CHAPTER VI.

Thomas Lindet was not satisfied. Some effort must be made to rescue the girl. If the father would not move, he must. He started immediately for the château. He was an impetuous man; what he resolved on doing he did at once, as quickly as he could.

In half an hour he was at the Château Malouve.

The house was small and modern. It stood by itself, with the woods for a background, on the slope of the hill, facing south-east. The ground before it fell rapidly away towards the valley, and was in field and pasture. A terrace had been formed in front of the house, with a pond in the midst, and a triton to spout water from a conch-shell. But as the château occupied high ground, and there was little water on a higher level, the triton maintained in wet weather an inconsiderable dribble, which not even the storm of that day could convert into a jet; but in hot weather it was dry.

The château was flanked by two square blocks, the roofs of which were capped with tower-roofs and weathercocks. The body of the building had the high exaggerated roof of Louis XIV’s time, pierced with attic louvres. Every window was provided with emerald green shutters, and the walls being of a chalky whiteness, the house had a gay and smiling appearance.

M. Berthier had a large house in Paris, in which he resided the major portion of the year, only visiting Malouve in the summer for a month or two.

At the back of the château was a yard, one side occupied by stables, another by servants’ offices; access to this yard was obtained through an iron gate painted green and gold, set in a lofty iron railing, very gay with paint, very strong and insurmountable, the spikes at the summit being split and contorted so as to form a pretty, but, at the same time, an eminently practical chevaux-de-frise.

As Thomas Lindet approached the gate, two hounds rushed out of their kennels before the coach-house door, and barked furiously. One was chained, but the other, by accident, had got loose, the staple which fastened the chain having given way; and the brute now flew to the gates, dragging the clanking links after him, and leaped against the iron bars.

The shovel hat and black cassock were an unusual sight to the dog, and the costume of the priest excited it to a pitch of fury. First it set its head down, with the paws extended, rolled back its lips exposing the pink gums and white fangs, and growled; then it leaped up the iron rails, as though desirous of scrambling over them, started back, barked furiously; its chained brother assisting vociferously. The eyes of the hound became bloodshot. It flung itself again and again at the gate, it ran along the line of rails, leaping on the dwarf wall in which they were fixed, and slipping instantly off it, scrambling up again, and catching at the bars with its teeth, searching along the whole length for a gap, through which it could force its way; sometimes thrusting its head between the rods, and then, nipped by them, becoming more furious; racing back to the great gates, scraping at the earth under them with intent to burrow a way to get at the priest, but always unsuccessful.

Lindet rang the great bell.

A rakish-looking footman opened the glass doors of the house, looked out and called ‘Poulet! Poulet!’ to the hound, but it paid no attention, so the footman sauntered to the stable and then to the coach-house, in search of a groom. As he passed the kennel, he kept at some distance from the chained dog, but addressed it in a conciliatory tone--‘Eh bien! Pigeon, mon ami! Soyez tranquil, cher Pigeon.’ But the Pigeon paid no more attention to this advice than did the Chicken to his calls.

Not being able to find the groom, the footman leisurely visited the garden, and called, not too loudly, ‘Gustave!’ Gustave, the gardener, having at last turned up, a little conversation ensued between him and Adolphe, the footman, which ended in both appearing in the court, and making towards the hound from opposite quarters, Adolphe keeping unduly in the rear.

Having approached the dog--which by this time had worked itself into a mad rage, apparently quite ungovernable--within such distance as Gustave, on one side, and Adolphe on the other, respectively thought consistent with prudence, ‘Come on, my brave fellow, excellent dog, worthy hound, trustiest of chickens!’ called Adolphe, ‘come, don’t be a naughty child. Come, be docile once more, and all shall be forgotten.’

‘Come this way, you rascal!’ roared Gustave authoritatively, ‘come and let me chain you up, or, sapristi! I’ll dash your brains out, I’ll tear the liver out of you, I’ll poke your red eyes out, I’ll cut off your bloodthirsty tongue. Sacré! I give you three minutes by the clock, and, ventre gris! if you don’t obey me, I’ll be the death of you. Come, you insolent, audacious ruffian. Come this moment!’

But the dog paid not the slightest attention to the entreaties of Adolphe and the threats of Gustave.

Lindet folded his arms, and looked on the men contemptuously. They were both afraid of the hound, but pretended that they were not.

‘You must give him rein,’ said Adolphe; ‘he will exhaust himself, and the poulet will be an angel once more.’

‘Not for a moment,’ roared Gustave; ‘suffer that demon an inch of liberty; never! He shall be chained to a block of stone,--he shall not move a paw, he shall not open his mouth, he shall not wink an eye. He shall have no meat for a thousand days, till the devil in him is expelled!’

