CHAPTER XXII
AS soon as his mother's words brought a full realisation of the crime he had tried to commit, Frederick experienced the keenest remorse; but though he was conscientious enough to feel appalled by his attempt at homicide, he was far from being cured of his hatred and envy.
During the night that immediately followed Henri David's arrival at the farm, Frederick underwent a new transformation that very naturally disconcerted both his mother and M. David. Both were instantly struck by the change in the lad's expression. It was no longer haughty, sarcastic, and defiant, but embarrassed and crestfallen. Madame Bastien and David had anticipated a fresh ebullition of temper when Frederick's second interview with his tutor took place, but nothing of the kind occurred.
David questioned the lad in relation to his studies; he replied promptly and definitely, but in regard to all extraneous subjects he maintained a determined silence.
Marie proposed that he take a walk with David, and Frederick consented without the slightest demur. During the long walk the new tutor, whose stock of information was as extensive as it was varied, tried to call Frederick's attention to some of the most interesting phenomena of nature, a bit of rock serving as the starting-point for a dissertation on the most curious of the different ages of the earth and the successive transformation of its inhabitants, while an old ruin near the farmhouse led to a series of interesting comments on the warlike habits of the middle ages and the narration of a number of quaint old legends, to which his youthful companion listened politely but replied only in monosyllables.
As soon as they returned Frederick picked up a book and read until dinner-time, after which he asked to be excused for the rest of the evening.
On being left alone, David and Marie exchanged discontented glances, for both felt that the first day had proved a failure.
"I am almost tempted to regret the change I notice in him," remarked David, thoughtfully. "Pronounced as his asperity of manner was, it nevertheless gave one a sort of hold, but what can one do confronted with a surface as hard and polished as glass?"
"But what do you think of this sudden change?"
"Is it the calm that follows the subsidence of the tempest or the treacherous calm which often precedes another storm? We shall know by and by. This change may be due to my arrival."
"How is that, M. David?"
"Perhaps he feels that our double surveillance will make another attempt at vengeance impossible; perhaps he fears that my penetration, united with yours, madame, would ferret out his secret, so he increases his constraint and reserve."
"And the book you took to your room last night?"
"Has given me a slight clue, perhaps, madame, but it is such a very weak and feeble one that I must ask you to pardon me for not even mentioning it. Ours is such a difficult and extremely delicate task that the merest trifle may make or mar us. So once more I implore you to forgive my reticence."
"You ask my pardon, M. David, when your very reserve is a proof of your generous solicitude for the person I hold nearest and dearest on earth."
As Madame Bastien was preparing for bed that same night, old Marguerite came in and said:
"You have been so occupied with M. David since you returned from your walk that I have had no chance to tell you about something very remarkable that happened to-day."
"What was it, pray?"
"Why, you had been gone about an hour when I heard a great noise at the gate of the courtyard, and what should I see there but a grand carriage drawn by four splendid horses, and who should be in the carriage but the Marquise de Pont Brillant, and she said she wanted to speak to you!"
"To me!" exclaimed Marie, turning pale as the idea that Frederick's attempt had been discovered occurred to her. "You must be mistaken, Marguerite. I do not know the marquise."
"It was you that the dear good lady wished to see, madame. She even said to me that she was terribly disappointed not to find you at home, as she came to make a neighbourly call. She intended to come again some day soon, with her grandson, but that must not hinder you from coming to the castle soon, very soon, to return her visit."
"What can this mean?" Madame Bastien said to herself, greatly puzzled, and shuddering at the mere thought of a meeting between Frederick and Raoul de Pont Brillant. "She told you she was coming again soon, with – "
"With monsieur le marquis, yes, madame, and the dear lady even added: 'He is a handsome fellow, this grandson of mine, and as generous as a king. Oh, well, as I have had the misfortune to miss Madame Bastien, I may as well go. But say, my good woman,' added madame la marquise, 'I am frightfully thirsty, can't you get me a nice glass of cold water?' 'Certainly, madame la marquise,' I replied, ashamed that such a grand lady should have to remind me to offer her such a courtesy. But I said to myself, 'Madame la marquise asked for water out of politeness, I will show my politeness by giving her a glass of wine;' so I ran to my pantry, and poured out a big tumbler of wine and set it on a clean plate and took it to the carriage."
