O good old man; how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world
When service sweat for duty, not for need!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And having that, do choice their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
Shakespeare.
Although our readers must readily comprehend, after that which we have just related to them, all that had passed in the six months during which we had lost sight of our heroes, some details are, however, necessary, in order that they should fully understand the new events about to be accomplished.
On the evening after the combat between the Indienne and the Drake, and which, notwithstanding our ignorance in naval matters, we have attempted to describe to our readers, Lusignan had related to Paul the history of his whole life. It was a very simple one, and contained but few incidents. Love had formed the principal event in it, and after having been its only joy, it had become its greatest grief. The adventurous and independent life of Paul, his station, which had placed him beyond the trammels of society, his caprice which was superior to all laws, his habit of supreme command on board his own ship, had inspired him with too just a sense of natural rights to obey the order he had received with regard to Lusignan. Moreover, although he had anchored under the French flag, Paul, as we have seen, belonged to the navy of America, whose cause he had enthusiastically espoused. He continued, therefore, his cruise along the shores of England; but finding there was nothing to be done on the sea he landed at Whitehaven, a small port in Cumberland, at the head of twenty men, among whom was Lusignan, took the fort, spiked the guns, and put to sea again, after having burnt the merchant vessels in the roads. Thence he sailed for the coast of Scotland, with the intention of carrying off the Earl of Selkirk and taking him as a hostage to the United States; but this project had miscarried from an unforeseen circumstance, that nobleman having unexpectedly gone to London. In this enterprise, as in the other, Lusignan had seconded him with the courage we have seen him exhibit in the battle between the Indienne and the Drake; so that Paul congratulated himself more than ever upon the chance which had enabled him to oppose an injustice. But it was not enough that he had saved Lusignan from transportation, it was necessary to restore his honor, and to our young adventurer, in whom our readers will doubtless have recognised the celebrated privateersman, Paul Jones, it was a more easy matter than to any other person; for having letters of marque from Louis XVI., against the English, he had to repair to Versailles to give an account of his cruize.
Paul determined upon running into Lorient, and for the second time cast anchor there, that he might be within a short distance of the Chateau d’Auray. The first answer which the young men received to their enquiries regarding that family, was that Marguerite d’Auray was about to be married to M. do Lectoure. Lusignan thought himself’ forgotten, and in the first paroxysm of his despair, insisted, even at the risk of falling into the hands of his former persecutors, on once more seeing Marguerite, if it were only to reproach her for infidelity; but Paul, more calm and less credulous, made him pledge his word that he would not land until he had heard from him; then, being assured that the marriage would not take place in less than fifteen days, he set out for Paris, and was received by the king, who presented him with a sword, the hilt of which was of gold, and decorated him with the order of military merit. Paul had availed himself of the kindness of the king towards him to relate to him Lusignan’s adventures, and had obtained not only his pardon, but also as a reward for his late services, the appointment of Governor of Guadaloupe. All these cares had not prevented him from keeping sight of Emanuel. Being informed of the count’s intended departure, he left Paris, and having written to Lusignan, appointing a place of meeting, he arrived at Auray an hour after the young count.
After their joyful meeting, Paul and Lusignan remained together until nearly twilight. Then Paul, who, as he had told Emanuel, had a personal revelation to receive, left his friend and again took the road to Auray. But this time he was on foot, and did not enter the castle, but going along the park wall, he directed his steps toward an iron gate which opened into a wood belonging to the domains of Auray.
About an hour before Paul left the fisherman’s hut, where he had found Lusignan, a person had preceded him on the road toward the cottage at which he was to ask the revelation of the secret of his birth; that person was the Marchioness d’Auray, the haughty heiress of the name of Sable. She was attired in her usual mourning garments with the addition of a long black veil, which enveloped her from head to foot. Moreover, the habitation which our young adventurer, with the hesitation of ignorance, was seeking for, was to her familiar. It was a sort of keeper’s house, situated at a few paces from the entrance to the park, and inhabited by an old man, in whose behalf the Marchioness d’Auray had for twenty years fulfilled one of those acts of sedulous benevolence which had gained for her in that part of Lower Brittany, the reputation of rigid holiness which she enjoyed. These attentions to age were given, it is true, with the same gloomy and solemn face which we have observed in her, and which the tender emotions of pity never softened; but they were nevertheless afforded, and all knew it, with careful punctuality.
The face of the Marchioness d’Auray was even more grave than it was wont to be, while she crossed the park to repair to the dwelling of a man who was said to be an old servant of the family. The door was standing open as if to allow the last rays of the setting sun to penetrate into the house, so sweet and balmy to old people in the month of May. The house was however empty. The Marchioness d’Auray entered it, looked around her, and then as if certain that the person she was in search of would not be long absent, she resolved to await his return. She sat down. She had remained there about half an hour, motionless and absorbed in her reflections, when she saw, between her and the declining daylight, a shadow cast before the door. She slowly raised her eyes and recognised the person she had been expecting. They both started as though they had met by chance, and were not in the habit of seeing each other every day.
“It is you, Achard,” said the marchioness, who was the first to speak. “I have been waiting for you half an hour. Where can you have been?”
“Had your ladyship walked fifty paces farther, you would have found me under the large oak, on the edge of the forest.”
“You know I never walk that way,” said the marchioness, with a visible shudder.
“And you are wrong, madam; there is one in heaven who has a right to our joint prayers, and who, perhaps, is astonished to hear only those of old Achard.”
“And how know you that I do not also pray?” said the marchioness, with a certain degree of feverish agitation. “Do you believe that the dead require we should be constantly kneeling on their tombs?”
“No,” replied the old man, with a feeling of profound sorrow; “no, I do not believe that the dead are so exacting, madam; but I believe if any part of us lives under ground, it would thrill at the noise caused by the steps of those whom we have loved during our life.”
“But,” said the marchioness, in a low and hollow tone, “if that love were a guilty passion?”
“However guilty it may have been, madam,” replied the old man, also lowering his voice, “do you not believe that blood and tears have expatiated it? God was then, believe me, too severe a judge, not to have now become an indulgent father.”
“Yes, God has perhaps pardoned it,” murmured the marchioness, “but did the world know that which God knows, would it pardon as God has done?”
“The world!” exclaimed the old man; “the world! Yes, there is the great word which has again escaped your lips! The world! It is to it, to that phantom you have sacrificed everything, madam; your feelings as a lover, your feelings as a wife, your feelings as a mother! your own happiness, the happiness of others! The world! It is the fear of the world which has clothed you in perpetual mourning, beneath which you hope to conceal remorse! And in that you are right, for you have succeeded in deceiving it, for it has taken your remorse for virtue!”
The marchioness raised her head with some degree of agitation, and putting aside her veil that she might look upon the person who addressed her in such extraordinary language; then, after a momentary silence, not being able to discover any sinister expression in the calm features of the old man.
“You speak to me,” she said to him, “with a bitterness which would lead me to believe you have some personal reason for reproaching me. Have I failed in any promise I have made? The persons who attend on you by my orders, are they wanting in that respect which I have desired them to observe? You know, if this should be the case, you have only to say a word.”
“Forgive me, madam, it is in sorrow that I speak, not bitterness; it is the effect of solitude and of age. You must well know what it is to have sorrows that you cannot speak of—tears which we dare not shed, and which fall back, drop by drop, upon the heart! No, I have not to complain of any one, madam, since first, from a feeling for which I am truly grateful, without seeking to know whence it emanated, you have been pleased to see personally that my wants were all supplied, and you have not for a single day forgotten your promise, but like the old prophet, I have sometimes seen an angel come as your messenger.”
“Yes,” replied the marchioness, “I know that Marguerite often accompanies the servant who is charged to wait upon you; and I have seen with pleasure the attentions she has paid you, and the friendship she feels for you.”
“But in my turn, I have not failed either, I trust, in the promises I made. For twenty years I have lived far from the habitations of men, I have kept away every living being from this dwelling; so much did I fear on your account, the delirium of my waking hours, or the indiscretion of my dreams.”
“Undoubtedly! undoubtedly! and happily the secret has been well preserved,” said the marchioness, placing her hand upon Achard’s arm; “but this is a stronger incentive in my mind not to lose in a single day the fruit of twenty years, all more gloomy, more isolated, and more terrible than yours have been.”
“Yes, I understand you perfectly; and you have shuddered more than once upon suddenly remembering that there is roaming about the world, a man who may one day call upon me to reveal that secret, and that I have not the right to conceal it from that man. Ah! you tremble at the bare idea, do you not? But, tranquilise yourself; that man, when but a boy, fled from the school at which we had placed him in Scotland, and for ten years past nothing has been heard of him. In short, destined to obscurity, he himself rushed forward to meet his fate. He is now lost amid the millions that crowd this populous world, and not a soul knows where to find him; this poor unit, without a name, is lost for ever. He must have lost his father’s letter, have mislaid the token by which I was to recognise him; or, better still, perhaps he exists no longer.”
“It is cruel of you, Achard,” replied the marchioness, “to utter such words to a mother. You cannot appreciate the strange feelings and singular contradictions contained in the heart of woman. For, in fine, can I not be tranquil unless my child be dead! Consider, my old friend; this secret, of which he has been ignorant five and twenty years, has it become at the age of twenty-five, so necessary to his existence that he cannot live, unless it be revealed to him? Believe me, Achard, for himself even it would be better he should still remain ignorant of it, as he has been to this day. I feel assured that to this day he has been happy—old man, do not mar this happiness—do not inspire his mind with thoughts which may induce him to commit an evil action. No—tell him, in lieu of the dreadful tale you were desired to communicate, that his mother has gone to rejoin his father in heaven; and, would to God that it were so! but that when dying (for I must see him whatever you may say to the contrary, I will even if it be but once, press him to my heart), when dying, as I said, his mother had bequeathed him to her friend the Marchioness d’Auray, in whom he will find a second mother.”
