Part 1

MONSIEUR LECOQ

VOL. II

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF

EMILE GABORIAU

PEARSON’S LIBRARY EDITION

“Monsieur Lecoq” Vol. 1 “Monsieur Lecoq” Vol. 2

“The Gilded Clique” “The Lerouge Case”

“In Peril of His Life”

“File 113”

Illustrated

THE PEARSON PUBLISHING CO.

NEW YORK

MONSIEUR LECOQ.

PART II.

THE HONOUR OF THE NAME.

IX.

The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge stood on a hill overlooking the river. It was a small and humble dwelling, though scarcely so miserable in its aspect and appointments as most of peasant abodes round about. It comprised a single storey divided into three rooms and roofed with thatch. In front was a tiny garden, where a vine straggling over the walls of the house, a few fruit-trees, and some withered vegetables just managed to exist. Small as was this garden patch, and limited as was its production, still Lacheneur’s aunt, to whom the dwelling had formerly belonged, had only succeeded in conquering the natural sterility of the soil after long years of patient perseverance. Day after day, during a lengthy period, she had regularly spread in front of the cottage three or four basketfulls of arable soil brought from a couple of miles distant; and though she had been dead for more than a twelvemonth, one could still detect a narrow pathway across the waste, worn by her patient feet in the performance of this daily task.

This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took the following day, in the hope of obtaining from Marie-Anne’s father some explanation of his singular conduct. The baron was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed to realise the excessive heat as he climbed the rough hillside in the full glare of the noonday sun. When he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while wiping the perspiration from his brow, turned to look back on the valley whence he had come. It was the first time he had visited the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape offered to his view. From this point, the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can survey the course of the Oiselle for many miles; and in the distance a glimpse may be obtained of the ancient citadel of Montaignac, perched on an almost inaccessible rock. A man in the baron’s mood could, however, take but little interest in the picturesqueness of the scenery, though, when he turned his back to the valley and prepared to resume his walk, he was certainly struck by the aspect of Lacheneur’s new abode. His imagination pictured the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only two days before, had relinquished the splendours of the Chateau du Sairmeuse to resume the peasant life of his early youth.

“Come in!” cried a female voice when M. d’Escorval rapped at the door of the cottage. He lifted the latch, and entered a small room with white-washed walls, having no other ceiling than the thatched roof, and no other flooring than the bare ground. A table with a wooden bench on either side stood in the middle of this humble chamber, in one corner of which was an old bedstead. On a stool near the narrow casement sat Marie-Anne, working at a piece of embroidery, and clad in a peasant-girl’s usual garb.

At the sight of M. d’Escorval, she rose to her feet, and for a moment they remained standing in front of one another, she apparently calm, he visibly agitated. Lacheneur’s daughter was paler than usual, she seemed even thinner, but there was a strange, touching charm about her person; the consciousness of duty nobly fulfilled, of resignation calling for accomplishment, lending, as it were, a new radiance to her beauty.

Remembering his son, M. d’Escorval was surprised at Marie-Anne’s tranquillity. “You don’t inquire after Maurice,” he said, with a touch of reproachfulness in his voice.

“I had news of him this morning, as I have had every day,” quietly replied Marie-Anne. “I know that he is getting better, and that he was able to take some food yesterday.”

“You have not forgotten him, then?”

She trembled; a faint blush suffused her cheeks and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied: “Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”

“And yet you told him that you approved your father’s decision!”

“Yes, I told him so; and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”

“But you have made Maurice most wretched and unhappy, my dear child; he almost died of grief.”

She raised her head proudly, looked M. d’Escorval fully in the face and answered, “Do you think then that I haven’t suffered myself?”

M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but speedily recovering himself, he took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and, pressing it affectionately, exclaimed: “So Maurice loves you, and you love him; you are both suffering: he has nearly died of grief and still you reject him!”

“It must be so, sir.”

“You say this, my dear child--you say this, and you undoubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have quite failed to find any plausible reason. Explain to me why it must be so, Marie-Anne. Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an old friend? It may be that your father in his despair has adopted extreme resolutions. Let me know them and we will conquer them together. Lacheneur knows how deeply I am attached to him. I will speak to him: he will listen to _me_.”

“I can tell you nothing, sir.”

“What! you remain inflexible when a father entreats you to assist him, when he says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold my son’s happiness, life, and reason in your hands. Can you be so cruel----’”

“Ah! it is you who are cruel, sir,” answered Marie-Anne with tears glittering in her eyes; “it is you who are without pity. Cannot you see what I suffer? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can say to my father. Why try to unnerve me when I require all my courage to struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be folly. Beseech him to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are his father, must command him to do so. And you too, in heaven’s name fly from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us may ruin you as well.”

She spoke almost wildly, and her voice was so loud that it reached an adjoining room, the door of which suddenly opened, M. Lacheneur appearing upon the threshold. At the sight of M. d’Escorval the whilom lord of Sairmeuse could not restrain an oath; but there was more sorrow and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said: “What, you here, baron?”

