The Honor of the Name

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER V

  The abode of the Baron d'Escorval, that brick structure with stonetrimmings which was visible from the superb avenue leading to Sairmeuse,was small and unpretentious.

  Its chief attraction was a pretty lawn that extended to the banks of theOiselle, and a small but beautifully shaded park.

  It was known as the Chateau d'Escorval, but that appellation was grossflattery. Any petty manufacturer who had amassed a small fortune wouldhave desired a larger, handsomer, and more imposing establishment.

  M. d'Escorval--and it will be an eternal honor to him in history--wasnot rich.

  Although he had been intrusted with several of those missions from whichgenerals and diplomats often return laden with millions, M. d'Escorval'sworldly possessions consisted only of the little patrimony bequeathedhim by his father: a property which yielded an income of from twenty totwenty-five thousand francs a year.

  This modest dwelling, situated about a mile from Sairmeuse, representedthe savings of ten years.

  He had built it in 1806, from a plan drawn by his own hand; and it wasthe dearest spot on earth to him.

  He always hastened to this retreat when his work allowed him a few daysof rest.

  But this time he had not come to Escorval of his own free will.

  He had been compelled to leave Paris by the proscribed list of the 24thof July--that fatal list which summoned the enthusiastic Labedoyere andthe honest and virtuous Drouot before a court-martial.

  And even in this solitude, M. d'Escorval's situation was not withoutdanger.

  He was one of those who, some days before the disaster of Waterloo, hadstrongly urged the Emperor to order the execution of Fouche, the formerminister of police.

  Now, Fouche knew this counsel; and he was powerful.

  "Take care!" M. d'Escorval's friends wrote him from Paris.

  But he put his trust in Providence, and faced the future, threateningthough it was, with the unalterable serenity of a pure conscience.

  The baron was still young; he was not yet fifty, but anxiety, work, andlong nights passed in struggling with the most arduous difficulties ofthe imperial policy, had made him old before his time.

  He was tall, slightly inclined to _embonpoint_, and stooped a little.

  His calm eyes, his serious mouth, his broad, furrowed forehead, and hisaustere manners inspired respect.

  "He must be stern and inflexible," said those who saw him for the firsttime.

  But they were mistaken.

  If, in the exercise of his official duties, this truly great man had thestrength to resist all temptations to swerve from the path of right; if,when duty was at stake, he was as rigid as iron, in private life hewas as unassuming as a child, and kind and gentle even to the verge ofweakness.

  To this nobility of character he owed his domestic happiness, that rareand precious happiness which fills one's existence with a celestialperfume.

  During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign of Terror, M. d'Escorval hadwrested from the guillotine a young girl named Victoire-Laure d'Alleu, adistant cousin of the Rhetaus of Commarin, as beautiful as an angel, andonly three years younger than himself.

  He loved her--and though she was an orphan, destitute of fortune, hemarried her, considering the treasure of her virgin heart of far greatervalue than the most magnificent dowry.

  She was an honest woman, as her husband was an honest man, in the moststrict and vigorous sense of the word.

  She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d'Escorval's worth madehim eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the Imperial Court, which atthat time surpassed all the pomp of the time of Louis XIV., had noattractions for her.

  Grace, beauty, youth and accomplishments--she reserved them all for theadornment of her home.

  Her husband was her God. She lived in him and through him. She had not athought which did not belong to him.

  The short time that he could spare from his arduous labors to devote toher were her happiest hours.

  And when, in the evening, they sat beside the fire in their modestdrawing-room, with their son Maurice playing on the rug at their feet,it seemed to them that they had nothing to wish for here below.

  The overthrow of the empire surprised them in the heydey of theirhappiness.

  Surprised them? No. For a long time M. d'Escorval had seen theprodigious edifice erected by the genius whom he had made his idoltotter as if about to fall.

  Certainly, he felt intense chagrin at this fall, but he was heart-brokenat the sight of all the treason and cowardice which followed it. He wasindignant and horrified at the rising _en masse_ of the avaricious, whohastened to gorge themselves with the spoil.

  Under these circumstances, exile from Paris seemed an actual blessing.

  "Besides," as he remarked to the baroness, "we shall soon be forgottenhere."

  But even while he said this he felt many misgivings. Still, by his side,his noble wife presented a tranquil face, even while she trembled forthe safety of her adored husband.

  On this first Sunday in August, M. d'Escorval and his wife had beenunusually sad. A vague presentiment of approaching misfortune weighedheavily upon their hearts.

  At the same hour that Lacheneur presented himself at the house of theAbbe Midon, they were seated upon the terrace in front of the house,gazing anxiously at the two roads leading from Escorval to the chateau,and to the village of Sairmeuse.

  Warned, that same morning, by his friends in Montaignac of the arrivalof the duke, the baron had sent his son to inform M. Lacheneur.

