by Eugène Sue
Among the “brigands” whom the sergeant destined for the gallows, and whom his soldiers held prisoner a little distance from where Mademoiselle Plouernel was looking down from her horse upon La Montagne, but too far away to be seen by her, were Nominoë, Salaun and Madok the miller. Shocked at the swash-buckler’s words, the young lady sat up erect in her saddle, haughty, angry, threatening, and her eyes sparkling with so much indignation that, despite his brazenness, the sergeant lowered his gaze.
“Listen well to me,” said Mademoiselle Plouernel incisively. “Your colonel, the Marquis of Chateauvieux, is now stopping at the Castle of Plouernel, with my brother. Your colonel is a man of honor. He will not tolerate the insulting of women by his soldiers, as you had the impudence to do a short time ago.”
“Mademoiselle,” stammered the sergeant upon learning that his colonel was the guest of Mademoiselle Plouernel’s brother, “I was only joking with the peasant girl.”
“You lie!” replied Mademoiselle Plouernel with severity. “You profited by the fear that your soldiers inspire in these good people to outrage the bride of this wedding. Remember this well — I shall send this very day one of my men to the Castle of Plouernel with a letter to your colonel; I shall inform him of your unworthy conduct, and shall request him to punish the same as it deserves to be. He will not deny me that satisfaction.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle will surely not seek to bring misfortune upon the head of an old soldier!” pleaded the sergeant, frightened at the threat. “These rustics tried to disarm me!”
“They were in the right to avenge the outrage! Set them free — repair your fault. Only upon that condition shall I consent not to demand your punishment at the hands of the Marquis of Chateauvieux.”
La Montagne bit his moustache with repressed rage. It wounded his pride and his covetousness to free the prisoners who had disarmed him, and from whom he reckoned upon a ransom, before having them hanged. Moreover, he knew from a thousand precedents that he had nothing to fear from his colonel, who was utterly indifferent, as so many other seigneurs, heads of regiments, to the acts of violence committed by their soldiers upon bourgeois and peasants. But the sergeant also knew that the Marquis of Chateauvieux was a great gallant. It was impossible that he should refuse to punish an inferior officer if requested to do so by so beautiful a woman and one of such high rank as Mademoiselle Plouernel. These reflections caused the sergeant to raise his hat, and, bowing respectfully before Bertha, he said:
“I shall obey the orders of mademoiselle. I shall liberate the peasants.”
The sergeant again bowed respectfully before Mademoiselle Plouernel, and said to himself in an undertone:
“Breton brigands! You are about to triumph over my humiliation — but patience! I shall yet be revenged! Each one shall have his turn.”
La Montagne returned to the detachment which held Salaun, his son and Madok the miller prisoners, along with several others. When the scuffle with the soldiers began, Nominoë jumped off his horse, and leaving Tina in charge of his uncle, had disarmed one of the soldiers. Afterwards, seeing the struggle ended, he took his father’s advice, and allowed himself to be pinioned. A short while after, the name of Mademoiselle Plouernel and the benedictions showered upon her by the peasants reached his ears. Nominoë grew pale; he rose on the tips of his toes and saw Bertha at a distance on horseback. His eyes filled with tears — soon his head drooped, and growing ever paler he stood as one petrified. From this spell he was awakened by the voice of a soldier, who said to him:
“I am going to untie you — you are free — go to the devil!”
“God be praised! You are given back to us!” murmured Tina, hardly able to restrain her joy and stepping toward her husband. “Oh! I feel reborn! A minute ago I thought I would die!”
“My son, mount your horse, take your wife on the crupper, and let us depart! We have escaped a double danger,” said Salaun, who was just set free, and who led by the bridle both his own mount and Nominoë’s. But Nominoë, instead of obeying his father, fixed upon Tina a look of utter distress, and cried in heartrending accents:
“Adieu! Adieu to you all! Never will you see me again!”
With these words Nominoë leaped upon his horse with a bound, turned its head in the opposite direction, and, belaboring its flanks with his spurs, dashed up the bank at a gallop. He cleared the hedge, reached the skirt of the forest of Mezlean with mad rapidity, and disappeared within the wood.
