband had undertaken the job, the work
being urgent."

"Such contracts are frequently made, and unless the conditions are
scrupulously complied with, the poor delinquents have to suffer, I am
sorry to say. So the poor woman was trying to take her husband's place,
I suppose."

"Yes, for it was a question of making or losing thirty-five francs upon
which they were counting to pay the yearly rental of their miserable
hovel, and purchase a little rye to live upon until the next harvest.
After a few minutes' reflection Frederick said to the poor woman: 'I
should think a good worker could finish the job in a couple of days, my
good woman.' 'Yes, monsieur, but my husband is too ill to do it,' she
replied. 'These poor people mustn't lose their thirty-five francs,
mother,' Frederick said to me. 'They must have the money and we cannot
afford to give it to them, so let me off from my studies on Friday and
Saturday and I will finish the work for them. The poor woman won't run
the risk of making herself ill. She can stay at home and nurse her
husband, and Sunday she will get her money.'"

"Frederick is a noble boy!" exclaimed M. Dufour.

"Saturday evening just at dusk the task was completed," Madame Bastien
continued. "Frederick performed the work with an ardour and cheerfulness
which showed that it was a real pleasure to him. I stayed with him all
during the two days. There was a big juniper-tree only a little way off,
and I sat in the shade of that and read or embroidered while my son
worked; and how he worked! such vigorous blows of the spade as he
struck, the very earth trembled under my feet."

"I can well believe it; though he is rather slim, he is remarkably
strong for one of his years."

"I took him water now and then, and to save time when lunch-time came,
our old Marguerite brought us out something to eat. How happy we were
eating out there on the heath under the shade of the juniper. Frederick
enjoyed it immensely. Of course there was nothing so very wonderful
about what he did, but what touched and pleased me was the promptness
with which he made the resolution, and the perseverance and tenacity of
will with which he carried it out."

"You are, indeed, the happiest of mothers," said the doctor with genuine
emotion, pressing Marie's hands warmly, "and you have reason to be
doubly happy, as this happiness is your own work."

"What else could you expect, doctor?" replied Madame Bastien, artlessly.
"One lives for one's son you know."

"You most assuredly do," said the doctor, warmly, "and it is well for
you that you do, as but for him--" but M. Dufour checked himself
suddenly as if he had been about to say something that would be better
left unsaid.

"You are right, my dear doctor, but now I think of it, didn't you say
something about a proposition you were going to make to Frederick and
me?"

"True, it is this: you know, or rather you do not know--for you hear
very little of the neighbourhood gossip--that the Chateau de Pont
Brillant has recently undergone a thorough renovation."

"I am so little _au courant_ with the gossip of the neighbourhood, as
you say, that this is the first intimation I have had of the fact. I
even thought that the chateau was closed."

"It will not be much longer, for the young marquis is coming down to
occupy it with his grandmother."

"This is the son of the M. de Pont Brillant who died about three years
ago, I suppose. He must be very young."

"About Frederick's age. His father and mother are both dead, but his
grandmother idolises him and she has gone to fabulous expense to
refurnish the chateau, where she will hereafter spend eight or nine
months of the year with her grandson. I was called to the castle a few
days ago to attend M. le chef of the conservatories--for these great
people do not say gardener; that would be entirely too common--and I was
dazzled by the luxury and splendour that pervaded the immense
establishment. There is a magnificent picture gallery, a palm house
through which one could drive in a carriage, and superb statues in the
gardens. Above all--but I want to have the pleasure of surprising you,
so I will only say that the place rivals any of the magnificent palaces
described in the Arabian Nights. I feel sure that you and Frederick
would enjoy seeing all the wonders of this fairy-land, and thanks to the
consideration which M. le chef of the gardens and conservatories accords
me, I can take you through the chateau to-morrow or the day after, but
no later, as the young marquis is expected the day following that. What
do you say to the proposition?"

"I accept it with pleasure, doctor. It will be a great treat to
Frederick, whose wonder will be the greater as he has no idea that any
such splendour exists in the world. So I thank you most heartily. We
shall have a delightful day."

"Very well. When shall we go?"

"To-morrow, if it suits you."

"Perfectly; I will make my round very early in the morning, so I can get
here by nine o'clock. It will take us only about half an hour to reach
the chateau, as there is a short cut through the forest."

"And after we leave the chateau we can breakfast in the woods upon some
fruit we will take with us," said Madame Bastien, gaily. "I will tell
Marguerite to make one of those cakes you like so much, my dear doctor."

"I consent on condition that the cake is a big one," replied the doctor,
laughing, "for however large it may be, Frederick and I are sure to make
a big hole in it."

"You need have no fears on that score. You shall both have plenty of
cake. But here comes Frederick; the lesson must be over. I will leave
you the pleasure of surprising him."

"Oh, mother, how delightful!" exclaimed the lad, when M. Dufour had
informed him of his project. "Thank you, thank you, my dear doctor, for
having planned this charming journey into fairy-land."

       *       *       *       *       *

The doctor was punctual the next day, and he and Madame Bastien and her
son started through the forest for the Chateau de Pont Brillant in all
the fresh glory of a superb summer morning.




CHAPTER III.


The approach to the castle was through a broad avenue nearly half a mile
long, bordered by a double row of gigantic elms probably four centuries
old. A broad esplanade, ornamented with enormous orange-trees in boxes,
and bordered with a massive stone balustrade extended across the entire
front of the chateau, afforded a superb view of the surrounding country,
and served as a court of honour for the castle, which was a _chef
d'oeuvre_ of the renaissance type of architecture, with big
cylindrical cone-roofed towers with highly decorated dormer windows, and
tall chimneys that strongly reminded the beholder of the grand yet
fairy-like ensemble of the famous Chateau de Chambord.

Frederick and his mother had never seen this imposing structure before
except at a distance, and on reaching the middle of the broad esplanade
they both paused, struck with admiration as they viewed all these
marvellous details and the rich carvings and traceries of stone, the
existence of which they had never even suspected before, while the good
doctor, as pleased as if the chateau had belonged to him, rubbed his
hands joyfully, as he complacently exclaimed:

"Oh, the outside is nothing; just wait until you have entered this
enchanted palace."

"Oh, mother," cried Frederick, "look at that colonnade at the base of
the main tower; how light and airy it is!"

"And those balconies," responded his mother, "one would almost think
they were made of lace! And the ornamentations on those window-caps,
how elaborate yet how delicate they are."

"I declare we sha'n't get away from the chateau before to-morrow if we
waste so much time admiring the walls," protested the doctor.

"M. Dufour is right. Come, Frederick," said Marie, taking her son's arm.

"And those buildings which look like another chateau connected with the
main buildings by circular wings, what are they?" asked the youth,
turning to the doctor.

"The stables and servants' quarters, my boy."

"Stables!" exclaimed Madame Bastien. "Impossible! You must be mistaken,
my dear doctor."

"What! you have no more confidence than that in your cicerone!"
exclaimed the doctor. "You will find that I am right, madame. There are
so many stalls in the stable that when the great-grandfather, or
great-great-grandfather of the present marquis lived here, he kept a
regiment of cavalry here, horses and men at his own expense, just for
the pleasure of seeing them go through their manoeuvres every morning
before breakfast on the esplanade. It seemed to give the worthy man an
appetite."

"It was a whim worthy of a great soldier like him," said Marie. "You
recollect with what interest we read the history of his Italian campaign
last winter, do you not, Frederick?"

"I should think I did remember," exclaimed Frederick, enthusiastically.
"Next to Charles XII., the Marechal de Pont Brillant is my favourite
hero."

Meanwhile the three visitors had crossed the esplanade, and Madame
Bastien, seeing M. Dufour turn to the right instead of keeping straight
on toward the front of the building, remarked:

"But, doctor, it seems to me that the heavily carved door in front of us
must lead into the inner courtyard."

"So it does; the grand personages enter by that door, but plebeians,
like ourselves, are lucky to get in the back way," replied the doctor,
laughing. "I should like to see M. le Suisse take the trouble to open
that armorial door for us."

"I ask your pardon for my absurd pretensions," said Madame Bastien,
gaily, while Frederick, making a sort of comical salute to the superb
entrance, said, laughingly:

"Ah, manorial doorway, we are only too well aware that you were not made
for us!"

M. Dufour, having rung at the servants' entrance and asked to see M.
Dutilleul, head superintendent of the gardens and conservatories, the
party was admitted into the courtyard. To reach M. Dutilleul's house, it
was necessary to cross one of the stable-yards. About thirty riding,
hunting, and carriage horses belonging to the young marquis had arrived
the evening before, and a number of English grooms and hostlers were
bustling in and out of the stables, some washing carriages, others
polishing bits and stirrups until they shone like burnished silver, all
under the vigilant eye of the chef of the stables, an elderly
Englishman, who, with a cigar between his lips, was presiding over this
work with truly British phlegm, cane in hand.

Suddenly, pointing to a massive gate that had just turned slowly upon
its hinges, the doctor exclaimed:

"See, there come some more horses! A whole regiment of them. One would
think we were living in the old marshal's time, Madame Bastien."

About twenty-five more horses, of different ages and sizes, all
concealed in blankets bearing the marquis's coat-of-arms, some ridden,
some led, began to file through the archway. Their dusty legs and
housings indicated that they had just made a long journey. A handsome
caleche, drawn by two spirited horses, ended the procession. A
handsomely dressed young man alighted from it, and gave some order in
English to one of the grooms, who listened, cap in hand.

"Do the horses that just came also belong to M. le marquis, my friend?"
the doctor inquired of a passing servant.

"Yes, they are M. le marquis's racers and brood mares."

"And the gentleman that just got out of the carriage?"

"Is M. Newman, M. le marquis's trainer."

As the three visitors walked on toward the conservatories, they passed a
long passage in the basement. This passage evidently led to the
kitchens, for eight or ten cooks and scullions were engaged in unpacking
several hogsheads filled with copper cooking utensils so prodigious in
size that they seemed to have been made for Gargantua himself. The
visitors also viewed, with ever increasing astonishment, the incredible
number of servants of every kind.

"Well, Madame Bastien, if any one should tell this young marquis that
you and I and a host of other people had only one or two servants to
wait on us, and yet were tolerably well served, he would probably laugh
in his face," remarked M. Dufour.

"So much pomp and luxury bewilders me," replied Marie. "Why, there is a
little town right here in the chateau, and think of all those horses!
You will not want for models after this, Frederick. You are so fond of
drawing horses, but up to this time you have had only our venerable
cart-horse for a model."

"Really, mother, I had no idea that any one save the king, perhaps, was
rich enough to have such an immense number of servants and horses,"
replied Frederick. "Great Heavens! what a host of people and animals to
be devoted to the service or pleasure of a single person!"

The words were uttered in an ironical tone, but Madame Bastien did not
notice the fact, being so deeply interested as well as amused by what
she saw going on around her; nor had she noticed that her son's features
had contracted slightly several times, as if under the influence of some
disagreeable impression.

The fact is, though Frederick was not a particularly close observer, he
had been struck with the lack of respect shown to his mother and the
doctor by this crowd of noisy and busy domestics; some had jostled the
visitors as they passed, others had rudely obstructed the way, others,
surprised at Marie Bastien's rare beauty, had stared at her with bold,
almost insulting curiosity, facts which the young mother in her
unconsciousness had entirely failed to notice.

Not so with her son, however, and seeing that his mother, the doctor,
and himself were thus treated simply because they had owed their
admission to a servant, and sought admission at the servants' entrance,
Frederick's admiration became tinged with a slight bitterness, the
bitterness that had caused his ironical comment on the number of persons
and horses devoted to the pleasure and service of a single individual.

The sight of the magnificent gardens through which they were obliged to
pass to reach the greenhouses soon made the lad forget his bitterness.
The gardeners were no less numerous than the subordinates in the various
other departments, and by inquiring for M. le chef of the gardens and
conservatories, the visitors finally ascertained that this important
personage was in the main conservatory.

This building, which was circular in form, was two hundred feet in
diameter, with a conical roof, the apex of which rose to a height of
forty feet. This gigantic conservatory, constructed of iron, with
remarkable boldness yet lightness of design, was filled with the most
superb exotics. Banana-trees of all sizes and kinds, from the dwarf musa
to the paradisiaca, rose to a height of thirty feet, with leaves many
of them two yards in length. Here the green fans of the date-palm
mingled with the tall stems of the sugar-cane and bamboos, while the
clear water in a huge marble basin in the centre of the conservatory
reflected all sorts of aquatic plants, among them great arums from
India, with enormous round leaves, tall cyperus with their waving
plumes, and the lotus of the Nile, with its immense azure flowers so
intoxicating in their fragrance. A marvellous variety of vegetation of
every shape and kind and colour had been collected here, from the pale
mottled green of the begonia, to the richest hues of the maranta, with
its wonderful leaves of green velvet underneath and purple satin on top;
tall ficus side by side with ferns so delicate that the lace-like
foliage seemed to be supported with thin strands of violet silk; here a
strelitzia, with a flower that looked like a bird with orange wings and
a lapis lazuli crest, vied in splendour with the astrapea, with its
enormous cerise pompon, flecked with gold, while in many places the
immense leaves of the banana-trees formed a natural arch which so
effectually concealed the glass roof of the rotunda from view that one
might have supposed oneself in a tropical forest.

Marie Bastien and Frederick interchanged exclamations of surprise and
admiration at every step.

"Ah, Frederick, how delightful it is to see and touch these banana-trees
and date-palms, we have read of so often in books of travel," cried
Marie.

"Mother, mother, here is the coffee-tree," exclaimed Frederick, in his
turn, "and there, that plant with such thick leaves, climbing up that
column, is the vanilla."

"Frederick, look at those immense latania leaves. It is easy to
understand now that in India five or six leaves are enough to cover a
cabin."

"And mother, look, there is the beautiful passion-vine Captain Cook
speaks of. I recognised it at once by the flowers; they look like little
openwork china baskets, and yet you and I used to accuse the poor
captain of inventing impossible flowers."

"M. de Pont Brillant must spend most of his time in this enchanted
garden when he is at home," Marie Bastien remarked to the
superintendent.

"M. le marquis is like the late marquis, his father," replied the
gardener. "He doesn't care much for flowers. He prefers the stable and
kennels."

Madame Bastien and her son gazed at each other in amazement.

"Then, why does he have these magnificent conservatories, monsieur?"
inquired the young woman, ingenuously.

"Because every castle must have its conservatories, madame," replied the
functionary, proudly. "It is a luxury every self-respecting nobleman
owes to himself."

"So it is purely a matter of self-respect," Marie remarked to her son in
a whispered aside. "But all jesting aside, in winter, when the days are
so short, and the snow is flying, what delightful hours one could spend
here, safe from the frost."

At last the doctor was obliged to interfere.

"My dear madame, we shall have to spend at least a couple of days in the
conservatory, at this rate," he exclaimed, laughing.

"That is true, doctor," replied Madame Bastien, smiling; then, with a
sigh of regret, she added: "Come, let us leave the tropics,--for some
other part of the world, I suppose, as you told me this was a land of
wonders, M. Dufour."

"You thought I was jesting. Well, you shall see. If you are very good, I
will now take you to China."

"To China?"

"Certainly, and after remaining there a quarter of an hour we will make
a little excursion to Switzerland."

"And what then, doctor?"

"Well, when there are no more foreign lands to visit, we will inspect
all the different eras from the Gothic age down to the days of Louis the
Fifteenth, and all in an hour's time."

"Nothing can surprise me now, doctor," replied Madame Bastien, "for I
know for a certainty, now, that we are in fairy-land. Come, Frederick."

And the visitors followed M. le chef of the gardens and conservatories,
who smiled rather superciliously at the plebeian amazement of M.
Dufour's friends. Though the wonders of the conservatory had made
Frederick forget his bitter feelings for a time, the lad followed his
mother with a less buoyant step than usual, for the bitterness returned
as he thought of the young Marquis de Pont Brillant's indifference to
the beauties that would have given such joy and delight and congenial
occupation to the many persons capable of appreciating the treasures
collected here at such prodigious expense.




CHAPTER IV.


On leaving the immense rotunda which formed the principal conservatory,
the head gardener conducted the visitors into other hothouses built on
either side of the main structure. One of these, used as a pinery, led
to another conservatory devoted entirely to orchids, and, in spite of
the humidity and stifling heat, the doctor had considerable difficulty
in tearing Marie Bastien and her son away from the spot, so great was
their wonder and astonishment at the sight of these beautiful but almost
fantastic flowers, some strongly resembling huge butterflies in shape
and colouring, others, winged insects of the most fantastic appearance.
Here M. Dutilleul's domain ended, but he was kind enough to express a
willingness to conduct our friends through the orangery and grapery.

"I promised you China," the doctor said to his friends, "and here we are
in China."

In fact, as they left the orchid house, they found themselves in a
gallery, with columns painted a bright green and scarlet, and paved with
porcelain blocks which were continued up the low wall that served as a
support for the base of the columns. Between these columns stood immense
blue, white, and gold vases, containing camellias, peonies, azaleas, and
lemon-trees. This gallery, which was enclosed with glass in winter, led
to a small Chinese house which formed the centre of a large
winter-garden.

The construction of this house, which had cost infinite care and an
immense outlay of money, dated back to the middle of the eighteenth
century, when the rage for everything Chinese was at its height, as the
famous Chanteloup pagoda, a very tall building, constructed entirely of
china, testifies.

The Chinese house at Pont Brillant was no whit inferior to M. de
Choiseul's famous "folly." The arrangement of this dwelling, which
consisted of several rooms, the hangings, furniture, ornaments, and
household utensils, were all strictly authentic, and to complete the
illusion, two wonderful wax figures, life-size, stood on either side of
the drawing-room door, as if to welcome their visitors, to whom they
ever and anon bowed, thanks to some internal mechanism that made them
move their eyes from side to side, and alternately raise and incline
their heads. The choicest and most curious specimens of lacquer work,
richly embroidered stuffs, furniture, china, gold and silver articles,
and ivory carvings had been collected in this sort of museum.

