“Old Gervais,” I repeated; “who is he, Marraine? I don’t think I have seen him, have I?”
For she had spoken of him as if I must have known whom she meant.
“Have you not?” she said. “He is a dear old man—one of our great resources. He is so honest and intelligent. But no I dare say you have not seen him. He does not live in our village, but at Plaudry, a mere hamlet about three miles off. And he goes about a good deal; the neighbouring families know his value, and he is always in request for some repairs or other work. He is devout, too,” my godmother added; “a simple, sincere, and yet intelligent Christian. And that is very rare nowadays: the moment one finds a thoughtful or intelligent mind among our poor, it seems to become the prey of all the sad and hopeless teaching so much in the air.”
And Madame de Viremont sighed. But in a moment or two she spoke again in her usual cheerful tone.
“It was quite a pleasure to see Gervais’ interest in this little place,” she said—we were standing in the oratory at the time. “He has the greatest admiration for our Virginie, too,” she added, “as indeed everyone has who knows the child.”
“She does look very sweet,” I said, and truly. But as I had scarcely heard Virginie open her lips, I could not personally express admiration of anything but her looks! In those days too, the reputation of unusual “goodness”—as applied to Virginie de Viremont, I see now that the word “sanctity” would scarcely be too strong to use—in one so young, younger than myself, rather alarmed than attracted me.
But her grandmother seemed quite pleased. “You will find the looks a true index,” she said.
I was examining the oratory—and wondering if there was any little thing I could do to help to complete it. Suddenly I exclaimed to my godmother—
“Marraine, the floor does sink decidedly at one side—just move across slowly, and you will feel it.”
“I know,” she replied composedly, “that is the side of the settling I told you of It is the same in the two intermediate stories—one of them is my own cabinet-de-toilette. If Virginie does not observe it at once, we shall have Albertine discovering it someday, and teasing the poor child by saying she has weighed down the flooring by kneeling too much—it is just where she will kneel.”
“Is Albertine a tease?” I asked; and in my heart I was not sorry to hear it.
“Ah, yes indeed,” said Madame. “She is full of spirits. But Virginie, too, has plenty of fun in her.”
My misgivings soon dispersed.
The two girls had not been forty-eight hours at Viremont before we were the best of friends, Virginie and I especially. For though Albertine was charming, and truly high-principled and reliable, there was not about her the quite indescribable fascination which her sister has always possessed for me. I have never known anyone like Virginie, and I am quite sure I never shall. Her character was the most childlike one in certain ways that you could imagine—absolutely single-minded, unselfish, and sunny—and yet joined to this a strength of principle like a rock, a resolution, determination, and courage, once she was convinced that a thing was right, such as would have made a martyr of her without a moment’s flinching. I have often tried to describe her to you; and the anecdote of her childhood, which at last I am approaching—she was barely out of childhood—shows what she was even then.
Those were very happy days. Everything united to make them so. The weather was lovely, we were all well, even Monsieur’s gout and Madame’s occasional rheumatism having for the time taken to themselves wings and fled, while we girls were as brilliantly healthful and full of life as only young things can be. What fun we had! Games of hide-and-seek in the so-called garden—much of it better described as a wilderness, as I have said—races on the terrace; explorations now and then, on the one or two partially rainy days, of Madame’s stores—from her own treasures of ancient brocades and scraps of precious lace and tapestry, to the “rubbish,” much of it really rubbish, though some of it quaint and interesting, hoarded for a century or two in the great “grenier” which extended over a large part of the house under the rafters. I have by me now, in this very room where I write, some precious odds and ends which we extracted from the collection, and which my godmother told me I might take home with me to Scotland, if I thought it worth the trouble.
One day we had been running about the grounds till, breathless and tired, we were glad to sit down on the seat at the far end of the terrace. And, while there, we heard someone calling us.
“Albertine, Virginie, Jeannette,” said the voice.
“It is grandpapa,” said Virginie, starting up, and running in the direction indicated, Albertine and I following her more leisurely.
“Where have you been, my children? “said the old gentleman, as we got up to him. “I have been seeking you—what are your plans for the afternoon? Your grandmother is going to pay some calls, and proposes that one of you should go with her, while I invite the other two to join me in a good walk—a long walk, I warn you—to Plaudry. What do you say to that?”
The two girls looked at me. As the stranger, they seemed to think it right that I should speak first.
“I should like the walk best,” I said with a smile. “I have not been to Plaudry, and they say it is so pretty. And—perhaps Marraine would prefer one of you two to pay calls—I have already visited most of your neighbours with her before you came, and everyone was asking when you were coming.”
“Albertine, then,” said her grandfather. “Yes, that will be best. And you two little ones shall come with me.”
The arrangement seemed to please all concerned, especially when Monsieur went on to say that the object of his expedition was to see Gervais the mason.
“Oh,” said Virginie, “I am so glad. I want to thank him for all the interest he took in my dear little oratory. Grandmamma told me about it.”
Her eyes sparkled. I think I have omitted to say that Madame de Viremont had been well rewarded for her trouble by Virginie’s delight in the little surprise prepared for her.
