CHAPTER XI.

The shock was too much for Gabrielle’s already excited nerves to bear, and she remained for several days prostrated with fever. During this time, Madame Berthier attended her with gentle care and affection. She administered medicines with her own hand, slept in the room beside her, or kept watch night and day. The unfortunate woman having at length found a human being whom she could love, concentrated upon her the pent-up ardour of her soul. The cat attracted less attention than heretofore, and for some days his cradles were neglected.

If Madame Berthier had been given a companion whom she could love, in times gone by, and had been less ill-treated by her husband and neglected by her father, she would never have become deranged; it is possible that a course of gentle treatment and forbearance from irritating conduct on the part of M. Berthier might eventually have restored her already shaken intellect; but such treatment and forbearance she was not to receive.

Madame Berthier was walking in the courtyard one day, when Gabrielle was convalescent. Her husband and father had returned, but she had seen little of them. The former carefully avoided the wing occupied by the invalid and his wife, out of apprehension of infection, for he was peculiarly fearful of sickness; and Foulon did not approach them, not having occasion.

As she passed the kennel, she halted to caress the hounds. Poulet and Pigeon were docile under her hand, and never attempted to fly at and bite her. She and her father were the only persons in the château who had the brutes under perfect control; they feared Foulon, but they loved Madame Plomb. Animals are said to know instinctively those persons who like them. The poor woman exhibited a remarkable sympathy with animals, which they reciprocated. The dogs would never suffer Berthier to approach them without barking and showing their fangs, because he amused himself in teasing and ill-treating them; they slunk into their kennels before Foulon’s cold grey eye, Madame Berthier they saluted with gambols. She patted the dogs, and addressed them by name.

‘Well, Pigeon! well, Poulet! how are you to-day? Are you more reconciled to Gabriel? Ah! when will you learn to love that angel? He fears you; he sets up his back, and his tail becomes terrible to contemplate; and you--you growl at him, and you leap towards him, and I know if you were loose you would devour him. Alas! be reconciled, and love as brethren.’ Turning to Adolphe, who approached, she asked, ‘Have they been good boys lately?’

‘Madame, their conduct has been superb.’

‘That is nice, my brave dogs; I am pleased to hear a good account of you.’

‘Madame, I must except Poulet for one hour. For one hour he misconducted himself; but what is an hour of evil to an age of good? it is a drop in an ocean, madame.’

‘Did he misconduct himself, Adolphe? How was that?’

‘Alas! madame, that I should have to blame him; and yet the blame does hardly attach to him,--it rests rather on the staple,--the staple of his chain. It gave way that day that the curé came.’

‘What curé?’

‘Ah! madame does not know? Monsieur the Curé of Bernay arrived at the gate, and the brave dog rushed towards him, and would have devoured him, doubtless, but for the rails. The staple, madame, was out; but Gustave and I, assisted by your honoured father, secured the dog once more, and no blood was shed.’

‘What brought the curé here?’

Adolphe fidgeted his feet, and platted his fingers.

‘Tell me, Adolphe,’ persisted madame, ‘tell me why M. Lindet came to this house. These gates are not usually visited by Religion.’

‘Madame,’ answered the servant in a low voice, and with hesitation, ‘I think he came here to enquire after the young girl----’

‘I understand,’ said the lady. ‘Who spoke to him?’

‘It was M. Foulon, your honoured father, who dismissed him.’

‘Did the priest seem anxious to obtain information?’

‘Madame, I believe so; he seemed most anxious.’

‘Thank you, Adolphe. Open the gate for me; I am going to Bernay.’

‘Madame will, I am sure, not mention what I have said,’ the man began, nervously.

‘Be satisfied; neither M. Berthier nor M. Foulon shall know that you have mentioned this to me.’

‘Madame is so good!’ exclaimed the man, throwing open the gate.

The unfortunate lady, having gathered her veil closely over her face, so as completely to conceal it, took the road to Bernay, and, entering the town by the Rue des Jardins, crossed the square in front of the Abbey, and speedily made her way to the Place S. Croix, where dwelt the priest.