"How wonderful!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, examining all these treasures
with great curiosity and interest. "See, Frederick, here is a living
book in which one can study the customs, habits, and history of this
singular country, for here is also a collection of medals, coins,
drawings, and manuscripts."

"Say, mother!" exclaimed Frederick, "how pleasantly and profitably one
could spend the long winter evenings here in reading about China, and
comparing, or rather verifying the descriptions in the book with nature,
so to speak."

"M. de Pont Brillant must often visit this curious and interesting
pavilion, I am sure," said Marie, turning to M. Dutilleul.

"M. le marquis has never been a victim to the Chinese craze, madame,"
was the reply. "He likes hunting much better. It was his
great-grandfather who had this house built, because it was the fashion
at that time, that is all."

Marie could not help shrugging her shoulders the least bit in the world,
and exchanging a half-smile with her son, who seemed to become more and
more thoughtful as he followed his mother, to whom the doctor had
offered his arm to conduct her along a winding path leading from the
winter-garden to a rocky grotto, lighted by large, lens-shaped pieces of
blue glass inserted in the rocks, which imparted to this subterranean
chamber, ornamented with beautiful sea-shells and coral, a pale light
similar to that which pervades the depths of the ocean.

"We are going to the home of the water-nymphs now, are we not?" asked
Madame Bastien, gaily, as she began the descent. "Isn't some mermaid
coming to welcome us upon the threshold of her watery empire?"

"Nothing of the kind," replied the doctor. "This subterranean passage,
carpeted, as you see, and always kept warm during the winter, leads to
the chateau; for you must have noticed that all the different buildings
we have seen are connected by covered passages, so in winter one can go
from one to the other without fearing rain or cold."

In fact, this grotto was connected, by a spiral staircase, with the end
of a long gallery called the Guards' Hall, and which in years gone by
had probably served for that purpose. Ten windows of stained glass, with
the Pont Brillant coat-of-arms emblazoned upon them, lighted this
immense room finished in richly carved oak, with a sky ceiling divided
by heavy groins of carved oak.

Ten figures in complete suits of armour, helmet on head, visor down,
halberd in hand, sword at side, were ranged in line on the other side of
the gallery, facing, and directly opposite the ten windows, where the
reflection from the stained glass cast prismatic lights upon the steel
armour, making it stand out in vivid relief against the dark woodwork.

In the middle of this hall, upon a pedestal, was a knight, also in a
complete suit of armour, mounted upon a battle-steed hewn out of wood,
which was entirely hidden by its steel bards and long, richly emblazoned
trappings. The knight's armour, which was heavily embossed with gold,
was a marvel of the goldsmith's art and of elaborate ornamentation, and
M. le chef of the conservatories, pausing in front of the figure, said
with a certain amount of family pride:

"This suit of armour was worn by Raoul IV., Sire de Pont Brillant,
during the First Crusade, which proves beyond a doubt that the nobility
of M. le marquis is of no recent date."

Just then an elderly man, dressed in black, having opened one of the
massive doors of the hall, M. Dutilleul remarked to Doctor Dufour:

"Ah, doctor, here is M. Legris, the keeper of the silver. He is a friend
of mine. I will ask him to show you about. He will prove a much better
guide than I should be."

And advancing toward the old man, M. Dutilleul said:

"My dear Legris, here are some friends of mine who would like to see the
castle. I am going to hand them over to you, and in return, whenever any
of your acquaintances wish to inspect the hothouses--"

"Our friends' friends are our friends, Dutilleul," replied the keeper of
the silver, rather, peremptorily; then, with a rather familiar gesture,
he motioned the visitors to follow him into the apartments which a large
corps of servants had just finished putting in order.

It would take entirely too long to enumerate all the splendid adornments
of this castle, or rather, palace, from the library, which many a large
town might have envied, to a superb picture gallery, containing many of
the finest specimens of both the old and the modern school of art, upon
which the visitors could only cast a hasty glance, for, in spite of the
obliging promise made to M. Dutilleul, the keeper of the castle silver
seemed rather impatient to get rid of his charges.

The first floor, as M. Dufour had said, consisted of an extensive suite
of apartments, each of which might have served as an illustration of
some particular epoch in interior decoration between the fourteenth and
eighteenth centuries; in short, it was a veritable museum, though of an
essentially private character, by reason of the many family portraits
and the valuable relics of every sort and kind which had belonged to
different members of this great and ancient house.

In one of the wings on the second floor were the apartments of the
dowager Marquise de Pont Brillant. In spite of that lady's advanced age,
these rooms had been newly fitted up in the daintiest, most coquettish
style imaginable. There was a profusion of lace and gilding and costly
brocades, as well as of elaborately carved rosewood furniture, and
superb ornaments of Sevres and Dresden china. The bedchamber, hung with
pink and white brocade, with a canopied bedstead decorated with big
bunches of white ostrich feathers, was especially charming. The
dressing-room was really a ravishing boudoir hung with pale blue satin,
studded with marguerites. In the middle of this room, furnished in
gilded rosewood, like the adjoining bedchamber, was a magnificent
dressing-table, draped with costly lace caught back with knots of
ribbon, and covered with toilet articles, some of wrought gold, others
of sky-blue Sevres.

Our three friends had just entered this apartment when a haughty,
arrogant-looking man appeared in the doorway. This personage, who wore a
bit of red ribbon in the buttonhole of his long frock coat, was nothing
more or less than my lord steward of the castle and surrounding domain.

On seeing the three strangers, this high and mighty personage frowned
with an intensely surprised and displeased air.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, imperiously, of his subordinate,
M. Legris. "Why are you not attending to your silver? Who are these
people?"

On hearing these discourteous words, Madame Bastien turned scarlet with
confusion, the little doctor straightened himself up to his full height,
and Frederick rashly muttered, under his breath, "Insolent creature!" as
he stepped a little closer to his mother.

Madame Bastien gave her son's hand a warning pressure, as she slightly
shrugged her shoulder as if to show her disdain.

"They are some friends of Dutilleul's, M. Desmazures," replied M.
Legris, humbly. "He asked me to take them through the chateau, and--and
I thought--"

"Why, this is outrageous!" exclaimed the steward, interrupting him. "I
never heard of such assurance. Such a thing wouldn't be allowed in the
house of a tradesman on the Rue St. Denis! The idea of taking the first
person that comes along into the apartments of madame la marquise, in
this fashion."

"Monsieur," said Doctor Dufour, firmly, walking toward the steward,
"Madame Bastien, her son, and myself, who am M. Dutilleul's physician,
thought we were committing no indiscretion--nor were we--in accepting an
offer to show us the chateau. I have visited several royal residences,
monsieur, and think it well to inform you that I have always been
politely treated by the person in charge of them."

"That is very possible, monsieur," answered the steward, dryly, "but you
doubtless applied to some person who was authorised to give it, for
permission to visit these royal residences. You should have addressed a
written application to me, the steward, and the sole master here in M.
le marquis's absence."

"We must beg monsieur to kindly pardon our ignorance of these
formalities," said Madame Bastien, with a mocking smile, as if to show
her son how little she minded this pompous functionary's discourtesy.

She took Frederick's arm as she spoke.

"If I had been more familiar with the usages of monsieur's
administration," added the doctor, with a sarcastic smile, "monsieur
would have received a respectful request that in his omnipotent goodness
he would kindly grant us permission to inspect the chateau."

"Is that intended as a jest, monsieur?" demanded the steward, angrily.

"Somewhat, monsieur," replied the little doctor.

The irascible functionary took a step forward.

"In order not to close this conversation with a jest, monsieur,"
interposed Madame Bastien, turning to the steward, "permit me to say in
all seriousness, monsieur, that I have often read that the house of any
great nobleman could always be recognised by the urbanity of his
hirelings."

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, it seems to me that you must desire to prove this
rule--by the exception."

It is impossible to describe the perfect dignity with which Marie
Bastien gave this well-deserved lesson to the arrogant hireling, who bit
his lip with rage, unable to utter a word, whereupon Marie, taking the
doctor's arm, gaily remarked to her companions:

"You should not manifest so much surprise. Don't you know that one often
meets with evil spirits in enchanted countries? It is a satisfaction to
know that they are nearly always of an inferior order. Let us hasten
away with recollections of these wonders which the evil genius cannot
spoil."

       *       *       *       *       *

A few minutes afterward Madame Bastien, Frederick, and the doctor left
the castle. Marie, out of consideration for the doctor, who seemed
greatly pained at this contretemps, as well as by reason of her natural
good nature, bore her share of their mutual discomfiture cheerfully,
even gaily, and laughed not a little at the absurdly important airs the
steward had given himself. M. Dufour, who cared nothing about the man's
rudeness except so far as it might affect Madame Bastien, soon recovered
his natural good spirits when he saw how little importance his fair
companion seemed to attach to the affair.

A quarter of an hour afterward the three friends were sitting in the
shade of a clump of gigantic oaks, enjoying their lunch. Frederick,
though he manifested some little constraint of manner, seemed to share
his companions' high spirits, but Marie, too clear-sighted not to notice
that her son was not exactly himself, fancied she could divine the cause
of his preoccupation, and teased him a little about the importance he
seemed to attach to the steward's impertinence.

"Come, come, my handsome Cid, my valiant cavalier," she said, gaily,
"keep your anger and your trusty blade for an adversary worthy of you.
The doctor and I both gave the ill-bred fellow a good lesson. Now let us
think only of ending the day as pleasantly as possible, and of the
pleasure it will give us for weeks to come to talk of the treasures of
every kind that we have seen."

Then, with a laugh, the young mother added:

"Say, Frederick, don't forget to-morrow morning to tell old Andre, M. le
chef of our open-air garden, not to forget to bring us a bouquet of
lilies of the valley and violets."

"Yes, mother," answered Frederick, smiling.

"And I wish you would also have the goodness to tell M. le chef of our
stables to harness our venerable white horse in the afternoon, as we
must go to the village to do some shopping."

"And I, madame," exclaimed the doctor, with his mouth full of cake,
"take great pleasure in assuring you, or, rather, I should say, in
proving to you that your old Marguerite, the chef of your culinary
department, is a none-such, so far as cake-making is concerned,--for
this cake is certainly--"

But the good doctor did not finish the sentence, as he choked badly in
his effort to talk and eat at the same time.

So with gay jests and laughter the meal went on, and Frederick tried his
best to share his companions' hilarity; but the lad's mirth was
constrained, he was conscious of a strange and increasing feeling of
annoyance. As certain vague and inexplicable symptoms presage the
invasion of a still latent malady, so certain vague and inexplicable
sentiments seemed to be germinating in Frederick's heart. The nature of
these sentiments, though as yet not very clearly defined, caused him a
feeling of instinctive shame, so much so, in fact, that he, who had
always been so confiding with his mother, now dreaded her penetration
for the first time in his life, and deliberately set to work to deceive
her by feigning all the rest of the day a gaiety that he was far from
feeling.




CHAPTER V.


Several days had passed since the visit to the Chateau de Pont Brillant.
Frederick had never left his mother's house to visit the homes of
persons of an even humbler station than his own, so the impression which
the sight of the splendours and the almost royal luxury that pervaded it
had made upon him had suffered no diminution. When, on the following
morning, the lad awoke in his own little room, it seemed bare and
comfortless to him, and when he afterward went as usual to bid his
mother good morning, he involuntarily compared the costly elegance of
the Marquise de Pont Brillant's apartments with the poverty of his
mother's surroundings, and experienced a strange sinking of heart.

An unlucky chance deepened this impression. When Frederick entered his
mother's room, the young woman, in all the freshness of her marvellous
beauty, was arranging her beautiful brown hair in front of a cheap
painted toilet-table covered with oilcloth and surmounted by a tiny
glass with a black frame.

Frederick, remembering the rich lace and satin and gold that adorned the
dressing-room of the dowager marquise, experienced for the first time in
his life a bitter pang of envy, as he said to himself:

"Doesn't that elegant, luxurious boudoir I saw at the castle seem much
better suited to a beautiful and charming woman like my mother than to a
wrinkled octogenarian who, in her ridiculous vanity, wants to admire her
withered face in mirrors wreathed with lace and ribbons!"

Already strangely depressed in spirits, Frederick went out into the
garden. The morning was perfect, and the dew on the petals of the
flowers glistened like pearls in the bright July sunshine. Heretofore
the lad, like his mother, had often gone into ecstasies over the beauty,
freshness, and exquisite perfume of some specially fine rose; the snowy
petals of the Easter flowers, the velvety petals of the pansies, and the
exquisite delicacy of the acacia had always excited his lively
admiration, but now he had only careless, almost disdainful looks for
these simple flowers, as he thought of the rare and magnificent tropical
plants that filled the spacious conservatories of the chateau. The grove
of venerable oaks, enlivened by the gay warbling of birds that seemed to
be replying to the soft murmur of the little waterfall, was also viewed
with disdain. How insignificant these things appeared in comparison with
the magnificent grounds of the chateau, adorned with rare statues and
superb fountains peopled with bronze naiads and Tritons sending great
jets of water as high as the tree-tops.

Absorbed in thoughts like these, Frederick walked slowly on until he
reached the edge of the grove. There he paused and gazed mechanically
around him, then gave a sudden start, and turned abruptly, as he
perceived in the distance the chateau standing out clearly against the
horizon in the bright light of the rising sun. At the sight of it
Frederick hastily retreated into the shadows of the grove, but, alas!
though he could thus close his bodily eyes to this resplendent vision,
the lad's too faithful memory kept the wonders that had so impressed him
continually before his mental vision, inducing comparisons which
poisoned the simple pleasures of the past, until now so full of charm.

As he passed the open door of the stable, a superannuated farm horse
which was sometimes harnessed to a sort of chaise, Madame Bastien's only
equipage, whinnied in his stall for the crusts of bread that he had
been in the habit of receiving every morning from his young master.

Frederick had forgotten to bring the crusts that morning, and to atone
for his forgetfulness, he tore up a big handful of fresh grass and
offered it to his faithful old friend, but suddenly remembering the
magnificent blooded horses he had seen at the castle, he smiled bitterly
and turned brusquely away from the old horse, who, with the grass still
between his teeth, watched his young master for a long time with an
expression of almost human intelligence.

Soon afterward an old and infirm woman, to whom Frederick, having no
money, gave bread and fruit every week, came to the house as usual.

"Here, my good mother," he said, as he presented his usual offering, "I
wish I could do more for you, but my mother and I have no money."

"You are very kind all the same, M. Bastien," replied the woman, "but I
shall not be obliged to ask anything of you much longer."

"Why not?"

"Why, you see, M. Bastien, that M. le marquis is coming to live at the
castle, and these great noblemen are very generous with their money, and
I hope to get my share. Your servant, M. Bastien."

Frederick blushed for the first time at the humble gift he had made
heretofore with such pleasure and contentment, so shortly afterward,
when another beggar accosted him, he said:

"You would only sneer at what I can give you. Apply to M. le marquis. He
should act as a benefactor to the entire neighbourhood. He is so rich!"

That such bitter envy should have taken such sudden but absolute
possession of Frederick's heart seems strange indeed to those who know
his past, yet this apparent anomaly can be easily explained.

Madame Bastien's son had been reared in an exceedingly modest home, but
his mother's taste and refinement had imbued even these plain
surroundings with an air of elegance and distinction, and, thanks to a
thousand nothings, the ensemble had been charming.

The love of beauty and elegance thus developed rendered Frederick
peculiarly susceptible to the charm of the wonders he had seen at the
castle, and the longing to possess them naturally corresponded with his
appreciation and admiration.

If, on the contrary, Frederick's life had been spent amid rough and
coarse surroundings, he would have been more amazed than surprised at
the treasures which the chateau contained, and, ignorant of the refined
enjoyment that could be derived from them, he would have been much less
likely to envy the fortunate possessor of them.

Madame Bastien soon perceived the change that was gradually taking place
in her son, and that manifested itself in frequent fits of melancholy.
The humble home no longer resounded with peals of laughter as in days
gone by. When his studies were over, Frederick picked up a book and read
during the entire recreation hour, but more than once Madame Bastien
noticed that her son's eyes remained fixed upon the same page for a
quarter of an hour.

Her anxiety increasing, Madame Bastien remarked to her son: "My son, you
seem so grave and taciturn and preoccupied, you are not nearly as lively
as formerly."

"True, mother," replied Frederick, forcing a smile, "I am sometimes
surprised myself at the more serious turn my mind is taking. Still, it
is not at all astonishing. I am no longer a child. It is quite time for
me to be getting sensible."

Frederick had never lied before, but he was lying now. Up to this time
he had always confessed his faults to his mother. She had been the
confidant of his every thought, but the mere idea of confessing or of
allowing her to discover the bitter feelings which his visit to the
Chateau de Pont Brillant had excited in his breast filled him with shame
and dismay. In fact, he would rather have died than confess that he was
enduring the torments of envy; so, placed upon his guard by Madame
Bastien's lively solicitude, he devoted all his powers of mind and
strength of will to conceal the wound that was beginning to rankle in
his soul, but it is almost certain that his attempts to deceive his
mother's tender sagacity would have proved futile had that mother not
been at the same time reassured and deceived by Doctor Dufour.

"Don't be alarmed," the physician said to her when she, in all
sincerity, consulted him on the subject of her fears. "At the time of
puberty, an entire change often takes place in a youth's character. The
gayest and most demonstrative often become the most gloomy and taciturn.
They experience the most unreasonable melancholy, the most acute
anxiety. They give way to fits of profound depression, and feel an
intense longing for solitude. So do not be alarmed, and above all give
no sign of having noticed this change in your son. This almost
inevitable crisis will be over in a few months, and you will then see
Frederick himself again. He will have a different voice, that is all."

