Part 25

By the expression of the servants’ faces as he leapt from the saddle in the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see Madame Blanche, he was again reminded of the sensation which this unexpected visit would necessarily cause. However, he cared little for it. He was passing through a crisis in which the mind can conceive no further misfortune, and becomes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well, for it was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and smiling. Her manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had seemed charming at the time.

At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked so sad and careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow seemingly stamped upon her features. “How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.

It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once realised that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his emotion, she perceived the profit she might derive from it. “I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” she replied, in a sad humble voice. “I shall never be consoled.”

She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart. For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or so heartless but his vanity is not flattered with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake. There is no man who is not moved by such a flattering idea; and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.

“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial. The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she felt ashamed. This simple gesture was the most eloquent of answers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He asked for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu’s papers with the view of finding the documents he required for M. d’Escorval’s case, and Blanche readily complied with his request. He then turned to take his leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences of too formal a promise he merely added: “Since you don’t forbid it, Blanche, I will return--to-morrow--another day.” However, as he rode back to Montaignac, his thoughts were busy. “She really loves me,” he mused; “that pallor, that weariness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father exist no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be considered as dead.”

All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the market-place when Martial rode through the village. They have just heard of the murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the magistrate, relating as far as he could the circumstances of the crime. After a prolonged enquiry, it was eventually reported that a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been himself assassinated soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown.

However, this affair soon interested the district far less than the constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. Shortly afterwards it was rumoured that the Marquis and the Marchioness de Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a few weeks later, they left for Paris with an intention of residing there permanently. A day or two after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins also announced his determination of taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his friends endeavoured to dissuade him, assuring him that he would certainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he replied: “On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan’t want for anything so long as I live there.”

XXXV.

Time gradually heals all wounds; and its effacing fingers spare but few traces of events; which in their season may have absorbed the attention of many thousand minds. What remained to attest the reality of that fierce whirlwind of passion which had swept over the peaceful valley of the Oiselle? Only a charred ruin on La Reche, and a grave in the cemetery, on which was inscribed: “Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of twenty. Pray for her!” Recent as were the events of which that ruin and that grave stone seemed as it were the prologue and the epilogue, they were already relegated to the legendary past. The peasantry of Sairmeuse had other things to think about--the harvest, the weather, their sheep and cattle, and it was only a few old men, the politicians of the village, who at times turned their attention from agricultural incidents to remember the rising of Montaignac. Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, when they were gathered together at the local hostelry of the Boeuf Couronne, they would lay down their greasy cards and gravely discuss the events of the past year. And they never failed to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama at Montaignac had in common parlance, “come to a bad end.” The victors and the vanquished seemed to encounter the same fate. Lacheneur had been beheaded; Chanlouineau, shot; Marie-Anne, poisoned, and Chupin, the traitor, the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spy, stabbed to death. It was true that the Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would have seemed a mercy in comparison with such a total annihilation of intelligence. He had fallen below the level of a brute beast, which at least is endowed with instinct. Since his daughter’s departure he had been ostensibly cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give them much trouble, for whenever they wished to go out they complacently confined him, not in his room, but in the back cellar, so as to prevent his shrieks and ravings from being heard outside. If some folks supposed for awhile that the Sairmeuses would escape the fate of the others, they were grievously mistaken, for it was not long before the curse fell upon them as well.

One fine December morning, the Duke left the chateau to take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighbourhood. At nightfall, his horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and riderless. What had become of his master? A search was instituted at once, and all night long a score of men, carrying torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling at the top of their voices. Five days went by, and the search for the missing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear, came to the chateau to tell the steward that he had discovered the Duke de Sairmeuse’s body--lying all bloody and mangled at the foot of a precipice. It seemed strange that so excellent a rider should have met with such a fate; and there might have been some doubt as to its being an accident, had it not been for the explanation given by several of his grace’s grooms. “The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,” these men remarked. “She was always taking fright and shying at everything.”

A few days after this occurrence Jean Lacheneur left the neighbourhood. This singular fellow’s conduct had caused considerable comment. When Marie-Anne died, although he was her natural heir, he at first refused to have anything to do with her property. “I don’t want to take anything that came to her through Chanlouineau,” he said to every one right and left, thus slandering his sister’s memory, as he had slandered her when alive. Then, after a short absence from the district, and without any apparent reason, he suddenly changed his mind. He not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain possession of it. He excused his past conduct as best he could; but if he was to be believed, instead of acting in his own interest, he was merely carrying his sister’s wishes into effect, for he over and over again declared that whatever price her property might fetch not a sou of its value would go into his own pockets. This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal possession of the estate, he sold it, troubling himself but little as to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash. However, he reserved the sumptuous furniture of the room on the upper floor of the Borderie and burnt it--from the bed-stead to the curtains and the carpet--one evening in the little garden in front of the house. This singular act became the talk of the neighbourhood, and the villagers universally opined that Jean had lost his head. Those who hesitated to agree with this opinion, expressed it a short time afterwards, when it became known that Jean Lacheneur had engaged himself with a company of strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days. The young fellow had both good advice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and complete his studies; but in vain.