“I understand you, madam,” said Achard, smiling. “It is not the first time you have pointed out this path, in which you wish to lead me astray. Only to-day, you speak more openly, and if you dared to do so, or if you knew me less, you would offer me some reward to induce me to disobey the last injunctions of him who sleeps by us.”
The marchioness made a gesture as if about to interrupt him.
“Listen to me, madam,” hastily said the old man, stretching forth his hand, “and let my words be considered by you as holy and irrevocable. As faithful as I have been to the promise which I made to the Marchioness d’Auray, so faithful will I be to that I made to the Count de Morlaix, on the day when his son, or your son, shall present himself before me with the token of recognition, and shall demand to know the secret. I shall reveal it to him, madam. As to the papers which attest it, you are aware that they are to be delivered to him only after the death of the Marquis d’Auray. The secret is here,” said the old man, placing his hand upon his heart; “no human power could have extracted it before the time; no human power, that time having arrived, can prevent me from revealing it. The papers are there in that closet, the key of which I always have about me, and it is only by robbery or by assassination that I can be deprived of them.”
“But,” said the marchioness, half rising and supporting herself on the arm of her chair, “you might die before my husband, old man; for although he is more dangerously ill than you are, you are older than he is, and then what would become of those papers?”
“The priest who shall attend my last moments will receive them under the seal of confession.”
“Ah! it is that!” cried the marchioness, rising, “and thus this chain of fears will be prolonged until my death! and the last link of it will be to all eternity rivetted to my tomb. There is in this world a man, the only one perhaps, who is as immoveable as a rock; and God has placed him in my path, not only as a remorse,’ but as a vengeance also. My secret is in your hands, old man,—tis well!—do with it as you will!—you are the master, and I am your slave—farewell!”
So saying, the marchioness left the cottage, and returned towards the chateau.
More than ten years have passed since I beheld him,
The noble boy; now time annuls my oath
And cancels all his wrongs.
I took a solemn oath to veil the secret,
Conceal thy rights, while lived her lord,
And thus allow’d thy youth to quit my roof.
Bulwer.—The Sea Captain.
“Yes,” said the old man, gazing after the marchioness as she withdrew, “yes, I know you have a heart of adamant, madam, insensible to every sort of fear, with the exception of that which God has placed within your breast to supply the place of remorse. But that suffices; and it is dearly buying that reputation you have obtained for virtue, to pay the price of such eternal terrors. It is true that the virtue of the Marchioness d’Auray is so firmly established, that if truth herself were to rise from the earth or to descend from heaven to arraign her, she would be treated as a calumniator. But God orders all things according to His will, and what He does ordain, His wisdom has long before matured.”
“Rightly reasoned,” cried a youthful and sonorous voice, replying to the religious axiom which the resignation of the old man had led him to utter. “Upon my word, good father, you speak like Ecclesiastes.” Achard turned round and perceived Paul, who had arrived just as the marchioness left him, but who was so absorbed by the scene we have just described, that she had not observed the young captain. The latter, seeing the old man alone, approached him, and not hearing the last words he had uttered, had spoken with his usual good humor. Achard, who was surprised by his unexpected appearance, looked at him as if he wished him to repeat that which he had said.
“I say,” resumed Paul, “that there is more grandeur in resignation that humbly bows itself, than in philosophy that doubts. That is a maxim of our quakers, which, for my eternal welfare, I wish I had less often on my tongue, and more frequently in my heart.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man on seeing our adventurer, who was fixedly gazing at him, while standing with one foot on the threshold of his door. “May I know who you are?”
“For the moment,” replied Paul, giving, as usual, free course to his poetical and heedless gaiety, “I am a child of the republic of Plato, having all human kind for brothers, the world for a country, and possessing upon this earth only the station I have worked out for myself.”
“And what are you in search of?” continued the old man, smiling in spite of himself at the air of jovial good-nature which was spread over the features of the young man.
“I am seeking,” replied Paul, “at three leagues distance from Lorient, at five hundred paces from resembles this one, and in which I am to find an old man, whom it is very likely is yourself.”
“And what is the name of this old man?”
“Louis Achard.”
“That is my name.”
“Then may the blessing of heaven descend on your white hairs,” said Paul, in a voice which at once changing its tone, assumed that of deep feeling and respect; “for here is a letter which I believe was written by my father, in which he says that you are an honest man.”
“Does not that letter enclose something?” cried d’Auray, and advancing a step nearer to the young captain.
“It does,” replied the latter, opening the letter and taking out of it one half of a Venetian sequin, which had been broken in two; “it seems to be part of a gold coin, of which I have one half, and you ought to be in possession of the other.”
Achard mechanically held out his hand, while gazing with intense interest at the young man.
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, and eyes gradually became more and more suffused with tears: “yes, this is the true token, and more than that, the extraordinary resemblance,” and opening his arms, he cried, “child!—oh! my God! my God!”
“What is it?” cried Paul, extending his arms to support the old man, who was quite overcome by his emotions.
“Oh! can you not comprehend?” replied the latter, “can you not comprehend that you are the living portrait of your father, and that I loved your father—loved him so much that I would have shed my blood, have given my life to serve him, as I would now for you, young man, were you to demand it.”
“Embrace me, then, my old friend,” said Paul, throwing his arms around the old man, “for the chain of feeling, believe me, is not broken, which extended from the tomb of the father to the cradle of the son. Whatever my father may have been, if in order to resemble him it be only necessary to have a conscience without reproach, undaunted courage, and a memory which never forgets a benefit conferred, although it may sometimes forget an injury; if this be so, then am I, as you have said, my father’s living portrait, and more so in soul than in form.”
“Yes, he possessed all these,” replied the old man, with solemnity, and clasping Paul to his breast, looking at him with affectionate though tearful tenderness—“Yes, he had the same commanding voice, the same flashing eyes, the same nobleness of heart. But why was it that I have not seen you sooner, young man? I have, during my life, passed many gloomy hours, which your presence would have brightened.”
“Why—because this letter told me to seek you out only when I should have attained the age of twenty-five, and because it is not long since I attained that age, not more than an hour ago.”
The old man bowed down his head with a pensive air, and remained silent for some time, seemingly absorbed by recollections of the past.
“Can it be so?” at length ne said, raising his head, “can it be twenty-five years ago. Good heaven! it appears to me only yesterday that you were born in this house, that you first saw the light in that very room:” and the old man raised his head, and pointed to a door which led into another room.
Paul, in his turn, appeared to reflect, and then, looking around him, to strengthen by the aid of objects which presented themselves to his view, the recollections which crowded on his memory.
“In this cottage, in that room,” he repeated, “and I lived here till I was five years old, did I not?”
“Yes,” murmured the old man, as if fearful to disturb the feelings which were taking possession of the young man’s mind.
“Well,” continued Paul, leaning his head on both his hands, as if to concentrate his thoughts, “allow me for one moment to look back, in my turn, to the past, for I am recollecting a room which I had thought I had seen in a dream—it may be that one. Listen to me! Oh! how strange it is—remembrances now rush upon me.”
“Speak, my child, speak!” said the old man.
“It it be that room, there ought to be on the right, as you go in, at the end of the room, a bed with green hangings.”
“Yes.”
“A crucifix at the head of the bed.”
“Yes.”
“A closet opposite, in which were books, among the rest a large Bible, with numerous engravings.”
“There it is,” said the old man, pointing to the sacred book which was lying open on a desk for prayer.
“Oh! it is that—it is that,” cried Paul, pressing his lips against the leaves.
“Oh! good and pious heart,” cried the old man, “I thank thee, oh! my God—I thank thee.”
“Then,” said Paul, rising, “in that room there is a window, from which you can discern the sea, and on the sea, three islands?”
“Yes, Houat, Hoedic, and Belle-Ileen-mer.
“Then, it is really so,” said Paul, rushing towards the room, and then perceiving that the old man was about to follow him, he said: “No, no! I must be alone—let me enter it alone—I feel that I must be alone,” and he went into the room, closing the door after him.
He then paused a moment, impressed with that holy respect which accompanies the remembrance of our infancy. The room was as he had described it, for the religious devotedness of the old servant had preserved it from any change. Paul, feeling doubtless that the eye of a stranger would have interrupted the expression of the feelings he experienced, and now certain of being alone, abandoned himself to them He slowly advanced, and with clasped hands, towards the ivory crucifix; and falling on his knees, which formerly he had the habit of doing, morning and evening, he endeavoured to remember one of those simple prayers, in which a child, still on the threshold of this life, prays to God for those who have opened its gates to him. “What events had succeeded each other in the lapse of time which had passed between these genuflexions! Paul remained for a considerable time absorbed in thought, and then slowly arose, and went to the window. The night was beautiful and calm, the moon was shining in the heavens, and tipped the ocean waves with silver. The three islands appeared on the horizon, like blue vapor floating on the ocean. He remembered how often in his infancy he had leaned against that window, gazing upon that same scene, following with his eyes some bark, with its snowy sails, which glided silently over the sea, like the wing of a night bird. Then his heart swelled with sweet and tender recollection; his head fell upon his chest, and silent tears ran down his cheeks. At that moment he felt that some one pressed his hands—it was the old man—he wished to conceal his emotions; but instantly repenting this vain feeling, he turned toward Achard, and frankly let him see his face, down which the tears were streaming.
“You weep, my child,” said the old man.