Doctor Dufour's mistake was the more excusable as the symptoms which so
alarmed Madame Bastien strongly resembled those which are often noticed
in youths at that age; so Madame Bastien accepted this explanation, as
she could not divine the real cause of this change in Frederick.

This change had not manifested itself immediately after the visit to the
chateau. It had, on the contrary, taken place gradually, almost
imperceptibly, in fact, so that more than a month had elapsed before
Madame Bastien really began to feel uneasy, hence it did not seem at all
probable that there could be any connection between the visit to the
chateau and Frederick's melancholy.

Besides, how could Madame Bastien suppose that this youth reared by
her--a youth who had always seemed of so noble and generous a
character--could know envy?

So, reassured by Doctor Dufour, Madame Bastien, though she watched the
different phases of her son's condition, forced herself to conceal the
sadness she often felt on seeing him so changed, and awaited his
recovery with resignation.

At first Frederick had tried to find some diversion in study, but soon
study became impossible; his mind was elsewhere. Then he said to
himself:

"Whatever I may learn, whatever I may know, I shall never be anything
but Frederick Bastien, a sort of half peasant, doomed to a life of
obscurity, while that young marquis, without ever having done anything
to deserve it, enjoys all the glory of a name which has been illustrious
for ages."

Then, as all the feudal relics at Pont Brillant, those galleries of
paintings, those family portraits, those gorgeous escutcheons, recurred
to Frederick's mind, for the first time in his life the poor boy felt
deeply humiliated by the obscurity of his birth, and overcome with
discouragement, said to himself:

"This young marquis, already weary of the magnificence by which he is
surrounded, indifferent to the treasures of which even a thousandth part
would make my mother and me and a host of others so happy. Why, and by
what right does he possess all this magnificence? Has he acquired these
blessings by his toil? No. To enjoy all this, he has only taken the
trouble to be born. Why should he have everything and others nothing?"




CHAPTER VI.


The first period of envy that Frederick experienced was of a passive,
the second of an active character.

It is impossible to describe what he suffered then, especially as this
feeling, concealed, concentrated as it were in the lowest depths of his
soul, had no outlet, and was constantly stimulated by the sight of the
castle, which seemed to meet his gaze at every turn, dominating as it
did the whole country roundabout. The more Frederick realised the
alarming progress of his malady, the more strenuously he endeavoured to
hide it from his mother, telling himself in his gloom and despair that
such weakness deserved scorn and contempt, and that not even a mother
could condone it.

All mental maladies react upon the physical system. Frederick's health
gradually gave way. He could not sleep, and he, who had formerly been so
energetic and active, seemed to dread the slightest exertion. In fact,
the pressing and tender solicitations of his mother could alone arouse
him from his apathy or his gloomy reveries.

Poor Marie! How intensely she, too, suffered, but in silence,
endeavouring to maintain a cheerful manner all the while for fear of
alarming her son about himself, and waiting with mingled anxiety and
hope the end of this crisis in her son's life.

But alas! how long and painful this waiting seemed. What a change! What
a contrast between this gloomy, listless, taciturn life, and the bright,
busy, happy existence she and her son had previously led!

One day early in October Madame Bastien and her son were together in the
room that served both as parlour and study. Frederick, seated at the
table, with his head supported on his left hand, was writing slowly and
listlessly in a large exercise book.

Madame Bastien, seated only a little distance from him, was apparently
occupied with some embroidery, but in reality she was holding her needle
suspended in the air, ready to resume her work at her son's slightest
movement, while she furtively watched him.

Tears she could hardly restrain filled her eyes as she noted the
terrible change in her son's appearance, and remembered that only a
comparatively short while ago the hours spent in study at this same
table had been such pleasant, happy hours both for Frederick and
herself, and compared the zeal and enthusiasm which her son had then
displayed in his work with the listlessness and indifference she now
remarked in him, for she soon saw his pen slip from his fingers, while
his countenance displayed an intense ennui and lassitude.

At last the lad, only half smothering a heavy sigh, buried his face in
his hands and remained in this attitude several moments. His mother did
not lose sight of him for an instant, but what was her surprise on
seeing her son suddenly lift his head, and with eyes flashing and a
faint colour tinging his cheeks, while a sardonic smile curved his lips,
suddenly seize his pen again, and begin writing with feverish rapidity.

The youth was transfigured. So inert, despondent, and lethargic a moment
before, he now seemed full to overflowing of life and animation. One
could see that his thoughts, too, flowed much more rapidly than his pen
could trace them on the paper, by an occasional impatient movement of
the body or the quick tapping of his foot upon the floor.

A few words of explanation are necessary here.

For some time Frederick had complained to his mother of his distaste,
or rather his incapacity, for any regular work, though occasionally, in
compliance with Madame Bastien's wishes as well as in the hope of
diverting his mind, he had attempted something in the way either of
study or an essay on some given subject, but almost invariably he had
appealed to his formerly fertile imagination in vain.

"I can't imagine what is the matter with me," he would murmur,
despondently. "My mind seems to be enveloped in a sort of haze. Forgive
me, mother, it is not my fault."

And Madame Bastien found a thousand reasons to excuse and console him.

So on this occasion the young mother fully expected to see Frederick
soon abandon his work. What was her astonishment, consequently, to see
him for the first time write on and on with increasing interest and
eagerness.

In this return to former habits Madame Bastien fancied she could detect
the first sign of the end of this critical period in the life of her
son. Doubtless his mind was beginning to emerge from the sort of haze
which had so long obscured it, and, eager to satisfy herself of the
fact, Madame Bastien rose, and noiselessly approaching her son on
tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to read
what he had written.

In his surprise the youth gave a violent start, then, hastily closing
his exercise book, turned an impatient, almost angry face, toward his
mother and exclaimed:

"You had no right to do that, mother."

Then reopening his book, he tore out the pages he had just written,
crumpled them up in his hands, and threw them into the fire that was
blazing on the hearth, where they were soon burnt to ashes.

Madame Bastien, overwhelmed with astonishment, stood for a moment
speechless and motionless; then, comparing this rudeness on the part of
her son with the delightful camaraderie which had formerly existed
between them, she burst into tears.

It was the first time her son had ever wounded her feelings. Seeing his
mother's tears, Frederick, in an agony of remorse, threw his arms around
his mother's neck and covered her face with tears and kisses, exclaiming
in a voice broken by sobs:

"Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me!"

On hearing this repentant cry, Madame Bastien reproached herself for her
tears. She even reproached herself for the painful impression the
incident had made upon her, for was it not due to Frederick's
unfortunate condition? so, covering her son's face with passionate
kisses, she, in her turn, implored his forgiveness.

"My poor child, you are not well," she exclaimed, tenderly, "and your
suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to
attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were
hardly accountable."

"No, oh, no, mother, I swear it."

"Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear
Frederick."

"I tore out the pages, mother," continued the lad with no little
embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, "I tore out the pages
because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst
thing I have written since this--this sort of--of despondency seized
me."

"And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first
time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to
see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear
Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a
critic."

"No, mother, I assure you--"

"Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the
mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk."

"It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don't feel as if I had energy
enough to take a single step."

"It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight
against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and
row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good."

"I don't feel equal to it, really, mother."

"Well, you haven't heard, I think, that Andre said he saw a big flock of
plover this morning. Take your gun, and we will go over to Sablonniere
heath. You will enjoy it and so shall I. You are such a good shot, it is
a pleasure to see you handle a gun."

"I don't take any pleasure in hunting now."

"Yet you used to be so fond of it."

"I don't care for anything now," replied Frederick, almost
involuntarily, in a tone of intense bitterness.

Again the young mother felt the tears spring to her eyes, and Frederick,
seeing his mother's distress, exclaimed:

"I love you always, mother, you know that."

"Oh, yes, I know that, but you have no idea how despondently you said,
'I don't care for anything now.'"

Then trying to smile in order to cheer her son, Marie added:

"Really, I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day. I seem to be
continually saying and doing the wrong thing, and here you are crying
again, my dear child."

"Never mind, mother, never mind. It is a long time since I have cried,
and I really believe it will do me good."

He spoke the truth. These tears did indeed seem to relieve his
overburdened heart, and when he at last looked up in the face of the
mother who was tenderly bending over him, and saw her beautiful features
wearing such an expression of infinite tenderness, he thought for an
instant of confessing the feelings that tortured him.

"Yes, yes," he said to himself, "I was wrong to fear either scorn or
anger from her. In her angelic goodness of heart I shall find only pity,
compassion, consolation, and aid."

The mere thought of confessing all to his mother comforted him, and
seemed even to restore a little of his former courage, for after a
moment he said to Madame Bastien:

"You proposed a walk a few minutes ago, mother. I believe you are right
in thinking that the open air would do me good."

This admission on her son's part seemed to Madame Bastien a good omen,
and hastily donning her hat and a silk mantle, she left the house in
company with her son.

But now the time for the confession had come, the youth shrank from it.
He could think of no way to broach the subject, or to excuse himself to
his mother for having concealed the truth from her so long.

As they were walking along, the sky, which had been so lowering all the
morning, suddenly cleared, and the sun shone out brightly.

"What a delightful change!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, in the hope of
cheering her son. "One might almost think that the radiant sun had
emerged from the clouds to give you a friendly greeting. And how pretty
that old juniper looks in this flood of sunlight. That old juniper over
there at the end of the field, you remember it, of course?"

Frederick shook his head.

"What! you have forgotten those two long summer days when I sat in the
shade of that old tree while you finished that poor labourer's work?"

"Oh, yes, that is true," replied Frederick, quickly.

The recollection of that generous act seemed to make the thought of the
painful confession he must make to his mother less painful, and his
growing cheerfulness showed itself so plainly in his face that Madame
Bastien said to him:

"I was right to insist upon your coming out, my child. You look so much
brighter that I am sure you must be feeling better."

"I am, mother."

"How glad I am, my son," exclaimed Madame Bastien, clasping her hands,
thankfully. "What if this should be the end of your malady, Frederick!"

As the young mother made this gesture of thankfulness, the light silk
mantle she was wearing slipped from her shoulders unnoticed either by
her or by Frederick, who replied:

"I don't know why it is, but I too hope like you, mother, that I shall
soon be myself again."

"Ah, if you too hope so, we are saved," exclaimed his mother, joyfully.
"M. Dufour told me that this strange and distressing malady which has
been troubling you often disappears as suddenly as it came, like a bad
dream, and health returns as if by enchantment."

"A dream!" exclaimed Frederick, looking at his mother with a strange
expression on his face; "yes, mother, you are right. It was a bad
dream."

"What is the matter, my child? You seem greatly excited, but it is with
pleasurable emotion. I know that by your face."

"Yes, mother, yes! If you knew--"

But Frederick did not have time to finish the sentence. A sound that was
coming nearer and nearer, but that Marie and her son had not noticed
before, made them both turn.

A few yards behind them was a man on horseback, holding Madame Bastien's
mantle in his hand.

Checking his horse, which a servant who was in attendance upon him
hastened forward to hold, the rider sprang lightly to the ground, and
with his hat in one hand and the mantle in the other he advanced toward
Madame Bastien, and bowing low, said, with perfect grace and courtesy of
manner:

"I saw this mantle slip from your shoulders, madame, and deem myself
fortunate in being able to return it to you."

Then with another low bow, having the good taste to thus evade Madame
Bastien's thanks, the rider returned to his horse and vaulted into the
saddle. As he passed Madame Bastien he deviated considerably from his
course, keeping near a hedge that bordered the field, as if fearing the
close proximity of his horse might alarm the lady, then bowed again, and
continued on his way at a brisk trot.

This young man, who was about Frederick's age, and who had a remarkably
handsome face and distinguished bearing, had evinced so much grace of
manner and politeness, that Madame Bastien innocently remarked to her
son:

"It is impossible to conceive of any one more polite or better bred, is
it not, Frederick?"

Just as Madame Bastien asked her son this question, a small groom in
livery, who was following the horse-man, and who, like his master, was
mounted upon a superb blooded horse, passed, the lad, who was evidently
a strict observer of etiquette, having waited until his master was the
prescribed twenty-five yards in advance of him before he moved from his
place.

Madame Bastien motioned him to stop. He did so.

"Will you be kind enough to tell me your master's name?" asked the young
woman.

"M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant, madame," replied the groom, with a
strong English accent.

Then seeing that his master had started on a brisk trot, the lad did the
same.

"Did your hear that, Frederick?" asked Marie, turning to her son. "That
was the young Marquis de Pont Brillant. Is he not charming? It is
pleasant to see such a worthy representative of rank and fortune, is it
not, my son? To be such a high and mighty personage, and so perfectly
polite and well-bred, is certainly a charming combination. But why do
you not answer me, Frederick? What is the matter, Frederick?" added
Madame Bastien, suddenly becoming uneasy.

"There is nothing the matter with me, mother," was the cold reply.

"But there must be. Your face looks so different from what it did a
moment ago. You must be suffering, and, great Heavens, how pale you
are!"

"The sun has disappeared behind the clouds again, and I am cold!"

"Then let us hasten back,--let us hasten back at once! Heaven grant the
improvement you spoke of just now may continue."

"I doubt it very much, mother."

"How despondently you speak."

"I speak as I feel."

"You are not feeling as well, then, my dear child?"

"Not nearly as well," the lad replied. Then added, with a sort of
ferocious bitterness, "I have suffered a relapse, a complete relapse,
but it is the cold that has caused it, probably."

And the unfortunate youth, who had always adored his mother, now
experienced an almost savage delight in increasing his youthful parent's
anxiety, thus avenging the poignant suffering which his mother's praises
of Raoul de Pont Brillant had caused him.

Yes, for jealousy, a feeling as entirely unknown to Frederick as envy
had been heretofore, now increased the resentment he already felt
against the young marquis.

       *       *       *       *       *

The mother and son wended their way homeward, Madame Bastien in
inexpressible grief and disappointment, Frederick in gloomy silence,
thinking with sullen rage that he had been on the point of confessing to
his mother the shameful secret for which he blushed, and that at almost
the very same moment that she was lavishing enthusiasm upon the object
of his envy, the Marquis de Pont Brillant.

The unconscious comparison which his mother had made between the young
marquis and himself, a comparison, alas! so unflattering to himself,
changed the almost passive dislike he had heretofore felt for Raoul de
Pont Brillant into an intense and implacable hatred.




CHAPTER VII.


The little town of Pont Brillant is situated a few leagues from Blois,
and not far from the Loire.

A promenade called the mall, shaded by lofty trees, bounds Pont Brillant
on the south. A few houses stand on the left side of the boulevard,
which also serves as a fair ground.

Doctor Dufour lived in one of these houses.

About a month had elapsed since the events we have just related.

Early in the month of November, on St. Hubert's Day,--St. Hubert, the
reader may or may not recollect, is the hunter's patron saint,--the
idlers of the little town had assembled on the mall about four o'clock
in the afternoon to await the return of the young Marquis de Pont
Brillant's hunting party from the neighbouring forest.

The aforesaid idlers were beginning to become impatient at the long
delay, when a clumsy cabriolet, drawn by an old work-horse in a
dilapidated harness, tied up here and there with strings, drove up to
the doctor's door, and Frederick Bastien, stepping out of this extremely
modest equipage, assisted his mother to alight.

The old horse, whose discretion and docility were established beyond all
question, was left standing, with the lines upon his neck, close to the
pavement in front of the doctor's house, which Madame Bastien and her
son immediately entered.

An old servant woman ushered them into the parlour, which was on the
second floor, with windows overlooking the mall.

"Can the doctor see me?" inquired Madame Bastien.

"I think so, though he is with one of his friends who has been here for
a few days but who leaves for Nantes this evening. I will go and tell
him that you are here, though, madame."

Envy, aided by jealousy,--the reader probably has not forgotten the
praises so innocently lavished upon the young marquis by Madame
Bastien,--had made frightful ravages in Frederick's heart during the
past month, and the deterioration in his physical condition having been
correspondingly great, one would scarcely have known him. His complexion
was not only pale, but jaundiced and bilious, while his hollow cheeks,
sunken eyes, which burned with a feverish light, and the bitter smile
which was ever upon his lips, imparted an almost ferocious as well as
unnatural expression to his face. His abrupt, nervous movements, and his
curt, often impatient, voice, also made the contrast between the youth's
past and present condition all the more striking.

Marie Bastien seemed utterly disheartened and discouraged, but the
gentle melancholy of her face only made her remarkable beauty still more
touching in its character.

A cold reserve on Frederick's part had succeeded the demonstrative
affection that had formerly existed between mother and son. Marie, in
despair, had nearly worn herself out in her efforts to discover the
cause of this change in her child, and she was now beginning to fear
that M. Dufour had been mistaken in his diagnosis of her son's case. She
had accordingly come to consult him again on the subject, not having
seen him for some time, as the worthy doctor had been detained at home
by the duties and pleasures of a friendly hospitality.

After having gazed sadly at her son for a moment, Marie said to him,
almost timidly, as if afraid of irritating him:

"Frederick, as you have accompanied me to the house of our friend,
Doctor Dufour, whom I wish to consult in regard to myself, we had better
take advantage of the opportunity to speak to him about you."

"It is not at all necessary, mother. I am not ill."

"Great Heavens! how can you say that? All last night you scarcely closed
your eyes, my poor child. I went into your room several times to see if
you were asleep and always found you wide awake."

"It is so almost every night."

"Alas! I know it, and that is one of the things that worry me so."

"You do very wrong to trouble yourself about it, mother. I shall get
over it by and by."

"But consult M. Dufour, I beg of you. Is he not the best friend we have
in the world? Tell him your feeling, and listen to his counsels."