“I want him to see to the arch of the window in the ‘cave,’” said Monsieur. “Some stones are loosened, one or two actually dropped out. Perhaps his knocking out of your little window, Virginie, has had to do with it. In any case, it must be looked to, without delay. Come round that way, and you shall see what I mean.”
He led us to the far side of the house. The window in question had been made in the out-jut I have described; but as it was below the level of the ground, a space had been cleared out in front of it, making a sort of tiny yard, and two or three steps led down to this little spot. It seemed to have been used as a receptacle for odds and ends—flower-pots, a watering-can, etc. , were lying about. Monsieur went down the steps to show us the crumbling masonry. He must have had good eyes to see it, I thought, for only by pushing aside with his stick the thickly growing ivy, could he show us the loosened and falling stones. But then in a moment he explained.
“I saw it from the inside. I was showing the men where to place some wine I have just had sent in, in the wood. And the proper cellar is over-full—yes, it must certainly be seen to. Inside it looks very shaky.”
So we three walked to Plaudry that afternoon. It was a lovely walk, for Monsieur knew the shortest way, partly through the woods, by which we avoided the long, hot stretch of high-road. And when we reached our destination—a hamlet of only half a dozen cottages at most—by good luck Gervais was at home, though looking half ashamed to be caught idle, in spite of his evident pleasure at the visit.
He had not been very well lately, his good wife explained, and she had insisted on his taking a little rest. And though I had never seen him before, it seemed to me I could have discerned a worn look—the look of pain patiently borne—in the old man’s quiet, gentle face and eyes.
“Gervais not well!” said Monsieur. “Why, that is something new. What’s been the matter, my friend?”
Oh, it was nothing—nothing at all. The old wife frightened herself for nothing
, he said. A little rheumatism, no doubt— a pain near the heart. But it was better, it would pass. What was it Monsieur wanted? He would be quite ready to see to it by tomorrow. Then Monsieur explained, and I could see that at once the old mason’s interest was specially aroused. “Ah yes, certainly,” he interjected. It must be seen to—he had had some misgivings, but had wished to avoid further expense. But all should be put right. And he was so glad that Mademoiselle was pleased with the little oratory, his whole face lighting up as he said it. Tomorrow by sunrise, or at least as soon as possible after, he would be at the château.
Then we turned to go home again, though not till Madame Gervais had fetched us a cup of milk, to refresh us after our walk; for they were well to do, in their way, and had a cow of their own, though the bare, dark kitchen, which in England would scarcely seem better than a stable, gave little evidence of any such prosperity. I said some words to that effect to my companions, and then I was sorry I had done so.
“Why, did you not see the armoire?” said Virginie. “It is quite a beauty.”
“And the bed and bedding would put many such commodities in an English cottage to shame, I fancy,” added Monsieur, which I could not but allow was probably true.
Gervais kept his word. He was at his post in the “cave” long before any of us were awake, and Virginie’s morning devotions must have been disturbed by the knocking and hammering far below.
He was at it all day. Monsieur went down to speak to him once or twice, but Gervais had his peculiarities. He would not give an opinion as to the amount of repair necessary till he was sure. And that afternoon we all went for a long drive—to dine with friends, and return in the evening. When we came home, there was a message left for Monsieur by the old mason to the effect that he would come again “tomorrow,” and would then be able to explain all. Monsieur must not mind if he did not come early, as he would have to get something made at the forge—something iron, said the young footman who gave the message. “Ah, just so,” said Monsieur. “He has found it more serious than he expected, I fancy; but it will be all right, now it is in his hands.”
So the next morning there was no early knocking or tapping to be heard in the old cellar. Nor did Gervais return later, as he had promised.
“He must have been detained at the forge,” said Monsieur. “No doubt he will come tomorrow.
Tomorrow came, but with it no Gervais. And Monsieur de Viremont, who was old and sometimes a little irascible, began to feel annoyed. He went down to the cellar, to inspect the work. “It is right enough,” he said, when he came up stairs to the room where we four ladies were sitting—there had been a change in the weather, and it was a stormily rainy day—“I see he has got out the loose stones, and made it all solid enough, but it looks unsightly and unfinished. It wants pointing, and—”
“What was it Alphonse said about an iron band or something?” said Madame. “Perhaps Gervais is getting one made, and it has taken longer than he expected.”
“It is not necessary,” said the old gentleman. “Gervais is overcautious. No—a girder would be nonsense; but I do not like to see work left so untidy; and it is not his usual way.”
So little indeed was it the old mason’s way, that when another day passed, and there was no news of Gervais, Monsieur determined to send in the morning to hunt him up.
“I would have walked over this afternoon myself,” he said, “if the weather had been less terrible.”
For it really was terrible—one of those sudden storms to which, near the sea, we are always liable, even in summer— raging wind, fierce beating, dashing rain, that take away for the time all sensation of June or July.
But whatever the weather was, orders were given that night that one of the outdoor men was to go over to Plaudry first thing the next morning.
Monsieur had a bad night, a touch of gout, and he could not get to sleep till very late, or rather early. So Madame told us when we met at table for the eleven o’clock big breakfast.