CHAPTER V.
THE MYSTERY AT PLOUERNEL.
THE CASTLE OF Plouernel is located not far from Nantes on one side nor from Rennes on the other, and is one of the most magnificent residential palaces of France. It dates back to the Renaissance period, and presents a finished specimen of that style of architecture, the fancy of which is infinite and charming. Here, cupolas, elegant as Oriental minarets, contrast vividly with the pointed angle of high roofs; yonder, wide-arched galleries, resembling aerial bridges thrown over space, join one set of buildings to another; here, balustraded terraces seem embroidered in the living stone. It is a mass of richness and diversity, a dazzling efflorescence of architectural ornamentation from the exterior of the chimneys, each of which is a masterpiece of execution, down to the chimerical gutter-spouts and the stone setting of the doors and windows, sculptured in human figures, flowers, birds and the heads of monstrous animals, real and fabulous. And yet, Oh! prodigy of art, the inexhaustible variety of details, the fantastic irregularity of the different parts of the edifice merge into a whole that is instinct with loftiness and grace. Finally, about half a league away from that dazzling fairy palace — the façade of which runs over with sculptured designs gilded by the slanting rays of the sun, and brilliantly harmonizes with the azure of the sky above and the verdure of the woods round about — the eye catches on the crest of an arid and rocky ridge that rises almost perpendicularly, the ruins of the ancient feudal manor of Plouernel, semi-hidden under a vast wrappage of ivy. The indestructible dungeon only has defied the tooth of time. Its square bulk, blackened by the ages, rises to a height of over a hundred and twenty feet, still crowned by its old crenelated battlements and machicolations, and flanked at either angle with a turret from which the men on watch kept an eye upon the road and the river, the former of which wound its way to the right, the other to the left of the foot of the rock, at the summit of which, perched like a vulture’s nest, rose the seigniorial lair.
An avenue of centennarian elms, planted in four files, led up to the façade of the Castle of Plouernel, which rose from a wide and semi-circular “court of honor,” surrounded by a colonnade surmounted by terraces. The elegant architectural hemicycle masked the stables, the kennels, the falcon cages and other out-buildings of the castle, and was, in turn, surmounted by an impost on which, woven into implements of war and of the chase artistically sculptured, was seen the coat-of-arms of Plouernel — three eagle’s talons sable on a field gules — and, rising from among gracefully executed ornamentations, the lettering “Guy de Plouernel,” the builder of the palace in the year 1559, according to the lapidary date graven above the armorial bearings.
On this day, the bustle among a large number of valets, grooms, cooks and huntsmen who scurried over the court of honor on their way to one or other of the out-buildings, announced that the seigneur of the place was in the castle. Several soldiers dressed in the red uniform, and two sentinels on guard at the foot of the winding staircase, further indicated that the Marquis of Chateauvieux, the colonel of the Crown Regiment, was the guest of the Count of Plouernel, the latter having offered to his friend the colonel to quarter two companies of his soldiers in the numerous dependencies of the castle. Finally, at a distance, stablemen were seen putting some horses through their paces upon the fine grass of a lawn, beyond which, and as far as the eye reached, extended the tree-covered park, dominated to the east by the rocky ridge, at the top of which the imposing ruins and black dungeon of the ancient manor of Plouernel contrasted strikingly against the blue of the sky
.
