CHAPTER XIX.
The sound of our steps crossing the terrace was heard within thech?teau as we returned from our ineffectual search; and on enteringthe vestibule, the first object on which my eye fell was the form ofFather Ferdinand, advancing to meet me. The natural clear brown of hiscomplexion had now given way to a deadly paleness; and I saw by thehaggard anxiety of the noble old man's eye, the tremulous eagerness ofhis lip, and the agitation that pervaded his whole frame, how deep andheartfelt was the interest which he took in the fate of those to whomhe was attached.
"Have you found her?" he cried; "have you found her?"
A mournful silence was the only reply; and the Priest, clasping hishand over his eyes, remained for a moment or two apparently in prayer.When the hand was withdrawn, however, it was clear that tears hadmingled with his orisons; and turning away from the gaze of thedomestics, he took me by the hand and led me towards the library.There, closing the door, he cast himself into a seat, and gave way toa burst of feeling, which certainly did not lower him in myestimation.
"This is, indeed, terrible," he said, when he had somewhat recoveredhimself. "This is, indeed, most terrible; and even I, who am too wellaccustomed to witness scenes of death, and crime, and sorrow, amoverpowered by this."
"Is Monsieur de Villardin dead, then?" I exclaimed, misunderstandinghim. "Is he dead?"
"No, no," replied the Priest, "he is still alive, and likely to live;but I fear me," he added, "is likely to live only to wretchedness andremorse. Tell me, tell me, my son, how did all this happen? for itseems you were the only one present at the time this fatal catastropheoccurred."
To answer his question was more difficult than it would seem at firstsight; for it required no small care to avoid mingling the darksuspicions that were in my own mind with the facts that I myself hadseen, especially as I perceived that the Priest himself entertainedmany doubts of the event which had occurred having been purelyaccidental. All that he could positively know, indeed, must have beenobtained from such information as the physician and the domestics hadgleaned from the broken account I had given on first returning to thech?teau; but it was evident to me that his own knowledge of foregonefacts had led his mind to dark suspicions, for which he now sought, inhis conversation with me, either confirmation or disproof. I replied,however, as cautiously as I could, telling him the simple facts asthey had happened, but abstaining scrupulously from all remarks. Mymanner, beyond doubt, was embarrassed, for I would fain have spokenfreely with the Priest, and fully believed, even at the time, that Imight do so without danger; but I imagined that I had no right to giveutterance to the slightest unascertained particular, and thereforeevinced a backwardness to explain more than was absolutely necessary,which he instantly remarked.
"Are you deceiving me, my son?" he asked, gravely.
"No, indeed, Father," I answered; "I am telling you the simple truth;but for reasons of my own, you must let me do so without comment, anddraw your own deductions from what you yourself know."
"Well, then," he said, after musing a moment, "you say that you wereturning back to ask him where his carbine was placed when you saw theaccident that occurred. Tell me now, my son, did your never-failingmemory and attention abandon you in the present instance; or had younot forgotten, in reality, where he had told you that the weapon wasto be found?"
"I had not forgotten," I replied, "and only turned back with thatexcuse, because I did not wish to leave him just at that moment."
"Then you must have apprehended something," said the Priest; "tell mewhat it was, and why you did so. You may do so safely, my son; for Ipledge my word that your reply never passes my lips."
Thus pressed home, I replied, "Certainly I did apprehend something,good Father; but my apprehensions were quite vague and unformed,pointing to no particular object, and having no very definite cause."
"Then why did you entertain fears at all," demanded Father Ferdinand,"if you had seen nothing to excite them?"
"I had seen much to excite fears of every kind," I answered; "thewhole demeanour of Monsieur de Villardin, his altered habits, hislook, the fierceness of his manner, the wildness of his eye, all mademe fear that he was hardly sane, and that surely was excuse sufficientfor general apprehensions."
"It was," said the Priest, "it was; and your conduct was so just andproper in writing to me at first, that I will not believe you concealanything from me now."
"Father Ferdinand, I will tell you the truth," I rejoined, as he wasabout to proceed; "I conceal from you no fact of any kind; but I doretain in my own bosom all those deductions which I have made from thesame events that I have detailed to you."
"It matters little," he said, "it matters little! The truth of all Ishall soon know from this unhappy man, if ever he recover the use ofhis reason, and in the meantime I will draw my own conclusions."
"Has he been roused from the stupor into which he had fallen?" Iasked.