The priest and the baron no longer had to conceal themselves. Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the former at the parsonage and the latter at Escorval, as in days gone by. Acquitted at his new trial, re-installed in possession of his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a slight limp, the baron would have deemed himself a fortunate man had it not been for his great anxiety on his son’s account. Poor Maurice! The nails that secured Marie-Anne’s coffin ere it was lowered into the sod seemed to have pierced his heart; and his very life now seemed dependent on the hope of finding his child. Relying already on the Abbe Midon’s protection and assistance, he had confessed everything to his father, and had even confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was now an honoured guest at Escorval; and all three had promised him their best assistance. But the task was a difficult one and such chances of success as might have existed were greatly diminished by Maurice’s determination that Marie-Anne’s name should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. In this he acted very differently to Jean. The latter slandered his murdered sister right and left, while Maurice sedulously sought to prevent her memory being tarnished.

The Abbe Midon did not seek to turn Maurice from his idea. “We shall succeed all the same,” he said kindly, “with time and patience any mystery can be solved.” He divided the department into a certain number of districts; and one of the little band went day by day from house to house questioning the inmates, in the most cautious manner, for fear of arousing suspicion; for a peasant becomes intractable if his suspicions are but once aroused. However, weeks went by, and still the quest was fruitless. Maurice was losing all hope. “My child must have died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.

But the abbe re-assured him. “I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “By Marie-Anne’s absence I can tell pretty nearly the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”

“And yet there isn’t a nook or corner for miles round which we haven’t explored.”

“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”

The priest was now only striving to gain time, which as he knew full well is the sovereign balm for sorrow. His confidence had been very great at first, but it had sensibly diminished since he had questioned an old woman, who had the reputation of being one of the greatest gossips of the community. On being skilfully catechised by the abbe, this worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there must be one in the neighbourhood, as this was the third time she had been questioned on the subject. Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in concealing it. He set the old gossip talking, and after two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two persons in addition to Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child. Who these persons were and what their aim was, were points which the abbe failed to elucidate. “Ah” thought he, “after all, rascals have their use on earth. If we only had a man like Chupin to set on the trail!”

The old poacher was dead, however, and his eldest son--the one who knew Blanche’s secret--was in Paris. Only the widow and the second son remained at Sairmeuse. They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was still burning in their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morn till night the mother and son toiled on, until the earth round their hut had been fully explored to the depth of six feet. However, a peasant passed by one day and made a remark which suddenly caused them to abandon their search. “Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I didn’t think you were such a fool as to persist in bird’s nesting after the chick was hatched and had flown. Your brother in Paris can no doubt tell you where the treasure was concealed.”

“Holy Virgin! you’re right!” cried the younger Chupin. “Wait till I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we’ll see.”

XXXVI.

Martial De Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than it had alarmed Blanche. In five minutes, more ideas passed through the dependent relative’s mind than during the last five years. In fancy she already saw the gendarmes at the chateau; her niece arrested, confined in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Assize Court. She might herself remain quiet if that were all there was to fear! But suppose she were compromised, suspected of complicity as well, dragged before the judges, and even accused of being the only culprit! At this thought her anxiety reached a climax, and finding the suspense intolerable, she ventured downstairs. She stole on tiptoe into the great ball room, and applying her ear to the keyhole of the door leading into the blue salon, she listened attentively to Blanche and Martial’s conversation. What she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her mind. When Martial left the room, she at once opened the door by which she had been standing, and entered the blue reception room, thus admitting as it were that she had been a listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not even have dreamed of committing such an audacious act. “Well,” she exclaimed, “Blanche, we were frightened for nothing.”

Blanche did not reply. The young marchioness was weighing in her mind the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity. “Perhaps the hour of my revenge is nigh,” she murmured, as if communing with herself.

“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.

“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be the Marchioness de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then--oh! then.”

“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In her secret heart she had but scant faith in this prediction, and cared very little whether it was realized or not. However, in that low tone which accomplices habitually employ, she ventured to add: “If what you say proves true, it will only be another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that--that what you did at the Borderie was a perfectly unnecessary act.”

Such had indeed been Blanche’s opinion; but now she shook her head, and gloomily replied: “You are wrong; what took place at the Borderie has brought my husband back to me again. I understand everything now. It is true that Marie-Anne was not his mistress; but he loved her. He loved her, and her repulses only increased his passion. It was for her sake that he abandoned me; and while she lived he would never have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of an emotion which she had awakened. His tenderness was only the expression of his grief. Whatever happens, I shall only have her leavings--the leavings of what she disdained!” The young marchioness spoke bitterly, her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot as she added: “So I shan’t regret what I have done! no, never--never!” As she spoke she felt herself again brave and determined.

But horrible fears assailed her when the enquiry into the circumstances of the murder commenced. Officials had been sent from Montaignac to investigate the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even some talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling all the mysteries of crime. This prospect quite terrified Aunt Medea; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great anxiety. “You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.