‘I will fetch the dear fellow a sponge-cake. I know he loves sweets, do you not, my Poulet? And above all sweets, sponge-cake; yes, in one moment! Be gentle till my return.’

‘I will get my double-weighted whip, with lead in it, and fifty thousand knots in the lash, and nails in each knot, and the nails rusty, and crooked, and spiked. Ah! ha! they will make the devil jump; they will make the devil bleed! Sapristi! I will cut and chop and mangle his accursed hide.’

‘Bah!’ said a creaky voice.

M. Foulon was there. He had heard the noise, which was indeed deafening, and had descended to the yard from his room. He was in his brown topcoat, and the little wiry pigtail with its huge bow protruded over it like a monstrous dragon-fly that had alighted on his collar.

‘Bah! you are three fools,’ said he; then, drawing his great gold snuff-box from his breast pocket, he poured some of the dust into his hand, snuffed it up himself, strewing his face with particles of tobacco, then he emptied half that remained in the box into his hand, and walked leisurely up to Poulet.

‘Eh bien, Poulet!’ said he, with a tone of mingled banter and defiance. The hound turned its head instantly, snarled, cowered, and the old man flung the snuff into its face.

‘Now you may go and wink and sneeze your superfluous spirits away, you chicken, you!’ Foulon continued; ‘now you may go to your darling brother Pigeon, and you may tell him that you do not like snuff, that snuff is expensive, because of the excise; that we have a monopoly of tobacco, and that the revenue gains by tobacco. Do you understand, Poulet? Well, go and tell Pigeon all about it. Here, I will help you.’ He caught the end of the chain, and drew the dog after him to its kennel. The brute’s attention was engrossed by its own distress, the snuff in its eyes blinded it, the snuff up its nose afflicted it with sneezing, and down its throat choked it.

Foulon called to Gustave for a hammer. Adolphe ran with alacrity to look for one, Gustave brought one. The old man calmly snuffed again, then took the hammer and riveted the staple. ‘Now, then, you rascal,’ said he, turning abruptly upon the footman; ‘do you not see that you have left Monsieur le Curé outside the gate? How thoughtless, how unmannerly!’

Adolphe bounded to the railing and unlocked the iron gate. Thomas Lindet walked past him, and went straight towards Monsieur Foulon.

The old gentleman removed his hat and bowed courteously; the priest, absorbed in the purpose of his visit, had forgotten these courtesies. He now bent towards Foulon stiffly, and raised his shovel hat.

‘You have done me an honour I never hoped to have enjoyed. This day you have made me a proud man; hitherto I have been humble. Beware, my dear curé, or you will blow me up into extravagant conceit.’

Lindet looked at him with surprise.

‘You did me the honour of preaching an observation I made within your hearing to my excellent son-in-law, the good Berthier. I did not know that my remarks were so valuable, so deserving of repetition.’

‘I have come to speak of quite another matter,’ said Lindet.

‘Indeed! I thought your visit was one of congratulation to the poor old man, Foulon, on having made a shrewd and pertinent remark at last--at last, after so many years of stupidity, Foulon has given promise of being witty and wise. But allow me to observe that you did not give my remarks exactly as they were made. Not that a word or two is of consequence, but still accuracy is a point--a point, you understand, we revenue farmers learn to appreciate.’

‘Sir, I came here----’

‘Pardon me, my dear curé, we will stick to the point. The expressions I used were these. “Bah!--” you did not render that interjection in your version. Now, that interjection is expressive; besides, it is characteristic; I always use it. Well, I said, “Bah! if the peasants are hungry, let them browse grass. Wait till I am minister, I will make them eat hay; my horses eat hay.” You left out the words “wait till I am minister.” Be exact, my good friend; exactness is a virtue.’

‘M. Foulon, I have come here----’

‘One moment, my good curé; here is a little lesson of Christian forgiveness for you to take home with you. This day you desired to turn loose these hungry peasants on me; this day I have chained up a savage bloodhound that was ravening to be at your throat. Now, what have you to say?’

‘I want to know where is the girl Gabrielle André, whom your son-in-law, M. Berthier, and you, M. Foulon, carried out of church this afternoon?’

‘Bah! I am ashamed of my good, model curé. He is as bad as we naughty laymen, and runs after pretty girls and petticoats.’

Lindet clenched his hands and teeth.

‘She is your charming niece, is she not? Ah, ha! my sad scapegrace of a curé!’

‘M. Foulon, I will not have this,’ said the priest, passionately; ‘this insult is intolerable.’

‘Then you can always leave the court,’ answered the old man; ‘see! the door is open. But we will not quarrel. Come along into the hall and have some refreshment.’