The interior of this modern castle corresponded with its sumptuous exterior. Numerous servitors in livery crowded the marble-slabbed vestibule, to the left of which ran a gallery containing the portraits of the Seigneurs Neroweg of Plouernel. The oldest of these paintings, belonging to the Eighth Century, bearing unmistakable mark of Byzantine stiffness of execution, represented a Neroweg lady, Meroflede, the Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel, of the days of Charles Martel. But seeing that the origin of this family harked back to the conquest of Gaul by the Franks, the father of the present Count, yielding to his pride of race, had supplied the lack of authentic portraits antedating the Eighth Century, by consulting his genealogy, and causing the lineaments of those of his ancestors, who lived during the first five centuries of the Frankish monarchy, to be retraced. Though not accurate portraits of their subjects, these paintings at least reproduced the several costumes of those past epochs. The first Neroweg, a leude of Clovis and count of the country of Auvergne by right of his sword, was represented in all the barbarism of the savage accoutrement of that Frankish warrior — hair of a coppery hue tied at the top of his head with a leather thong, and falling down loose over his back like the tail of a horse; long, red moustaches; clean shaven chin; and savage mien. The bust was half covered by a sort of dalmatica made of an animal’s hide, and the warrior leaned his hand upon his “framee,” or battle weapon. Among this long succession of portraits was one empty frame wrapped in black crepe. The absent picture was that of Colonel Plouernel, an honorable man, and one of the most valiant captains in the Protestant armies of the Sixteenth Century. But the colonel’s great-grandson had struck him out of the family line, meaning thereby to brand in his person the Huguenot, a rebel to his King and to the Church of Rome. The portrait gallery led to a salon, on the other side of which was the apartment of Madam Tremblay, the aunt of the Count of Plouernel.
The Marchioness was still the woman of the court which she was at the time of her journey to The Hague. She was conversing confidentially with Abbot Boujaron, who seemed to be deeply preoccupied. The two had not yet wholly gotten over the experiences of what they called their “accursed journey to Holland,” where they came near being torn to pieces, but where they had, they said, “at least the satisfaction of knowing at first hand of the massacre of the two republican heretics, those De Witt brothers.”
It was a narrow escape, but the worthy pair succeeded in eluding the popular fury that exploded against the French party by leaving The Hague, again reaching the port of Delft — thanks to Serdan, who, nevertheless they held to be a fellow of felonious instincts — and there embarking on a neutral vessel bound for Havre, where they landed without further incident. From Havre the two went to Versailles, Mademoiselle Plouernel’s flat refusal to accompany them to England having put an end to their project of a voyage to that country. Besides, the young lady’s health was so much impaired that they would have been compelled to give up that journey even had she not opposed it. They took her along to Versailles.
Upon their arrival there the Marchioness summoned Monsieur Fagon, Louis XIV’s leading physician. That illustrious doctor declared that the young woman’s illness was a mystery to him. Despite all his assiduous care, despite all the resources of his art, Bertha of Plouernel remained between life and death, her strength being undermined by a slow fever that rendered her almost unconscious, and that reduced her to the point of being but the shadow of her former self. In fact, she was taken to be at death’s door, when an unexpected but favorable crisis set in, as unexplainable as the disease itself, according to Monsieur Fagon, and restored her to health. Her convalescence lasted more than six months. In the spring of the year Monsieur Fagon advised Bertha’s aunt to send her to Brittany, assuring her that the girl’s native climate would complete the cure. Accordingly Bertha was sent ahead to Plouernel under the escort of one of her brother’s equerries, two of her aunt’s women, and an old nurse, Marion, who had cared for her from childhood. When the Marchioness and her Abbot arrived there themselves, they found Bertha greatly restored. Her cheeks had resumed their rosy hue.
It was about this very illness and recovery that the pair were anxiously conversing. “We now feel reassured on the score of your niece’s physical condition,” said Abbot Boujaron; “but — and this is the important point — what is your opinion concerning her moral condition? To me it seems there is much to be wished for.”
“The turn of her mind and nature has always been more than bizarre, as a consequence of the detestable bringing up that she received from her mother. But, since her illness, my niece’s oddities have grown daily more marked so that, were it not for the reasons you know of, my nephew and myself would long ago have decided, with the consent of the King our master, to lock up in a convent the wayward minx who insists that our priests are imposters, that people do not die, and that we are re-born in flesh and bone to live onward in the stars!”