"Completely," answered the Confessor; "but he is now in a state ofraving delirium, which is still more fearful. Of course, however, youare at liberty to go and see him; and I do not know that it will notbe better for you and me, and old Jerome Laborde, with whom allsecrets are safe, to take upon ourselves the entire tendance of theDuke during his illness, than to suffer others, on whose discretion wecannot rely, to wait upon him. Men in delirium often say fearfulthings, which, whether true or false--whether the breakings forth oflong suppressed remorse, or the mere dreamings of a disorderedimagination--make deep impression on the hearers, and are oftentransmitted to others with all the evidence of truth. We had better,perhaps, watch him alone. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," I replied, "and will be guided in all things by yourcounsel, Father. Would that you had come before to direct us!"
"Would I had!--would I had!" replied the Priest, sadly. "But it wasimpossible. I set out from Rennes as soon as I received your letter,and travelled even with far more haste than beseemed my age and myprofession."
We now repaired to the chamber of Monsieur de Villardin, and madearrangements with the physician--in whom the Confessor appeared toplace full confidence--for carrying into execution what had beenalready proposed. It was at once determined that we should each watchsix hours at a time by the couch of the sick man, whose ravings werecertainly of a nature to be kept secret as far as possible. Now hewould call upon the Count de Mesnil--now use harsh and cruel words, asif towards his wife--now speak of a cunningly devised scheme to end itall at once--now talk of a bloody grave beneath the oak; and, inshort, he would let drop a thousand wild and whirling words, which,with all their incoherence, might very well have led to the discoveryof much that he would willingly have concealed, and to the suspicionof other acts, of which, perhaps, he was innocent, though he nevergave his mind time to remain long enough upon the fearful facts thatbusied it, to pour forth anything like a coherent tale in regard toeither of them.
As the physician had now done his part, and as I bore on my facesufficient traces of fatigue and anxiety, the Confessor took uponhimself the first six hours' watch, saying, that while he sat up hewould write to the uncle of Madame de Villardin, whose domains weresituated in the Orleanois.
I certainly never remember to have been more fatigued, and willinglytook advantage of the good Priest's proposal. As I retired with themedical man, however, I asked him eagerly what was the state in whichhe had found the Duke when we brought him home; and, in reply, heexplained to me that though his skull was not fractured, yet a severeconcussion of the brain had taken place, from his head having struck,in the fall, either some projecting rock, or some piece of the brokenbridge. From the ravings which had since come on, he feared, he said,that there was a tendency to inflammation; and on my pressing to knowwhat would be the result, he shook his head doubtingly, saying, thatthe result was in the hands of God alone; he himself could not ventureto give an opinion on the subject.
I did not sleep more than four or five hours, and on rising, proceededtowards the apartments o
f Monsieur de Villardin, in order to take myplace by his bedside. I found old Jerome Laborde already there,however; who, having been made aware of the arrangements of thepreceding night, had come about half an hour before to relieve thePriest. By this time, the Duke had fallen into a quiet sleep, fromwhich I augured well; and leaving the old major-domo to hold out hiswatch, I descended to the saloon, feeling most oppressively that deepand shadowy gloom which always seems to fall over a house where such asudden and fatal event has taken place as that which distinguished theforegoing evening. The low voice in which every one spoke when theymet, the stealthy pace with which every one moved about the mansion,the stillness which pervaded the whole place, expressed the sense ofawe that was felt by every bosom, and had something awful in itself.
All this struck me much as I descended the stairs; but on entering thesaloon, there was something more painful still to be encountered. Thelittle Laura de Villardin was playing near one of the windows withsome trinkets of her mother's, but the moment I entered, she ran up tome with open arms, and holding up her fair face towards me, exclaimed,"Oh! tell me--tell me, where is mamma? Suzette says she is dead, and Ishall never see her again. What does _dead_ mean? Where is she goneto?"
It was impossible to hear such questions calmly; and for the firsttime since my father's death, I wept like a child. Suzette herself nowentered the saloon, and for a moment her eyes and mine met. Whetherwhat I felt towards her was very visibly expressed in my glance ornot, I cannot tell, but she turned extremely red, and casting down hereyes, caught the little girl by the arm and drew her rudely out of theroom. In truth, I was not sorry to be spared more questions; andtaking my hat, I walked forth into the park.