"You ought to have given Madame de Pont Brillant the glass of water she asked for, but it makes no difference."
"Pardon me, madame, but I did right to take her the wine, for she took it."
"The big tumbler of wine?"
"Yes, madame, that she did. It is true she only moistened her lips with it, but she made another old lady who was with her drink the rest of it, and I think she couldn't have been very fond of wine, for she made a sort of face after she drank it, and madame la marquise added, 'Tell Madame Bastien that we drank to her health and to her beautiful eyes,' and when she returned the glass she slipped these five shining gold pieces into my hand, saying: 'These are for Madame Bastien's servants on condition that they will drink to the health of my grandson, the Marquis de Pont Brillant. Au revoir, my good woman.' And the handsome coach whirled away."
"I am very sorry that you didn't have the delicacy to decline to take the money she offered you."
"What, madame, refuse five louis d'or?"
"It is for the very reason that this is such a large sum of money that I am so sorry you accepted it."
"I didn't know, madame. It is the first time such a thing ever happened. If madame wants me to, I'll take these five gold pieces up to the château, and return them to the lady."
"That would only make a bad matter worse, but if you want to please me, Marguerite, you will give this hundred francs to the poor of our parish."
"I'll do that very thing to-morrow, madame," said Marguerite, bravely, "for these gold pieces burn my fingers, now you tell me I did wrong to take them."
"Thank you, Marguerite, thank you. I always knew you were a good, true woman. But one word more. Does my son know that Madame de Pont Brillant was here?"
"No, madame, for I have not told him, and I was alone in the house when the carriage came."
"Very well. I don't want my son to know anything about this visit, Marguerite."
"I won't breathe a word, then."
"And if Madame de Pont Brillant calls again you are to say that I am not at home, whether I am or not."
"What, madame, you won't see this great lady?"
"I am no great lady, my good Marguerite, and I do not crave the society of those who are so far above me in rank, so let it be understood that I am not at home if Madame de Pont Brillant calls again, and also that my son must remain entirely ignorant of to-day's visit."
"Very well, madame, you may trust me for that."
The next morning Madame Bastien informed M. David of the circumstance, and he commented on two things that had also struck Madame Bastien, though from an entirely different point of view.
"The request for a glass of water was evidently only an excuse for the bestowal of an extraordinarily large gratuity," said David. "The lady also announced her intention of soon coming again, I understand, though – "
"Though she begged me not to trouble myself to return her visit at the château," interrupted Marie. "I noted this humiliating distinction, and though I had not the slightest intention of responding to Madame de Pont Brillant's advances, this warning on her part obliges me to close my doors upon her in future. Far from being flattered by this visit, the possibility of her returning here, particularly with her grandson, alarms me beyond measure, remembering as I do that terrible scene in the forest. But this much is certain, the young Marquis de Pont Brillant knows nothing of Frederick's animosity. If he did, he certainly would not consent to accompany his grandmother here. Ah, monsieur, my brain fairly reels when I try to solve the mystery."
Two or three days more were devoted to fruitless efforts on the part of the mother and tutor.
Frederick remained impenetrable.
At last M. David resorted to heroic measures, and spoke of Raoul de Pont Brillant. Frederick changed colour and hung his head, but remained silent and impassible.
"He must at least have renounced his idea of vengeance," decided David, after studying the youth's face attentively. "The animosity still exists, perhaps, but it will at least be passive henceforth."
Marie shared this conviction, so her fears were to some extent allayed.
One day M. David said to Madame Bastien:
"While accepting with comparative cheerfulness the modest existence led by the members of your household, madame, has he never seemed to crave wealth and luxury, or deplore the fact that he does not possess them?"