“Yes, I weep,” replied Paul; “and why should I conceal it? Yea, look at me. And yet I have, during my life, witnessed dreadful scenes. I have seen the tempest bear my vessel to the summit of a mountain wave, and then sink her into an abyss, from which I thought she would never rise again; and I felt that she weighed no more upon the wings of the storm than does a dried leaf on the evening breeze. I have seen men fall around me like the ripe ears of corn before the sickle of the reaper. I have heard the cries of distress, and the dying groans of those whose meal I had shared but the day before. In order to receive their last sigh, I have walked amid a shower of bullets, and grape-shot, upon a plank slippery with blood. And yet, amid all this, my soul was calm—my eyes remained unmoistened. But this room, see you; this room, of which I had retained so holy a remembrance; this room, in which I had received the first caresses of a father whom I shall never see again, and the last kisses of a mother who perhaps desires no more to see me; this room is sacred as a cradle and as a tomb. I cannot thus revisit it without giving vent to my emotions; I must weep, or I shall suffocate.” The old man clasped him in his arms. Paul leaned his head upon his shoulder, and during some time nothing was heard but his sobs. At length the old servant rejoined:
“Yes, you are right; this room is at once a cradle and a tomb; it was there that you were born;” he pointed to one corner with his hand; “and it was there that you received the last blessing of your father,” continued he, pointing to the opposite side of the room.
“He is then dead?” said Paul.
“He is dead.”
“You must tell me how he died.”
“I will tell you all.”
“Defer it for a moment,” added Paul, as he reached a chair and seated himself, “for I am now too weak to listen to you. Let me recover myself.” He placed his elbow on the window-sill, leaned his head upon his hand, and once more cast his eyes upon the sea.
“What a magnificent spectacle is the ocean when the moon shines upon it as brightly as it does now,” continued he, with that accent of soft melancholy which was habitual to him. “It is as calm as God himself, and vast as eternity. I do not believe that a man accustomed to study such a scene can be afraid of death. My father met death bravely, did he not?”
“Assuredly!” proudly replied Achard.
“It could not be otherwise,” continued Paul, “for I remember my father, although I was only four years old when I last saw him.”
“He was a handsome young man, as you yourself are,” said Achard, looking sorrowfully at Paul, “and just as old as you are.”
“What was his name?”
“The Count de Moraix.”
“Then I also am of an old and noble family. I also have arms and an escutcheon as well as those young and insolent nobles who ask me for my parchments when I show them my wounds?”
“Wait, young man, wait; do not allow pride to carry you thus away, for I have not yet told you the name of her who gave you being, and you are still ignorant of the dreadful secret of your birth.”
“Well: be it so. I shall not with the less respect and veneration hear the name of my mother. What was my mother’s name?”
“The Marchioness d’Auray,” slowly replied the old man, as if regretting that he was compelled to mention her name.
“What is it that you tell me!” cried Paul, starting from his chair, and seizing the hands of the old man.
“The truth!” replied Achard, sorrowfully.
“Then Emanuel is my brother—Marguerite is my sister.”
“Do you then already know them?” exclaimed the old servant, much astounded.
“Oh! you were right, old man,” said Paul, throwing himself into his chair. “God orders all things according to His will, and what He does ordain, His wisdom has long before matured.”
They both remained silent for a time, when at length Paul raised his head, and resolutely fixing his eyes on the old man’s face, said:
“Now, I am ready to hear all you have to communicate—you may go on.”
I shall a tale unfold
Will harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes like stars, start from their spheres;
Thy knotted and combined locks to part.
And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
Shakespeare.
The old man seemed to be summoning up his recollections for a time, and then began:
“They were affianced to each other. I know not what mortal hatred it was that arose between the families and separated them. The Count de Morlaix, broken hearted, could not remain in France. He sailed for Saint Domingo, where his father possessed a large estate; I accompanied him, for the Count de Morlaix reposed much confidence in me. I was the son of her who had nursed him; I had received the same education as himself; he used to call me his brother, and I alone remembered the distance which nature had placed between us. The Marquis de Morlaix confided to me the charge of watching over his son, for I loved him with all the love of a father. We remained two years under a tropical sun; during that two years, your father, lost amid the solitude of that magnificent island, a traveller without an object and without an aim, an ardent and indefatigable sportsman, endeavouring to cure the griefs of the mind, by the fatigues of the body; but so far from succeeding, one would have thought that his heart became still more inflamed under that ardent sun. At length, after two years of trial and incessant struggles, his love conquered. He must either see her again or die. I yielded and we set sail for France. Never was a voyage more beautiful, or more prosperous. The sea and sky seemed to smile upon us; so favourable were they that it would have induced one to believe in lucky omens. Six weeks after our departure from Port au Prince, we landed at Havre. Mademoiselle de Sablé was married. The Marquis d’Auray was at Versailles, fulfilling at the court of Louis XV. the duties of his charge, and his wife, who was too much indisposed to follow him, was at the old chateau d’Auray, the turrets of which you see from this place.”
“Yes, yes,” said Paul, “I know it; pray go on.”
“As to myself,” rejoined the old map, “during our voyage, one of my uncles, an old servant of the house of Auray, had died, and left me this small house, with a small quantity of land surrounding it. I took possession of it. Your father had left me at Vannes, telling me he was going to Paris, and for the whole of the first year that I inherited this house I did not see him.”
“One night,—it is exactly twenty-five years ago,—some one knocked at my door; I went to open it and found your father there, carrying in his arms a woman whose face was veiled. He brought her into this room, and laid her on that bed. And then returning to me in the adjoining room, where I was waiting mute and motionless with astonishment, he placed his hand upon my shoulder, and looking at me in a supplicating manner, although he had the right to command me, said, ‘Louis, you can do more than save my life and honor—you can save the life and honor of her I love—get on horseback, gallop to the next town, and return here in an hour with a doctor.’ He spoke to me in that short and hasty tone, which indicated that there was not a moment to be lost. I immediately obeyed. The day was beginning to break when we returned. The doctor was introduced by the Count de Morlaix into this room, the door of which was immediately closed: he remained there during the whole day; towards five in the afternoon, the doctor left the house, and at nightfall your father also left the house carrying in his arms the mysterious veiled lady whom he had brought the previous night. When they had gone, I came into this room and found you here—you had just been born.”
“And how did you learn that this woman was the Marchioness d’Auray?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, in a way which was as terrible as it was unexpected; “I had offered the Count de Morlaix to keep you here, and he accepted my proposal: from time to time he would come to spend an hour with you.”
“Alone?” demanded Paul, with much anxiety.
“Yes, always; but as he had given me permission to walk with you in the park, it would sometimes happen that at the corner of one of the avenues I would meet the marchioness, whom chance appeared to have conducted in that direction. She would make you a sign to come to her, and she would kiss you as people kiss a strange child, because he is handsome. Four years passed on in this way, and then one night some one again knocked at this door, and it was again your father. He was more calm, but had, perhaps, a more gloomy look than on the first occasion. ‘Louis,’ said he, ‘to-morrow, at the break of day, I have to meet the Marquis d’Auray. It is a duel in which one of us must fall, and you are to be the only witness of it. The terms are agreed upon. You must, therefore, give me shelter for this night, and let me have materials for writing.’ He sat down at this table, on the very chair you are now seated.”
Paul sprang up, but supported himself on the back of the chair, without again sitting down upon it. “He sat up all night. At day-break he came into my room and found me up—I had not gone to bed. As to you poor child, unconscious of the passions and miseries of this life, you were quietly sleeping.”
“And then,—pray go on.”
“Your father bent slowly over you, supporting himself by the wall, and looking sorrowfully upon you: ‘Louis,’ said he to me, in a hollow voice, ‘should I be killed, and which may happen, wo to this child! You will deliver him with this letter to Field, my valet de chambre, whom I have charged to conduct him to Selkirk, in Scotland, there to leave him in sure hands. When he is twenty-five years old, he will bring you the other half of this gold coin, and will ask you to reveal to him the secret of his birth. You will communicate it; for then, perhaps, his mother will be alone and isolated. As to these papers which prove his birth, you will not deliver them to him, until after the death of the Marquis d’Auray. Now I have said all that is necessary, let us go, for it is the appointed hour. He then leaned over your bed, bent down toward you, and although he was a man of fortitude, as I have told you, I saw a tear fall upon your cheek.”
“Proceed,” said Paul, in a voice choked by emotion.
“The rendezvous was in one of the avenues of the park, about a hundred paces from this house. When we reached the place, we found the marquis there, he had been waiting for us some minutes. Near him upon a bank were pistols ready loaded. The adversaries bowed to each other without exchanging a word. The marquis pointed to the weapons—they each took one, and then, according to the terms which had been agreed upon, as your father had told me, they placed themselves, mute and gloomily, at the distance of thirty paces, and then began to walk towards each other. Oh! it was a moment ef agony for me, I can assure you,” rejoined the old man, almost as much moved as if the scene were then actually passing before him, “when I saw the distance gradually diminishing between these two men. When they were only about ten paces, the marquis stopped and fired. I looked at your father; not a muscle of his face was moved, so that I thought him safe and unhurt. He continued to walk on till he came close to the marquis, and then placing the muzzle of the pistol to his heart—”
“He did not kill him, I trust,” cried Paul seizing the old man’s arm.
“He said to him, Your life is in my hands, sir, and I might take it, but I wish you to live, that you may pardon me, as I do you. And uttering these words, he fell dead at the feet of the marquis, whose ball had passed through his chest.”