The morning was as warm and bright as that of the preceding day; and afeeling of painful curiosity impelled me directly towards the spotwhere the accident had occurred on the night before. I followed theexact path which I had pursued with Madame de Villardin, and as Iturned from the lateral alley where we had met the Duke, into theshort path which led to the broken bridge, I suddenly saw the form ofFather Ferdinand standing at the very point to which I was directingmy steps. He turned round as I approached, and without any apparentsurprise beckoned me towards him. I walked on at once; and for two orthree minutes after I had come up, we stood gazing together in silenceupon all that remained of the wooden arch which had there spannedacross the river, and which I myself had passed over on horseback notfive days before. Very little of it was now to be seen, for fulltwelve feet of the centre had fallen into the river and had beencarried away; but enough still remained attached to the piles at thesides to show, in some degree, the manner of the accident, though notthe cause. The nails which had fixed the cross supports to the raftershad either given way or had been drawn out; and the two main beamswhich upheld the whole, having been deprived of everything thatstrengthened them, had broken at the side nearest the ch?teau, and,dragged down by their own weight from the piles on the other bank ofthe river, had fallen with the rest of the wood-work into the current,and been carried away.
A part, however, of one of them remained, as I have said, attached tothe side where we stood; and after contemplating the whole for sometime in silence, the Priest laid his hand upon my arm, as he saw myeyes fixed upon the broken beams, and he asked, in a tone half stern,half sorrowful, "Do you remark nothing there, my son?"
I stooped down and looked more closely, but still kept silence; and headded, "Then I will ask you, in plainer terms, do you not perceive themarks of a saw?"
"I am afraid I do," replied I, rising up.
"It is enough," he said, and with his foot pushed the fragments of thebeams over into the water, which was easily accomplished, as all thatheld them had already been nearly wrenched out by the breaking down ofthe rest of the bridge. Father Ferdinand and myself gazed at eachother for several moments with sad and bitter hearts, and then,feeling that nothing more need be said between us, we each turned onour way without another word. Father Ferdinand took the path back tothe ch?teau, but I walked on towards Juvigny, in the sad hope ofhearing from good Jacques Marlot that the body of Madame de Villardinhad been found. On my arrival, however, I learned that Madame Marlotherself, who, it seems, was in a delicate situation, had been soagitated and alarmed by all the disturbance and anxiety of thepreceding night, as to be obliged to keep her bed that morning; andthe large-nosed Bretonne servante, who gave me these tidings, added,that her master was gone over to the gate of the convent, and that Ishould certainly meet him there if I walked that way.
I did as she suggested, and met Jacques Marlot returning from theconvent; but he informed me that no trace had been discovered of thebody of Madame de Villardin; and as his wife was ill, I turned backtowards the ch?teau. As I passed by the bridge again, I found Gaspardde Belleville, and one or two of the servants, examining the spotwhere the fatal event had occurred; and it was not difficult for me toperceive that the whole household looked upon the page and myself asirreconcilable enemies, by the manner in which the servants drew awayfrom his side when I approached. As I had most scrupulously avoidedmentioning even his name to any one when not absolutely called upon todo so, it must have been from Gaspard himself that the domestics hadlearned that any degree of enmity existed between us. At all events,their having discovered the fact was by no means to his advantage; foras my good will was of more value in the family than his, from thecircumstances in which I stood in regard to the Duke, my favour was ofcourse more courted, and it often happened that it was courted at hisexpense.
As I wished to be asked no questions upon the subject, I passed on,without noticing any one, and after an hour or two spent in themelancholy rooms of the ch?teau, I went to take the place of goodJerome Laborde. While I watched by Monsieur de Villardin, he woke fromthe sleep into which he had fallen; but so far from my anticipationsof amendment being realized, he appeared infinitely more deliriousthan ever. His words, however, were now so incoherent and wild, thatthe most suspicious ear could have drawn no meaning from them; andthus luckily they continued through the rest of his illness. Fornearly a fortnight he remained in the same condition, but at the endof that period a material change for the better began to manifestitself, and the ravings to which he had been subject ceased entirely;though by this time he was reduced to a state of infant weakness.
Innumerable visiters had presented themselves at the ch?teau, as thetidings spread through the country; and all who could hope to obtainanything by his death were most assiduous and tender in theirinquiries. Shortly before he recovered his reason, also, the Count deLoris, the uncle of his late wife--warned of Madame de Villardin'sdeath by a letter from Father Ferdinand, with whom he was wellacquainted--appeared at the ch?teau, and took up his abode there forthe time; but as he had never heard of any dissensions between hisniece and her husband, and care was taken not to make him aware of thepainful state in which they had lived for the last five or six months,the good old Count expressed, and I believe felt, as much anxiety inregard to Monsieur de Villardin as if he had been his own son. Hismanners were simple and kind to all around him, and when informed byFather Ferdinand of the share I had borne in several of the lateevents, he embraced me tenderly, and after thanking me repeatedly,made me relate every particular in regard to the accident which hadbefallen his unhappy niece. The warm tears coursed each other down hischeeks as I proceeded, and when I had ended, he said, "If ever I canserve you, young gentleman, let me know. I am a man of few words, butI mean what I say."