  He had requested him to be absent as short a time as possible; butin spite of this fact, the hours were rolling by, and Maurice had notreturned.

  "What if something has happened to him!" both father and mother werethinking.

  No; nothing had happened to him. Only a word from Mlle. Lacheneur hadsufficed to make him forget his usual deference to his father's wishes.

  "This evening," she had said, "I shall certainly know your heart."

  What could this mean? Could she doubt him?

  Tortured by the most cruel anxieties, the poor youth could not resolveto go away without an explanation, and he hung around the chateau hopingthat Marie-Anne would reappear.

  She did reappear at last, but leaning upon the arm of her father.

  Young d'Escorval followed them at a distance, and soon saw them enterthe parsonage. What were they going to do there? He knew that the dukeand his son were within.

  The time that they remained there, and which he passed in the publicsquare, seemed more than a century long.

  They emerged at last, however, and he was about to join them when he wasprevented by the appearance of Martial, whose promises he overheard.

  Maurice knew nothing of life; he was as innocent as a child, but hecould not mistake the intentions that dictated this step on the part ofthe Marquis de Sairmeuse.

  At the thought that a libertine's caprice should dare rest for aninstant upon the pure and beautiful girl whom he loved with all thestrength of his being--whom he had sworn should be his wife--all hisblood mounted madly to his brain.

  He felt a wild longing to chastise the insolent wretch.

  Fortunately--unfortunately, perhaps--his hand was arrested by therecollection of a phrase which he had heard his father repeat a thousandtimes:

  "Calmness and irony are the only weapons worthy of the strong."

  And he possessed sufficient strength of will to appear calm, while, inreality, he was beside himself with passion. It was Martial who lost hisself-control, and who threatened him.

  "Ah! yes, I will find you again, upstart!" repeated Maurice, through hisset teeth as he watched his enemy move away.

  For Martial had turned and discovered that Marie-Anne and her father hadleft him. He saw them standing about a hundred paces from him. Althoughhe was surprised at their indifference, he made haste to join them, andaddressed M. Lacheneur.

  "We are just going to your father's house," was the response hereceived, in an almost ferocio
us tone.

  A glance from Marie-Anne commanded silence. He obeyed, and walked afew steps behind them, with his head bowed upon his breast, terriblyanxious, and seeking vainly to explain what had passed.

  His attitude betrayed such intense sorrow that his mother divined it assoon as she caught sight of him.

  All the anguish which this courageous woman had hidden for a month,found utterance in a single cry.

  "Ah! here is misfortune!" said she, "we shall not escape it."

  It was, indeed, misfortune. One could not doubt it when one saw M.Lacheneur enter the drawing-room.

  He advanced with the heavy, uncertain step of a drunken man, his eyevoid of expression, his features distorted, his lips pale and trembling.

  "What has happened?" asked the baron, eagerly.

  But the other did not seem to hear him.

  "Ah! I warned her," he murmured, continuing a monologue which had begunbefore he entered the room. "I told my daughter so."

  Mme. d'Escorval, after kissing Marie-Anne, drew the girl toward her.

  "What has happened? For God's sake, tell me what has happened!" sheexclaimed.

  With a gesture expressive of the most sorrowful resignation, the girlmotioned her to look and to listen to M. Lacheneur.

  He had recovered from that stupor--that gift of God--which followscries that are too terrible for human endurance. Like a sleeper who, onwaking, finds his miseries forgotten during his slumber, lying in waitfor him, he regained with consciousness the capacity to suffer.

  "It is only this, Monsieur le Baron," replied the unfortunate man in aharsh, unnatural voice: "I rose this morning the richest proprietorin the country, and I shall lay down to-night poorer than thepoorest beggar in this commune. I had everything; I no longer haveanything--nothing but my two hands. They earned me my bread fortwenty-five years; they will earn it for me now until the day of mydeath. I had a beautiful dream; it is ended."

  Before this outburst of despair, M. d'Escorval turned pale.

  "You must exaggerate your misfortune," he faltered; "explain what hashappened."

  Unconscious of what he was doing, M. Lacheneur threw his hat upon achair, and flinging back his long, gray hair, he said:

  "To you I will tell all. I came here for that purpose. I know you; Iknow your heart. And have you not done me the honor to call me yourfriend?"

  Then, with the cruel exactness of the living, breathing truth, herelated the scene which had just taken place at the presbytery.

  The baron listened petrified with astonishment, almost doubting theevidence of his own senses. Mme. d'Escorval's indignant and sorrowfulexclamations showed that every noble sentiment in her soul revoltedagainst such injustice.

  But there was one auditor, whom Marie-Anne alone observed, who was movedto his very entrails by this recital. This auditor was Maurice.

  Leaning against the door, pale as death, he tried most energetically,but in vain, to repress the tears of rage and of sorrow which swelled upin his eyes.