“Oh! my father! my father!” cried Paul, wringing his hands. “And the man who killed my father—he still lives, does he not? He is still young, and has strength enough to wield a sword or raise a pistol? We will go to him—to-day—instantly! You will tell him, that it is his son! that he must fight with him.”
“God has avenged your father,” replied Achard—“that man is mad.”
“That is true—I had forgotten that,” murmured Paul.
“And in his madness that bloody scene is ever before his eyes, and he repeats ten times a day the dying words your father addressed to him.”
“And that must be the reason why the marchioness will not leave him for a single moment.”
“And that is also the reason, under the pretext that he will not see his children, that she keeps Emanuel and Marguerite from him.”
“My poor sister,” said Paul, with an accent of undefinable tenderness; “and now she wishes to sacrifice her by forcing her to marry that wretch Lectoure.”
“Yes, but that wretch Lectoure will take Marguerite with him to Paris, and give a regiment of dragoons to her brother, so that the marchioness will no longer have cause to dread the presence of her children. Her secret, therefore, remains henceforward in the breasts of two old men, who to-morrow, this night even, may die. The grave is silent.”
“But, I—I!”——
“You! Does she know that you still exist! Has anything been heard of you since you escaped from Selkirk? Could not some accident have prevented you from coming to the appointment, which fortunately you have done safely? It is certain that she has not forgotten you, but she hopes”——
“Oh! can you believe that my mother”——
“I beg your pardon, that is true. I do not believe it!” cried Achard, “I was wrong; forget what I have said.”
“Yes, yes, let us speak of you, my friend; let us speak of my father.”
“Is it necessary that I should tell you that his last wishes were fulfilled. Field came to fetch you during the day, and took you away with him. Twenty-one years have passed since then, and since then not a single day has passed without my putting up a prayer that I might see you at the appointed time. My prayers have been granted,” continued the old man; “and thanks be to God, you are here. Your father lives again in you—I once more see him—I am speaking to him. I weep no longer, I am now consoled.”
“And he died thus, instantly, without a struggle, without a sigh?”
“Yes—I brought him here. I placed him on the bed in which you were born—I closed the door that no one might enter the house, and I went alone and dug his grave. I passed the whole day in this painful duty; for, according to the request of your father, to no one was to be confided this dreadful secret. In the evening I returned for the body. The heart of man is singularly constituted, and hope which God has planted in it can with difficulty be eradicated. I had seen him fall—I had felt his hands grow cold—I had kissed his ice-like face—I had left him, to hollow out his grave, and that grave being made, that duty being accomplished, I returned with a beating heart, for it appeared to me, although a miracle would be required for such a change, that during my absence life had returned to him, and that he would rise from his bed and speak to me. I entered the house—alas! alas! the days of miracles had passed away. Lazarus remained lying on his couch—dead! dead! dead!” and the old man remained for some time overwhelmed with grief, silent and voiceless, and tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks.
“Yes, yes,” cried Paul, also bursting into tears; “yes, and you then fulfilled your holy mission. Good old man, let me kiss those hands which deposited my father in his last home. And you have remained faithful to his tomb as you had been to him during life. Poor guardian of the sepulchre; you have remained near him that your tears might water the grass which grew about the unknown grave. Oh! how little are those who think themselves great because their name resounds amid the tempest, and the cry of war, louder than the storm or the din of battle, in comparison with you, old man, whose devotedness has been mute and noiseless. Oh! give me your blessings lay those hallowed hands upon my head, since my father is not here to bless me,” continued Paul, throwing himself on his knees before him.
“Rise to my arms—let me clasp you to my heart, my child, for you exaggerate these actions, in themselves so simple and so natural. And then, believe me, that which you term my piety has not been a useless lesson to me. I have seen how little space a man occupies beneath the ground, and how soon he is lost amid the world, should God turn his face from him. Your father was young, full of courage, with a brilliant career opening before him. Your father was the last descendant of an ancient line; he bore a noble name. His path seemed marked with honors and distinction; he had a family and powerful friends. Well, he suddenly disappeared, as if the earth had opened beneath his feet. I know not if some tearful eyes sought for him till they lost all trace of him; but this I know, that for one-and-twenty years no one has sought out his tomb—no one knows that he lies beneath that spot, where the grass is greener and grows more luxuriantly than elsewhere—and yet, vain, glorious, and miserable as he is, man considers himself of some value.”
“Oh! and my mother, has she not visited his grave?”
The old man did not answer.
“Well, then! there will be two of us who henceforward will know the spot, where he reposes. Come, and show it to me; for I will return to it, I promise solemnly, every time my ship returns to the coast of France.”
Saying this, he drew Achard into the outer room, but as they opened the door they heard a slight noise in the park. It was a servant from the castle, who had accompanied Marguerite. Paul hurriedly returned into the bedroom.
“It is my sister,” said he to Achard; “leave me alone with her a moment. It is necessary that I should speak to her. I have something to communicate which will make her pass a happy night. We must have compassion for those who watch and weep.”
“Reflect,” said Achard, “that the secret I have revealed to you is your mother’s.”
“Fear not—I will speak to her but of that which concerns herself.”
At that moment Marguerite entered the room.
This ring I gave him when he parted from me
To bind him to remember my good will;
The more shame for him that he sends it to me.
Shakespeare.
Marguerite had come, as she frequently did, to bring some provisions for the old man, and it was not without astonishment that she perceived in the outer room, where she usually found Achard, a young and handsome man, who looked at her with gladdened eyes, and with a kindly smile. She made a sign to the servant to put down the basket in a corner of the room; he obeyed, and then went out to wait for his mistress in the park. When he had withdrawn, she advanced towards Paul, saying,—
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I expected to find my old friend, Achard, here, and I came, to bring him something from my mother”—
Paul pointed to the inner room, to let her know that the person she was seeking was within, for he could not reply to her; he felt that the tone of his voice would betray the emotions he experienced. The young girl thanked him, with a bow, and went into the room to find Achard.
Paul followed her with his eyes—his hand pressed upon his heart. That virgin soul into which love had never penetrated, now expanded with fraternal tenderness. Isolated as he had always been, having no friends but the rude children of the ocean, all that was soft or tender in his heart, he had turned towards God, and although in the eyes of rigid Christians, his religion might not have appeared as strictly orthodox, it is no less true, that the poetry which overflowed in every word he uttered was nothing more than one vast and eternal prayer. It was not, therefore, astonishing, that this first feeling which penetrated his heart, although purely fraternal, was as extravagant and transporting as the emotions of love.
“Oh!” murmured he, “poor isolated being that I am! How shall I be able to restrain my feelings when she returns, and prevent myself from clasping her to my heart and saying to her: Marguerite! my sister, no woman has yet felt love for me; love me then with sisterly affection. Oh! mother! mother! by depriving me of your caresses, you have also deprived me of those of this dear angel. May God restore to you in eternity that happiness which you have driven from yourself and others.”
“Farewell!” said Marguerite to the old man, opening the door, “farewell! I wished this evening to come myself, for I know not when I may see you again.”
And she went toward the outer door, pensive, and with her eyes cast down, without seeing Paul, without remembering that a stranger was in that room. Paul remained gazing at her with outstretched arms as if to prevent her leaving the house, with palpitating heart and moistened eyes. At length, when he saw her placing her hand upon the door-latch, he cried aloud—
“Marguerite!”
She turned round amazed, but not being able to comprehend this strange familiarity, in one who was totally unknown to her, she half-opened the door.
“Marguerite!” reiterated Paul, advancing a step towards his sister, “Marguerite, do you not hear me call you?”
“It is true that my name is Marguerite, sir,” she replied, with dignity; “but I could not imagine that word was addressed to me by a person whom I have the honor of knowing.”
“But I know you!” exclaimed Paul, going nearer to her, and then closing the door he brought her back into the room. “I know that you are unhappy, that you have not one friendly heart into which you can pour your sorrows, not one arm from which you can ask support.”
“You forget the one which is on high,” replied Marguerite, raising her eyes and hand toward heaven.
“No, no, Marguerite, I do not forget, for it is He who sends me to offer you that which you most need; to tell you when all lips and all hearts are closed toward you, ‘I am your friend, devotedly, eternally.’”
“Oh! sir!” replied Marguerite, “these are sacred and solemn words which you have uttered; words, unfortunately, to which it would be difficult for me to give credence without proofs.”
“And should I give you one?” said Paul.
“Impossible!” murmured Marguerite.
“Irrefragable!” continued Paul.
“Oh! then!” exclaimed Marguerite, with an indescribable accent, in which doubt began to give place to hope—
“Well! and then”—
“Oh! then—but no, no!”
“Do you know this ring?” said Paul, showing her the one with the key that opened the bracelet.
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed Marguerite, “have mercy upon me! he is dead!”
“He lives.”
“Then he no longer loves me.”
“He loves you!”
“If he be living—if he still love me—oh! I shall go mad—what was it I was saying? If he be living—if he still love me, how comes it that this ring is in your possession?”
“He confided it to me as a token of recognition.”
“And have I confided this bracelet to any one?” cried Marguerite, pushing back the sleeve of her gown—“Look!”
“Yes, but you, Marguerite, you are not proscribed—dishonored, in the eyes of the whole world—thrown amongst a condemned race!”
“Of what importance is that. Is he not innocent?”
“And then, he thought,” continued Paul, wishing to discover the extent of the devotedness and love of his sister, “he thought that delicacy required, banished as he is for ever from society, that he should offer you, if not restore to you, the liberty of disposing of your hand.”
“When a woman has done for a man that which I have done for him,” replied Marguerite, “her only excuse is to love him eternally, and it is that I mean to do.”
“Oh! you are an angel!” exclaimed Paul.
