Part 26

And yet her sufferings, atrocious as they were, did not induce her for one moment to abandon the plan she had formed on the occasion of Martial’s visit. She played her part so well that, moved with pity, if not with love, he returned to see her frequently, and at last, one day, besought her to allow him to remain. But even this triumph did not restore her peace of mind. For between her and her husband rose the dreadful vision of Marie-Anne’s distorted features. She knew only too well that Martial had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown her already intolerable sufferings came an incident which filled her with dismay. Alluding one evening to Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he said, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures. As he spoke his voice vibrated with still powerful passion, and Blanche, in terror asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit--and he might discover it. Now it was that she began to regret she had not kept her promise; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child. But to do this effectually it was essential she should be in a large city--in Paris, for instance--where she could procure discreet and skilful agents. Thus it was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. But with the Duke de Sairmeuse’s assistance she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, with a radiant face, she informed Aunt Medea that she and her husband would leave Courtornieu at the end of the coming week.

In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change in the dependent relative’s tone and manner had, it is true, been a gradual one; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and now it showed itself continually. For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over chaperone no longer trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had been her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of independence in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been used to remain modestly in the background, but now she drew her chair forward, and unhesitatingly took part in the conversation. At table, she gave free expression to her preferences and dislikes; and on two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders. One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home. And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intentions of going; and as it rained she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done. All these little incidents could have been nothing separately, but taken together they plainly showed that the once humble chaperone’s character had changed. When her niece announced that she and Martial were about to leave the neighbourhood, Aunt Medea was greatly surprised, for the project had never been discussed in her presence. “What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”

“And without regret.”

“And where are you going to, pray?”

“To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that’s decided. The capital’s the proper place for my husband, and, with his name, fortune, talents and the king’s favour, he will secure a high position there. He will re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently, so that we shall have a princely establishment.”

Aunt Medea’s expression plainly indicated that she was suffering all the torments of envy. “And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.

“You--aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”

But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. “I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.

“You foolish woman! won’t you have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”

“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “What _do_ you wish, then?” she asked, sarcastically.

“I thought--I wondered--if you wouldn’t take me with you.”

“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”

“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”

“Impossible, aunt, impossible!”

Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. “And what if I told you that I can’t remain here--that I dare not--that I should die!”

Blanche flushed with impatience. “You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, roughly. And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added: “If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”

Aunt Medea turned very pale, and bit her lips. “That is to say,” she said at last, “that you allow me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less from you. Thanks!” She raised her head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening fashion. “Very well! this decides me,” she continued. “I entreated you, and you brutally refused my request, so now I command you and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris--and I shall go. Ah! so it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like this; but I’ve endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now I rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is true you’ve given me shelter--fed and lodged me, but you’ve taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I’ve had to endure? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me--your own flesh and blood? And I have had no wages, on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah, you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me--humiliated me--trampled me under foot!”

The rebellious chaperone paused again. The bitter rancour which had been accumulating in her heart for years fairly choked her; but after a moment, she resumed in a tone of irony: “You ask me what _I_ should do in Paris? I should enjoy myself, like you. You will go to court, to the play--into society, won’t you? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilettes too. I have rarely seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Twice a-year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your own sake, and in order that your poor relation should do honour to your generosity. You dressed me in it, like you put your lacqueys in livery, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; and when I was buffeted on one cheek, I offered the other. For after all I must live--I must have food. And you, Blanche, how often haven’t you said to me so that I might do your bidding, ‘You must obey me, if you wish to remain at Courtornieu!’ And I obeyed you--I was forced to obey, as I didn’t know where else to go. Ah! you have abused my poverty in every way; but now my turn has come!”

Blanche was so amazed that she could scarcely articulate a syllable, and it was in a scarcely audible voice that at last she faltered: “I don’t understand you, aunt, I don’t understand you.”

The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few moments before. “In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you that since you have made me your accomplice against my will, we must share everything in common. I share the danger; so I will share the pleasure. Suppose everything should be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes, I’ve no doubt you do, and that’s why you are seeking diversion. Very well! I desire diversion also, so I shall go to Paris with you.”