"Never, M. David, never have I heard Frederick express a desire of that kind. How often has he tenderly exclaimed:
"'Ah, mother, could any lot be happier than ours? What happiness it is to be able to live on here with you – '"
But the poor mother could not finish the sentence. This recollection of a radiant past was too overpowering.
Each day the intimacy between Henri David and Marie Bastien was increased by their common interests and anxieties. There was a continual interchange of questions, confidences, fears, plans or hopes, alas! only too rare, – all having Frederick for their object.
The long winter evenings were usually passed tête-à-tête, for Madame Bastien's son retired at eight o'clock, feigning fatigue in order to escape from the solicitude that surrounded him, and that he might pursue his gloomy meditations undisturbed.
"I am more unhappy now than ever," he said to himself. "In times gone by my mother's continual questions about my secret malady irritated me; now they break my heart and augment my despair. I understand all my mother must suffer. Each day brings some new proof of her tender commiseration and her untiring efforts to cure me, but, alas! she can never forgive nor forget my crime. I shall be to her henceforth only an object of compassion. I think exactly the same of M. David that I do of my mother. I do full justice to his devotion to me and to my mother, but it is equally powerless to cure me, and to efface the remembrance of the vile and cowardly act of which I was guilty."
Meanwhile Henri David, believing himself on the track at last, was extending his researches to the most trivial subjects, at least apparently. Convinced that Frederick had powerful reasons for concealing his feelings from his mother, he might exercise less constraint in his intercourse with the two old servants on the place. Henri questioned them closely, and thus became cognisant of several highly significant facts. Among others, a beggar to whom Frederick had always been very generous said to the gardener: "M. Frederick has changed very much. He always used to be so kind-hearted, but to-day he gruffly told me: 'Apply to M. le marquis. He is so rich! Let him help you!'"
Madame Bastien usually saw David several times a day.
One day he did not make his appearance at all.
When supper-time came Marguerite went to tell him that the meal was on the table, but David bade the servant say to Madame Bastien that, not feeling very well, would she kindly excuse him for not coming down as usual?
Frederick, too, refused to leave his room, so Marie, for the first time since Henri David's arrival, spent the evening alone.
This loneliness caused a feeling of profound depression, and she was assailed by all sorts of gloomy presentiments.
When she went to her room about eleven o'clock, her son was asleep, or pretended to be asleep, so sadly and silently she slipped on a wrapper and let down her long hair, preparatory to brushing it for the night, when old Marguerite, coming in as usual to inquire if her mistress wanted anything before retiring, remarked, as she was about to withdraw:
"I forgot to ask you if André could have the horse and cart to go to Pont Brillant to-morrow morning, madame?"
"Yes," answered Marie, abstractedly.
"You know why André has got to go to the village, don't you, madame?"
"No," replied Marie, with the same deeply absorbed air.
"Why, it is to take M. David's things. He is going away, it seems."
"Great Heavens!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, letting the mass of hair she had been holding fall upon her shoulders, and, turning suddenly to the old servant, "What are you saying, Marguerite?"
"I say that the gentleman is going away, madame."
"What gentleman?"
"Why, M. David, M. Frederick's new tutor, and it is a pity, for – "
"He is going away?" repeated Madame Bastien, interrupting Marguerite in such a strangely altered voice, and with such an expression of grief and dismay, that the servant gazed at her wonderingly. "There must be some mistake. How do you know that M. David is going away?"
"He is sending his things away."
"Who told you so?"
"André."
"How does he know?"
"Why, yesterday M. David asked André if he could get a horse and cart to send some trunks to Pont-Brillant in a day or two. André told him yes; so I thought I ought to tell you that André intended to use the horse to-morrow, that is all."
"M. David has become discouraged. He abandons the task as an impossibility. The embarrassment and regret he feels are the cause of his holding himself so sedulously aloof all day. My son is lost!"
This was Marie's first and only thought. And, wild with despair, forgetting her disordered toilet and the lateness of the hour, she rushed up-stairs and burst into David's room, leaving Marguerite stupefied with amazement.