The consternation into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval was so intense that he could only just manage to stammer a reply. “You have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten your old friendship? I come to you----”

“Why did you not inform me of the honour that the baron had done me, Marie-Anne?” said Lacheneur sternly.

She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied; “Why, I have but just arrived, my dear friend.”

M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter and then at the baron. His brow was overcast as he was evidently wondering what M. d’Escorval and Marie-Anne had said to each other whilst they were alone. Still, however great his disguise may have been, he seemed to master it; and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room. “It is my reception room and study combined,” he said smilingly.

This room, although much larger than the first, was, however, quite as scantily furnished, but piled up on the floor and table were a number of books and packages, which two men were busy sorting and arranging. One of these men was Chanlouineau, whom M. d’Escorval at once recognized, though he did not remember having ever seen the other one, a young fellow of twenty or thereabouts. With the latter’s identity he was, however, soon made acquainted.

“This is my son, Jean,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.”

It was true. Fully ten years had elapsed since the baron last saw Lacheneur’s son. How time flies! He had known Jean as a boy and he now found him a man. Young Lacheneur was just in his twenty-first year, but with his haggard features and precocious beard he looked somewhat older. He was tall and well built, and his face indicated more than average intelligence. Still he did not convey a favorable impression. His restless eyes betokened a prying curiosity of mind, and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning. He made a deep bow when his father introduced him; but he was evidently out of temper.

“Having no longer the means to keep Jean in Paris,” resumed M. Lacheneur, “I have made him return as you see. My ruin will, perhaps, prove a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good for a peasant’s son. Fools that we are, we send our children to Paris that they may learn to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”

“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait at least until we are alone!”

“M. d’Escorval is not a stranger,” retorted M. Lacheneur, and then turning again to the baron, he continued; “I must have wearied you by telling you again and again; ‘I am very pleased with my son. He has a commendable ambition; he is working faithfully and is bound to succeed.’ Ah! I was a poor foolish father! The friend whom I commissioned to call on Jean and tell him to return here has enlightened me as to the truth. The model young man you see here only left the gaming-house to run to some public ball. He was in love with a wretched little ballet girl at some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went on the stage with his face painted red and white.”

“It’s not a crime to appear on the stage,” interrupted Jean with a flushed face.

“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues one doesn’t possess! Have I ever refused you money? No; and yet you have got into debt on all sides. You owe at least twenty thousand francs!”

Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.

“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight ago; now I haven’t a halfpenny. I can only hope to obtain this sum through the generosity of the Duke or the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The baron uttered an exclamation of surprise. He only knew of the scene at the parsonage and believed that there would be no further connection between Lacheneur and the duke’s family. Lacheneur perceived M. d’Escorval’s amazement, and it was with every token of sincerity and good faith that he resumed: “What I say astonishes you. Ah! I understand why. My anger at first led me to indulge in all sorts of absurd threats. But I am calm now, and realize my injustice. What could I expect the duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque, I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”

“Have you seen him again?”

“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau to select the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal--everything. I selected what I wanted, furniture, clothes, linen. Everything is to be brought here; and I shall be quite a great man.”

“Why not seek another house? This----”

“This pleases me. Its situation suits me perfectly.”

In fact, after all, thought M. d’Escorval, why should not the Sairmeuse’s have regretted their odious conduct? And if they had done so might not Lacheneur, in spite of indignation, agree to accept honourable conditions?

“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example, having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he has promised to send her plants to stock our small garden, and they will be renewed every month.”

Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This last remark was too much; it awakened a terrible suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind. “Good heavens!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate some crime?” He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased, for on hearing Lacheneur speak of the marquis and Marie-Anne, the stalwart young farmer had turned livid.

“It is decided,” resumed Lacheneur with an air of unbounded satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all: they have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be allowed to occupy the game-keeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed a fortune which did not belong to me during so many years, I am now anxious to amass a fortune of my own.”

“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”

“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedlar.”

M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. “Pedlar?” he repeated.

“Yes, M. le Baron. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”

“But that’s absurd,” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way!”

“You are wrong, sir. I have considered the subject carefully; the profits are thirty per cent. And besides, there will be three of us to sell the goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to Chanlouineau.”

“What! Chanlouineau?”

“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”

“And his farm--who will take care of that?”

“He will employ day labourers.” And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lacheneur began arranging such of the little packages as were intended for his own pack.

But the baron was not to be got rid of so easily, especially now that his suspicions had almost ripened into certainty. “I must speak with you alone,” he said in a curt tone.

M. Lacheneur turned round. “I am very busy,” he replied with evident reluctance of manner.

“I only ask for five minutes. But if you haven’t the time to spare to-day, I can return to-morrow--the day after to-morrow--or any day when I can see you in private.”

Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this interview, so with a gesture of a man who resigns himself to a necessity, he bade his son and Chanlouineau withdraw.

They left the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind them, Lacheneur exclaimed: “I know very well, M. le Baron, the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of changing my resolution. Don’t ask my motives; I cannot reveal them; but rest assured that they are sufficiently weighty.”

“Are we not your friends?” asked M. d’Escorval.