I gave him full credit for doing so, and I only did him justice. Afterthe delirium had left Monsieur de Villardin, his health continued toimprove every hour; but still it was the most painful convalescencethat ever I beheld. He scarcely spoke a word to any one, and his eyesroamed round those that surrounded his bed with a searching andanxious glance, that was terrible to those who understood the feelingsin which it arose. When he began to speak again, it was but one wordat a time, and even then he confined himself to the name of any objectthat he wanted at the moment.
As soon as the physician judged it prudent, Monsieur de Loris wasbrought into his bed-chamber, and took his hand affectionately; butthe Duke turned his head away, and pressed his eyes upon the pillows,as if to avoid the sight and all its concomitant ideas. The good oldCount went on to comfort him in a kindly tone, but not knowing thetruth, he followed the most painful track he could pursue, and byaddressing a man who had destroyed his own happiness as he would havedone one who suffered alone under the bereaving hand of fate, hepoured gall and wormwood into all the consolations he offered.
The shock, however, though terrible, was not without a good effect,for it seemed to rouse the unhappy Duke from the dull despair thatoverwhelmed him, and, at all events, it broke the first dreadfulfeelings of returning to scenes which had each its own peculiarassociations of agony to pour forth upon him.
Still, the day that he first came forth from his own chamber was fullof misery. The sun was shining through all the windows, checkering thestaircases and saloons with gay and gladsome light. Under thedirections of Father Ferdinand, everything had been removed which hadpeculiarly belonged to the Duchess, and alterations had been made, invarious ways, to break in every direction the chain of associationswhich we knew could alone prove painful. Monsieur de Villardin's eye,however, still wandered wildly over every object around, and I do notknow that it was not really more distressing to him to miss all theobjects he expected to see, than it would have been to find them intheir accustomed places.
I heard him mutter to himself, "They are all gone!--they are allgone!" and sinking into the fauteuil in which he had been accustomedto sit when in the saloon, he covered his eyes with his hands, andremained musing for several minutes. At that moment the door of theroom was gently opened, and Mademoiselle de Villardin, warned andpersuaded by every means in our power to be careful of what she saidand did, was led in by Monsieur de Loris. The Duke heard the dooropen, and withdrawing his hand from his eyes, saw his child for thefirst time since the death of her mother. He had scarcely been able toreach the saloon with the assistance of two people, but when his eyesfell upon his daughter, he started up without aid, sprang forward, andcatching her to his heart, burst into a passionate fit of tears.
Father Ferdinand and myself supported him to a seat, but still he heldhis little girl in his arms, and weeping bitterly, every now and thendrew back her head from his bosom to gaze upon her face, which thatday bore--or seemed to me to bear--a more striking likeness to hermother than ever I had before remarked. She on her part was silent,but wept too, mingling the tears with which she bedewed her father'sbosom with kisses pressed upon his cheek. The physician would fainhave put an end to such a scene, but when he proposed to remove theyoung lady, the Duke turned round, saying mildly, but firmly, "Shemust remain! It does me good!"
I believe most sincerely that it did, and certainly from that momenthis health improved much more rapidly than it had previously done.Each day he regained strength, and gradually, by walking out upon theterrace, and driving forth in a carriage, he acquired sufficientvigour to mount his horse, and thenceforward might be considered well,at least in body.
It was necessary, indeed, that he should recover strength, for therewere still many painful things to do which could not be much longerpostponed. M. de Loris had now been nearly a month at the ch?teau, andwas of course anxious to return to his own dwelling; yet, as his niecehad brought to Monsieur de Villardin, at her marriage, an estatecalled Virmont, in the Orleanois, which had been settled upon her withall the peculiar forms and agreements that enter into a Frenchmarriage contract, it became necessary to make some arrangements inregard to this property, which of course reverted entirely to herdaughter. M. de Loris felt that to speak long upon such a subjectwould be inflicting much pain upon both the Duke and himself, andtherefore he had procrastinated for some days, when, suddenly, onemorning, as we were driving out in the neighbourhood, Monsieur deVillardin, who had been agitated by the same feelings, began theconversation himself, and concluded it in fewer words than itotherwise would have required.