“All of which, my dear Marchioness, is heresy, pure and simple; and worse yet — paganism of the first water. Besides that, there can be nothing more disorderly than Bertha’s conduct. She receives with open arms the first tramp who presents himself at the castle’s gate, under the pretext of giving alms; at the burg she is called the good demoiselle, a sort of indirect insult to her brother. It often happens that she mounts her horse in the morning, and does not return until evening, accompanied, it is true, by an old lackey and old Du Buisson, one of the Count’s equerries. Other times she leaves alone on foot upon interminable promenades. To make a long story short, a few days ago, Bertha took the notion of going to the manor of Mezlean, that has long been uninhabited, and of remaining there forty-eight hours at a stretch. Since she returned from that excursion day before yesterday, she has not left her room nor her bed, claiming indisposition, and refusing to admit you, as well as her brother. All this, Marchioness, is more than odd; it verges on mental derangement. For that reason, your own and the Count’s tolerance seem to me regrettable and unpardonable. An end must be put to this situation.”
“You know very well why we must seem tolerant. We are hoping to secure Bertha’s consent to marry the Marquis of Chateauvieux, then her brother Raoul will be able to wed Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, in turn. My nephew attaches extreme importance to these matrimonial projects — the old Duke of Chateauvieux, the Marquis’s father, enjoys an immense influence with the King. Due to the inheritance left to her by the Viscountess of Morincourt, Mademoiselle Chateauvieux is one of the richest matches in France. Now, then, however considerable Raoul’s property may be, he is prodigal and luxurious to a degree. The bailiffs of his domains of Auvergne, of Beauvoisis and of Brittany make his vassals sweat, as they humorously express it, all that it is humanly possible to sweat them of. Two hundred and fifty-three thousand livres, good year or bad — more than a third in excess of what the same estates yielded at the time of his father — and yet my nephew is often reduced to such straits that he must resort to the money-lenders. From all this it follows that, if the King, as the Duke of Chateauvieux has formally promised us, confers upon my nephew the embassy to Spain immediately after his marriage, nothing less than the inheritance of the Viscountess of Morincourt will be needed to enable the Count worthily to represent his royal master at the court of Madrid.”
“No doubt, there is nothing more desirable or more opportune than that marriage, my dear Marchioness. But, you know what is the express condition for its fulfilment. It is a condition that only raises fresh perplexities.”
“Yes, the Duke of Chateauvieux — a duke only by brevet, and, be it said among us, of poor material, considering his origin, seeing that his great-grandfather was only a domestic servant — the Duke of Chateauvieux, despite his influence with his Majesty, and his brevet title of duke, feels that he limps on the leg of birth. In order to dip his descendants in the antique luster of our house, he stipulates as an express condition of Raoul’s marriage with Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, Bertha’s consent to marry the Marquis. That, as you know, is the
reason why Raoul and I, to put it plainly, are dependent upon my niece, and why we wink at her follies.”
“Well, Marchioness, do you know what, in my opinion, appears clear from all this?”
“I listen, Abbot; open your mind to me!”
“It will happen with the marriage of Bertha to the Marquis of Chateauvieux as happened with the contemplated mission to England.”
“How can you say that! My niece receives admirably the advances of the Marquis. She has given Monsieur Chateauvieux good cause to hope. She has said to him that she recognized the advantages of that double marriage, only she desired time to reflect more fully before deciding upon so important a step.”
“Oh! Marchioness, your niece is but doubling and twisting to the sole end of gaining time! She will not give her consent to the marriage.”
“Gaining time! Gaining time! And to what end? Can she expect a better match than the Marquis? Is he not, barring his obscure origin, an accomplished nobleman, and wealthy, besides? Is he not at home at court? Is he not, thanks to the favor that his father enjoys with the King, a colonel at the young age of twenty-five, and able to aspire even to a Marshal’s baton? Think of it, Abbot — a Marshal’s baton!”
“Your niece snaps her fingers at Marshals’ batons, and the wealth of the Marquis, to boot! Don’t you yet know her? And, by the way of wealth, a certain occurrence comes to my mind. Did not Bertha, planting herself upon the custom of Brittany which insures to the daughters a part of the paternal and maternal inheritance, demand not only to know the amount of her share, but also to be put in possession, immediately, of her mother’s jewels, which are valued at more than forty thousand ecus? Did she not, furthermore, cause the Count’s intendant to deliver to her a thousand louis in advance, and does she not keep the money locked up in her casket together with the precious stones? These several proceedings have set my mind a-thinking.”