Lindet stamped. The imperturbable coolness and insolence of the old gentleman exasperated his fiery spirit.

‘Come, come, cool down,’ said Foulon; ‘I did not mean to irritate you. Is the girl your relative?’

‘No.’

‘Of course, then, she is one of your parishioners?’

‘No, she is not.’

‘Then, pardon me, but I am surprised at your taking so much trouble, and running the risk of being torn to pieces by those villanous dogs, to make enquiries about her. I will answer all your enquiries with the utmost frankness, if you can assure me that her father authorized you to come here and demand her.’

Lindet’s face became crimson. He bit his lips with vexation. That he was completely at the old man’s mercy, he felt; and he was conscious that the revenue-farmer was making him ridiculous.

‘I insist on knowing whether the girl is here. I know her father and her, and I have a perfect right to make these enquiries. I now ask to see her. You dare not keep her here against her father’s and her own will.’

‘You are the most inconsequent of curés,’ exclaimed Foulon, laughing gently; ‘you ask to see her, and you ask at the same time whether she is here. I neither say that she is here, nor that she is not here. As to your seeing her, that is out of the question. If she be not here, how can I show her to you? If she be here, I do not bring the chambermaids into the courtyard to receive pastoral exhortations.’

Whilst speaking with Lindet, the old gentleman had moved slowly towards the gates of the yard: Lindet had followed him, without observing whither he was conducting him. Thus Foulon had drawn him outside the rails. Now, having finished this last insulting speech, spoken with an air of politeness and cordiality, he suddenly turned on his heel, stepped within, slammed and locked the iron gates of the enclosure, leaving Lindet without.

The curé attempted to speak again; but Foulon retired, waving his hand and hat, and bowing courteously. Then he made the circuit of the house, in hopes of finding another door, but was baffled. It is true there was a small door in a high wall, which led into the garden, but it was fastened from within. The terrace was so raised, being built up from the slope, that it could not be reached, and on every other side the château was enclosed by walls and rails.

Lindet wasted a few minutes in making the round of the premises, feeling all the while that he should be at a loss what course to pursue, even if he did penetrate once more within. At last he desisted and retired, satisfied that the only person who could claim access to the girl, with any chance of obtaining it, was her father; and Lindet was convinced that he could not be stimulated to make the attempt.

Had Lindet accompanied André home to les Hirondelles, instead of rashly going himself in quest of Gabrielle, he would have done her a greater service.

When Matthias André returned to les Hirondelles, he found that the water had subsided almost as rapidly as it had risen. The plank-bridge was no longer submerged, and the garden and house were clear. The corn-field presented the appearance of a large pond, but that was because the dyke retained the water; there being no gap in it, there was no drainage.

To his amazement, he saw M. Berthier seated at his door. André scowled at him, but deferentially removed his bonnet.

‘Good evening, man!’ said the Intendant, nodding, but not rising from his seat. ‘Your name is Matthias André, is it not?’

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘Ah! your daughter was at the church this afternoon?’

‘She was, monsieur, and I cannot find her----’

‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Berthier; ‘I can tell you more about her than you could tell me.’

‘Monsieur, I heard that you and your honoured father-in-law had removed her from the church, when she fainted during the thunderstorm.’

‘You heard aright,’ said Berthier. ‘There was evident danger in remaining within. The spire might fall at any moment and bury those in the church under its ruins. We saw a girl near us fall, and thinking she had been injured by the lightning, we carried her out and transported her to my house. We did not know where was her home. She is now with my wife, Madame Berthier, who has taken great interest in her.’

André remained standing before him with his eyes on the ground. He knew that Berthier was deceiving him, and the Intendant did not care to do more than give his account of what had really taken place, a superficially plausible colour.

‘I see your wheat is under water,’ said the stout gentleman, pointing with his thumb towards the submerged field, and then, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he twisted the corner into a little screw and ran it round the lids of his eyes in succession.

‘Yes, monsieur, all my crop is destroyed.’

‘And what have you to subsist upon now?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Can you pay the tax?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Have you any money laid by, to help you out of your difficulties? Of course, in prosperous times, you have put aside a nice sum to fall back upon?’

‘Monsieur! how can a peasant lay by? The revenue absorbs all his profits, and leaves him barely enough for his subsistence. He may live in times of plenty; in times of scarcity he must die.’

‘Then what do you intend doing?’

Matthias shrugged his shoulders.

‘All depends on the winter. I have a few potatoes. I must sell this wet corn--it will all be mouldy--for what it will fetch. Ah! if I could have garnered it three days ago, or even yesterday. I shall starve.’ He groaned.