“Ah! I can’t control my fears.”

“If that is the case, don’t leave your room.”

“It would be more prudent, certainly.”

“You can say you are not well; your meals shall be served you upstairs.”

Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her heart, she was delighted. It had long been her dream and ambition to have her meals served in her own room, in bed in the morning and on a little table by the fire in the evening; but as yet she had never been able to realise this fancy. On two or three occasions, feeling slightly indisposed, she had asked to have her breakfast brought to her room, but her request had each time been harshly refused. “If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come downstairs, and take her place at the table as usual,” had been Blanche’s imperious reply.

It was hard, indeed, to be treated in this way in a chateau where there were always a dozen servants idling about. But now, in obedience to the young marchioness’s formal orders, the head cook himself came up every morning into Aunt Medea’s room, to receive her instructions; and she was at perfect liberty to dictate each day’s bill of fare, and to order the particular dishes she preferred. This change in the dependent relative’s situation awakened many strange thoughts in her mind, and stifled such regret as she had felt for the crime at Borderie. Still both she and her niece followed the enquiry which had been set on foot with a keen interest. They obtained all the latest information concerning the investigation through the butler of the chateau, who seemed much interested in the case, and who had won the goodwill of the Montaignac police agents, by making them familiar with the contents of his wine cellar. It was from this major-domo that Blanche and her aunt learned that all suspicions pointed to the deceased Chupin, who had been seen prowling round about the Borderie on the very night the crime was committed. This testimony was given by the same young peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur of the old poacher’s doings. As regards the motive of the crime, fully a score of persons had heard Chupin declare that he should never enjoy any piece of mind as long as a single Lacheneur was left on earth. So thus it happened that the very incidents which might have ruined Blanche, saved her; and she really came to consider the old poacher’s death as a providential occurrence, for she at least had no reason to suspect that he had revealed her secret before expiring. When the butler told her that the magistrate and the police agents had returned to Montaignac, she could scarcely conceal her joy; and drawing a long breath of relief, she turned towards Aunt Medea with the remark: “Ah, now there’s nothing more to be feared.”

She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man; but the justice of God remained. A few weeks previously the thought of divine retribution would perhaps have made Blanche smile, for she then considered the punishment of providence as an imaginary evil, invented to hold timorous minds in check. On the morning that followed her crime, and after her long random talk with Aunt Medea, she almost shrugged her shoulders at the thought of Marie-Anne’s dying threats. She remembered her promise; and yet, despite all she had said, she did not intend to fulfil it. After careful consideration, she had come to the conclusion that in trying to find the missing child she would expose herself to terrible risks; and on the other hand, she felt certain that the child’s father would discover it. So she dismissed the matter from her mind, and chiefly busied herself with what Martial had said during his visit, and the prospect that presented itself of a reconciliation.

But she was destined to realize the power of her victim’s threats that same night. Worn out with fatigue, she retired to her room at an early hour, and jumped into bed, exclaiming; “I must sleep!” But sleep had fled. Her crime was over in her thoughts; and rose before her in all its horror and atrocity. She knew that she was lying on her bed, at Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she were still in Chanlouineau’s house, first pouring out the poison, and then watching its effects, while concealed in the dressing-room. She was struggling against the idea; exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible memories, when she imagined she heard the key turn in the lock. Raising her head from the pillow with a start, she fancied she could perceive the door open noiselessly, and then Marie-Anne glided into the room like a phantom. She seated herself in an arm-chair near the bed, and while the tears rolled down her cheeks, she looked sadly, yet threateningly around her. The murderess hid her face under the counterpane. She shivered with terror, and a cold sweat escaped from every pore in her skin. For this seemed no mere apparition, but the frightful reality itself. Blanche did not submit to these tortures without resisting. Making a vigorous effort, she tried to reason with herself aloud, as if the sound of her voice would re-assure her. “I am dreaming!” she said. “The dead don’t return to life? To think that I’m childish enough to be frightened at phantoms which only exist in my own imagination.”

She said this, but the vision did not fade. When she shut her eyes the phantom still faced her--even through her closed eyelids, and through the coverlids drawn up over her face. Say what she would, she did not succeed in sleeping till daybreak. And, worst of all, night after night, the same vision haunted her, reviving the terror which she forgot during the day-time in the broad sunlight. For she would regain her courage and become sceptical again as soon as the morning broke. “How foolish it is to be afraid of something that does not exist!” she would remark, railing at herself. “To-night I will conquer this absurd weakness.” But when evening came all her resolution vanished, and scarcely had she retired to her room than the same fears seized hold of her, and the same phantom rose before her eyes. She fancied that her nocturnal agonies would cease when the investigation anent the murder was over--that she would forget both her crime and promise; but the enquiry finished, and yet the same vision haunted her, and she did not forget. Darwin has remarked that it is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse, and Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this assertion, made by the deepest thinker and closest observer of the age.