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEN Marie presented herself so unexpectedly before him, David was seated at his little table in the attitude of meditation. At the sight of the young woman, pale, weeping, her hair dishevelled, and in the disorder of her night-dress, he rose abruptly, and, turning as pale as Marie herself, at the fear that some dreadful event had taken place, said:
"Madame, what has happened? Has Frederick – "
"M. David!" exclaimed the young woman, "it is impossible for you to abandon us in this way!"
"Madame – "
"I tell you, that you shall not leave, no, you cannot have the heart to do it. My only, my last hope is in you, because – you know it well, oh, my God! – I have no one in the world to help me but you!"
"Madame, a word, I implore you."
Marie, clasping her hands, continued in a supplicating voice:
"Mercy, M. David, be good and generous to the end. Why are you discouraged? The transports of my son have ceased, he has given up his plans for vengeance. That is already a great deal, and that I owe to your influence. Frederick's dejection increases, but that is no reason for despair. My God! My God! Perhaps you think me ungrateful, because I express my gratitude to you so poorly. It is not my fault. My poor child seems as dear to you as to me. Sometimes you say our Frederick; then I forget that you are a stranger who has had pity on us! Your tenderness toward my son seems to me so sincere that I am no more astonished at your devotion to him than at my own."
In his astonishment, David had not at first been able to find a word; then he experienced such delight in hearing Marie portray her gratitude in such a touching manner that, in spite of himself, he did not reassure her, perhaps, as soon as he could have done so. Nevertheless, reproaching himself for not putting an end to the agony of this unhappy woman, he said:
"Will you listen to me, madame?"
"No, no," cried she, with the impetuosity of grief and entreaty. "Oh, you surely will have pity, you will not kill me with despair, after having made me hope so much! How can I do without you now? Oh, my God! what do you think will become of us if you go away? Oh, monsieur, there is one memory which is all-powerful with you, the memory of your brother. In the name of this memory, I implore you not to abandon Frederick. You have been as tender with him as if he were your own child or your own brother. These are sacred links which unite you and me, and you will not break these links without pity; no, no, it cannot be possible!"
And sobs stifled the voice of the young woman.
Tears came also to the eyes of David, and he hastened to say to Madame Bastien, in a voice full of emotion:
"I do not know, madame, what has made you think that I intended to go away. Nothing was farther from my thought."
"Really!" exclaimed Marie, in a voice which cannot be described.
"And if I must tell you, madame, while I have not been discouraged, I have realised the difficulty of our task; but to-day, at this hour, for the first time I have good hope."
"My God, you hear him!" murmured Marie with religious fervour. "May this hope not be in vain!"
"It will not be, madame, I have every reason to believe, and, far from contemplating departure, I have spent my time in reflecting all this day, because to-morrow may offer something decisive. And in order that my reflections might not be interrupted, I did not appear at dinner, under the pretext of a slight indisposition. Calm yourself, madame, I implore you in my turn. Believe that I have only one thought in the world, the salvation of our Frederick. To-day this salvation is not only possible, but probable. Yes, everything tells me that to-morrow will be a happy day for us."
It is impossible to describe the transformation which, at each word of David, was manifested in the countenance of the young woman. Her face, so pale and distorted by agony, became suddenly bright with joyous surprise; her lovely features, half veiled by her loose and beautiful hair, now shone with ineffable hope.
Marie was so adorably beautiful, thus attired in her white dressing-gown, half open from the violent palpitations of her bosom, that a deep blush mounted to David's brow, and the passionate love that he had so long felt, not without dread, now took possession of his heart.
"M. David," continued Madame Bastien, "surely you will not deceive me with false hope, in order to escape my prayers, and spare yourself the sight of my tears. Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I am ashamed of this last doubt, the last echo of my past terror. Oh, I believe you, yes, I believe you! I am so happy to believe you!"
"You can do so, madame, for I have never lied," replied David, scarcely daring to look up at Marie, whose beauty intoxicated him almost to infatuation. "But who, madame, has led you to suppose that I was going away?"
"It was Marguerite who told me a little while ago in my chamber; then, in my dismay, I ran to you."