‘And your daughter will starve with you!’

André answered with a scowl.

‘Do you owe any money?’

‘Yes; I owe Jacob Maître, the usurer, four hundred crowns.’

‘You cannot pay him?’

‘No. I have been in debt a long while; he threatens, and I had hoped to pay him off a part this year.’

‘And now he must wait?’

‘He will not wait.’

‘How so?’

‘He will put me in prison.’

‘And whilst you are in prison, what will your daughter do?’

‘God knows!’ André bowed his head lower, and began to mutter to himself.

‘What are you saying?’ asked the Intendant.

‘Nothing,’ answered the peasant, doggedly.

‘But I will hear,’ said Berthier.

‘I said if God would not provide, then the devil must.’

‘Goodman André, that is a somewhat shocking sentiment. Besides, it is not altogether true; there may be a half measure, you know. Now madame, my wife,--a very worthy, pious woman--a little of heaven one way, but a deuced black and ugly one--a little of hell the other way,--she is the person to do it. She has commissioned me to ask you to allow her to retain your child as her servant. That is her message. She wants an active girl to wait upon her, and she has taken a fancy to your daughter. I do not interfere in household matters--understand that--but my good wife, being unable, or disinclined, to come here and see you on the subject, has persuaded me to do her work. I am goodnatured, I am fat; fat people are always goodnatured, so I yield to my wife in everything. I am her slave--her factotum. It is a pity to be goodnatured; one is imposed upon, even by the best of wives.’

André did not speak; through the corner of his eyes he was contemplating his submerged corn-field. He knew still that Berthier was deceiving him, and he was calculating the chances of the approaching winter. Would his potatoes last, even if Jacob Maître did not come down upon him? Would not the usurer seize on everything,--his cow, his horse, his cart, his potatoes, his bed and furniture, his very clothes?

Berthier took some money out of his pocket, and made twelve little heaps on the seat beside him.

‘What do you say to me, in my generosity, giving you six months’ wage for your girl in advance? This is very reckless of me, because I really do not know whether she will suit madame or not. Madame is capricious, she sometimes sends away a dozen servants in the year. However, as you are in great distress, and I am constitutionally liberal--fat people are always liberal--I say, well, I will risk it. You shall have six months’ wage in advance, and the wage is good; it is high, very high. Count.’

André touched one of the little heaps with his finger, and upset the silver pieces, that he might reckon their number; then he counted the heaps, and multiplied the sum in one by six; then he doubled that.

He would not speak yet.

Berthier substituted gold for some of the silver. Rarely had gold passed through the peasant’s fingers. He took the piece up in his trembling palm, turned it over, and looked at it fixedly. His hand shook as with the palsy, and the gold piece fell from it into the mud. André’s brow became beaded with perspiration. He stooped, and picking it up hastily, went to a pitcher and washed it reverently, and then replaced it on the bench.

‘Well, man!’ said the Intendant, taking his pocket-handkerchief and spreading it on his knee. It was stained.

Matthias moodily entered the stable, produced a pick, and walked into his potato-croft. Berthier stared after him, uncertain whether by this action he designed in his boorish manner to express his determination to break off the transaction. Matthias began to dig up a row of potatoes, and Berthier saw him take up the roots, and count the tubers on each, and measure them with his eye.

Presently he returned with a lap-full; these he measured in a bushel, and made a rough calculation of the number he should gather from his little croft.

The gloom on his face became deeper. Then he went into the cow-house and remained there a few minutes. After that he entered the little orchard of some dozen trees, and estimated the yield of apples; then he returned to the house, opened the clothes-chest, and threw all the articles of wearing apparel on the table and bench, and made a mental valuation of them. There were some silver ornaments,--round perforated buttons and a brooch that Gabrielle wore on great fêtes; an heirloom. The peasant was unable to estimate their value, so he brought them out to the Intendant, and said, sulkily:

‘What are these worth?’

Berthier weighed them in his hand, laughed, and said:

‘The value of the silver is trifling--five or eight francs, at the outside.’

The wretched father carried them back into the house.

Presently he came out in a vacillating, uneasy way--his mind hardly made up.

‘You promise me that it is only madame who will have anything to do with my Gabrielle?’ he said.

‘I promise you that! of course I will. She will be with madame night and day; will scarcely be out of her sight. Will that content you?’

André still mused, and refrained from giving a decided answer.

Just then he caught sight of the money-lender, Jacob Maître, a short-built, red-whiskered and bearded man, with thick overhanging red brows, standing on the dyke, contemplating the havoc made in André’s field by the flood.

That sight determined him. He bent, gathered up six of the heaps of silver between his palms, rushed with it into his cottage, and bolted the door.