"Monsieur de Loris," he said, with a degree of calmness which showedhow he had tutored his mind to the point, "I have long thought ofspeaking to you in regard to Virmont. Although, of course, I am mybeloved child's only guardian and protector, yet, under presentcircumstances, I do not choose to hold the property which is now hersany longer, even as her guardian. It is contiguous to your own land,and I have therefore to request that you would kindly take charge ofit, manage the rents, invest them to the best advantage, and make thewhole over to Laura when she marries or becomes of age."
The Count made some opposition, although he acknowledged that theconfidence of the Duke was highly grateful and flattering to him.
Monsieur de Villardin sighed deeply, but replied, "You must, my dearCount, allow me to have my will in this respect. Accept the trust, Ibeseech you; and as we may all feel very sure that my remaining yearswill be few, I have named you in some papers that I drew up yesterdayfor a still more important charge, which I must entreat you toundertake. It is that of one of the guardians to my child when I amdead."
The reply was such as might be expected, but the conversation ended inMonsieur de Loris accepting both the offices which Monsieur deVillardin put upon him. A few days after, the necessary papers werebrought, drawn up in legal form, and having been read in silence byboth parties, were duly signed. The next morning the Count de Lorisleft us, pouring upon Monsieur de Villardin expressions of affectionand esteem, every one of which went home to his heart like a dagger.The Duke seemed relieved when he was gone; but there seemed stillanother painful task to be performed; at least I judged so from theanxious expression of his eyes, as he sometimes turned them upon theface of the Confessor.
At length, one morning, after walking for half an hour upon theterrace, he turned to Father Ferdinand, who at the moment was comingforth into the garden to take his customary stroll with me, and said,"Now, good Father, I am ready, if you can do me the favour."
"It is one that must never be refused, my son," replied the Priest; "Ifollow you:" and they turned towards the ch?teau. Both had becomesomewhat paler as they spoke; and in about two hours afterwards I wasjoined by the Priest, with a countenance on which strong and terribleemotions had left traces which could not be mistaken. He tried toappear calm, indeed, and succeeded in a certain degree, by speakingfor some time of indifferent things. At length, when he had obtainedcommand of himself, he said, "In the letter which you wrote to me whenI was at Rennes, and which brought me so suddenly back to the ch?teau,you said, my son, that you really doubted the sanity of Monsieur deVillardin, from the extraordinary change that had come over him. Nowtell me truly, I beseech you, was that an expression hazarded withoutattaching to it its full meaning; or was it your real conviction atthe time that the mind of your friend was unhealthily affected? It isof much consequence that I should know."
"I will tell you, my good Father, most sincerely,"--I replied, seeingthat the feelings of the Confessor were, in truth, most deeplyinterested; "Indeed I will give you an answer that will show you Ispeak without reserve. Did I not believe, then, that during the fouror five days preceding the dreadful accident which lately happened,the mind of Monsieur de Villardin was decidedly deranged, I would notstay in his house another hour."
"It is enough, my son, it is enough," replied the Priest. "So thinksthe physician,--and so he thinks himself," added the Confessor, in alower tone; giving what he said more the appearance of a reflectionaddressed to himself than to me. "And yet," he continued, "his mindmust have been dreadfully worked upon by others: at least, it wouldseem so from all that I can hear in the house."
"The more reason, Father," I replied, "for supposing that theirirritating suggestions had affected his brain. People seldom go madwithout some cause, unless they are very madly disposed indeed."
The Priest mused; and, after a long pause, he replied, "Well, well,let us always lean to the side of charity. We are all too fallible tojudge rigidly."
I saw tha
t the fear of approaching, even in the slightest degree, thefacts which had been confided to him under the seal of confession,prevented Father Ferdinand from speaking with me more candidly upon asubject which occupied so great a part in the thoughts of both at thattime. Of course I did not press the topic, and the conversation turnedto other matters.
What I had said to him was, nevertheless, true; for certainly had Inot believed that, for several days before the death of Madame deVillardin, the Duke himself had been positively insane, I would,without hesitation, have restored to him all his gifts, and would havequitted for ever a man to whom I could not help attaching, in my ownmind, the darkest of suspicions. But his whole previous conduct had sofirmly impressed me with the idea, that at no period between my returnfrom St. Malo and the death of his unhappy wife, had he possessed thecomplete command of his own reason, that I felt him to be more anobject of pity than of censure. Even more--regarding his conduct inthis light, and looking upon him as one whose happiness had been castaway for ever, under the influence of mental disease, all that hadoccurred proved a strong, though mournful tie, which bound me to himmore firmly than ever; and when I remembered the promise which I hadso shortly before made to this unhappy lady who was now no more, Idetermined that no time nor circumstances should ever induce me toquit entirely the child that she had left, till I saw her hand givento some one who would have the right and power to protect her. I saythat my determination was not to quit her _entirely_, because theconduct of Monsieur de Villardin towards me, since his recovery hadbeen such, that I knew not whether he either desired my longer abodewith him, or whether it was to be upon such terms as I could now aloneendure.