"I tell you again there is no need for me to consult M. Dufour," replied
the lad, impatiently. "I warn you, too, that I shall not answer one of
his questions."

"But, my son, listen to me!"

"Good Heavens! mother, what pleasure do you find in tormenting me like
this?" Frederick exclaimed, stamping his foot angrily. "I have nothing
to tell M. Dufour, and I shall tell him nothing. You will find out
whether I have any will of my own or not."

Just then the doctor's servant came in and said to Madame Bastien that
the doctor was waiting for her in his office.

Casting an imploring look at her son, the young mother furtively wiped
away her tears and followed the servant to the doctor's office.
Frederick, thus left alone in the room, leaned his elbow upon the sill
of the open window, which overlooked the mall as we have said before.
Between the mall and the Loire stretched a low range of hills, while in
the horizon and dominating the forest that surrounded it was the Chateau
de Pont Brillant, half veiled in the autumnal haze.

Frederick's eyes, after wandering aimlessly here and there for a moment,
finally fixed themselves upon the chateau. On beholding it, the
unfortunate lad started violently, his features contracted, then became
even more gloomy, and with his elbows still resting on the window-sill
he lapsed into a gloomy reverie.

So great was his preoccupation that he did not see or hear another
person enter the room, a stranger, who, with a book in his hand, seated
himself in a corner of the room without taking any notice of the youth.

Henri David, for that was the name of the newcomer, was a tall, slender
man about thirty-five years of age. His strong features, embrowned by
long exposure to the heat of the tropical sun, had a peculiar charm,
due, perhaps, to an expression of habitual melancholy. His broad, rather
high forehead, framed with wavy brown hair, seemed to indicate
reflective habits, and his bright, dark eyes, surmounted by fine arched
eyebrows, had a penetrating, though thoughtful expression.

This gentleman, who had just returned from a long journey, had been
spending several days at the house of Doctor Dufour, his most intimate
friend, but was to leave that same evening for Nantes to make
preparation for another and even more extended journey.

Frederick, still leaning on the window-sill, never once took his eyes
off the castle; and after a few moments Henri David, having laid his
book on his knee, doubtless to reflect upon what he had just been
reading, raised his head and for the first time really noticed the lad
whose side-face was distinctly visible from where he sat. He gave a
sudden start, and it was evident that the sight of the youth evoked some
sad and at the same time precious memory in his heart, for two tears
glittered in the eyes that were fixed upon Frederick; then, passing his
hand across his brow as if to drive away these painful recollections, he
began to watch the boy with profound interest as he noted, not without
surprise, the gloomy, almost heart-broken expression of his face.

The youth's eyes remained so persistently fixed upon the chateau that
David said to himself:

"What bitter thoughts does the sight of the Chateau de Pont Brillant
evoke in the mind of this pale, handsome youth that he cannot take his
eyes off it?"

David's attention was suddenly diverted by the blare of trumpets still a
long way off but evidently approaching the mall, and a few minutes
afterward this promenade was thronged with a crowd, eager to see the
cortege of hunters organised in honour of St. Hubert by the young
marquis.

The expectations of the crowd were not disappointed. The shrill notes of
the trumpets sounded louder and louder, and a brilliant cavalcade
appeared at the end of the mall.

The procession began with four whippers-in on horseback, in buckskin
jackets and breeches, with scarlet collars and facings richly trimmed
with silver braid, with cocked hats on their heads and hunting knives in
their belts. They also carried bugles, upon which they alternately
sounded the calls for the advance and retreat of the hounds.

Then came fully one hundred magnificent hunting dogs of English breed,
wearing upon their collars, still in honour of St. Hubert, big knots of
fawn-coloured and scarlet ribbon.

Six keepers on foot, also in livery, with knee-breeches, silk stockings,
and shoes with big silver buckles, also with hunting knives, followed
the pack, responding with their horns to the bugles of the huntsmen.

[Illustration: "THE PROCESSION BEGAN."]

A hunting fourgon, drawn by two horses driven tandem, served as a
funeral-car for a magnificent stag reposing upon a bed of green
branches, with his enormous antlers adorned with long floating ribbons.

Behind this fourgon came the huntsmen, all on horseback, some in long
scarlet redingotes, others clad out of courtesy in uniform like that
worn by the young Marquis de Pont Brillant.

Two barouches, each drawn by four magnificent horses driven by
postilions in fawn-coloured satin jackets, followed the hunters. In one
of these carriages was the dowager marquise as well as two young and
beautiful women in riding-habits, with a rosette of the Pont Brillant
colours on the left shoulder, for they had followed the chase from start
to finish.

The other barouche, as well as a mail phaeton and an elegant
_char-a-banc_, was filled with ladies and several elderly men, who by
reason of age had merely played the part of onlookers.

A large number of superb hunters, intended to serve as relays in case of
need, in richly emblazoned blankets and led by grooms on horseback,
ended the cortege.

The perfect taste that characterised the whole display, the perfection
of the dogs and horses, the richness of the liveries, the distinguished
bearing of the gentlemen, and the beauty and elegance of the ladies that
accompanied them would have excited admiration anywhere; but for the
denizens of the little town of Pont Brillant this cortege was a superb
spectacle, a sort of march from an opera, where neither music, gorgeous
costumes, nor imposing display wore lacking; so in their artless
admiration the most enthusiastic, or perhaps the most polite of these
townspeople,--a goodly number of them were tradespeople,--shouted,
"Bravo, bravo, monsieur le marquis!" and clapped their hands excitedly.

Unfortunately, the triumphal progress of the cortege was disturbed
momentarily by an accident that occurred almost under the windows of M.
Dufour's house.

The reader has not forgotten the venerable steed that had brought
Madame Bastien to Pont Brillant and that had been left standing with the
reins upon his neck in front of the doctor's house. The faithful animal
had always proved worthy of the confidence reposed in him heretofore,
and would doubtless have justified it to the end had it not been for
this unwonted display.

At the first blast of the bugle, the old horse had contented himself
with pricking up his ears, but when the procession began to pass him,
the shrill notes of the hunting-horns, the baying of the hounds, the
applause of the spectators, and the loud cries of the children, all
combined to destroy the wonted composure of this aged son of toil, and
neighing as loudly as in the palmy days of his youth, he evinced a most
unfortunate desire to join the brilliant cortege that was crossing the
mall.

With two or three vigorous bounds, the venerable animal, dragging the
old chaise after him, landed in the midst of the gay cavalcade, where he
distinguished himself by standing on his hind legs and pawing the air
with his fore feet, abandoning himself to the ebullition of joy,
directly in front of the barouche containing the dowager marquise, who
drew back in terror, waving her handkerchief and uttering shrill cries
of alarm.

Hearing this commotion, the young marquis glanced behind him to see what
was the matter, then, wheeling his horse about, reached the side of his
grandmother's carriage with a single bound, after which, with a few
heavy blows of his riding-whip, he made the venerable but too vivacious
work-horse realise the impertinence of this familiarity,--a hard lesson
which was greeted with shouts of laughter and loud applause of the
spectators.

As for the poor old horse, regretting doubtless the breach of confidence
of which he had been guilty, he humbly returned of his own accord to the
doctor's door, while the hunting cortege proceeded on its way.

Frederick Bastien, from the window where he was standing, had witnessed
the entire scene.




CHAPTER VIII.


When the cortege entered the mall, Frederick's countenance and
expression underwent such a strange transformation that David, who had
started toward the window on hearing the notes of the bugle, suddenly
paused, forgetting everything else in his surprise, for the lad's face,
in spite of its beauty, had become almost frightful in its expression.
The bitter smile which had curved Frederick's lips while he was gazing
at the distant chateau was succeeded by an expression of disdain when
the cortege appeared, but when Raoul de Pont Brillant, clad in his
costly hunting-suit and mounted on a magnificent jet black steed, passed
amid the admiring plaudits of the crowd, Frederick's face became livid,
and he clutched the window so violently that the veins, blue in his
hands, stood out like whipcords under the white skin.

None of these details had escaped the notice of Henri David, who had had
a wide experience with his kind, and his heart sank within him as he
said to himself:

"Poor boy! to feel the pangs of hatred so early, for I cannot doubt that
it is hatred he feels for that other lad on the handsome black horse!
But what can be the cause of it?"

Henri David was asking himself this question when the little contretemps
in which the old work-horse had played such a prominent part occurred.

On seeing his horse beaten, Frederick's face became terrible. His eyes
dilated with anger, and, with a cry of rage, he would in his blind fury
have precipitated himself from the window to run after the marquis, if
he had not been prevented by David, who seized him about the waist.

The surprise this occasioned recalled Frederick to himself, but,
recovering a little from his astonishment, he demanded, in a voice
trembling with anger:

"Who are you, monsieur, and why do you touch me?"

"You were leaning so far out of the window, my boy, that I feared you
would fall," replied David, gently. "I wanted to prevent such a
calamity."

"Who told you it would be a calamity?" retorted the youth.

Then turning abruptly away, he threw himself in an armchair, buried his
face in his hands, and began to weep.

David's interest and curiosity were becoming more and more excited as he
gazed with tender compassion at this unfortunate youth who seemed now as
utterly crushed as he had been violently excited a short time before.

Suddenly the door opened, and Madame Bastien appeared, accompanied by
the doctor.

"Where is my son?" asked Marie, glancing around the room, without even
seeing David.

Madame Bastien could not see her son, the armchair in which he had
thrown himself being concealed by the door that had been thrown open.

On seeing this beautiful young woman, who looked scarcely twenty, as we
have said before, and whose features bore such a striking resemblance to
Frederick's, David remained for a moment speechless with surprise and
admiration, to which was added a profound interest when he learned that
this was the mother of the youth for whom he already felt such a sincere
compassion.

"Where is my son?" repeated Madame Bastien, advancing farther into the
room and gazing around her with evident anxiety.

"The poor child is there," said David, in a low tone, at the same time
motioning the anxious parent to look behind the door.

There was so much sympathy and kindness in David's face as well as in
the tone in which he uttered the words, that though Marie had been
astonished at first at the sight of the stranger, she said to him now as
if she had known him always:

"Good Heavens! what is the matter? Has anything happened to him?"

"Ah, mother," suddenly replied the youth, who had taken advantage of the
moment during which he had been hidden from Madame Bastien's sight to
wipe away his tears. Then bowing with a distrait air to Doctor Dufour,
whom he had always treated with such affectionate cordiality before,
Frederick approached his mother and said:

"Come, mother, let us go."

"Frederick," exclaimed Marie, seizing her son's hands and anxiously
scrutinising his features, "Frederick, you have been weeping."

"No," he responded, stamping his foot impatiently, and roughly
disengaging his hands from his mother's grasp. "Come, let us go, I say."

"But he has been weeping, has he not, monsieur?" again turning to David
with a half-questioning, half-frightened air.

"Well, yes, I have been weeping," replied Frederick, with a sarcastic
smile, "weeping for gratitude, for this gentleman here," pointing to
David, "prevented me from falling out of the window. Now, mother, you
know all. Come, let us go."

And Frederick turned abruptly toward the door.

Doctor Dufour, no less surprised and grieved than Madame Bastien, turned
to David.

"My friend, what does this mean?" he asked.

"Monsieur," added Marie, also turning to the doctor's friend,
embarrassed and distressed at the poor opinion this stranger must have
formed of Frederick, "I have no idea what my son means. I do not know
what has happened, but I must beg you, monsieur, to excuse him."

"It is I who should ask to be excused, madame," replied David, with a
kindly smile. "Seeing your son leaning imprudently far out of the window
just now, I made the mistake of treating him like a schoolboy. He is
proud of his sixteen summers, as he should be, for at that age,"
continued David, with gentle gravity, "one is almost a man, and must
fully understand and appreciate all the charm and happiness of a
mother's love."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed Frederick, impetuously, his nostrils quivering
with anger, and a deep flush suffusing his pale face, "I need no lesson
from you."

And turning on his heel, he left the room.

"Frederick!" cried Marie, reproachfully, but her son was gone; so
turning her lovely face, down which tears were now streaming, to David,
she said, with touching artlessness:

"Ah, monsieur, I must again ask your pardon. Your kind words lead me to
hope that you will understand my regret, and that you will not blame my
unhappy son too severely."

"He is evidently suffering, and should be pitied and soothed," replied
David, sympathisingly. "When I first saw him I was startled by his
pallor and the drawn appearance of his features. But he has gone,
madame, and I would advise you not to leave him by himself."

"Come, madame, come at once," said Doctor Dufour, offering his arm to
Madame Bastien, and the latter, divided between the surprise the
stranger's kindness excited and the intense anxiety she felt in regard
to her son, left the room precipitately in company with the doctor to
overtake Frederick.

On being left alone, David walked to the window. A moment afterward, he
saw Madame Bastien come out of the house with her handkerchief to her
eyes and leaning on the doctor, and step into the shabby little vehicle
in which Frederick had already seated himself amid the laughs and sneers
of the crowd that lingered on the mall, and that had witnessed the old
work-horse's misadventure.

"That old nag won't forget the lesson the young marquis gave him for
some time, I'll be bound," remarked one lounger.

"Wasn't he a sight when he planted himself with that old rattletrap of a
chaise right in the midst of our young marquis's fine carriages?"
remarked another.

"Yes, the old plug won't forget St. Hubert's Day in a hurry, I guess,"
added a third.

"Nor shall I forget it," muttered Frederick, trembling with rage.

At that moment the doctor assisted Madame Bastien into the vehicle, and
Frederick, exasperated by the coarse jests he had just overheard, struck
the innocent cause of all this commotion a furious blow, and the poor
old horse, unused to such treatment, started off almost on a run.

In vain Madame Bastien implored her son to moderate the animal's pace.
Several persons narrowly escaped being run over. A child who was slow in
getting out of the way received a cut of the whip from Frederick, and
whirling rapidly around the corner at the end of the mall, the chaise
disappeared from sight amid the jeers and execrations of the angry
crowd.




CHAPTER IX.


After he had escorted Marie to her carriage Doctor Dufour reentered the
house and found his friend still standing thoughtfully by the window.

On hearing the door open and close, David awoke from his reverie and
turned toward the doctor, who, thinking of the painful scene which they
had just witnessed, exclaimed, referring of course to Madame Bastien:

"Poor woman! poor woman!"

"The young woman does indeed seem greatly to be pitied," remarked David.

"Far more than you think, for she lives only for her son; so you can
judge how she must suffer."

"Her son? Why, I thought he was her brother. She doesn't look a day over
twenty. She must have married very young."

"At the age of fifteen."

"And how beautiful she is!" remarked Henri, after a moment's silence.
"Her loveliness, too, is of an unusual type,--the at once virginal and
maternal beauty that gives Raphael's virgin mothers such a divine
character."

"Virgin mothers! The words are peculiarly appropriate in this
connection. I will tell you Madame Bastien's story. I feel sure that it
will interest you."

"You are right, my friend. It will give me food for thought during my
travels."

"M. Fierval," began the doctor, "was the only son of a well-to-do banker
of Angers; but several unfortunate speculations involved him deeply,
financially. Among his business friends was a real estate agent named
Jacques Bastien, who was a native of this town and the son of a notary.
When M. Fierval became embarrassed, Bastien, who had considerable ready
money, gave him valuable pecuniary assistance. Marie was fifteen at the
time, beautiful, and, like nearly all the daughters of thrifty
provincials, brought up like a sort of upper servant in the house."

"What you say amazes me. Madame Bastien's manners are so refined. She
has such an air of distinction--"

"In short, you see nothing to indicate any lack of early education in
her."

"Quite the contrary."

"You are right; but you would not be so much surprised if you had
witnessed the numerous metamorphoses in Madame Bastien that I have.
Though she was so young she made a sufficiently deep impression upon our
real estate man for him to come to me one day, and say:

"'I want to do a very foolish thing, that is to marry a young girl, but
what makes the thing a little less idiotic, perhaps, is that the girl I
have in view, though extremely pretty, has very little education, though
she is a capital housewife. She goes to market with her father's cook,
makes delicious pickles and preserves, and hasn't her equal in mending
and darning.' Six weeks afterward, Marie, in spite of her aversion, and
in spite of her tears and entreaties, yielded to her father's inexorable
will, and became Madame Bastien."

"Was Bastien himself aware of the repugnance he inspired?"

"Perfectly; and this repugnance, by the way, was only too well
justified, for Bastien, who was then forty-two years old, was as ugly as
I am, to say the least, but had the constitution of a bull,--a sort of
Farnese Hercules he was, in short,--though much more inclined to
embonpoint, as he is an immense eater, and not at all cleanly in his
personal habits. So much for him physically. Mentally, he is coarse,
ignorant, arrogant, and bigoted, insufferably proud of the money he has
amassed. Strongly inclined to avarice, he thinks he is treating his wife
very liberally by allowing her one servant, a gardener, who acts as a
Jack-of-all-trades on the place, and an old work-horse to take her to
town now and then. The only good thing about Bastien is that his
business keeps him away about three-quarters of the time, for he buys
large tracts of land all over the country, and, after dividing them up,
sells these subdivisions to small farmers. When he does return to his
present home, a farm which proved a poor investment, and which he has
been unable to dispose of, he devotes his time to making as much money
out of it as he can, getting up at sunrise to watch his crops put in,
and returning only at night to sup voraciously, drink like a fish, and
fall into a drunken sleep."

"You are right, Pierre, this poor woman is much more unfortunate than I
supposed. What a husband for such a charming creature! But men like this
Bastien, who are endowed with the appetites of the brute combined with
the instinct of rapacity, are at least excessively fond of their wives
and their young. M. Bastien at least loves his wife and son, does he
not?"