These words reminded David that the presence of Madame Bastien in his chamber at a late hour of the night might seem strange to the servants of the house, in spite of the affectionate respect with which they regarded the young mother, so, taking advantage of the excuse she had just offered, he advanced to the threshold of his door, left open during this conversation, and called Marguerite in a loud voice.
"I beg your pardon, madame," said he to Marie, who looked at him with surprise. "I would like to know why Marguerite thought I was going away."
The servant, astonished and frightened by the sudden flight of her mistress, hurried to David's chamber, and he at once said to her:
"My dear Marguerite, you have just been the cause of great distress to Madame Bastien, by telling her that I was preparing to leave the house, and that, too, at a time when Frederick, this poor child whom you have seen from his birth, has need of all our care. In her deep anxiety, Madame Bastien ran up here; fortunately, I have been able to satisfy her; but, again, how came you to think I was about to leave?"
"As I told madame, M. David, you had asked André for a horse and cart to carry trunks to Pont Brillant. Then, I thought – "
"That is true," said David, interrupting Marguerite.
Then, addressing Marie, he said:
"A thousand pardons, madame, for having given reason for the mistake which has caused you so much anxiety. The story is simply this: I had charge of some boxes of books that I was to deliver, upon my arrival at Senegal, to one of my compatriots. In departing from Nantes, I had, in my preoccupation of mind, given order to address my baggage here; these boxes, contrary to my intention, were included in the list, and it was – "
"To return them to Nantes by the coach which passes Pont Brillant that you asked for a horse and cart, was it not, M. David?" said the old servant.
"Exactly, my dear Marguerite."
"It is the fault of André, too," said the servant. "He told me trunks. I said trunks or effects, which are the same thing, but, thank God! you have calmed madame, and you must stay, M. David, because, if left alone, she will have trouble with poor M. Frederick."
During this interchange of explanation between Marguerite and David, Madame Bastien, altogether encouraged, came, so to speak, to herself entirely; then feeling her hair float over her half-naked bosom, she thought of the disorder of her attire; but she was so pure and unaffected, so much the mother more than the woman, that she attached no importance to the fact of her nocturnal interview with David; but when her instinct of natural modesty awakened, she reflected upon the embarrassment and painful awkwardness of running to David's chamber in her night-dress, and she saw at once the delicacy of sentiment which he had obeyed in calling Marguerite and demanding an explanation of the circumstances.
These reflections filled her mind while David and Marguerite were conversing upon the subject.
Not knowing how to arrange her disordered toilet without being seen by David, and feeling that any attempt at arrangement was a tacit avowal of her embarrassment, however excusable, the young woman found a way out of the complication.
The servant wore a large red woollen shawl. Madame Bastien took it and silently wrapped it around herself, then, as many of the women of the country do, she put it over her head and crossed it, so that her floating hair was half hidden and she was enveloped to her waist in the long folds of the shawl.
This was done with so much quickness that David did not perceive the metamorphosis in Marie's costume until she said to her servant, with affectionate familiarity:
"My good Marguerite, forgive me for taking your shawl, but to-night is freezing, and I am cold."
If David had found the young woman adorably beautiful and attractive with dishevelled hair and all in white, he beheld a still more captivating beauty in her as she stood wrapped in this mantle of scarlet; nothing could have more enhanced the soft brilliancy of her large blue eyes, the lovely colour of her brown hair, and the delicate rose of her complexion.
"Good night, M. David," said the young mother; "after having entered your room in despair, I leave it greatly encouraged, since you tell me that to-morrow will be a day of decisive experience for Frederick, and perhaps a day of happiness for us."
"Yes, madame, I have good hope, and if you will permit it, to-morrow morning, before seeing Frederick, I would like to meet you in the library."
"I will await you there, M. David, and with great impatience. God grant that our anticipations may not be mistaken. Good night again, M. David. Come, Marguerite."
Long after the young woman had left the chamber of David, he stood motionless in the same place, trembling with rapture, as he pictured to himself the enchanting loveliness of the face sheltered under the folds of the scarlet shawl.