“Tell me!” rejoined Marguerite, seizing the young man’s hands, and looking at him with a supplicating air—
“What?”
“Have you seen him, then?”
“I am his friend, his brother.”
“Speak to me of him, then?” she exclaimed, giving herself up entirely to the recollection of her lover, and forgetting that it was the first time she had seen the person to whom she was addressing questions of so delicate a nature. “What is he doing? what hope has he? Poor, unhappy man!”
“He loves you—and he hopes again to see you.”
“Then, then,” stammered Marguerite, and drawing back some paces,—“he has told you——?”
“All!”
“Oh!” she cried, looking down and concealing her face, over which a sudden tinge of red had cast itself, replacing for a moment its habitual paleness.
Paul approached her and clasping her to his breast, exclaiming—
“You are a miracle of devotedness!”
“You do not then despise me, sir?” said Marguerite, Venturing to raise her eyes.
“Marguerite!” cried Paul, “had I a sister I would pray to heaven that she might resemble you.”
“Oh! were it so you would have a most unhappy sister,” she replied, leaning upon his arm and bursting into tears.
“Perhaps,” said Paul, smiling.
“You know not, then——?”
“Proceed.”
“That Monsieur de Lectoure is to arrive to-morrow morning.”
“I have been informed of that.”
“And that to-morrow night the marriage contract is to be signed.”
“I know that, too.”
“Well! then! what can I hope for in such extremity as this? To whom can I apply to prevent this hated union? Who can I interest to aid me? My brother? God knows that I forgive him, but he cannot comprehend my feelings. My mother? Oh! sir, you do not know my mother. She is a woman whose reputation is unsullied, of the most austere virtue, and her will inflexible, for never having failed in her duty, she does not believe that others can forget it, and when she has once said, ‘It is my will,’ all that remains to do is to bow down one’s head, to weep, and to obey. My father? Yes, I well know that my father must leave the room from which he has never stirred for twenty years, to sign this contract. My father! for any one less unhappy and less culpable than I might prove a resource: but you know not that he is insane—that he has lost his reason, and with it every feeling of paternal affection. And besides, it is ten years since I last saw him. For the last ten years I have not pressed his trembling hands, nor kissed his snow white hairs. He knows not that he has still a daughter! he knows not even whether he has a heart, and will not be able even to recognize me. And were he but to know me, and took compassion on me, my mother would place a pen in his hand and would say, ‘Sign that, it is my will!’ and he would sign it—the poor feeble old man! and his daughter would be condemned.”
“Yes, yes. I know all this as well as you do, my poor child; but be pacified, that contract never will be signed.”
“And who can prevent it?”
“I will!”
“You?”
“Do not despair. To-morrow I shall be present at the family council.”
“Who will present you there?”
“I have the means.”
“My brother is violent; and passionate. Oh! good heaven, beware, while striving to save me that you do not sink me still deeper in misery?”
“Your brother’s person is in my eyes as sacred as your own, Marguerite. Fear nothing, and rely confidently upon me.”
“Oh! I believe you, sir, and I implicitly confide in you,” said Marguerite, as if overwhelmed by the contending feelings of confidence and mistrust which she had till then labored under. “For what advantage could you derive from endeavoring to deceive me? What interest could you have to betray me?”
“None, undoubtedly; but let us talk of other matters. What line of conduct do you intend to pursue with regard to the Baron de Lectoure?”
“I will tell him all!”
“Oh!” cried Paul, bowing profoundly, “allow me to adore you.”
“Sir!” murmured Marguerite, “sir!”
“As a sister! as a sister!”
“Yes, you are indeed kind and good,” cried Marguerite, “and I believe it is God who sent you to my aid.”
“Believe it,” replied Paul. “Then—to-morrow evening.”
“Do not be astonished, nor alarmed at anything that may occur, only contrive to let me know by letter, by a word, a sign, the result of your interview with Lectoure!”
“I will endeavor to do so.”
“It is now late, and your servant may be surprised at the length of this interview. Return to the castle, and say not a word of me to any one. Farewell!”
“Farewell,” reiterated Marguerite; “you to whom I know not what name to give.”
“Call me your brother.”
“Farewell, then, brother.”
“Oh, my sister! my sister!” cried Paul, clasping her convulsively in his arms, “your lips are the first from which I have heard so sweet a word. God will reward you for it.”
The young girl drew back amazed; and then returning to Paul, she held out her hand to him. Paul again pressed it, and Marguerite left the cottage.
The young man then went to the door of the inner room, and opened it.
“And now, good old man,” said he, “conduct me to my father’s grave.”
Hamlet.—Dost thou know this water-fly?
Horatio.—No, my good lord.
Hamlet.—Thy state is the more gracious; for ‘tis a vice to know him.
SHAKESPEARE.
Here on my knees by heaven’s blest nower I swear,
If you persist, I ne’er henceforth will see you;
But rather wander through the world a beggar,
And live on sordid scraps at poor men’s doors.
For, though to fortune lost, I’ll still inherit
My mother’s virtues and my father’s honor.—Otway.
The day following that on which Paul had been made acquainted with the secret of his birth, the inhabitants of the castle of Auray awoke more than ever absorbed in the fears and hopes which their several interests had created, for that day must necessarily prove a decisive one to the whole of them. The marchioness, whom our readers have ere this discovered, was neither perverse or wicked, but a haughty and inflexible woman, saw in it the termination of those heart-rending apprehensions, which for so many years, had been her daily companions; for it was above all, in the eyes of her children, that she wished to preserve that unsullied reputation, the usurpation of which had been purchased at such cost. To her, Lectoure was not only a fitting son-in-law, being the bearer of a name as noble as her own, but more than this, a man, or rather a good genius, who at the same moment would bear away not only her daughter, whom he would take with him as his wife, but her son also, to whom the minister, thanks to this alliance, had promised to give a regiment. Both her children gone, her first-born might come, and the secret revealed to him, would find no echo. Moreover, there were a thousand methods by which to close his lips. The fortune of the marchioness was immense, and gold was one of those resources, which, in such a case, she deemed infallible. The more terrible her fears, the more ardently did she desire this union; so that she not only encouraged the anxiety of Lectoure, but she also excited that of Emanuel. As to the latter, tired of living unknown at Paris, or immured in Brittany, lost in the crowd of brilliant young men who formed the household of the King, or shut up in the antique castle of his ancestors, having their portraits as his sole companions, he knocked with impatient eagerness at the golden door which his intended brother-in-law was to open for him, at Versailles. The grief and tears of his sister had, certainly, for a time afflicted him; for he was ambitious, more from a dread of the ennui, which would consume him if compelled to live on his estate, and from the desire of parading at the head of his regiment, captivating the hearts of all the ladies by the richness and good taste of his uniform, than from either pride or hardness of heart. Being himself incapable of forming any serious attachment, and despite the fatal consequences of his sister’s love, he considered that love, merely as a childish fancy, which the tumult and pleasure of the world would soon efface from her memory, and he really believed that before a year had elapsed, she would be the first to thank him for having thus done violence to her feelings.
As to Marguerite, poor victim, so irrevocably condemned to be immolated to the fear of the one, and to the ambition of the other, the scene of the preceding day had made a profound impression on her mind. She could not at all account to herself for the extraordinary feelings which the young man who had transmitted to her the words of Lusignan, had awakened in her heart; who had tranquillized her as to the fate of the unhappy exile, and had concluded by pressing her to his heart, and calling her his sister. A vague and instinctive hope whispered to her heart, that this man, as he had told her, had received from heaven the mission to protect her. But as she was ignorant of the tie which bound him to her, of the secret which made him master of his mother’s will, of the influence he might exercise over her future life, she did not dare allow herself to dream of happiness, habituated as she had been for six months, to consider death as the only term to her misfortunes.
The marquis, alone, amid the various emotions which agitated all around him, had remained coldly and impassibly indifferent; for to him the world had ceased to move since the dreadful day on which reason had abandoned him; continually absorbed by one fixed idea, that of his mortal combat, without seconds. The only words he ever uttered, were those pronounced by the Count de Morlaix, when he forgave him his death. He was an old man, weak as an infant, and whom his wife could overawe by a gesture, and who received from her cold and continuous will, every impulsion, which, for twenty years, the vegetating instinct had received, and which, on him, had usurped the place of reason and free will. On this day, however, a great change had taken place in his monotonous mode of life. A valet de chambre had entered his apartment, and had succeeded to the marchioness in the cares of his toilette; he had dressed him in his uniform of steward of the household, had decorated his breast with the several orders that had been conferred upon him; and then the marchioness, placing a pen in his hand, had ordered him to try to sign his name, and he had obeyed, passively and negligently, without imagining that he was studying the part of an executioner.
About three in the afternoon, a postchaise, the sound of whose wheels had very differently impressed the hearts of the three persons who were expecting it, entered the court-yard of the castle. Emanuel had eagerly run down to the vestibule to receive his future brother-in-law, for it was he who had arrived. Lectoure sprang lightly from his carriage. He had halted for some time at the last post-house, to attire himself in a presentable costume, so that he arrived in an elegant court dress of the latest fashion. Emanuel smiled at this evidence of his anxiety, for it was clearly to be perceived, that Lectoure was determined not to lose the advantage of a first favorable impression, by presenting himself in a dusty travelling dress. His intercourse with the fair sex had taught him, that they almost invariably judge from the first glance, and the effect which it produces upon their minds or hearts, let it be favorable or unfavorable, is with difficulty removed. Moreover, it is but rendering justice to the baron to acknowledge that his person was graceful and elegant, and might have been dangerous to any woman whose heart was not already occupied by another.