"As for his wife, your comparison of a virgin mother was singularly
appropriate, as I remarked a few minutes ago. A day or two after his
marriage, Bastien, who has always persecuted me with his confidences,
said, sullenly: 'If I were to yield to that prudish wife of mine I
should remain a bachelor husband all the rest of my life.' And it would
seem that he has been obliged to, for, alluding to his son, he remarked
one day, 'It is a good thing for me I had a child when I did, but for
that I should never have had one.' In his anger at finding himself
rebuffed, he tried to punish poor Marie for the repugnance he had
inspired, but which he has been entirely unable to overcome, though he
has resorted to brutality, to violence, and even to blows; for when this
man is intoxicated he has not the slightest control over himself."

"Why, this is infamous!"

"Yes; and when I indignantly reproached him, he said: 'Nonsense. She is
my wife, and the law is on my side. I didn't marry to remain a bachelor,
and no slip of a girl like that is going to get the better of me.' And
yet he has had to yield, for brute force cannot overcome a woman's
aversion and loathing, particularly when the woman is endowed with
remarkable strength of will like Marie Bastien. At first he intended to
live in Blois, but his wife's resistance changed his plans. 'If this is
the way she is going to act,' he said to me one day, 'she shall pay
dearly for it. I have a farm near Pont Brillant. She shall live there
alone on one hundred francs a month.' And he was as good as his word.
Marie accepted the pinched and lonely life Bastien imposed upon her with
courage and resignation, though Bastien did his best to make her
existence as miserable as possible, until he learned that she was
enceinte. After that he became a little more lenient, for though he
still left Marie at the farm, he allowed her to make a few inexpensive
changes, which, thanks to Madame Bastien's good taste, have quite
transformed the abode. The amiability and many virtues of his charming
wife seem to have wrought some slight improvement in Bastien, for though
he is still coarse, he seems to be rather less of a brute, and to have
decided to make the best of his life of a bachelor husband. 'Well,
doctor, I was born lucky after all,' he remarked to me, not very long
ago. 'My wife is living, and I am not sorry for it on the whole. She is
sweet-tempered and patient and economical, and I never give her a penny
except for household expenses, yet she seems perfectly contented. She
never sets foot off the farm, and seems to think only of her son. On the
other hand, if my wife should die I should not be inconsolable, for, as
you must understand yourself, to be a married man and yet have to lead a
bachelor life has its objections as well as being very expensive; so
whether my wife lives or dies I have no cause to complain. That was what
I meant when I told you just now that I was really born lucky, after
all.'"

"And his son, does he seem to really care anything about him?" inquired
Henri, more and more interested.

"Bastien is one of those fathers who consider that a parent should
always be crabbed and angry and fault-finding, so, during his rare
sojourns at the farm, where he evinces more interest in his cattle than
in his son, he always finds a means of incensing his child against him.
The natural result of all this is that Bastien has no place in the lives
of his wife and son. And, speaking of Frederick's education, I must tell
you another of those admirable metamorphoses that maternal love has
effected in Madame Bastien."

"Pray do, Pierre," said Henri, earnestly. "You have no idea how much
this interests me."

"Reared as I have described, and married at the age of fifteen,"
continued the doctor, "Marie Bastien had received a very imperfect
education, though she was really endowed with an unusual amount of
intellectual ability. But when she became a mother, realising the
importance of the duties devolving upon her, Marie, inconsolable at her
ignorance, resolved to acquire in four or five years all the knowledge
necessary to enable her to undertake her child's education, which she
was determined to entrust to no one else."

"And this resolve?" inquired David.

"Was faithfully carried out. When she first broached the subject to
Bastien he scoffed at the idea, but when Marie told him that she was
determined not to be separated from her son, and reminded him how
expensive it would be to have teachers come out to the farm from Pont
Brillant and later from Blois, Bastien concluded that his wife might be
right, after all, and consented to the arrangement. Fortunately Marie
found in a young Englishwoman a treasure of knowledge, intelligence, and
kindheartedness. Miss Harriet, for that was her name, appreciating and
admiring this rare example of maternal devotion, devoted herself body
and soul to her mission, and, ably assisted by the natural talent and
untiring industry of her pupil, in four years she had imparted to the
young mother a thorough acquaintance with history, geography, and
literature. Madame Bastien had also become a sufficiently good musician
to teach her son music. She had also acquired a fair knowledge of the
English language, a sufficient knowledge of drawing to be able to teach
Frederick to draw from nature. He profited wonderfully well by these
lessons, for few boys of his age are equally far advanced or so
thoroughly grounded, and his mother certainly had good cause to feel
proud of the effects both of her training and teaching, when she
suddenly perceived a strange change in him."

The doctor was here interrupted by the entrance of the old servant, who,
addressing her master, said:

"Monsieur, I came to warn you that the diligence for Nantes will pass at
six o'clock, and they have come for M. David's baggage."

"Very well, they can take it, and will you ask them to be good enough to
inform me when the diligence arrives?"

"Yes, M. David." Then, with an expression of artless regret, she added:

"Is it really true that you are going to leave us, M. David? Is it
possible that you are going to let your friend go?" she added, turning
to the doctor.

"Do you hear that?" asked M. Dufour, smiling sadly. "I am not the only
person who regrets your departure, you see."




CHAPTER X.


After the servant's departure, Henri David, still under the painful
impression which his friend's revelations on the subject of Marie
Bastien had produced, remained silent for several minutes.

Doctor Dufour, too, was silent and thoughtful, for the servant's
announcement had reminded him that he was soon to be separated from his
dearest friend, perhaps for years.

Henri was the first to speak.

"You were right, Pierre, I shall take away with me a delightful
recollection of this charming Madame Bastien. What you have just told me
will often be a subject of pleasant thought to me, and--"

"I understand you, Henri, and you must forgive me for not having thought
of it sooner," exclaimed the doctor, noting his friend's emotion, "the
sight of this youth must remind you--"

"Yes, the sight of this youth does remind me of one I can never forget,
my poor Fernand," said Henri, seeing the doctor hesitate. "He was about
Frederick's age, so it is only natural that this handsome boy should
excite my interest, an interest which is naturally increased by the
admiration I feel for his brave and devoted mother. Heaven grant that,
after all her love and devotion, her son is not going to be a
disappointment to her. But how is it that, after he has been reared with
such care and solicitude, he should now give his mother such grave cause
for anxiety?"

"The fact is that this lad, whom you have just seen so pale and thin
and sullen and irascible, was full of health and gaiety and good humour
only a few months ago. Then the relations that existed between his
mother and himself were of the most charming as well as affectionate
character imaginable, while his generosity of heart could not have
failed to excite your liveliest admiration."

"Poor boy," said Henri David, compassionately. "I believe you, Pierre,
for there is such an expression of sadness and bitterness on his
handsome face. It is evident that he is not bad at heart. It seems to me
more as if he were suffering from some secret malady," added Henri,
thoughtfully. "How strange it is that there should be such a remarkable
change in him in so short a time!"

"I cannot understand it myself," replied the doctor, "for heart and mind
and body all seem to have been attacked at the same time. A short time
ago study was a pleasure to Frederick, his imagination was brilliant,
his mental faculties almost precocious in their development. All this is
changed now, and about a month ago his mother, distressed at the state
of apathy into which her son had so suddenly relapsed, decided to employ
a tutor for him, hoping that a change of instructors and new branches of
study, more especially those of natural science, would act as a sort of
stimulant."

"Well?"

"At the end of a week the tutor, disgusted with Frederick's dullness,
rudeness, and violence, left the house."

"But to what do you attribute this remarkable change?"

"I thought and still think that it is due to natural or rather physical
causes. There are many instances of similar crises in youths on
attaining the age of puberty. It is a time of life when the salient
traits of character begin to manifest themselves, when the man
succeeding the youth begins to show what he is going to be some day.
This metamorphosis nearly always causes serious disturbance throughout
the entire system, and it is quite probable that Frederick is now under
the influence of this phenomenon."

"Doesn't this very plausible explanation reassure Madame Bastien?"

"One can never entirely reassure a mother, at least a mother like that.
The reasons I gave her calmed her fears for awhile, but the trouble
increased and she took fright again. In her interview with me just now
she made no attempt to disguise her fears, and even accused herself of
being to blame for the recent state of things. 'I am his mother and yet
I cannot divine what is the matter with him, so I certainly must be
lacking in penetration and in maternal instinct. I am his mother, and
yet he will not tell me the cause of the trouble that is killing him. It
is my fault. It must be. I cannot have been a good mother. A mother has
always done something wrong if she cannot succeed in gaining her child's
confidence.'"

"Poor woman!" exclaimed Henri. "She wrongs herself, though, in
considering her maternal instinct in fault."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, doesn't her instinct warn her that you are wrong, plausible as
your explanation of her son's condition is, for, in spite of her
confidence in you, and in spite of the desire she feels to be reassured,
your assurances have not calmed her fears."

Then, after sitting silent and thoughtful for a moment, Henri asked:

"Is that large building we see there in the distance the Chateau de Pont
Brillant?"

"Yes. Its owner, the young marquis, was in the party that passed just
now. But why do you ask?"

"Does Madame Bastien's son visit there?"

"Oh, no. The Pont Brillants are a very proud and aristocratic family,
and associate only with the nobility."

"So Frederick does not even know the young marquis?"

"If he does, it is only by sight, for I repeat the young marquis is much
too proud to have anything to do with a youth of Frederick's humble
station."

"Is this family popular?" inquired Henri David, more and more
thoughtfully.

"The Pont Brillants are immensely rich, nearly all the land for six or
seven leagues around belongs to them. They own, too, most of the houses
in this little town. The tradespeople, too, are of course largely
dependent upon their patronage, so this powerful family command at least
a strong show of respect and attachment. There is also a certain amount
of money given to the poor every year by the family. The mayor and the
cure distribute it, however. The young marquis has nothing more to do
with that than his grandmother, whose skepticism and cynicism make Baron
Holbach's atheism seem pale by comparison. But why do you ask all these
questions in relation to the chateau and its occupants?"

"Because just now when I was alone with Frederick I thought I discovered
that he hated this young marquis with a deadly hatred."

"Frederick?" exclaimed the doctor, with quite as much surprise as
incredulity. "That is impossible. I am sure he never spoke to M. de Pont
Brillant in his life. So how could he possibly feel any such animosity
against the young marquis?"

"I do not know, but I am sure, from what I have seen, that he does."

"What you have seen?"

"The horse that brought Frederick and his mother here, not being
hitched, evinced an intention of joining the brillant cortege as it
passed. The young marquis struck it a heavy blow with his whip and drove
it back, and if I had not restrained Frederick, he would have jumped
out of the window and flown at M. de Pont Brillant."

"So it was in order not to frighten Madame Bastien you told us--"

"That Frederick had imprudently leaned too far out of the window. Yes,
Pierre, I repeat it, I did not lose a gesture or the slightest change of
expression in the poor boy's face. It is hatred, a deadly hatred, that
he feels for the other youth."

"But I tell you that Madame Bastien's son has never even spoken to Raoul
de Pont Brillant. They live in two entirely different worlds. They can
never have come in the slightest contact with each other."

"True. Your reasoning seems perfectly just, and I suppose I ought to
acquiesce," replied Henri David, thoughtfully. "Nevertheless, something
tells me that I am right, and now I almost begin to regret having met
this charming woman, for the very reason that she and her son have
inspired me with such a deep interest."

"What do you mean?"

"Frankly, my friend, what can be more sad than to feel a commiseration
as profound as it is futile? Who could be more worthy of sympathy and
respect than this most unhappily married woman, who has lived even
cheerfully for years in almost complete solitude, uncomplainingly, with
a son as handsome, sensible, and intelligent as herself? And suddenly at
one fell swoop this life is blighted; the mother watches with growing
despair the progress of the mysterious malady the cause of which she has
striven in vain to discover. Ah, I can understand only too well the
agony of an experience like hers, for I too loved my poor Fernand almost
to idolatry," continued Henri, scarcely able to restrain his tears, "and
to me this utter powerlessness in the presence of an evil one deeply
deplores has always been a source of torture, almost of remorse, to
me."

"Yes, that is true," replied the doctor. "How often you said almost the
very same thing in the letters you wrote me during your long and
dangerous journeys, undertaken with such a noble object, but at the same
time with the necessity of authenticating the most frightful facts, the
most barbarous customs, the most atrocious laws, though realising all
the while that this state of things must go on for years, and perhaps
even for centuries, unhindered. Yes, yes, I can understand how it must
try a soul like yours to see evils which it is impossible to assuage."

The clock in a neighbouring church struck three quarters past five.

"My dear friend, we have but a few minutes left," remarked Henri,
holding out his hand to the doctor, who was unable to speak for awhile,
so great was his emotion.

"Alas! my dear Henri," he said at last, "I ought to have accustomed
myself to the idea of your departure, but you see my courage fails me
after all."

"Nonsense, Pierre, I shall see you again in less than two years. This
voyage will probably be the last I shall undertake, and then I am coming
to take up my abode near you."

"Monsieur, monsieur, the Nantes diligence is coming in," cried the old
servant, rushing into the room. "You haven't a minute to lose."

"Farewell, Pierre," said Henri, clasping his friend in a last embrace.

"Farewell. God grant we may meet again, my dear Henri."

A few minutes afterward, Henri David was on his way to Nantes, from
which port he was to start on an expedition to Central Africa.




CHAPTER XI.


One more drop makes the cup run over, says the proverb. In like manner,
the scene that had occurred on the mall at Pont Brillant on St. Hubert's
Day had caused the rancour that filled Frederick Bastien's heart to
overflow.

In the chastisement which the young marquis had inflicted upon his
horse, Frederick saw an insult, or rather a pretext, that would enable
him to manifest his hatred toward Raoul de Pont Brillant.

After a night spent in gloomy reflections, Madame Bastien's son wrote
the following note:

     "If you are not a coward, you will come to Grand Sire's Rock
     to-morrow morning with your gun loaded. I shall have mine. Come
     alone, I shall be alone.

     "I hate you. You shall know my name when I have told you to your
     face the reason of my hatred.

     "Grand Sire's Rock stands in a lonely part of your forest. I shall
     be there all the morning, and all day if necessary, waiting for
     you: so you will have no excuse for failing to come."

This absurd effusion can be explained only by Frederick's youth and
intense animosity, as well as his utter lack of experience and the
isolation in which he had lived.

This effusion written and posted, the youth feigned unusual calmness all
day, so no one would suspect his designs.

When night came, he told Madame Bastien that he felt very tired and
intended to stay in bed all the next forenoon, and that he did not want
any one to come to his room until after he got up; so the mother, hoping
rest would prove beneficial to her son, promised his request should be
complied with.

At daybreak Frederick cautiously made his escape through his bedroom
window and hastened to the place of rendezvous. As he approached it his
heart throbbed with ferocious ardour, feeling confident that Raoul de
Pont Brillant would hasten to avenge the insult contained in this
insulting note he had received.

"He shall kill me, or I will kill him," Frederick said to himself. "If
he kills me, so much the better. What is the use of dragging out a life
poisoned with envy? If I kill him--"

He shuddered at the thought, then, ashamed of his weakness, he
continued:

"If I kill him, it will be better yet. He will cease to enjoy the
pleasures and luxuries that arouse my envy. If I kill him," added the
unfortunate youth, trying to justify this bloodthirsty resolve on his
part, "his luxury will no longer flaunt itself before my poverty and the
poverty of many others who are even more to be pitied than I am."

The name of Grand Sire's Rock had been bestowed centuries before on a
pile of big granite boulders only a short distance from one of the least
frequented paths in the forest, and, as a number of large chestnut and
pine trees had sprung up between the moss-covered rocks, it was a wild
and lonely spot, well suited for a hostile meeting.

Frederick deposited his gun in a sort of natural grotto formed by a deep
opening half concealed by a thick curtain of ivy. This spot was only
about forty yards from the road by which the marquis must come if he
came at all, so Frederick stationed himself in a place where he could
see quite a distance down the road without being seen.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed and Raoul de Pont Brillant did
not come.

Unable to believe that the young marquis could have scorned his
challenge, Frederick, in his feverish impatience, devised all sorts of
excuses for his adversary's delay. He had not received the letter until
that morning; he had doubtless been obliged to do some manoeuvring to be
able to go out alone; possibly he had preferred to wait until nearer
evening.

Once Frederick, thinking of his mother and of her despair, said to
himself that perhaps in less than an hour he would have ceased to live.

This gloomy reflection rather weakened his resolution for a moment, but
he soon said to himself:

"It will be better for me to die. My death will cost my mother fewer
tears than my life, judging from those I have already compelled her to
shed."

While he was thus awaiting the arrival of the marquis, a carriage that
had left the chateau about three o'clock in the afternoon paused at the
intersection of the footpath not far from the so-called Grand Sire's
Rock.

When this low, roomy equipage drawn by two magnificent horses stopped at
the cross-roads, two tall, powdered footmen descended from their perch,
and one of them opened the carriage door, through which the
Dowager-Marquise de Pont Brillant alighted quite nimbly in spite of her
eighty-eight years; after which another woman, quite as old as the
dowager, also stepped out.

The other footman, taking one of the folding-chairs which invalids or
very old people often use during their walks, was preparing to follow
the two octogenarians when the marquise said, in a clear though rather
quavering voice:

"Remain with the carriage, which will wait for me here. Give the
folding-chair to Zerbinette."

To answer to the coquettish, pert name of Zerbinette at the age of
eighty-seven seems odd indeed, but when she entered the service of her
foster-sister, the charming Marquise de Pont Brillant, seventy years
before, as assistant hair-dresser, her retrousse nose, pert manner, big,
roguish eyes, provoking smile, trim waist, small foot, and dimpled hand
richly entitled her to the sobriquet bestowed upon her at that time by
the marquise, who, married direct from the convent at the age of
sixteen, was already considerably more than flirtatious, and who, struck
by her assistant hair-dresser's boldness of spirit and unusual
adaptability for intrigue, soon made Zerbinette her chief maid and
confidante.