“He only awoke an hour ago, and I wanted him to stay in bed all day,” she said. “But he would not consent to do so. Ah! there he comes,” as our host at that moment entered the room with apologies for his tardiness.
The wind had gone down, though in the night it had been fiercer than ever; but it was still raining pitilessly.
“I do hope the storm is over,” said Virginie. “Last night, when I was saying my prayers, it almost frightened me. I really thought I felt the walls rocking.”
“Nonsense, child!” said her grandfather, sharply. Incipient gout is not a sweetener of the temper. But Virginia’s remark had reminded him of something.
“Has Jean Pierre come back from Plaudry?” he asked the servant behind his chair; “and what message did he bring?”
Alphonse started. He had been entrusted with a message, though not the one expected, but had forgotten to give it.
“He did not go, Monsieur,” he said; hastily adding, before there was time for his master to begin to storm. “There was no need. Old Gervais was here this morning—very early, before it was light almost; so Nicolas”—Nicolas was the bailiff—“said no one need go.”
“Oh—ah, well,” said Monsieur, mollified. “Then tell Gervais I want to speak to him before he leaves.”
Then Alphonse looked slightly uneasy.
“He is gone already, unfortunately—before Monsieur’s bell rang. He must have had but little to do—by eight o’clock, or before, he was gone.”
Monsieur de Viremont looked annoyed.
“Very strange,” he said, “when he left word he would explain all to me. Did you see him? did he say nothing?”
No, Alphonse had not seen him—he had only heard him knocking. But he would inquire more particularly if there was no message.
He came back in a few moments, looking perplexed. No one, it appeared, had really seen the mason; no one, at least, except a little lad, Denis by name—who worked in the garden—“the little fellow who sings in the choir,” said Alphonse. He—Denis—had seen Gervais’ face from the garden, at the window. And he had called out, “Good morning,” but Gervais did not answer.
“And the work is completed? Has he perhaps left his tools? if so, he may be coming back again,” asked Monsieur.
Alphonse could not say. Impatient, the old gentleman rose from the table, and went off to make direct inquiry.
“Very odd, very odd indeed,” he said when he returned and sat down again. “To all appearance, the work is exactly as it was when he left it three days ago. Not tidied up or finished. And yet the cook and all heard him knocking for two hours certainly, and the child, Denis, saw him.”
“I dare say he will be returning,” said Madame, soothingly. “Let us wait till this evening.”
So they did; but no Gervais came back, and the rain went on falling, chill, drearily monotonous.
Just before dinner Monsieur summoned the bailiff. “Someone must go first thing tomorrow,” he began at once, when Nicolas appeared, “and tell Gervais sharply that I won’t be played the fool with. What has come over the old fellow?”
“No, Monsieur, certainly not. Monsieur’s orders must be treated with respect,” replied Nicolas, ignoring for the moment his master’s last few words. “But” and then we noticed that he was looking pale, “Someone has just called in from Plaudry—a neighbour—he thought we should like to know. Gervais is dead—he died last night. He has been ill these three days—badly ill; the heart, they say. And the weather has stopped people coming along the roads as much as usual, else we should have heard. Poor old Gervais—peace to his soul.” And Nicolas crossed himself.
“Dead!” Monsieur repeated.
“Dead!” we all echoed.
It seemed incredible. Monsieur, I know, wished he had not spoken so sharply.
“Virginie, Jeannette,” whispered Albertine. “It must have been his ghost!”
But she would not have dared to say so to her grandfather. “It is sad, very sad,” said Monsieur and Madame. Then a
few directions were given to the bailiff, to offer any help she might be in want of, to the poor widow, and Nicolas was dismissed.
“It just shows what imagination will do,” said Monsieur; “all these silly servants believing they heard him, when it was impossible.”
“Yes,” whispered Albertine again, “and Denis Blanc, who saw him. And Denis, who is so truthful; a little saint indeed! You know, Virginia, the boy with the lovely voice.”
Virginie bent her head in assent, but said nothing. And the subject was not referred to again that evening.
But—
The storm was over, next day was cloudless, seeming as if such things as wind and rain and weather fury had never visited this innocent-looking world before. Again we went off to a neighbouring château, returning late and tired, and we all slept soundly. Again an exquisite day. Monsieur was reading aloud to us in the salon that evening; it was nearly bedtime, when a sort of skirmish and rush—hushed, yet excited voices, weeping even, were heard outside.
Monsieur stopped. “What is it? “he said Then rising, he went to the door.
A small crowd of servants was gathered there, arguing, vociferating, yet with a curious hush over it all.
“What is it?” repeated the master sternly.
Then it broke out. They could stand it no longer; something must be done; though Monsieur had forbidden them to talk nonsense—it was not nonsense, only too true.
“What?” thundered the old gentleman.
About Gervais. He was there again—at the present moment. He had been there the night before, but no one had dared to tell. He had returned, no notice having been taken of his first warning. And he would return. There now, if everyone would be perfectly still, even here, his knockings could be heard.”
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 12