“Permit me, my dear baron,” said Emanuel, advancing toward him, “in the momentary absence of the ladies, to do the honors of the mansion of my ancestors. See,” continued he, when they had reached the top of the stone steps leading into the hall, and pointing to the turrets and the bastions, “these date from the time of Philip Augustus, as to architecture, and from Henry IV., in point of ornament.”
“Upon my honor,” replied the baron, in the affected tone which the young men of that day had adopted, “it is a most charming fortress, and throws around it, to a distance of at least three leagues, a baronial odour, which would perfume even an army contractor. If ever,” continued he, as they passed through the hall and entered a gallery ornamented on each side with long lines of family portraits, “I should take a fancy to enter into a rebellion against his most Christian Majesty, I shall entreat you to lend me this jewel of a place; and,” added he, casting his eyes on the long rows of ancestors which offered themselves to his view, “the garrison with it.”
“Thirty-three quarters—I will not say in flesh and blood,” replied Emanuel, “for they are long since turned to dust—but in painting, as you see. They begin with a certain Chevalier Hugues d’Auray, who accompanied King Louis VII. to the crusades; that one, it is pretended, is my aunt Deborah, whom you see decked out as Judith; and all this eventually ends in the male line, in the last member of this illustrious family, your very humble and very obedient servant, Emanuel d’Auray.”
“It is perfectly respectable, and nothing can be more authentic.”
“Yes; but as I do not feel that I have, as yet, become sufficiently a patriarch,” rejoined Emanuel, passing before the baron to show him the way to the apartment which had been prepared for him, “to spend my days in such formidable society, I hope, baron, that you have thought of the means by which I can withdraw from it?”
“Undoubtedly, my dear count,” said Lectoure, following him. “I wished even to have been myself the bearer of your commission, as my wedding gift to you. I knew of a vacancy in the queen’s dragoon’s, and called yesterday on M. de Maurepas to solicit it for you, when I heard that it had been granted, at the request of I know not what mysterious admiral, a sort of corsair, pirate, or fantastic being, whom the queen has made the fashion by giving him her hand to kiss, and whom the king has taken a great affection to because he beat the English, I know not where—so that his majesty has conferred upon him the order of military merit, and presented him a sword with a gold hilt, just as he would have done to one of the nobility. In short, the game is lost on that side, but do not be alarmed, we will turn round to another.”
“Very well,” replied Emanuel, “I care not what regiment it may be in; what I desire is, that it should be a rank suitable to my name, and a position which would be becoming to our wealth.”
“Precisely—you shall have them.”
“But how,” said Emanuel, wishing to change the subject of conversation, “how did you manage to get rid of the thousand engagements you must have had on your hands.”
“Why,” said the baron, with that perfectly free and easy air, which belonged only to that distinguished class, and stretching himself upon a couch, for they had at length reached the apartment destined for him, “why, by frankly stating the fact to them. I announced at the queen’s card table, I was going to be married.”
“Oh! good heaven! Why, this was perfect heroism! Above all, if you acknowledged you were about to seek a wife in the depths of Lower Brittany.”
“I did acknowledge it.”
“And then,” said Emanuel, smiling, “compassion stifled every angry feeling.”
“Gad! you will readily comprehend, my dear count,” said Lectoure, putting one knee over the other and, balancing his leg with a motion as regular as that of a pendulum, “our women of the court believe that the sun rises at Paris, and sets at Versailles—all the rest of France, is, in their idea, a Lapland, Greenland, Nova Zembla! So that they expect, as you have hinted, my dear count, to see me bring back with me from my voyage to the pole some large hands, and formidable feet! Fortunately, they are mistaken,” he added, with an accent half timorous, half interrogatory; “is it not so, Emanuel? for you told me that your sister”——
“You will see her,” replied Emanuel.
“It will be a dreadful disappointment to that poor Madame de Chaulne—it cannot be helped—and she must console herself. What is it?”
This question was induced by the entrance of Emanuel’s valet-de-chambre; who had half opened the door, and remained upon the threshold, waiting, as was then the custom of all servants in great houses, till his master should address him.
“What is it? repeated Emanuel.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’ Auray requests that Monsieur, the Baron de Lectoure, will honor her with a private interview.”
“Me!” said Lectoure, rising from the sofa, “certainly, with the greatest pleasure.”
“But no! it is a mistake!” exclaimed Emanuel; “you must be mistaken, Celestin.”
“I have the honor to assure your lordship,” replied the valet de chambre, “that I have correctly and faithfully executed the order which was given to me.”
“Impossible!” said Emanuel, uneasy to the highest degree, at the step his sister had ventured to take: “Baron, if you will be advised by me, you will send the little simpleton about her business.”
“By no means! by no means,” replied Lectoure. “What does this bluebeard of a brother mean? Celestin! Did you not call this lad, Celestin?”
Emanuel impatiently bowed his head in the affirmative. “Well then, Celestin, tell my lovely betrothed that I throw myself at her knees, at her feet, and that I await her orders either to go to her or to receive her here;—and there, take this for the charges of your embassy.”
He threw him his purse.
“And you, count,” rejoined Lectoure, “I trust that you have confidence enough in me, to permit this tête-à-tête?”
“But it is so perfectly absurd!”
“Not at all,” replied Lectoure; “on the contrary, it is perfectly befitting. I am not a crowned head, that I should marry a woman upon her portrait, and by proxy. I wish to see her in person. Come, Emanuel,” he continued, pushing his friend toward a side door, that he might not meet his sister—“Come, now, tell me frankly—in confidence, between ourselves—is there any—deformity?”
“Why, no, by heaven!” replied the young count, “no—on the contrary, she is as lovely as an angel.”
“Well, then!” said the baron, “what does all this opposition mean? Come, now, begone, or must I call my guards?”
“No; but on my word, I am afraid that this little simpleton, who has not the slightest notion of the world, is coming to destroy all that has been arranged between us.”
“Oh! if that is all you fear,” replied Lectoure, opening the door, “you may be perfectly at ease. I like the brother too well not to look over some caprice—some extraordinary fantasies in the sister—and I pledge you my word as a gentleman, unless the devil should play us some strange trick, (whom, I trust, is at this moment fully occupied in some other corner of the world!) that Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray, shall be Madame the Baroness de Lectoure, and that in a month you shall have your regiment.”
This promise appeared in some degree to pacify Emanuel, who allowed himself to be pushed out of the door without making further difficulty. Lectoure immediately ran to a looking-glass to repair the slight traces of disorder, which the jolting over the three last leagues had occasioned in his dress. He had scarcely given to his, hair and garments the most becoming turn and folds, when the door again opened, and Celestin announced—
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray.”
The baron turned round, and perceived his betrothed standing pale and trembling on the threshold of the door. Although the promises of Emanuel had inspired him with some degree of hope, a certain residue of doubt had still remained on his mind, if not as to the beauty, at all events, with regard to the deportment of the lady who was about to become his wife. His surprise was therefore unbounded, when he saw that delicate and graceful creature standing before him, and whom the most fastidious critic of female elegance could only have reproached with being in a slight degree too pallid. Marriages, such as the one about to be contracted by Lectoure, were by no means rare in an age in which questions as to rank and suitableness of fortune in general, decided alliances between noble houses; but that which was scarcely found once in a thousand times, was, that a man in the baron’s position should meet, immured in a distant province, a lady possessed of an immense fortune, and whom, at the first glance, he could discern, was worthy, by her demeanor, her elegance, and her beauty, to shine in the most brilliant circles of the court. He, therefore, advanced toward her, no longer with the feeling of superiority as a courtier, addressing a country girl, but with all the respectful ease which distinguished good society at that time.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” said he, offering her his hand to conduct her to an arm chair, but which she did not accept; “it was to me to solicit the favor you have bestowed upon me; and believe me, it was the apprehension of being considered indiscreet, which alone has occasioned the apparent neglect of allowing myself to be forestalled.”
“I truly appreciate this delicacy, sir,” replied Marguerite, in a trembling voice, and retreating one step, she remained standing. “It strengthens me still more in the confidence which, without having seen you, without knowing you, I had placed in your honor and good faith.”
“Whatever aim this confidence may have had, I am honored by it, mademoiselle, and I will endeavor to render myself worthy of it. But, good heaven, what can so affect you?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing,” replied Marguerite, endeavoring to overcome her emotion; “but it is—it is—that I have to tell you that—but—really—I am not sufficiently mistress of myself to—”
She staggered, and appeared as if about to fall; the baron sprang toward her to offer his support, but he had scarcely touched her when a flush of crimson suffused the cheeks of the young girl, and with a feeling, which might be attributed as well to modesty as to repugnance, she disengaged herself from his arms. Lectoure had taken her hand, and conducted her to a chair, against which she leaned, but would not seat herself in it.
“Good God!” exclaimed the baron, still retaining her hand, “it must then be something very difficult to utter, that has brought you hither! Or, without my at all suspecting it, has my being affianced to you already conferred upon me the imposing air of a husband?” Marguerite made another effort to withdraw her hand from the baron, and which induced the latter to observe it.
“How!” said he, “not satisfied with having the most adorable of faces, the elegant figure of a fairy, but you must have such lovely hands!—hands perfectly royal in their shape—why, ‘tis enough to make me expire at once.”
“I trust M. le Baron,” rejoined Marguerite, and making a last effort, she withdrew her hand from his grasp, “that the words with which you are now addressing me, are merely words of gallantry.”
“No, by my soul! they are the sincere truth.”
“Well then, I hope, should it be, which I much doubt, that you really think that which you have been pleased to say—I trust, I say, that such motives will not lead you to attach a higher value to the union which has been projected?”