Although no son could have attended upon a father with more care andanxiety than I had done upon him, yet he had scarcely addressed tenwords to me since his convalescence began. Those that he had spoken,indeed, had always been kind and affectionate; and I had often caughthis eyes fixed upon me with a look of intense interest,--mournful,perhaps painful, but still full of regard and feeling. Nevertheless,the strangeness of his silence, which I ought to have attributed toother causes, made me anxious and unhappy; and, as I was not a personto express any of that loud indignation for ill-requited kindness,which is sure to pile contempt upon ingratitude, I frequently thoughtof asking his permission, calmly and tranquilly, but firmly andurgently, to return to Paris, and to mingle in the scenes of strifeand turmoil which were again beginning to agitate the unquiet capitalof France.
I was saved, however, from the pain which such a request would haveoccasioned to us both. On the day following that in the course ofwhich I had reason to believe he had relieved his bosom of the loadthat weighed upon his heart, and had poured forth both his sorrows andhis faults to the ears of the Confessor, he beckoned me immediatelyafter breakfast towards his library, and led the way thither himself.I followed, and closed the door; and as soon as I had done so, he puthis hand upon my shoulder, and gazing in my face with an expressionof deep grief, he said, "Why--why, my dear boy, did you save mylife?--why--why did you preserve me to daily sorrow and continualregret?"
Although I was seldom destitute of a reply, his question might havebeen a painful one to answer, had not my conversations with FatherFerdinand given me altogether a new view of human life from that whichI had formerly entertained.
"My lord," I answered, boldly, "every man, I have heard, has somethingto repent of in this world, and it is always better to have time here,where repentance avails us, than to go where it is a punishmentinstead of a penance."
"You say true,--you say true," replied the Duke; "and I thank you forthe life you have preserved, as well as for the kindness and thecourage which prompted and enabled you to preserve it." He paused fora moment thoughtfully, and then proceeded: "You have thought me cold,unkind, ungrateful, since I have recovered life and health; but it hasnot been so. I have felt all that you have done for me; I have seenall that you have felt for me; and I have a thousand times longed tothank you for the whole; but ever, when I was about to speak, all thehorrible memories which are in your heart and in mine, have risen upbefore me, and compelled me to silence. I have scarcely had courageeven to address you, much less to speak with you on subjects connectedwith the terrible past."
Such an explanation was more than sufficient, and the pain of it onceover, all further difficulty or reserve between us was at an end. Hespoke some time longer with me in the library; and though he alludedbut vaguely and remotely to the past, yet he did speak of it more thanonce with that sort of lingering tendency which a man always has toreturn, in conversation with others, to any subject that occupies allhis thoughts when alone. At length, taking a key from the table, hesaid, "I have a fearful task before me, but one which I promised toexecute myself. Nevertheless, I confess my heart so plays the cowardwith me that I am afraid to enter those rooms alone. You must go withme, at least as far as the ante-room, and wait for me there till mytask is concluded."
Although he did not mention what rooms he meant, yet as I had heardfrom the old major-domo that Father Ferdinand had, with his own hands,closed and sealed the apartments of Madame de Villardin immediatelyafter his arrival at the ch?teau, I easily divined that it was tothose chambers that the Duke now alluded. I instantly prepared tofollow, but still ventured to ask whether he had not better desire thegood Priest to accompany him in the sad duty he was about to perform.
He shook his head gloomily, and replied, "No, no, I must go alone;"and then, with a pale cheek and wavering steps, took his way up thegreat staircase. His hand shook so fearfully that he could scarcelyremove the seal, and turn the key in the lock of Madame de Villardin'schamber door; and sitting down in the ante-room he paused for severalminutes, in order to gain strength for the undertaking. At length hestarted up abruptly, exclaiming, "Now!" and entering her bed-room,which communicated with a dressing-room on the other side, he closedthe door behind him. Full of sad thoughts, I stood gazing out of thelattice for some time; but at the end of about a quarter of an hour, Iheard the ante-room door open, and turning my head round without anynoise, perceived Madame Suzette stealing quietly in, and looking abouther. As soon as she perceived me she halted; and, with as muchabhorrence as ever I felt towards any loathsome reptile in my life, Iwalked forward, and taking her by the arm, turned her quietly butfirmly towards the door.