Heaven only knows the good times and larks of every sort this pair had
enjoyed in their palmy days, and the devotion, presence of mind, and
fertility of resource Zerbinette had displayed in assisting her mistress
to deceive the three or four lovers she had had at one time.

The deceased husband of the marquise need be mentioned only incidentally
in this connection; in the first place because one did not take the
trouble to deceive a husband in those days, and in the second place
because the high and mighty seigneur
Hector-Magnifique-Raoul-Urbain-Anne-Cloud-Frumence, Lord Marquis of Pont
Brillant and half a dozen other places, was too much of a man of his
time to interfere with madame, his wife, in the least.

From this constant exchange of confidences on the part of the marquise
and of services of every sort and kind on the part of Zerbinette there
had resulted a decided intimacy between mistress and maid. They never
left each other, they had grown old together, and their chief pleasure
now consisted in talking over the escapades and love affairs of former
years, and it must be admitted that each day had its saint in their
calendar.

The dowager-marquise was small, thin, wrinkled, but very straight. She
dressed in the most elaborate fashion and was always redolent with
perfumes. She wore her hair crimped and powdered, and there was a bright
red spot on each cheek that increased the brilliancy of her large black
eyes, which were still bold and lustrous in spite of her advanced age.
She carried a small gold-headed ivory cane, and a richly jewelled
snuff-box from which she regaled herself from time to time.

Zerbinette, who was a little taller than her mistress, but equally thin,
wore her white hair in curls, and was attired with simple elegance.

"Zerbinette," said the dowager, after turning to take another look at
the footman who had opened the carriage door, "who is that tall,
handsome fellow? I don't remember to have seen him before."

"I doubt if you have, madame. He was just sent down from Paris."

"He's a fine-shaped fellow. Did you notice what broad shoulders he has,
Zerbinette? Handsome lackeys always remind me"--the marquise paused to
take a pinch of snuff--"handsome lackeys always remind me of that little
devil the Baroness de Montbrison."

"Madame la marquise has forgotten. It was the French Guards the
baroness--"

"You are right, and the Duc de Biron, their colonel--You remember M. de
Biron, don't you?"

"I should think I did. You had a pass-key to his little house on the
Boulevard des Poissonniers, and for your first rendezvous you dressed in
the costume of Diana, the huntress, exactly as in that handsome pastel
portrait of yourself. And how beautiful, ravishingly beautiful, you
looked in the costume, with your slim waist and white shoulders and
gleaming eyes!"

"Yes, my girl, yes. I had all those, and I made a good use of what the
Lord gave me. But to return to my story; you are right, Zerbinette, in
regard to the little baroness, it was the French Guards she went so
crazy about, so much so, in fact, that M. de Biron, their colonel, went
to the king and complained that his regiment was being ruined. 'I can't
have that,' replied the king, 'I want my French Guards for myself.
Montbrison got money enough by his wife to buy a regiment for her if she
wants it.'"

"Unfortunately, M. de Montbrison was not a sufficiently gallant
gentleman to do that. And speaking of handsome lackeys, madame must be
thinking of President de Lunel's wife, for--"

"Lunel!" exclaimed the dowager, pausing and glancing around her. "Say,
we are not far from Grand Sire's Rock, are we?"

"No, madame."

"I thought not. Do you remember that story of the osprey and poor
President de Lunel?"

"I only remember that monsieur le president was as jealous as all
possessed of the Chevalier de Bretteville, and he had good cause to be.
So it used to afford madame no end of amusement to invite them both to
the castle at the same time."

"Yes, and that was what reminded me of that affair of the osprey."

"I really have no idea what you mean."

"Ah, Zerbinette, you are growing old."

"Alas, yes, madame!"

"Well, we might as well walk in one direction as another, so suppose we
pay a visit to Grand Sire's Rock. The sight of the dear old rock will
rejuvenate me. Let me see, Zerbinette," added the marquise, taking
another pinch of snuff, "when was it that poor Lunel and the chevalier
were--"

"In October, 1779," responded Zerbinette, promptly.

"Sixty-odd years ago. Come and let us go and take a look at the famous
rock. It will make me feel young again."

"Very well, madame, but won't you find the walk too fatiguing?"

"I have the legs of fifteen this morning, girl, but if they should fail
me, you have my chair, you know."




CHAPTER XII.


As the two octogenarians started slowly down the path leading to Grand
Sire's Rock, Zerbinette remarked to her mistress:

"You were going to tell the story of the osprey, madame."

"Oh, yes. You recollect how jealous President de Lunel was of the
chevalier. Well, one day I said to him, 'Sigismond, wouldn't you like to
help me play a fine joke upon the chevalier?' 'I should be delighted,
marquise.' 'But to do it, Sigismond, you must know how to imitate the
cry of the osprey perfectly.' You can imagine the look on the
president's face when I told him that; but when I said to him, 'Learn
it, Sigismond, and as soon as you know it we will have a good laugh at
the poor chevalier's expense,' he promised he would begin that very
evening, as there were plenty of them in the neighbourhood. When the
president had learned to imitate the cry, I made an appointment to meet
the chevalier here at dusk. I came a little in advance of the time, in
company with the president, whom I ensconced in the sort of cave at
Grand Sire's Rock. 'Now, Sigismond, listen carefully to what I am going
to say to you,' I began. 'The chevalier will soon be here. You are to
count one thousand, so as to give him time to press his suit. I, too,
will count a thousand, but not until we get to nine hundred and
ninety-eight will I show any signs of softening toward the chevalier.
Then you must begin to utter your osprey cries.' 'Capital, marquise,
capital!' 'Hush, you bad boy, and listen to me. I shall say to the
chevalier, "Oh, that horrid bird! I am frightfully superstitious about
the osprey. Run to the chateau and get a gun to kill the hateful thing,
and afterward we will see." The chevalier will run to get the gun, and
then, my dear Sigismond, I will join you in the cave.' 'Really,
marquise, you are the most charming little devil imaginable!' 'Hide,
hide quick! here comes the chevalier.' And poor Lunel withdrew into his
hole and began to count one, two, three, four, etc., while I went to
join the chevalier."

"I can see the dear president's face now, as he carefully counted one,
two, three, four, while the chevalier was with you," exclaimed
Zerbinette, laughing like mad.

"All I can tell you, girl, is that though I had promised poor Lunel not
to soften toward the chevalier until we had got to nine hundred and
ninety-eight, I really didn't count more than ten. After awhile, the
president, who had finished his thousand, began to play the osprey with
all his might, and his strange, shrill, wild cries seemed to disturb the
chevalier so much that I said:

"'It is the osprey. Run to the chateau and get a gun to kill the horrid
thing. I hate the abominable creature so I long to tear it in pieces
with my own hands. Run and get the gun. I will wait for you here.' 'What
a strange whim, marquise. It is getting very dark, and you will be
afraid here in the forest alone.' 'Nonsense, chevalier, I am no coward.
Run to the chateau and come back as soon as you can.' It was quite time,
my girl, for when I went to the poor president, his voice had begun to
fail him, but fortunately he was all right again in a minute."

"And when the chevalier returned, madame?"

"He found the president and me not far from the place where we are now.
'You have come at last, chevalier,' I called out to him at a distance;
'but for the president, whom I met by chance, I should have died of
fear.' 'I told you so, marquise,' he replied. 'And the osprey, I think I
must have frightened him off, for I haven't heard him since I met the
marquise,' replied the president. 'But, by the way, my dear chevalier,'
added poor Lunel, innocently, 'do you know that the cry of the osprey
always indicates some calamity?' and as he spoke the president slyly
squeezed my left arm. 'Yes, my dear president, I have always heard that
the cry is prophetic of evil,' responded the chevalier, squeezing my
right arm. Afterward, when I went crazy over that actor, Clairville, he
and I had many a good laugh over this little affair with the president
and the chevalier, so for a long time 'It is the osprey' was a sort of
proverb among the people of our set."

"Alas! those were fine times, madame."

"Oh, hush up, Zerbinette, with your alases! Those good times will come
again."

"But when, madame?"

"Why, in the next world, of course. That was what I used to nearly wear
myself out telling Abbe Robertin, who used to go nearly crazy over those
delicious white truffles my cousin Doria used to send me. 'Well, madame
la marquise, it is surely better to believe in that sort of an
immortality than in nothing at all,' he used to reply, while he went on
cramming himself. In other words, my girl, I expect to get my girlhood
again, and all that goes with it, when I reach paradise."

"God grant it, madame," responded Zerbinette, devoutly. "Sixteen is
certainly a delightful age."

"That is exactly what I said to myself yesterday while I was watching my
grandson. What ardour and enthusiasm he displayed during the hunt! He's
a handsome--But look, here is Grand Sire's Rock. It was in that little
cave that the poor president played the part of an osprey."

"Don't go any closer to it, for Heaven's sake, madame. There may be some
wild beast in it."

"I thought of going in to rest awhile."

"Don't think of such a thing, madame. It must be as damp as a cellar in
there."

"That's a fact, so set my chair under this oak-tree, there on the sunny
side. That is right. Where will you find a seat, Zerbinette?"

"Over there on that rock. It is a little closer to the cave than I like,
but never mind."

"We were speaking of my grandson just now. He is a handsome fellow,
there is no doubt about it."

"There is a certain viscountess who seems to be of the same opinion. It
is always M. Raoul this, or M. Raoul that, and I have seen--"

"You have seen, you have seen--Why, you see nothing at all, girl. The
viscountess takes a little notice of the boy merely to blind her idiot
of a husband, so he won't get mad and make a fuss when M. de Monbreuil,
the viscountess's lover arrives, for I have invited him to come in a few
days. There is nothing that makes a house as lively and interesting as
to have a lot of lovers about, so I invite all I know; but it is strange
you haven't seen through the lady's manoeuvre. I warned my grandson,
for I feared the innocent, unsophisticated fellow might come to grief,
the viscountess is so charming."

"Innocent, unsophisticated!" exclaimed Zerbinette, shaking her head.
"You're mistaken about that, madame, for his infatuation for the
mistress doesn't keep him from playing the deuce with her maid."

"Dear boy! Is that really true, Zerbinette? Is there anything worth
looking at among the women the viscountess brought with her?"

"There is one tall blonde with dark eyes, plump as a partridge, with a
complexion like milk, and the loveliest figure--"

"And you think that Raoul--"

"You know, madame, that at his age--"

"_Pardi!_" exclaimed the marquise, taking another pinch of snuff. "That
reminds me," she continued, after a moment's reflection, "you know all
about everybody in the neighbourhood, who is it that leads the life of a
hermitess in that lonely farmhouse on the Pont Brillant road? You know
the place; the house is covered with vines, and there is a porch of
rustic work very much like that house my grandson has just been building
for his fawns."

"Oh, yes, I know, madame. It is Madame Bastien who lives there."

"And who is Madame Bastien?"

"Did you hear that, madame?" asked Zerbinette, breathlessly.

"What?"

"Why, there in the cave. I heard something moving in there."

"Nonsense, Zerbinette, how silly you are! It is the wind rustling the
ivy leaves."

"Do you really think so, madame?"

"There isn't the slightest doubt of it. But, tell me, who is this Madame
Bastien?"

"She is the wife of a real estate agent. I suppose you would call him
that, for he travels about the country buying tracts of land which he
afterward subdivides and sells. He is scarcely ever at home."

"Ah, he is scarcely ever at home, that would be a great advantage, eh,
Zerbinette. But tell me, is it true that this little Bastien is as
pretty as people say?"

"She's a beauty, there's no doubt about it, madame. You remember Madame
la Marechale de Rubempre, don't you?"

"Yes, and this young woman?"

"Is as beautiful as she was, perhaps even more so."

"And her figure?"

"Is perfect."

"That is what Raoul told me after he met her in the fields the other
day. But who is that big sallow boy who was with her? Some scallawag of
a brother probably. It might be a good idea to get him out of the way by
giving him a position as clerk in the steward's office with a salary of
twelve or fifteen hundred francs a year."

"Good heavens, madame!" exclaimed Zerbinette, springing up in alarm,
"there's somebody in the cave. Didn't you hear that noise?"

"Yes, I heard it," replied the intrepid dowager, "what of it?"

"Oh, madame, let us get away as quick as we can."

"I sha'n't do anything of the kind."

"But that noise, madame."

"He, he!" laughed the countess. "Perhaps it is the soul of the poor
president come back to count one, two, three, four, etc. Sit down, and
don't interrupt me again."

"You have always had the courage of a dragon, madame."

"There's no cause for alarm, you goose. Some osprey or some wild animal
may have sought shelter there. I want to know who that big hulking boy
was that Raoul saw with that Bastien woman,--her brother, eh?"

"No, madame, her son."

"Her son; why, in that case--"

"She was married when she was very young, and she is so admirably
preserved that she doesn't look a day over twenty."

"That must be so, for Raoul took a desperate fancy to her. 'She has big,
dark blue eyes, grandmother,' he said to me, 'a waist one can span with
his two hands, and features as regular as those on an antique cameo.
Only these plebeians are so little versed in the customs of good society
that this one opened her big eyes in astonishment, merely because I was
polite enough to take her a mantle she had dropped.' 'If she is as
pretty as you say, you young simpleton, you ought to have kept the
mantle, and taken it to her house. That would have gained you an
entrance there.' 'But, grandmother,' replied the dear boy, very
sensibly, 'it was by returning the mantle I found out that she was so
pretty.'"

"Oh, well, M. Raoul could easily have gone to her house a few days
afterward. She would have been delighted to see him, even if it were
only to make all the _bourgeoisie_ in the country, wild with envy."

"That is exactly what I told the dear child, but he did not dare to
venture."

"Give him a little time, and he'll get his courage up, never fear."

"I tell you, my girl," resumed the dowager, after quite a long silence,
as she slowly and thoughtfully took another pinch of snuff, "I tell you
that the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that for many
reasons this little Bastien would just suit the dear boy, that she would
be a perfect godsend to him, in fact."

"I think so, too, madame."

"So we had better strike while the iron is hot," continued the dowager.
"What time is it, Zerbinette?"

"Half-past four, madame," said the attendant, glancing at her watch.

"That gives us plenty of time. This morning when my grandson left to
spend the day with the Merinvilles at Boncour, I promised him I would
meet him at the lake at five o'clock, so we must make haste."

"But, madame, you forget that M. Raoul sent his groom to tell you that
he was going to pay a call at Montel after leaving Boncour, and that he
would not return to the chateau before seven."

"Yes, yes, you are right, girl. I must give up seeing him immediately
then, for to return from Montel he will have to take the Vieille Coupe
road, and that is too steep for me, for I'm a perfect coward in a
carriage; besides, as it is only half-past four, I should have to drive
too far to meet him, so I will postpone my conversation on the subject
of the hermitess until this evening. Give me your arm, Zerbinette, and
let us start, but first let me take another look at this famous rock."

"Don't go too near though, madame, for Heaven's sake."

But in spite of Zerbinette's protest she walked up to the rock, and,
casting an almost melancholy glance at the wild spot, exclaimed:

"Ah, there is no change in the rocks. They look exactly as they did
sixty years ago."

Then after a moment's silence, turning gaily to Zerbinette, who was
holding herself prudently aloof, the dowager added:

"That story of the osprey has recalled hundreds of other pleasant
reminiscences. I've a great mind to amuse myself by writing my memoirs
some day. They might serve both to instruct and edify my grandson," the
octogenarian continued, with a hearty laugh, in which Zerbinette joined.

For several minutes the sound of their laughter could be distinctly
heard as the two slowly wended their way down the path.

When the sound had entirely died away, Frederick, his face livid, his
expression frightful to behold, emerged from the cave where he had heard
every word of the conversation between the dowager-marquise and
Zerbinette, and, gun in hand, hastened toward another part of the
forest.




CHAPTER XIII.


The Vieille Coupe road, which Raoul de Pont Brillant would be obliged to
take on his return from the Chateau de Montel homeward, was a sort of
deep hollow way, with high banks covered with tall pine-trees, whose
heads formed such an impenetrable dome that the light was dim there even
at noontime, and at sunset it was so dark that two men who met there
would not be able to distinguish each other's features.

It was about six o'clock in the evening when Raoul de Pont Brillant
turned in this path, which seemed all the darker and more gloomy from
the fact that the highway he had just left was still lighted by the rays
reflected from the setting sun. He was alone, having sent his groom to
the chateau to inform the marquise of his change of plans.

He had proceeded only twenty yards when his vision became sufficiently
accustomed to the obscurity to enable him to distinguish a human being
standing motionless in the middle of the road, a short distance in front
of him.

"Hallo there, get to one side of the road or the other," he shouted.

"One word, M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant," responded a voice.

"What do you want?" asked Raoul, checking his horse and leaning over
upon his saddle, in a vain effort to distinguish the features of his
interlocutor. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"M. de Pont Brillant, did you receive a note this morning requesting
you to meet some one at Grand Sire's Rock?"

"No; for I left Pont Brillant at eight o'clock; but once more, what does
all this mean? Who the devil are you?"

"I am the writer of the letter sent you this morning."

"Ah, well, my friend, you can--"

"I am not your friend," interrupted the voice, "I am your enemy."

"What's that you say?" exclaimed Raoul, in surprise.

"I say that I am your enemy."

"Indeed!" retorted Raoul, in a half-amused, half-contemptuous tone, for
he was naturally very brave. "And what is your name, Mister Enemy?"

"My name is a matter of no consequence."

"Probably not, but why the devil do you stop me in the road at
nightfall, then? Ah, I remember you said you wrote to me."

"Yes."

"To tell me what?"

"That you were a coward if you--"

"Wretch!" exclaimed Raoul, starting his horse.