“They will, indeed, and that I swear to you.”
“And yet,” continued Marguerite, gasping for breath, so much was her heart oppressed, “and yet, sir, you consider marriage as a solemn matter?”
“That is as it may happen,” smilingly replied Lectoure; “for example, if I were about to marry an old dowager.”
“In short,” rejoined Marguerite, in a more determined tone, “I beg your pardon, sir, if I have been mistaken; I thought, perhaps, that with regard to the alliance proposed between us, you had formed some idea of reciprocity of feeling.”
“Never!” cried Lectoure, interrupting her, for he appeared as eager to avoid the frank explanation, which Marguerite desired, as she seemed to provoke it. “Never! and above all, since I have seen you, I could not hope to be worthy of your love. And yet my name, my position in society, notwithstanding I should fail to influence your heart, may yet give me a title to your hand.”
“But how, sir,” said Marguerite, timidly, “how can you separate the one from the other?”
“As do three-fourths of the people who get married, mademoiselle,” replied Lectoure, with a carelessness which would have at once deterred the confidence of a woman less candid than Marguerite. “A man marries in order to have a wife, the wife to have a husband; it is a social compact, an arrangement of convenience. What can love have to do in a matter of this nature?”
“Your pardon, sir; perhaps I have not clearly expressed my meaning,” continued Marguerite, making an effort to control her feelings, and to conceal from the man upon whom her future fate depended, the impression his words had produced upon her mind. “But you must attribute my hesitation, sir, to the timidity of a young girl, compelled by imperious circumstances to speak on such a subject.”
“Not at all, mademoiselle,” replied Lectoure, bowing and giving to his voice a tone which nearly approached raillery; “on the contrary, you speak like Clarissa Harlowe, and all you say is as clear as daylight. God has endowed me with a mind sufficiently quick-sighted perfectly to comprehend things which are but hinted at.”
“How, sir!” cried Marguerite, “you comprehend what I had the intention of saying, and you allow me to continue? How would it be if on looking deeply into my heart and interrogating all its feelings, I found it impossible to love—to love the person who had been presented to me as my future husband?”
“Why,” replied Lectoure, in the same sarcastic tone in which he had before spoken, “in my opinion the best course to pursue would be not to tell him of it.”
“And why not, sir?”
“Because—but—but—because it would really be too simple.”
“And if that avowal were made, not from simplicity but from delicacy? If I added, and may the shame of such an avowal fall back on those who compel me to make it—if I added sir, that I have loved, that I still love?”
“Oh! some little romance, is it not so?” said Lectoure, carelessly, crossing his leg and playing with the frill of his shirt; “upon my honor, the race of little cousins is an accursed race. But fortunately we know what these ephemeral attachments are; and there is not a school-girl, who, after the holidays, does not return to her convent but with a passion in her little heart.”
“Unfortunately for me,” replied Marguerite, with, a voice as sorrowful and grave as that of the baron was sarcastic and light, “unfortunately, I am no longer a school-girl, sir; and although still young, I have long ago passed the age of childish games and infantine attachments. When I speak to the man who does me the honor to solicit my hand and to offer me his name, of my love for another, he ought to understand that I am speaking of a serious, profound, and eternal love; of one of those passions, in fine, which leave their traces in the heart, and imprint them there for ever.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Lectoure, as if beginning to attach some importance to Marguerite’s confession; “why, this is perfectly pastoral. But let us see! is it a young man whom one can receive at one’s house?”
“Oh! sir,” cried Marguerite, catching at the hope which these words seemed to inspire: “oh! believe me, he is the most estimable being, the most devoted soul——”
“Why, I am not asking you to tell me this—I was not speaking of the qualities of his heart—he has all these, of course, that’s perfectly understood. I ask you whether he is noble? if he is of good race? in short, whether a woman of quality could acknowledge him, and that without degrading her husband?”
“His father, whom he lost when very young, and who was my father’s friend from infancy, was a counsellor at the Court of Rennes.”
“Nobility of the bar!” exclaimed Lectoure, dropping his nether lip with a contemptuous shrug; “I would rather it were otherwise—is he a knight of Malta, at least?”
“He was educated for a military life.”
“Oh! then, we must get a regiment for him, to give him rank and standing in society. Well, that’s all arranged, and it is well. Now, listen to me: he will absent himself for six months, merely for decency’s sake, will obtain leave of absence, no difficult matter now, as we are not at war—he will get himself presented to you for form’s sake, by some mutual friend, and then all will go on rightly.”
“I do not understand you, sir,” replied Marguerite, looking at the baron with an expression of profound astonishment.
“What I have said to you is, notwithstanding, perfectly pellucid,” rejoined the latter, with some show of impatience; “you have engagements on your side—I have on mine—but that is no reason for preventing an union which is perfectly suitable in every respect; and once accomplished, why, I think, we are bound to render it as bearable as we can. Do you comprehend me now?”
“Oh! pardon me, sir, pardon me,” cried Marguerite, starting back, as though these words had outraged her; “I have been very imprudent, very culpable perhaps; but whatever I may have been, I did not dream I could have merited so gross an insult. Oh! sir, the blush of shame is now scorching my cheek, but more for you than for myself. Yes, I understand you—an apparent love and a concealed one; the face of vice and the mask of virtue; and it is to me—to me, the daughter of the Marquis d’Auray, that so shameful, so humiliating, so infamous a bargain is proposed. Oh!” continued she, falling into an arm-chair, and hiding her face with both her hands, “I must then be a most unfortunate, most contemptible lost creature! Oh! my God! my God!”
“Emanuel! Emanuel!” cried the baron, opening the door, at which he rightly suspected Marguerite’s brother had remained; “come in, my dear friend; your sister is attacked with spasms; these things ought to be attended to, or they may become chronic; Madame do Moulan died of them. Here, take my scent bottle, and let her smell at it. As to myself, I am going down into the park. If you have nothing else to do, you can rejoin me there, and bring me, if you please, news of your sister.”
Saying these words, the Baron de Lectoure left the room with miraculous calmness, leaving Marguerite and Emanuel together.
Do as you will, heap wrongs on wrongs upon me,
It shall not anger me—I tell thee Claudius,
Thou art enshrined in a holy circle
My foot can never pass—nor taunt, nor insult
Can e’er induce this hand to rise against thee.
Therefore be satisfied—
Once more I tell theo I will not fight with thee.
—Old Play.
On the day on which the interview between Marguerite and the Baron de Lectoure had taken place, the result of which had proved so diametrically opposed to the hopes and expectations of the young girl, on that day at four o’clock, the dinner bell recalled the baron to the castle. Emanuel did the honors of the table, for the marchioness could not leave her husband, and Marguerite had requested permission not to come down stairs. The other guests were the notary, the relations of the family, and the witnesses. The repast was a gloomy one, notwithstanding the imperturbable gaiety of Lectoure; but it was evident that by his joyous humor, so stirring that it appeared feverish, he strove to stun his own feelings. From time to time, indeed, his boisterous liveliness failed all at once, like a lamp, the oil of which is nearly extinguished, and then it suddenly burst forth again, as doth the flame when it devours its last aliment. At seven o’clock they rose from table, and went into the drawing-room. It would be difficult to form an idea of the strange aspect which the old castle then presented; the vast apartments of which were hung with damask draperies, with gothic designs, and ornamented with furniture of the times of Louis XIII. and Louis XIV.
They had been so long closed that they appeared unaccustomed to the presence of living beings. And, therefore, notwithstanding the abundance of chandeliers with which the servants had decorated the rooms, the feeble and vascillating light of the wax candles was insufficient to illuminate the vast rooms, and in which the voice resounded as under the arches of a cathedral. The small number of the guests, who were to be joined during the evening by some three or four gentlemen of the neighbourhood, increased the gloom which appeared to hover over the emblazoned columns of the castle. In the centre of one of the saloons, the same one in which Emanuel, at the moment after his arrival from Paris, had received Captain Paul, was placed a table prepared with much solemnity, on which was laid a closed portfolio, which, to the eyes of a stranger ignorant of all that was preparing, might as well have enclosed a death warrant as a marriage contract. In the midst of these grave aspects and gloomy impressions, from time to time a shrill mocking laugh would reach the ears of a group of persons whispering to each other. It proceeded from Lectoure, who was amusing himself at the expense of some good country gentlemen, without any respect for the feelings of Emanuel, upon whom a portion of his raillery necessarily recoiled. He would, however, every now and then cast an anxious glance around the room, and then a gloomy cloud would pervade his features, for he saw not either his father-in-law, or the marchioness, or Marguerite enter the room. As we have already stated, that neither of them had been present at the dinner table, and his interview with the latter had not, however careless he endeavored to appear, left him without some uneasiness with regard to the signing of the contract, which was to take place during the evening. Neither was Emanuel exempt from all anxiety, and he had just determined to go up to his sister’s apartment, when in passing through one of the rooms he saw Lectoure, who made a sign to him to draw near.
“By heaven! you have come in the nick of time, my dear count,” said he to him, while appearing to pay the greatest attention to a good country gentleman, who was talking to him, and of whom he seemed on terms of perfect intimacy; “here is M. de Nozay, who is relating to me some very curious things, upon my word! But do you know,” continued he, turning to the narrator, “this is most admirable, and highly interesting. I also have marshes and ponds, and I must ask my steward as soon as I get to Paris, to tell me where they are situated. And do you catch many wild ducks in this way.”
“An immense quantity,” replied the gentleman, and with the accent of perfect simplicity, which proved that Lectoure could, without fear of detection, for some time longer sustain the conversation in the same tone.