The day being somewhat chilly, Thomas Lindet was seated before the fire in the kitchen; his brothers, Robert and Peter, were with him. Robert was an attorney in practice at Bernay, Peter was supposed to help him in the office, but as the practice was small, and Peter was constitutionally incapable of attending to business, or of doing anything systematically, his value was nil. The brothers were remarkable contrasts. Some years later, when the events of the Revolution had developed their characters, they were nicknamed Robert le Diable, Thomas l’Incredule, and Pierre le Fou. It is needless to say that these names were given them by their enemies. Only in the first dawn of Christianity do we find a nickname given in a spirit of charity--Barnabas, the Son of Consolation. These names were partly just and partly unjust. Robert was never a devil; Thomas was, perhaps, a doubter; Peter was certainly a fool. Robert had an intelligent face, much like that of his brother the curé; his lips were habitually arched with a smile; it was difficult to decide whether the smile was one of benevolence or of sarcasm. An ironical twinkle in his eye led most who had dealings with him to suspect that he was internally jesting at them, when they received from him some mark of courtesy or esteem. A thorough professional acquaintance with the injustice of the _ancien régime_, had made him as desirous of a change as his brother Thomas. He had the same passionate love of right and liberty, the same vehemence, but his strong clear judgment completely governed and modulated his impulses. He was scrupulously honest and truthful. The Revolution rolled its course around him, and he became one of its most important functionaries, without compromising his character, without losing his integrity; under every form of government he served, being found an invaluable servant in the interest of his country, true to France and to his conscience. He had no love for power; he dreaded its splendour: he loved only to have work and responsibility. He was less a man of politics than of administration. His extreme caution was a subject of reproach, but it saved his neck from the guillotine in the Reign of Terror, and his probity, which left him unenriched by the public moneys which had passed through his hands, preserved him from exile in 1816. Of him the great Napoleon said: ‘I know no man more able, and no minister more honest.’ The innumerable difficulties with which he had to deal in administrative and financial practice during the Revolution, occupied his close attention, and he shunned public discussion, in which he knew he should not shine, that he might be the soul of committees. The Girondins, mistrusting him, thrust him into the arms of Robespierre, who received him, saying, ‘We shall found Salente, and you shall be the Fénélon of the Revolution.’

Jean Baptiste Robert, to give him his name in full, was little conscious of the part it was his destiny to play, at the time our story opens. He and Peter were smoking.

‘Well, Thomas! what have you gained by this move?’ asked Robert, alluding to his brother’s expedition to Évreux.

‘To my mind,’ put in Peter, ‘you have acted very wrongly, and have not exhibited that respect to constituted authority which the catechism enjoins.’

Thomas had his own misgivings, so he did not answer.

‘You should have waited,’ said Robert.

‘That is your invariable advice,’ said Thomas, impatiently; ‘always wait, wait, wait--till doomsday, I suppose.’

‘Till the election of deputies,’ said Robert, between his whiffs; ‘it is the same.’

‘You will be inhibited, brother Thomas,’ Peter observed, as he shook some of the ashes from his pipe on to the floor; ‘as sure as eggs are eggs, Monseigneur the Bishop will withdraw your licence, and inhibit you from preaching and ministering the sacraments. And quite right too.’

‘Why right, Peter?’ asked Thomas.

‘Because you have gone against constituted authority. I say, reverence constituted authority; never thwart it. Constituted authority, in my eyes----’

‘Is constituted despotism,’ said Thomas.

‘No; it is right. Obedience is a Christian virtue; obedience is due to all who are set over us in Church and State. You have revolted against constituted authority, brother, and constituted authority will be down on you. You will be inhibited. Mark my words, you will.’

‘No, not yet,’ said Robert. ‘To inhibit you would be to wing the story, and send it flying through the province. But be cautious for the future; the least trip will cause your fall.’

Madame Berthier tapped at the door, and the priest answered it.

‘I want to speak with you,’ she said, ‘for one minute.’

‘Privately?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then walk this way.’

He conducted her to his sitting-room, and requested her to be seated. She did not remove her veil, but told him her name.

‘You came to Château Malouve in search of Gabrielle André,’ she said. ‘Did they tell you she was there?’

‘Madame, I did go in quest of her. Pardon me for speaking plainly, but I knew she would be in great peril if she were there.’

‘You were right, she would have been in great peril; I have protected her, however.’

‘She is with you, then, madame?’

‘She is with me at present: she has been very ill. The shock of her father’s death has been too great for her. She is recovering now.’

‘Does the poor child remain with you?’ asked the priest.

‘At present; but I cannot say for how long. M. Berthier may be removing to Paris shortly, our time for returning to the capital approaches, and, if we go there--we--that is Gabriel, Gabrielle and I.’

‘Who is Gabriel, madame?’

‘An angel.’

‘Pardon me, I do not understand.’

‘He is my solace, my joy.’

‘Madame!’

‘He is my cat.’

‘Proceed, I pray.’