Thinking, probably, that I was there alone, she seemed about to takesome noisy notice of my unceremonious ejection of her pretty person;but, pointing sternly towards the bed-chamber, I whispered, "The Dukeis there;" and, glad to get off unobserved, she tripped away asquietly and speedily as possible. I kept my silent and now undisturbedwatch in the ante-room for nearly two hours, and all seemed so stilland quiet within the chamber beyond, that I began at length to feelalarmed lest the excitement and agitation which Monsieur de Villardinhad evidently experienced when he entered, should have overpowered himin the course of his undertaking.
He came forth, however, just as I was about to open the door, and wasevidently calmer and more firm than when he had left me, though Ishould say that the expression of deep, stern grief, which had nowbecome habitual to his countenance, was, if anything, a shade deeperthan before.
"Did I not hear another step than yours about an hour ago?" were thefirst words he spoke. I replied in the affirmative, and told him atonce who it was that had intruded. He looked at me for a moment or twowith a sort of inquiring glance, as if he sought to read something inmy heart ere he himself spoke.
"Suzette!" he said, thoughtfully; "I have been thinking of keeping herhere to take charge of Laura."
My feelings burst forth whether I would or not, and I exclaimed,"What! give the care of the daughter to her who calumniated themother!"
The retort was so sudden and so unexpected that the Duke started; andgazed at me for a moment, with a look in which I thought I could traceno slight anger at my rash exclamation. I had spoken the truth,however, though I had spoken it too boldly and unadvisedly, and I wasnot to be abashed while such a conviction was at my
heart; but castingdown my eyes, I waited calmly for the rebuke that I doubted not was tofollow. But Monsieur de Villardin paused, and for several momentsuttered not a word; till at length, grasping my arm, he said in a low,but emphatic tone,--
"However you made the discovery, young man, you say true. She didcalumniate her mistress! For though there is still much to beaccounted for, which, probably, will never in this world receive anexplanation, yet I were worse than base to doubt the proofs of virtueand of love with which those cabinets have furnished me. I heap coalsof fire upon my own head by yielding to the conviction; I inflict thetortures of hell already on my heart by making the acknowledgment; butI own before you, who probably have seen more deeply into my weaknessand my madness than any human being, that I did that beloved girlfalse and shameful wrong, and that from my soul I believe her--nowthat it is too late--to have been as pure as purity itself."
He trembled as he spoke with the very energy of his feelings, thoughevery tone was as low as a lover's whisper, and when he had concluded,he sank down into a seat, and gazed at vacancy, giving way, I am sure,to all that longing, burning thirst to recal the past, which every oneat some time feels amidst the errors and the faults of life.
It was long ere he recovered himself; but when he did so, he called myattention to a letter that he held in his hand, saying, that itconcerned me as well as himself. The handwriting was that of Madame deVillardin, and the epistle covered two sheets of paper, one of whichhe gave me to peruse, after having made an ineffectual effort to readit to me himself. I remember the contents almost word for word, andput down here that part which most interested me at the time.
"I mean not to reproach you, my lord," it went on, after a brokensentence at the top of the page; "far, far from it; and I only thusassert my innocence of even one evil thought; I only thus attempt toprove that I could not have been guilty; I only thus depict all that Ihave suffered, in order that you may love our children when I am dead,and grant me, in dying, a few not very burdensome requests. I repeatagain, that without knowing why, I am convinced that I shall notsurvive many months. Nor does this conviction arise in the commonterror of women in my present situation. On the contrary, I fear notto die; and now that I am deprived of your affection, I have nothingto attach me to the world but the dear child that we both love, andthe one which is yet unborn. Still I feel that death is not far fromme; and therefore these lines, which will never meet your eye till Iam dead, may well be looked upon as my dying words. Oh then, my lord,I beseech you to love the children that I leave you with tender andequal affection; and should a regret at any time cross your mind forsorrows inflicted on their mother, make me atonement by your affectionfor them. If ever the spirits of the dead be permitted to watch overthose they loved while living, my soul shall follow you and ourchildren through existence, and every kind word or deed towards themshall be received as wiping away some unmerited reproach or some harshact towards myself.