But Madame Bastien's son struck the horse in the head with the barrel of
his gun, forcing him to stop.

Raoul, a trifle startled at first, but really curious to know what the
stranger was coming at, calmed himself, and remarked, coldly:

"You did me the honour to write to me, you say?"

"Yes, to tell you that if you were not a coward, you would come to Grand
Sire's Rock to-day with your gun loaded like mine."

"And may I ask what we were to do with our guns?"

"We were to place ourselves ten paces apart, and then fire at each
other."

"And for what object may I ask?"

"So I would kill you or you would kill me."

"That would probably have been the case at that distance unless we were
very poor shots. But if one is so anxious to kill people, one should at
least tell me why."

"I want to kill you--because I hate you."

"Bah!"

"Do not sneer, M. de Pont Brillant, do not sneer."

"It is very difficult not to, but I'll try simply to oblige you. You
hate me, you say, and why?"

"The cause of my hatred concerns you as little as my name."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do."

"Well, you hate me, you say? What of it?"

"You must kill me or I shall kill you."

"That seems to be a settled thing with you. Where are we to fight?"

"Here, right here and now."

"But it isn't light enough to see."

"There is no need of its being light enough to see."

"But what are we to fight with?"

"With my gun."

"One gun?"

"Yes."

"That's a strange idea. How are we to do it?"

"Get down off your horse."

"And after that?"

"Pick up a handful of stones out of the road."

"Stones! So it is with stones that we are going to fight. It reminds me
of the famous battle between David and Goliath."

"I said that you were to pick up a handful of stones out of the road.
The darkness will prevent you from counting the stones, and you will
hold them in your closed hand. The one who guesses the number correctly
is to have the gun. He will place it against the other's breast and
fire. You see that no daylight is needed for that, M. de Pont
Brillant."

Frederick's manner was so resolute and his voice so incisive that the
young marquis, strange as the whole affair seemed to be, decided that
the speaker was really in earnest; then, suddenly remembering a
conversation that had taken place in his grandmother's drawing-room, he
burst into a hearty laugh and exclaimed:

"This is a good joke, upon my word. I understand everything now."

"Explain, M. de Pont Brillant."

"Last night at the chateau they were all telling stories about robbers
and midnight attacks, and they laughed about what I would do under such
circumstances. I talked a little boastfully of my courage, I suppose, so
they concocted this little scheme to test it, for they knew that I would
have to pass through this road in returning from Montel. You can tell
the persons that paid you to waylay me that I behaved myself very
creditably, for, upon my word as a gentleman, I took the thing seriously
at first. Good night, my worthy friend. Let me pass now, for it is
getting late, and I shall scarcely have time to reach Pont Brillant and
dress before dinner."

"This is no joke, M. de Pont Brillant, nor is it a test. You will not be
allowed to pass, and you are going to get down off your horse."

"I have had enough of this, I tell you," exclaimed Raoul, imperiously.
"You have earned your money. Now stand aside so I can pass."

"Dismount, M. de Pont Brillant, dismount, I say!"

"So much the worse for you, I'll ride right over you," cried Raoul, now
thoroughly enraged.

And he urged his horse on.

But Frederick seized the horse by the bridle, and with a violent jerk
forced the animal back upon its haunches.

"How dare you touch my horse, you scoundrel!" roared Raoul, raising his
whip and striking at random, but the blow fell only upon empty air.

"I consider the blow and the insulting epithet received, M. de Pont
Brillant, and now you will indeed be a coward if you don't dismount at
once and give me the satisfaction I demand."

As we have remarked before, Raoul was naturally brave; he was also as
experienced in the ways of the world as most young men of twenty-five,
so this time he answered very seriously and with remarkable good sense
and firmness:

"You have charged me with cowardice, and you have grossly insulted me
besides, so I tried to chastise you as one chastises a vagabond who
insults you on a street corner. Unfortunately the darkness rendered my
attempts futile, and you will be obliged to take the will for the deed.
If this doesn't satisfy you, you know who I am and you can come to the
Chateau de Pont Brillant to-morrow with two honourable men, if you know
any, which I doubt very much, judging from your actions. These gentlemen
can confer with the Vicomte de Marcilly and M. le Duc de Morville, my
seconds. Your seconds will tell my seconds your name and the cause of
the challenge you say you sent me this morning. These gentlemen will
decide between them what should be done. I am perfectly willing to abide
by their decision. That is the way such affairs are managed among
well-bred people. As you don't know, I will endeavour to teach you."

"And you refuse to fight me here and now?"

"I do, most decidedly."

"Take care. Either you or I will remain here!"

"Then it will be you, so good night," said Raoul.

As he spoke he plunged his spurs into his horse's sides. The animal made
a powerful spring forward, hurling Frederick to the ground.

When Madame Bastien's son, still stunned from his fall, staggered to his
feet, he heard the sound of Raoul's horse's hoofs already dying away in
the distance.

After a brief moment of stupor, Frederick uttered a cry of ferocious
joy, and, picking up his gun, climbed one of the almost perpendicular
banks on the side of the road with the aid of the pine saplings, and
plunged headlong into the forest.




CHAPTER XIV.


While these events were transpiring in the forest of Pont Brillant,
Madame Bastien was a prey to the most poignant anxiety. Faithful to the
promise she had made Frederick the evening before, she waited until
nearly one o'clock in the afternoon before entering her son's room.
Believing he was still sleeping, she hoped he would derive much benefit
from this restful slumber.

The young mother was in her chamber, which adjoined her son's room,
listening every now and then for some sound that would seem to indicate
that her son was awake, when Marguerite, their old servant, came in to
ask for some instructions.

"Speak low, and close the door carefully," said Marie. "I don't want my
son waked."

"M. Frederick, madame; why, he went out this morning at sunrise with his
gun."

To rush into her son's bedroom was the work of only an instant.

Frederick was not there; his gun, too, was missing.

Several hours passed, but Frederick did not appear, and the light of the
dull November day was already beginning to wane when Marguerite came
running in.

"Madame, madame," she exclaimed, "here is Father Andre! He saw M.
Frederick this morning."

"You saw my son this morning, Andre? What did he say to you? Where is he
now?" cried Madame Bastien, eagerly.

"Yes, madame, M. Frederick came to me for some bullets about sunrise
this morning."

"Bullets? What did he want of them?" asked the anxious mother, trying to
drive away the horrible suspicion that had suddenly presented itself to
her mind. "Did he want them for hunting?"

"Of course, madame; for M. Frederick told me that Jean Francois--you
know Jean Francois, the farmer near Coudraie?"

"Yes, yes, I know; go on."

"It seems that Jean Francois told M. Frederick yesterday that a wild
boar got into his garden a night or two ago, and ruined his potatoes;
and M. Frederick told me he was going to station himself in a
hiding-place that Jean Francois knew of, and kill the animal."

"But that is so dangerous," cried Madame Bastien. "Frederick never shot
at a boar in his life. If he misses, he is sure to be killed."

"I don't think you need feel any anxiety, madame. M. Frederick is an
excellent shot, and--"

"Then my son is at the farmer's house now, I suppose?"

"I presume so, as he is going with the farmer this evening."

A quarter of an hour afterward the young mother, panting and
breathless,--for she had run every step of the way,--knocked at the door
of the farmhouse, where Jean Francois and his wife and children were
seated around the fire.

"Jean Francois, take me where my son is at once," cried Madame Bastien;
then she added, reproachfully, "How could you allow a youth of his age
to expose himself to such danger? But come, I entreat you, come, it may
not be too late to prevent this imprudence on his part."

The farmer and his wife exchanged looks of profound astonishment, then
Jean Francois said:

"Excuse me, madame, but I've no idea what you mean."

"Didn't you complain to my son last night of a wild boar that had been
ravaging your garden?"

"Oh, the boars find so many nuts in the forest this year that they are
not inclined to leave it. They have done us no damage up to the present
time, thank Heaven."

"But you urged my son to come and take a shot at some boar."

"No, madame, no; I never even spoke of any boar to him."

Overcome with dread and consternation, Marie stood perfectly silent and
motionless for a moment. At last she murmured:

"Frederick lied to Andre. And those bullets--my God!--those bullets,
what did he intend to do with them?"

The honest farmer, seeing Madame Bastien's intense anxiety, and thinking
to reassure her at least in a measure, said to her:

"I never said anything to M. Frederick about hunting boars, but if you
want to find him, I think I know where he is."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Yes, madame. Madame knows that steep hill about a mile from the Vieille
Coupe road, as you go to the chateau through the forest?"

"Yes, yes; what of it?"

"Why, just at dusk I was coming down that hill on my way home, when I
saw M. Frederick come out of the forest and cross the road on the run."

"How long ago was this?"

"At least half an hour."

"Jean Francois, you are a good man. I am in great trouble. Take me to
the place where you saw my son, I implore you," pleaded the young
mother.

"I see what the trouble is, madame, and I don't know but you have good
cause to feel anxious--"

"Go on--go on."

"Well, the fact is that you're afraid that M. Frederick may be caught
poaching in the Pont Brillant woods. I feel in the same way, madame, and
I honestly think we have reason to be alarmed, for the young marquis is
bitter against poachers, and as jealous of his game as his deceased
father used to be. His guards are always on the watch, and if they find
M. Frederick poaching it will go hard with him."

"Yes, yes, that is what I am afraid of," replied Madame Bastien,
quickly. "You see we haven't a minute to lose. Jean Francois, I must get
my son away at any cost."




CHAPTER XV.


When Marie Bastien and her guide left the farmhouse they found that the
fog had lifted, and that the moon was shining brightly.

A profound silence reigned.

Jean Francois strode on for a moment or two in silence, then, moderating
his pace, he turned and said:

"Pardon, me, madame, I am going too fast, perhaps."

"Too fast? Oh, no, my friend, you cannot go too fast. Go on, go on, I
can keep up with you."

Then, after they had walked a few minutes longer in silence, Marie
asked:

"When you saw my son, did he seem excited or agitated?" And as the
farmer turned to reply, Madame Bastien exclaimed:

"Don't lose a minute, talk as we walk."

"I can hardly say, madame. I saw him come out of the forest, run across
the road, and enter a thicket which he had probably selected as a
hiding-place."

"And you think you would know this thicket?"

"Unquestionably, madame. It is only about ten rods from the sign-post on
the main road to the chateau."

"What a distance it is, Jean Francois! Shall we never get there?"

"It will take a quarter of an hour longer."

"A quarter of an hour!" murmured the young mother. "Alas! so many things
may happen in a quarter of an hour."

Madame Bastien and her guide hurried on, though more than once the young
woman was obliged to press both hands upon her breast to still the
violent throbbing of her heart.

"What time do you think it is, Jean Francois?" she asked a few minutes
afterward.

"Judging from the moon, I think it must be about seven o'clock."

"And when we reach the edge of the forest we are near the thicket, you
say?"

"Not more than a hundred yards at most, madame."

"You had better enter one side of the thicket, Jean Francois, and I will
enter the other, and we will both call Frederick at the top of our
voices. If he does not answer us," continued the young woman with an
involuntary shudder, "if he does not answer us, we shall be obliged to
continue our search, for we must not fail to find him."

"Certainly, madame, but if you will take my advice you will not call M.
Frederick."

"But why not?"

"We might give warning to the gamekeepers who are probably on the watch,
for a bright moonlight night like this seems to have been made expressly
for poachers."

"You are right. But do you hear that?" she exclaimed, pausing and
listening attentively. "It sounds like the ring of horse's hoofs."

"It is, madame. It may be that the head gamekeeper is making his rounds.
Now we have reached the edge of the forest, madame, we will take this
short cut, for it will take us straight to the guide-post, only look out
for your face, for there are so many holly-bushes."

And more than once Marie's delicate hands were torn and lacerated by the
sharp points of the holly-leaves, but she was not even conscious of it.

"Those bullets, why did he want those bullets?" she said to herself.
"But I will not allow myself to think of it. I should die of terror, and
I need all my strength."

Just then the sound of horse's hoofs, which had seemed to come from a
long way off, rang out louder and louder, then ceased entirely, as if
the animal had paused entirely or settled down into a walk to ascend a
very steep hill.

"It was only about twenty yards from here on the top of the hill that I
saw M. Frederick enter that thicket on the edge of the road," said the
farmer, pointing to a large clump of young oaks. "I will go around on
the other side of the thicket, you can enter it on this side, so we
cannot fail to find M. Frederick if he is still there. In case I meet
him before you do, I shall tell him that you want him to give up his
poaching at once, sha'n't I, madame?"

Marie nodded her assent, and entered the little grove in an agony of
suspense, while Jean Francois hurried on.

The horse was now near enough to the top of the hill for his tread to be
distinctly heard, though he was moving so slowly, and in another instant
horse and rider both became distinctly visible in the bright moonlight.
The rider was Raoul de Pont Brillant, who had been obliged to take this
route after leaving the Vieille Coupe road.

Frederick, who was familiar with every path and road in the forest, had,
by making a short cut through the woods, reached the top of the hill
considerably in advance of the young marquis.

Marie soon reached quite a large clearing that extended to the roadside.
Near the edge of this clearing stood an immense oak, and the thick moss
that covered the ground beneath it deadened the sound of any footsteps
so effectually that the young woman was able to approach without
attracting the attention of her son, whom she saw half hidden by the
enormous trunk of the tree. Too deeply absorbed to notice his mother's
approach, Frederick was kneeling bareheaded on the grass, holding his
gun half lowered as if confident that the moment to raise it to his
shoulder and fire was close at hand.

Though she had endeavoured to drive away the terrible thought, there had
been a strong fear of the possibility of suicide, so it is easy to
imagine Madame Bastien's intense joy and relief when, from her son's
posture, she concluded that the farmer's suspicions were justified and
that her son was merely poaching on his neighbour's preserves; so, in a
wild transport of tenderness and delight, the young mother sprang
forward and threw her arms around her son at the very instant he brought
his gun to his shoulder, muttering the while, in a ferocious tone:

"Ah, M. le marquis, I have you now."

For Frederick had just seen Raoul de Pont Brillant slowly advancing
toward him through the clear moonlight, lazily whistling a hunting song.

Madame Bastien's movement had been so sudden and so impetuous that her
son's gun fell from his hands at the instant he was about to fire.

"My mother!" murmured Frederick, petrified with astonishment.

The horse's tread and the hunting song Raoul de Pont Brillant was
whistling had partially deadened the noise Madame Bastien had made.
Nevertheless, the young marquis seemed to have heard or seen something
that had excited his suspicions, for, standing up in his stirrups, he
called out, imperiously, "Who goes there!" then listened attentively
again.

Marie, who had just discovered the reason of her son's presence in the
forest, placed her hand over Frederick's mouth and listened
breathlessly.

[Illustration: "HE BROUGHT HIS GUN TO HIS SHOULDER."]

Receiving no response after waiting several seconds, and not supposing
for one moment that his unknown enemy could have gotten here in advance
of him, Raoul settled himself in his saddle again, saying to himself:
"It was some startled deer leaping through the bushes;" after which
the mother and son, silent, motionless, and locked in a firm embrace,
heard the young man begin to whistle his hunting song again.

The sound grew fainter and fainter until it died away altogether in the
profound silence that pervaded the forest.




CHAPTER XVI.


Madame Bastien could no longer doubt Frederick's intentions, for she had
seen him aim at Raoul de Pont Brillant, at the same time exclaiming, "I
have you now, M. le marquis;" but this ambuscade seemed so cowardly and
so atrocious to the unfortunate woman that, in spite of the conclusive
evidence against her son, she still tried to close her eyes to the
truth.

"Frederick, my child, what are you doing here?" asked Madame Bastien,
tremulously.

"You do not answer me, my child," she continued. "Your eyes are haggard,
you look so strangely. You have been suffering so much for some days
past that it has brought on a sort of nervous fever. The fact that you
do not even know where you are or how you come to be here is proof of
that. You are like one who has just been suddenly awakened from a dream.
Am I not right, Frederick?"

"I know where I am."

"Yes, you do now, but you did not a moment ago."

"On the contrary, I tell you that I do know perfectly well why I am
hiding here with my gun."

"Then Jean Francois was right," said the poor mother, pretending to be
reassured. "What he told me was true."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you were poaching in the Pont Brillant woods. You can judge of my
anxiety when I heard that, so I hastened here at once with Jean
Francois, for it is frightfully imprudent in you, my poor child. Don't
you know that M. le marquis--"

The words M. le marquis startled Frederick out of his terrible calmness.
He clenched his fists furiously and, confronting his mother with a
ferocious expression upon his face, exclaimed:

"It was M. le marquis I was lying in wait for; do you hear me, mother?"

"No, Frederick, no," replied the poor mother, shuddering.

"I am determined to make myself understood, then," said Frederick, with
a frightful smile. "Knowing that M. le marquis would pass here about
nightfall on his way home, I loaded my gun and came and concealed myself
behind this tree to kill M. le marquis as he passed. Do you understand
me now, mother?"

On hearing this terrible confession, Madame Bastien's brain reeled for a
moment; then she showed herself to be truly heroic.

Placing one of her hands on her son's shoulder, she laid the other on
his forehead, saying in a calm, perfectly calm, voice, and as if talking
to herself:

"How hot his poor head is, and he is still delirious with fever! My God,
oh, my God, how can I induce him to follow me?"

Frederick, amazed by his mother's words and her apparent tranquillity
after the terrible confession he had just made, exclaimed:

"I am perfectly sane, I tell you, mother. It is you as much as myself
that I wish to avenge, and my hatred, you see--"

"Yes, yes, my child, I know," interrupted Madame Bastien, too much
terrified to notice Frederick's last words.

Then, kissing him on the forehead, she said, soothingly:

"Yes, yes, of course you have your senses, so come home with me; for it
is getting late and we have been out in these woods a long time."