“You--!” exclaimed Lacheneur with affectionate cordiality--”ah! You know it well!--you are the best, the only friends I have here below. I should be the greatest wretch living if I did not retain the recollection of your kindness until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends, yes, I am devoted to you--and it is for that very reason, that I answer your proposals with no, no, never!”

There was no longer any room for doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp, “Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, “What do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you dreaming!”

“I swear to you----”

“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my experience. I divine your intentions--you hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever.”

“I----”

“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget the way they treated you, it is only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your power to reassure them. You accept their advances--you kneel before them--why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you have lulled their suspicions to rest; and then you can strike them more surely--”

He paused; the door of the front room opened, and Marie-Anne appeared upon the threshold. “Father,” said she, “Here is the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The mention of this name at such a juncture was so ominously significant that M. d’Escorval could not restrain a gesture of surprise and fear. “He dares to come here!” he thought. “What, is he not afraid the very walls will fall and crush him?”

M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He suspected her of a ruse which might force him to reveal his secret; and for a second his features were distorted by a fit of passionate rage. By an effort, however, he succeeded in regaining his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out exclaimed: “Deign to excuse me, M. le Marquis, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a few minutes.”

Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice; but rather, a respectful deference and a feeling of profound gratitude. Having spoken in this fashion he closed the door again and turned to M. d’Escorval. The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own senses; and yet he understood the meaning of the incident only too well. “So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.

“Almost every day--not at this hour usually, but a trifle later.”

“And you receive him? You welcome him?”

“Certainly. How can I be insensible to the honour he confers upon me? Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to discuss. We are now occupied in legalising the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can also give him much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the property.”

“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”

Lacheneur’s glance did not waver. “To whom else could they be addressed?” he inquired.

This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could not have received a heavier blow. “Take care Lacheneur,” he said sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and M. de Sairmeuse, who hopes to make her--”

“Who hopes to make her his mistress--is that what you mean? Oh, say the word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”

M. d’Escorval shuddered. “In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you make your daughter’s honour and reputation your stake in the game you are playing.”

This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no longer. “Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath; “yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be the instrument of my plans. A man in my situation is free from the considerations by which others are guided. Fortune, friends, life, honour--I have been forced to sacrifice everything. Perish my daughter’s virtue--perish my daughter herself--what do they signify if I can but succeed?”

Never had M. d’Escorval seen Lacheneur so excited. His eyes flashed, and as he spoke, shook his clenched fist wildly in the air, as though he were threatening some miserable enemy. “So you admit it,” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “you admit that you propose revenging yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and that Chanlouineau is to be your accomplice?”

“I admit nothing,” Lacheneur replied. “Let me reassure you.” Then raising his hand as if to take an oath, he added in a solemn voice: “Before God, who hears my word, by all that I hold sacred in this world, by the memory of the wife I loved and whom I mourn to-day, I swear to you, that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I have no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me without injuring themselves.”

For a moment the baron remained silent. He was evidently trying to reconcile Lacheneur’s conflicting utterances. “How can one believe this assurance after your previous avowal?” he evidently enquired.

“Oh, you may refuse to believe me if you choose,” rejoined Lacheneur, who had now regained all his self-possession. “But whether you believe me or not I must decline to speak any further on the subject. I have said too much already. I know that your visit and your questions have been solely prompted by your friendship, and I cannot help feeling both proud and grateful. Still I can tell you no more. The events of the last few days demand that we should separate. Our paths in life lie far apart, and I can only say to you what I said yesterday to the Abbe-Midon. If you are my friend never come here again under any pretext whatever. Even if you hear I am dying, do not come, and should you meet me, turn aside, shun me as you would some deadly pestilence.”

Lacheneur paused, as if expecting some further observation from the baron, but the latter remained silent, reflecting that the words he had just heard were substantially a repetition of what Marie-Anne had previously told him.

“There is still a wiser course you might pursue,” resumed the ex-lord of Sairmeuse, after a brief interval. “Here in the district there is but little chance of your son’s sorrow soon subsiding. Turn which way he will--alas, I know myself, that even the very trees and flowers will remind him of a happier time. So leave this neighborhood, take him with you, and go far away.”

“Ah! how can I do that when Fouche has virtually imprisoned me here!”

“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice. You were one of the emperor’s friends, hence you are regarded with suspicion. You are surrounded by spies, and your enemies are watching for an opportunity to ruin you. They would seize on the slightest pretext to throw you into prison--a letter, a word, an act capable of misconstruction. The frontier is not far off; so I repeat, go and wait in a foreign land for happier times.”

“That I will never do,” said M. d’Escorval proudly. His words and accent showing plainly enough how futile further discussion would be.

“Ah! you are like the Abbe Midon,” sadly rejoined Lacheneur; “you won’t believe me. Who knows how much your coming here this morning may cost you? It is said that no one can escape his destiny. But if some day the executioner lays his hand on your shoulder, remember that I warned you, and don’t curse me for what may happen.”

Lacheneur paused once more, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy produced no impression on the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M d’Escorval; but he nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had selected at the chateau were at that moment on their way.