"My next request is, that you would yourself confirm and sanction anengagement which I caused the young Englishman, who has since savedour daughter from a watery grave, to enter into in regard to ourchildren. Your fate, my lord, is, of course, uncertain; and how longyou may be permitted to guard and protect them no one can tell. I haveheard much of this young gentleman and his history, both from yourselfand from others, and I have myself seen that he is always prompt tosuccour and defend, and that his knowledge of the world, in all itschanges and disguises, is extraordinary for one so young. As it ismore than probable that he will grow up with our children as an elderbrother, I have made him promise that he will never wholly leave them,but will always come forward to give them aid and assistance, whereveryou may be, whenever they may need his help. In making this request tohim I felt sure that I could not be doing wrong, as the person whom Ibesought to undertake the task, and whom I entreated, while you actedtowards my children as a father, to act towards them as a brother, isone in whom you yourself seem to place the fullest confidence; but Ihave since been confirmed in what I have done by the opinion of ourexcellent friend and spiritual guide, Father Ferdinand, who not onlyassures me that this young gentleman's goodness of heart and rectitudeof judgment may be depended on, but undertakes boldly that in case ofmy death, you shall sanction my conduct, induce him to repeat hispromise, and give him every opportunity of executing it, both duringyour life and after your death.
"My requests, I think, are now all made, except that you would bestowupon my servants the sums which I have written down upon the paperattached to this letter, and that you would assign to the convent ofUrsulines at Juvigny the thousand crowns of revenue which, with yourconsent, I promised them on the birth of our daughter, and which hasnever been formally made over to them. Besides this, I trust that youwill give a thousand livres to the church of St. Peter at Rennes, tobe expended in masses for my soul; and as my last request, I beseechyou to think of me kindly, and when I am dead, to do that justice tomy memory which you have not done to my faith and honour whileliving."
I could well conceive, as I read these words, how poignantly they musthave gone home to the heart of Monsieur de Villardin; and even as Iread them in silence before him, I could see from his eye,--which wasfixed upon my face, scanning its expression from line to line,--thathe again mentally ran over all which that paper contained, andinflicted on his own heart every gentle word as the most severe ofpunishments.
"Do you undertake the task?" he demanded, when I had done.
"I have already done so, my lord," I replied; "and I never forget myword."
"Your task may become a strange and a difficult one," he said, musing;"but never mind," he added, abruptly, and at the same time rising,"whatever comes of it, so it shall be. I on my part promise, beforeHeaven and before you, on my hope of pardon, and on my honour as aman, to give you every means of executing what you have undertaken,and to take such measures as will secure you the same opportunityshould I die. She said right," he continued, holding out his hand tome; "she said right, poor girl; you do possess my confidence mostfully; none ever possessed it so much; and would to God, would to God,that you had possessed it more! Oh, had I but trusted your words! ohGod! oh God! that it should now be all beyond recall!" and he groanedbitterly under the torture of remorse.
"Tell me," he cried, after a long pause, "tell me! do you know of anycause which that woman--that Suzette had to hate her mistress?"
"Personally I know of none," I answered; "but, if I mistake not, goodold Jerome Laborde could assign sufficient reasons for all hermalice."
"I will inquire!" he rejoined, "I will inquire!" and carefully lockingthe doors, he turned away from the apartments of his dead wife.
The agitation and exertion he had gone through, however, had been toomuch for him; and ere he reached his library, towards which his stepswere directed in the first instance, he was obliged to turn to his ownchamber, and lie down to rest for the remainder of the day. The nextmorning early, good old Jerome Laborde was summoned to his master'spresence, and I fully believe, in his fright,--for he held Monsieur deVillardin in great awe--he would either have prevaricated sodesperately as not to obtain credence for his tale, or he would havedenied any knowledge of Suzette's behaviour altogether. I luckily,however, saw him before he went, and exhorted him to tell the wholetruth exactly as it was; and I conclude he did so, though I was notpresent.
Whatever took place, the result was but just; for no sooner was hisconference over with Monsieur de Villardin, than the good major-domocame forth, armed with authority to send forth Madame Suzette, withall her moveables, without allowing her to sleep another night in thehouse.
Some time was, indeed, consumed in her preparations; but as I hadnotice from Jerome of the order he had received, and I intended tospend the greater part of the day in my own apartments, I certainlydid not expect to see Suzette more. I was astonished, however, by thedoor of my little saloon being thrown unceremoniously open about twohours after; and in walked the soubrette, with an air of determinedeffrontery which I have
seldom seen surpassed in man or woman.
"I have come, Monsieur l'Anglais," she said, making me a mockcourtesy, "to take my leave of you before I go, and to thank you forall your kindness. I am not unaware of all your good offices, and as Ishall not in all probability be very far off, I shall take good careto repay them. I do not doubt that some opportunity will occur; in themeantime, farewell!" and without waiting any reply, she walked out ofthe room, leaving all the doors open behind her as she went.
The Little Ball O' Fire; or, the Life and Adventures of John Marston Hall Page 19