‘If we, that is, Gabriel, Gabrielle and I go to Paris, I cannot be sure that I shall be able to protect the girl. Here, in the country, servants are not what they are in Paris. There they are creatures of the beast!’

‘Of whom, madame?’

‘Of the beast--of my husband. What am I to do then? They will do what Berthier orders them; they will separate her from me; they will lock me up. They have done so before; they will even tear my angel from my shoulder.’

‘Your angel, madame?’

‘My Gabriel, my cat. I have great battles to keep him near me, how can I assure myself of being able to retain her?’

‘What is to be done, then?’

‘She cannot go home to her blue father; she cannot stay with yellow Gabriel. I ask you what is to be done.’

Lindet paused before he replied. The lady puzzled him, her way of speaking was so strange. He looked intently at her veil, as though he desired to penetrate it with his eyes. Madame Berthier saw the direction of his eyes, and drew the veil closer.

‘Why do you stare?’ she asked; ‘my face is not beautiful: it is terrible. The beast calls me Madame Plomb, and I hate him for it; but,’ she drew close to the priest and whispered into his ear, ‘I know now how to make him blue, like me,--how to turn M. Berthier into M. Plomb. We shall see, we shall see one of these days!’

‘Madame, what is your meaning?’

‘Ah, ha! I tell no one that secret, but you shall discover my meaning some day. Now, go back to what we were saying about Gabrielle. What is to be done with her?’

‘When you go to Paris?’

‘Yes, I cannot protect her there. I am not safe there myself. Here I can do what I like, but not there.’

‘I cannot tell you, madame, but I will make enquiries, and find out where she may be taken in and screened against pursuit.’

‘You promise me that,’ she said.

‘Yes, madame, I will do my best. If you will communicate with me again in a day or two, I shall be more in a position to satisfy you.’

‘Then I may trust in you as Gabrielle’s protector when I am unable myself to execute that office?’

‘Certainly. I will be her protector.’

Madame Plomb rose from her seat, and departed.

As she approached the château, she heard the furious barking of the two dogs, and on entering the gates she saw the cause. M. Berthier had wheeled an easy chair into the yard, and was seated in it at a safe distance from the hounds, armed with a long-lashed carriage whip, which he whirled above his head, and brought down now on Poulet and then on Pigeon, driving the beasts frantic with pain and rage. He had thrown a large piece of raw meat just within their reach, and he kept them from it by skilful strokes across the nose and paws. The dogs were ravenous, and they flew upon the piece of flesh, only to recoil with howls of pain. Pigeon had bounded to the top of his kennel, and was dancing with torture, having received a cutting stroke across his fore paws; then, seeing Poulet making towards the meat, and fearful lest he should be robbed of his share, he leaped down from his perch and flew after his brother, only to be nearly overthrown by Poulet, as he started back before a sweep of the lash.

Madame Berthier looked scornfully towards her husband.

‘Ah, ha! my leaden lady!’ cried he, as she drew near; ‘you have been taking a walk; there is nothing to be compared with fresh air and exercise for heightening and refining the complexion. You are right, madame, to wear a veil; the sun freckles.’

He had recovered all that insolence which seemed to have left him on the day following her repulse of him.

‘Sacré! you rascal! will you touch the meat? No, not yet,’ and the whip caught Poulet across the face.

The blow was answered with a furious howl.

‘Are you going, Madame Plomb? No, stand here and watch my sport. I do not like to have my sport interfered with, mind that. What I like to do, that I will do. Sacré! who will dare to stand between me and my game?’

‘I will,’ said his wife, walking towards the dogs.

‘No, you shall not; you shall leave that meat alone.’

She stooped, picked up the piece of raw flesh, and threw it towards the dogs.

‘You are a bold woman to go so near the infuriated hounds,’ said Berthier, cracking his whip in the air; ‘I daren’t do it.’

‘No, you are a bully; and bullies are always cowards.’

‘Madame! you are uncivil. You bark like Pigeon and Poulet.’

‘I shall bite, too.’

‘Do you know what we do with barking, biting, snarling, angry, ungovernable beasts, eh? with those who show their teeth to their masters, who unsheath their claws to their lords? Do you know what we do with them, eh?’

He wiped his red eyes with the corner of his handkerchief, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. ‘Shall I tell you what we do with dangerous animals, or with those who stand between us and our object? We chain them up.’ He laughed again.

Madame gazed contemptuously at his fat quivering cheeks.

‘We lock them up, we chain them up,’ continued he; ‘we make them so fast that they may bark as much as they like, but bite they cannot, for those whom they would bite keep out of their reach.’