"The place suits me well enough and I shall come back again," answered
Frederick, sullenly.

"Of course we will come back again, my child, but in order to do that we
shall first have to go away."

"Don't exasperate me too much, mother."

"Hush, hush, I implore you," whispered Marie, placing her hand upon her
son's lips and listening breathlessly. "Don't you hear footsteps? My
God, who is coming?"

Frederick caught up his gun.

"Ah, I know," murmured his mother, recovering from her alarm, after a
moment's reflection, "it is Jean Francois. He was to search for you in
one side of the grove while I searched in the other."

"Is that you, Jean Francois?" she called out, cautiously.

"Yes, Madame Bastien," replied the worthy farmer, who was not yet
visible but who could be distinctly heard forcing his way through the
branches. "I did not find M. Frederick."

"My son is here, Jean Francois."

"I am glad of it, Madame Bastien, for I just heard voices over by the
lake and think some of the gamekeepers must be making their rounds,"
said the worthy farmer, stepping into the clearing.

Frederick, in spite of the violence of his animosity, dared not repeat
the threats he had just uttered before his mother, so, taking his gun
under his arm, he silently and gloomily prepared to follow Madame
Bastien.

On reaching the farmer's cottage that worthy man insisted upon
harnessing his horse to his cart and taking Marie and her son home, and
she accepted his offer, being too much overcome with fatigue and emotion
to be capable of walking such a distance.

They had reached home about nine o'clock in the evening and Frederick
had scarcely entered the house before he tottered and fell unconscious
upon the floor. This swoon was followed by a severe nervous spasm which
terrified his mother beyond expression, but with old Marguerite's
assistance she did everything she could for her son, who was carried
into his own room and put to bed.

During this nervous spasm, though his eyes were closed, Frederick wept
bitterly, and when he recovered consciousness and saw his mother leaning
over him he held out his arms and pressed her tenderly to his breast.
This crisis over, he seemed much more calm, and, remarking that he
chiefly needed rest and quiet now, he turned his face toward the wall
and did not utter another word.

With rare presence of mind, Marie had ordered all the outside shutters
of her son's room closed before he was taken into it. There was no way
of reaching the room except through hers, where she intended to watch
all night, with the communicating door slightly ajar.

She was not one of those persons who are paralysed by misfortune.
Terrible as the discovery she had just made was, as soon as she was
alone she faced it resolutely, after vainly endeavouring to persuade
herself that her son had not been sane when he premeditated such an
execrable crime.

"I can no longer doubt that Frederick hates the young marquis with a
mortal hatred," she said to herself, "and this long suppressed animosity
is undoubtedly the cause of the great change which has taken place in
him during the last few months. This hatred has attained such an
intensity that my son, after having attempted to kill M. de Pont
Brillant, cannot be induced to abandon that horrible idea even now.
These are unquestionably the facts of the case. Now to what mysterious
circumstance am I to impute the origin and the development of such a
deadly animosity against a youth of his own age? How is it that my son,
who has been so carefully reared, and who has heretofore made me the
proudest and happiest of mothers, can have conceived such a horrible
idea? All this is of secondary importance, so I will postpone the
solution of these questions which puzzle my reason and make me doubt
myself until some later day. What I must do now and without delay is to
save my son from this terrible temptation, and thus prevent him from
committing a murder."

And after having satisfied herself that her son was sleeping quietly,
she seated herself at a table and wrote the following letter to her
husband:

     "TO M. BASTIEN:--I wrote you only a few days ago in relation to
     Frederick's poor health and to the departure of the tutor you had
     authorised me to employ.

     "My son's condition causes me great uneasiness, and I realise the
     urgent necessity of taking some decided action in the matter.

     "I consulted our friend, Doctor Dufour, again yesterday. He feels
     certain that Frederick's age and rapid growth is the cause of his
     nervous and morbid condition, and advises me to divert his mind
     from himself as much as possible, or, better still, travel with
     him.

     "This I am anxious to do, as in the seclusion in which we live it
     is almost impossible for me to give Frederick any diversion.

     "It is hardly probable that your business will allow you to
     accompany us to Hyeres, where I wish to take my son, but Marguerite
     will accompany us, and we may be absent five or six months, or a
     much shorter time, as that will depend upon the improvement in
     Frederick's health.

     "For reasons which it would take too long to enumerate here, I have
     fixed upon next Monday as the date of my departure. I would have
     started to-morrow morning if I had had the necessary amount of
     money, but the small sum you sent me last month has been used for
     household expenses, and you know I have no other money.

     "I send this letter to Blois by a messenger, so you will receive it
     day after to-morrow, and I implore you to answer by return mail,
     enclosing a draft on your banker in Blois. I have no idea what
     amount you will consider adequate. You know the simplicity of my
     habits. Calculate the amount that will be needed to transport us to
     Hyeres by diligence, add to that the trifling expenses that cannot
     be exactly foreseen, and sufficient money to live upon for a short
     time. We will establish ourselves in the most economical manner,
     and I will afterward write you exactly how much it will cost us a
     month.

     "Stress of business often prevents you from replying to my letters
     promptly or even at all, but you must realise the importance of
     this letter too much to permit any delay in this instance.

     "I do not wish to alarm you, but I feel it my duty to tell you that
     Frederick shows symptoms of so grave a nature that this journey
     may, and I hope will, be the salvation of my son.

     "I think I must have given you during the last seventeen years
     sufficient proofs of my strength of character and devoted affection
     for Frederick for you to feel satisfied that, sudden as this
     resolution on my part may appear to you, you will do everything in
     your power to aid me in carrying out a resolution dictated by the
     most urgent and imperative necessity.

     "I shall leave old Andre here. He will take charge of the house,
     and perform any service you may require during your visits. He is a
     trusty man to whom I can safely confide the charge of everything in
     my absence.

     "Good-bye. I end my letter rather abruptly so it can be mailed this
     evening.

     "I hope to receive a reply on Monday, in which case I shall take
     the diligence that same evening for Paris, where we shall remain
     only twenty-four hours, and then leave for Lyons on our way
     southward.

     "Once more adieu.

    "MARIE BASTIEN."

Her letter concluded, Madame Bastien ordered the horse harnessed so the
letter could be taken to Blois at once.

After satisfying herself several times in regard to the condition of her
son, who seemed to be resting more quietly, Madame Bastien sat down and
began to reflect upon the determination to travel that she had just
announced to her husband, and found it more and more opportune, though
she asked herself anxiously how she should manage to prevent Frederick
from getting out of her sight for a moment until the time appointed for
their departure. The little clock on the mantel had just struck twelve,
and the young mother was still absorbed in the same sorrowful
reflections, when she fancied she heard the quick ring of a horse's
hoofs in the distance, and the sound came nearer and nearer, until the
animal paused at the door of the farmhouse.

A few minutes afterward an unwonted bustle pervaded the dwelling and
some one rapped at the door of Madame Bastien's chamber.

"Who is there?" she asked.

"I, Marguerite, madame."

"What do you want?"

"Doctor Dufour is here, madame. He just arrived on horseback."

"Light a fire in the sitting-room and ask the doctor to wait for me
there. I will be down in a moment."

Then, recollecting that she would be obliged to leave her son, Madame
Bastien recalled the servant, and said:

"I have changed my mind. I will see the doctor here in my room. Show him
up at once."

Almost immediately the doctor appeared, preceded by Marguerite.

"Good Heavens! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed M. Dufour on
seeing Marie.

"Nothing, doctor--"

"Nothing!" repeated the physician, scrutinising Marie with evident
surprise, so terrible was the change which the events of the previous
evening had wrought in her appearance. "Nothing?"

"Ah, yes, I know," replied Madame Bastien, with a heart-broken smile,
reading the doctor's thoughts from the expression of his face.

Then placing a finger on her lips, she added, in a low tone, with a
meaning glance toward the door of Frederick's chamber:

"We must be very careful, my dear doctor, my son is in there asleep. He
has had a terrible experience this evening. I was about to write to you
and ask you to come to-morrow. It was Heaven that sent you."

"As my coming seems so opportune, I shall not have to apologise for
coming at such an unseasonable hour. I wished to talk with you about a
matter that would brook no delay, so I ventured to come almost in the
middle of the night and at the risk of disturbing you."

"My God! what is it?"

"Your son is asleep, is he not?"

"I think so."

"But he might hear us if he is not, so let us go to the other end of the
room and speak low, for it is a matter that concerns him."




CHAPTER XVII.


"I wish to speak to you in regard to the mental and physical change
which you have noticed in your son, and which is giving you such grave
uneasiness."

"Grave indeed, doctor."

"There is a possibility of curing him, I think."

"You really think you can, my dear doctor."

"I? No."

"What do you mean?"

"Have the goodness to read this, madame," said the doctor, drawing a
letter from his pocket and handing it to Madame Bastien, who, greatly
astonished, took it, and read as follows:

     "'MY DEAR PIERRE:--The diligence stops here for an hour and I take
     advantage of the opportunity thus afforded to write to you.

     "'After leaving you last evening the subject of our last
     conversation engrossed my thoughts to the exclusion of all other
     subjects, for what I had seen and heard could not fail to make a
     deep impression upon me.

     "'Last night, and this morning as well, I have been unable to drive
     that poor boy of Madame Bastien's out of my mind. You know, Pierre,
     that I am rarely deceived in the deductions I draw from certain
     physiognomies, and what I saw yesterday and what occurred during
     the passing of the hunting party alike convince me that Madame
     Bastien's son feels a deadly hatred for the young Marquis de Pont
     Brillant.'"

Marie, astonished by the justice of this observation, and overcome by
her recollection of the terrors of the evening, buried her face in her
hands, and began to sob wildly.

"Great Heavens! what is the matter?" cried the doctor.

"Ah, that is only too true. It is hatred, an implacable hatred, that he
feels. But who wrote this letter?"

"My best friend, the most generous and noble-hearted man in the world.
You remember meeting a stranger at my house on St. Hubert's Day, do you
not?"

"The gentleman my son treated so rudely?"

"The same; but pray go on with the letter."

     "'I have not endeavoured to discover the cause of this animosity,
     but daily association with Frederick would undoubtedly enable a
     patient and sagacious person to make a discovery which is
     indispensable if he would effect a cure. Confident that an
     implacable animosity has already taken deep root in Frederick's
     heart, I ask myself by what strange anomaly he can be a prey to
     such a deplorable weakness.'"

"But who is this man who seems to know my son better than I do
myself,--this man whose penetration frightens me; for it has proved more
correct, much more correct than you suppose."

"This man," replied the doctor, sadly, "is a man who has suffered much,
seen much, and observed much. That is the secret of his remarkable
penetration."

Madame Bastien resumed her reading of the letter.

     "'You have told me, my friend, that Frederick has arrived at what
     you call the transition period, an epoch of life which is often
     extremely critical and accompanied with grave physical
     disturbances.

     "'Frederick may be strongly affected by these conditions and
     consequently a prey to feelings which are the more powerful by
     reason of their very novelty, on account of his mother's close
     supervision and the salutary influence she has exerted over him up
     to this time. And how could even Madame Bastien's affection and
     prudence guard against a danger which neither she nor her son
     apprehended? She must have been quite as unprepared as her son for
     the violent passion which seems to have taken possession of him.
     No, even this judicious and devoted mother has no more cause for
     regret than if her child had been attacked with measles or some
     other childish disease.'"

"Don't you entirely agree with my friend in this?" inquired the doctor,
"I mean in relation to not blaming yourself for the present state of
affairs."

"Yes," replied Madame Bastien, thoughtfully, "I shall show no mock
modesty with you, my dear doctor. I am conscious of having performed my
duties as a mother to the very best of my ability, and I recognise the
fact that it was not within the limits of human possibility for any one
to foresee or prevent the misfortune which has overtaken my son."

"One word more, my dear doctor," continued Marie, after a moment's
silence. "Your friend saw Frederick for only a few minutes, but long
enough, alas! to be treated with inexcusable rudeness. A generous-minded
person feels only indulgence and compassion for a poor sick child, I
know, but there is a wide difference between this compassion and the
profound interest which your friend manifests in Frederick. What has my
son done to deserve this interest?"

"The latter part of this letter will explain, I think, but I will say
this much by way of explanation. My friend had a brother very much
younger than himself, of whom he had entire charge after his father's
death. My friend idolised this brother, who was about Frederick's age.
Like him, he was extremely handsome; like him, he was passionately
loved, not by a mother, but by the tenderest of brothers."

"And what became of him?" inquired Marie, with interest.

"My friend lost this brother six years ago."

"Ah, now I understand," cried Marie, deeply moved. Then even more
thoughtfully she resumed the reading of the letter:

     "'I am almost positive that Frederick has never evinced any lack of
     confidence in his mother up to this time because he has had nothing
     to hide from her, but the more reprehensible the secret he is
     concealing from his mother is now at this present time, the more
     impenetrable he is likely to be.

     "'But now the malady is known to us, what are the best means or the
     chances of a cure?

     "'The first thing to be done is to discover the cause of
     Frederick's animosity. How is this discovery to be effected?
     Frederick loves his mother devotedly, nevertheless he has remained
     deaf to her entreaties, so it is almost certain that he will never
     tell her his unhappy secret now, partly from a fear of forfeiting
     the respect of his friends, partly from a fear of imperilling his
     prospect of vengeance, the inevitable consequence of hatred when it
     is as energetic and intense as Frederick's seems to be.'"

Madame Bastien trembled violently as she read this prophecy which the
scene she had lately witnessed in the forest verified but too well, and
it was in a voice full of emotion she continued:

     "'Consequently it seems almost certain that Madame Bastien must
     renounce all hope of gaining her son's confidence. That being the
     case, shall she resort to penetration, that compound of
     watchfulness, dissimulation, and trickery? for to ferret out a
     secret, at least a jealously guarded secret, one must employ all
     sorts of cunning expedients.

     "'Can a woman like Madame Bastien play such a difficult role even
     if she desire to do so, a role which requires so much cool
     calculation and dissimulation?

     "'No, the poor mother would blush and pale by turn, and in spite of
     her resolution she would hesitate at every step, even though she
     felt such a course might effect her son's salvation.'"

Madame Bastien's head drooped, two big tears rolled slowly down her
cheeks, her hands fell inertly upon her knees, and she murmured, with a
deep sigh:

"What he says is only too true. I recognise my utter powerlessness."

"Don't despair, I beseech you," cried the doctor, earnestly. "Do you
suppose I would ever have brought you this letter, or that my friend
would ever have written it, if he had not felt sure he had found a means
of remedying this evil? Go on, I beg of you."

     "'In my opinion,'" Marie continued, "'Frederick has reached an age
     when the most devoted and intelligent maternal tenderness will no
     longer suffice for his guidance.

     "'Some knowledge of and experience in a man's life is needed to arm
     him against the many temptations of which a woman is entirely
     ignorant, and against which it is consequently well-nigh impossible
     for her to protect her son.

     "'An intelligent and devoted father might accomplish this difficult
     task successfully, but as M. Bastien's business keeps him so much
     from home, Frederick needs a man of feeling, honour, integrity, and
     experience,--a man who understands the full importance of the task
     of fashioning a youth into a man.

     "'Such a person, aided by the information Madame Bastien could
     give him, and, above all, by the influence she must still possess
     over her son, such a person could, I feel sure, by patient study
     and observation eventually discover Frederick's secret, and assist
     his mother in combating and finally destroying this animosity in
     the heart of this unfortunate youth, and then continue the
     education which Madame Bastien has so admirably begun.'"

"This is only too true," commented Madame Bastien. "I have felt the
necessity of providing a tutor for my son for some time, as you know, my
dear doctor. The tutor I engaged did not fulfil all my requirements by
any means, but he was fairly competent, and endowed with an unusual
amount of patience and amiability. Unfortunately, my son's irascibility
of temper drove him away. Now, in the seclusion in which I live, and for
the very limited amount of money my husband has consented to expend for
this purpose, how can I hope to find such a tutor as your friend
describes? Besides, how can I induce Frederick to accept a tutor in his
present irritated state of mind? Besides, the more conscious a tutor is
of his value, his devotion, and his dignity, the less inclined he will
be to submit to my son's violence. Alas! you see I shall be obliged to
renounce this means, valuable as I know it to be."

The young mother resumed her reading.

     "'If Madame Bastien for any special reason does not desire to
     employ a tutor, there is another course which may not prove equally
     beneficial, but which will at least serve to divert his mind from
     the idea which seems to be dominating it,--that is for his mother
     to start with him on a long journey.'"

"I had made up my mind to do that very thing," said Marie. "This very
evening I wrote to my husband informing him of my decision. I cannot be
wrong this time, as I agree with your friend on this point, so--"

"Yes, but in my friend's opinion, as you will see if you read on a
little further, this journey is only a palliative measure."

Madame Bastien read as follows:

     "'I do not doubt the beneficial effects of such a journey on
     Frederick's mind, but unhappily it will only divert his mind from
     this unfortunate idea, not destroy it. A journey may, I repeat,
     serve to ameliorate Frederick's mental condition and enable his
     mother to gain time, a very important consideration, for I know
     there will necessarily be considerable difficulty in immediately
     finding a person capable of undertaking this mission. In fact, I am
     so conscious of the many difficulties that, if I thought my offer
     would be acceptable and above all seemly, I should be glad to offer
     myself to Madame Bastien as Frederick's tutor.'"

Marie's astonishment was so intense that she paused suddenly, and
thinking she could not have read the letter aright, she read the line
over again aloud in order to satisfy herself that her eyes had not
played her false.

     "'_I should be glad to offer myself to Madame Bastien as
     Frederick's tutor._'"

"Yes," said the doctor, "and if he says it he means it."

"Pardon me, doctor," stammered the young mother, overwhelmed with
asto

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