  To insult Lacheneur was to insult Marie-Anne--that is to say, to injure,to strike, to outrage him in all that he held most dear in the world.

  Ah! it is certain that Martial, had he been within his reach, would havepaid dearly for these insults to the father of the girl Maurice loved.

  But he swore that this chastisement was only deferred--that it shouldsurely come.

  And it was not mere angry boasting. This young man, though so modestand so gentle in manner, had a heart that was inaccessible to fear. Hisbeautiful, dark eyes, which had the trembling timidity of the eyes of ayoung girl, met the gaze of an enemy without flinching.

  When M. Lacheneur had repeated the last words which he had addressed tothe Duc de Sairmeuse, M. d'Escorval offered him his hand.

  "I have told you already that I was your friend," he said, in a voicefaltering with emotion; "but I must tell you to-day that I am proud ofhaving such a friend as you."

  The unfortunate man trembled at the touch of that loyal hand whichclasped his so warmly, and his face betrayed an ineffable satisfaction.

  "If my father had not returned it," murmured the obstinate Marie-Anne,"my father would have been an unfaithful guardian--a thief. He has doneonly his duty."

  M. d'Escorval turned to the young girl, a little surprised.

  "You speak the truth, Mademoiselle," he said, reproachfully; "but whenyou are as old as I am, and have had my experience, you will know thatthe accomplishment of a duty is, under certain circumstances, a heroismof which few persons are capable."

  M. Lacheneur turned to his friend.

  "Ah! your words do me good, Monsieur," said he. "Now, I am content withwhat I have done."

  The baroness rose, too much the woman to know how to resist the generousdictates of her heart.

  "And I, also, Monsieur Lacheneur," she said, "desire to press your hand.I wish to tell you that I esteem you as much as I despise the ingrateswho have sought to humiliate you, when they should have fallen at yourfeet. They are heartless monsters, the like of whom certainly cannot befound upon the earth."

  "Alas!" sighed the baron, "the allies have brought back others who, likethese men, think the world created exclusively for their benefit."

  "And these people wish to be our masters," growled Lacheneur.

  By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear the remark made by M.Lacheneur. Had they overheard and questioned him, he would probably havedisclosed some of the projects which were as yet in embryo in his ownmind; and in that case what disastrous consequences might have beenaverted.

  M. d'Escorval had regained his usual coolness.

  "Now, my dear friend," he inquired, "what course do you propose topursue with these members of the Sairmeuse family?"

  "They will hear nothing more from me--for some time, at least."

  "What! Shall you not claim the ten thousand francs that they owe you?"

  "I shall ask them for nothing."

  "You will be compelled to do so. Since you have alluded to the legacy,your own honor will demand that you insist upon its payment by all legalmethods. There are still judges in France."

  M. Lacheneur shook his head.

  "The judges will not accord me the justice I desire. I shall not applyto them."

  "But----"

  "No, Monsieur, no. I wish to have nothing to do with these men. Ishall not even go to the chateau to remove my clothing nor that of mydaughter. If they send it to us--very well. If it pleases them to keepit, so much the better. The more shameful, infamous and odious theirconduct appears, the better I shall be satisfied."

  The baron made no reply; but his wife spoke, believing she had a suremeans of conquering this incomprehensible obstinacy.

  "I should understand your determination if you were alone in the world,"said she, "but you have children."

  "My son is eighteen, Madame; he possesses good health and an excellenteducation. He can make his own way in Paris, if he chooses to remainthere."

  "But your daughter?"

  "Marie-Anne will remain with me."

  M. d'Escorval thought it his duty to interfere.

  "Take care, my dear friend, that your grief does not overthrow yourreason," said he. "Reflect! What will become of you--your daughter andyourself?"

  The wretched man smiled sadly.

  "Oh," he replied, "we are not as destitute as I said. I exaggerated ourmisfortune. We are still landed proprietors. Last year an old cousin,whom I could never induce to come and live at Sairmeuse, died,bequeathing all her property to Marie-Anne. This property consisted of apoor little cottage near the Reche, with a little garden and a few acresof sterile land. In compliance with my daughter's entreaties, I repairedthe cottage, and sent there a few articles of furniture--a table, somechairs, and a couple of beds. My daughter designed it as a home for oldFather Guvat and his wife. And I, surrounded by wealth and luxury, saidto myself: 'How comfortable those two old people will be there.They will live as snug as a bug in a rug!' Well, what I thought socomfortable for others, will
be good enough for me. I will raisevegetables, and Marie-Anne shall sell them."

  Was he speaking seriously?

  Maurice must have supposed so, for he sprang forward.

  "This shall not be, Monsieur Lacheneur!" he exclaimed.

  "Oh----"

  "No, this shall not be, for I love Marie-Anne, and I ask you to give herto me for my wife."