“What, then, is this miraculous mode of sporting?” inquired Emanuel.
“Only imagine, my dear friend,” replied Lectoure, with the most complete sang froid, “that this gentleman gets into the water up to his neck,—At what time of the year, may I ask, without being indiscreet?”
“In the month of December and January.”
“It is impossible that any thing can be more picturesque. I was saying, then, that he gets into the water up to his neck, puts a large toadstool over his head, and conceals himself among the bulrushes. This so completely metamorphoses him that the ducks do not recognise him, and allow him to come close to them. Did you not say so?”
“As near as I am to you.”
“Bah! really?” exclaimed Emanuel.
“And this gentleman kills just as many as he pleases.”
“I kill them by dozens,” said he, proudly, being enchanted by the attention which the two young men were paying to the recital of his exploits.
“It must be a delightful thing for your good lady, if she be fond of ducks,” said Emanuel.
“She adores them,” said M. de Nozay.
“I hope you will do me the honor to introduce me to so interesting a person,” said Lectoure, bowing.
“Undoubtedly baron.”
“I swear to you,” said Lectoure, “that instantly on my return to Paris, I will speak of this sport in the king’s dressing-room, and I am persuaded that his majesty himself will make a trial of it in one of his large ponds of Versailles.”
“I beg your pardon, dear marquis,” said Emanuel, taking Lectoure’s arm, and whispering in his ear, “this is one of our country neighbors, whom we could not do otherwise than invite on so solemn an occasion.”
“It requires no apology, my dear friend,” said Lectoure, using the same precaution not to be heard by the party in question: “you would have been decidedly wrong had you deprived me of so amusing a companion. He is an appendage to the dower of my future wife, and I should have been greatly chagrined not to have made his acquaintance.”
“Monsieur de la Jarry,” said a servant, opening the door.
“A sporting companion?” said Lectoure.
“No,” replied M. de Nozay; “he is a traveller.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Lectoure, with an accent which announced that the newly arrived personage was to be the subject of a new attack. He had hardly made the ejaculation, when the person announced entered the room, muffled up in a Polish dress, lined with fur.
“Ah! my dear La Jarry,” cried Emanuel, advancing to meet him, and holding out his hand to him, “but how you are be-furred! Upon my honor, you look like the Czar Peter.”
“It is,” replied La Jarry, shivering, although the weather was by no means cold, “because, when one arrives from Naples—perrrrrou!”
“Ah! the gentleman has arrived from Naples,” said Lectoure, joining in the conversation.
“Direct, sir.”
“Did you ascend Vesuvius, sir?”
“No. I was satisfied with looking at it from my window. And then,” continued the traveller, with a tone of contempt, most humiliating to the volcano, “Vesuvius is not the most curious thing that is to be seen at Naples. A mountain that smokes? my chimney does as much, when the wind is in the wrong quarter,—and besides Madame La Jarry was dreadfully alarmed at the idea of an eruption.”
“But of course you visited the Grotto del Cane?” continued Lectoure.
“To what purpose?” rejoined La Jarry; “to see an animal that has vapors—give a pill to the first poodle that passes, and he will do as much. And then, Madame La Jarry has quite a passion for dogs, and it would have given her pain to witness so cruel an exhibition.”
“I hope, however, that a man of science, like yourself,” said Emanuel, bowing, “did not neglect the Solfatara.”
“Who, I—I would not set my foot there. I can very easily imagine what three or four acres of sulphur looks like, the sole produce of which is a few millions of matches. Moreover, Madame La Jarry cannot support the odour of sulphur.”
“What do you think of our new friend?” said Emanuel, leading Lectoure into the room in which the contract was to be signed.
“I know not whether it is because I saw the other first, but I decidedly prefer Nozay.”
The door again opened, and the servant loudly announced, “Monsieur Paul.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Emanuel, turning round.
“Who is this?” inquired Lectoure, listlessly, “another country neighbour?”
“No; this is quite another sort of person,” replied Emanuel, with agitation. “How does this man dare to present himself here?”
“Ah! ah! a plebeian—eh? a common fellow, is he not? but rich, I suppose. No—a poet? musician? painter? well, I can assure you, Emanuel, that they are beginning to receive this sort of people—that accursed philosophy has confounded every thing. It cannot be helped, my dear fellow, we must courageously make up our minds to it—we have come to that. An artist sits down by a great noble, elbows him, touches the corner of his hat to him, remains seated when the other rises—they converse together on court matters—they jest, they joke, they squabble, it is bon ton though decidedly bad taste.”
“You are mistaken, Lectoure,” replied Emanuel; “he is neither poet, painter, or musician: he is a man to whom I must speak alone. Just lead off Nozay, while I do the same with La Jarry.”
Upon this, the two young gentlemen took each of the country neighbours by the arm, and drew them away into another room, talking of shooting and travelling. The side door through which they went out, had scarcely closed upon them, when Paul appeared at the principal one. He went into the room he already knew, each corner of which concealed a door—the one led to a library, the other to the room in which he had been shut up on his first visit, awaiting the result of the conference between Marguerite and Emanuel, and then approaching the table, he remained there for a moment, looking attentively at the two doors, as though he had expected to see one of them opened. His hope was not fallacious. In a few moments, that of the library was opened, and he perceived a white form standing within it; he rushed towards it.
“Is it you, Marguerite?” said he.
“Yes,” replied a trembling voice.
“Well?”
“I told him all?”
“And—”
“And in ten minutes the contract is to be signed.”
“I suspected as much—he is a miserable wretch.”
“What’s to be done?” cried the young girl.
“Take courage, Marguerite.”
“Courage—oh! it now fails me entirely.”
“There is that which will restore it,” said Paul, handing her a letter.
“What does this letter contain?”
“The name of the village in which you will find your son, and the name of the woman in whose house he has been concealed.”
“My son! oh! you are my guardian angel,” cried Marguerite, endeavoring to kiss the hand which held the paper to her.
“Silence! someone is coming—whatever may happen, you will find one at Achards.”
Marguerite suddenly closed the door without replying to him, for she had heard: the sound of her brother’s footsteps. Paul turned round, and went to meet him, which he did, near the table.
“I expected you at another time, sir, and in less numerous company,” said Emanuel, who was the first to speak.
“It appears to me that we are alone at this moment,” said Paul, glancing around the room.
“Yes, but it is here that the contract is to be signed, and in an instant this room will be full.”
“But many things may be said in an instant, count.”
“You are right, sir, but you must meet a man who does not require more than an instant to comprehend them.”
“I am listening,” said Paul.
“You spoke to me of letters,” rejoined Emanuel, drawing nearer to him, and lowering his voice.
“It is true,” said Paul, with the same calmness.
“You fixed a price upon those letters?”
“That is also true.”
“Well, then! if you are a man of honor, for that price, for the sum enclosed in this pocket-book, you ought now to be prepared to give them up.”
“Yes, sir, yes,” replied Paul, “the case stood thus, as long as I believed your sister, forgetful of the vows she had made, the fault she had committed, and even the child to which she had given birth, was seconding your ambition by her perjury. Then, I thought it would be a sufficiently bitter fate for the poor child to enter upon life without a name and without a family, not to allow him to enter it without a fortune also, and I then demanded of you, it is true, that sum in exchange for the letters in my possession. But now the state of things is altered, sir. I saw your sister throw herself upon her knees before you, I heard her entreat you not to force her into this infamous marriage, and neither prayers, nor tears, nor supplications could make any impression on your heart. It is now for me, for me who hold your honor, and the honor of your family within my hands, it is for me to save the mother from despair, as I would have saved the child from penury and misery. Those letters, sir, shall be delivered to you, when you shall, upon this table, instead of signing the marriage contract of your sister with the Baron de Lectoure, sign that of Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray with Anatole de Lusignan.”
“Never, sir, never!”
“You shall not have them, excepting on that condition, count.”
“Oh! I shall, perhaps, find some mode of compiling you to return them.”
“I know not any,” coldly replied Paul.
“Will you, sir, deliver those letters to me!”
“Count,” replied Paul, with an expression of countenance, which, under the circumstances, was perfectly inexplicable to Emanuel, “count, listen to me?”
“Will you return me those letters, sir?”
“Count—”
“Yes, or no!”
“No!” said Paul, calmly.
“Well then, sir, you wear a sword, as I do; we are both gentlemen, or rather I would believe you to be such; let us leave the house together, and one of us shall return alone, and he, being unfettered and powerful from the death of the other, shall then do as he best pleases.”
“I regret I cannot accept the offer, count.”
“How? you wear that uniform, that cross upon your breast, by your side that sword, and you refuse a duel.”
“Yes, Emanuel, I do refuse it, because I cannot raise my sword against you, count—believe me, I entreat you.”
“You cannot fight with me!”
“I cannot, upon my honor.”
“You cannot fight with me, you say?”
“At this moment a person who had entered the room without being perceived, burst into a loud laugh, close behind the two young men. Paul and Emanuel turned hastily round. Lectoure was standing close to them.
“But,” said Paul, pointing to Lectoure, “I can fight with him, for he is a miserable and infamous wretch.”
A burning blush passed over Lectoure’s features, like the reflection of a flame. He made a step towards Paul, and then stopped.
“It is well, sir,” said he; “send your second to Emanuel and they can arrange this matter.”
“You will understand that between us the affair is merely deferred,” said Emanuel, to Paul.
“Silence!” replied Paul, “they are announcing your mother.”
“Yes, silence, and to-morrow we meet again. Lectoure,” added Emanuel, “let us go to receive my mother.”
Paul looked silently at the young men as they retired, and then he entered the small room in which he had before been concealed.