With a desperate effort, Blanche managed to regain some degree of self-possession. “And if I still said no?” she coldly queried.

“But you won’t say no.”

“And why not, if you please?”

“Because--”

“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”

Aunt Medea shook her head. “I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself. No. I shouldn’t do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”

Blanche shuddered. No other threat could have had such influence over her. “You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she: “I promise it.” And then in a gentle voice, she added: “But it’s quite unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you have only yourself to blame. Why haven’t you ever said anything? I attributed your complaisance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman so quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine dresses. Confess that it was impossible. Had I known--But rest easy, aunt, I will atone for my neglect.” And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse. “Nonsense!” rejoined Blanche; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me, don’t you?” And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like two friends, united after a misunderstanding.

Neither of them, however, was in the least degree deceived by this mock reconciliation. “It will be best for me to keep on the alert,” thought the dependent relative. “God only knows with what joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie-Anne.”

Perhaps a similar thought flitted through Blanche’s mind. “I’m bound to this dangerous, perfidious creature for ever now,” she reflected. “I’m no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands me, I must obey, no matter what may be her fancy--and she has forty years’ humiliation and servitude to avenge.” The prospect of such a life made the young marchioness tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some way of freeing herself from such intolerable thraldom. Would it be possible to induce Aunt Medea to live independently in her own house, served by her own servants? Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed for finery, to marry? A handsome marriage portion will always attract a husband. However, in either case, Blanche would require money--a large sum of money, which no one must be in a position to claim an account of. With this idea she took possession of over two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank notes and coin, belonging to her father, and put away in one of his private drawers. This sum represented the Marquis de Courtornieu’s savings during the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche could take it for her own use, without the slightest danger. “With this,” thought she, “I can enrich Aunt Medea whenever I please without having recourse to Martial.”

After these incidents there was a constant exchange of delicate attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had often commented on the haughty disdain with which Blanche treated her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that during the journey to Paris, Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marchioness’s own, and that instead of travelling in the cumbersome berline with the servants, she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and his wife.

Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change which had come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions which his wife lavished on her, and one day when he was alone with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone of good-natured raillery: “What’s the meaning of all this attachment? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan’t we?”

Blanche trembled, and flushed. “I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished on me when I was so unhappy.”

It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind was fully occupied. The agent he had despatched to Paris in advance, to purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, if it were possible, had written asking the marquis to hasten his journey, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. “Plague take the fellow!” angrily said Martial, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we’ve been waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his fingers. I shan’t find any pleasure in Paris, if I can’t own our old residence.”

He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second day of their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would travel all night. “Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I don’t feel the least tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me.” So they journeyed on without stopping, and the next morning at about nine o’clock they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.

Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. “I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.” Two hours afterwards he re-appeared with a radiant face. “My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me word that a man, on whom the conclusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it and welcome.” Then, in a tone of gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he added: “It only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won’t do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”

This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, then one of the most magnificent in Paris, with a monumental entrance facing the Rue de Grenelle St. Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required considerable repair. “It will take at least six months to restore everything,” said Martial, “perhaps more; though in three months, possibly, a portion of it might be arranged very comfortably.”

“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” observed Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.

“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as swiftly as possible.”

In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that one is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when one serves one’s self, and so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with the architect, interviewed the contractors, and hurried on the workmen. As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned before dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time in doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to divert her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears, a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie, and the clamours of conscience were sinking into faint whispers. Indeed, the past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant knocked at the door, and said: “There is a man downstairs who wishes to speak with madame.”

XXXVII.

Blanche was reclining on a sofa listening to a new book which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, and she did not even raise her head as the servant delivered his message. “A man?” she said, carelessly; “what man?” She was expecting no one; it must be one of the assistants or overseers employed by Martial.

“I can’t inform madame who he is,” replied the servant. “He is quite young; he is dressed like a peasant, and is, perhaps, seeking a place.”

“It is probably the marquis he wishes to see.”

“Madame will excuse me, but he particularly said that he wished to speak with her.”

“Ask his name and business, then. Go on, aunt,” she added: “we have been interrupted in the most interesting part.”

But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page before the servant returned. “The man says madame will understand his business when she hears his name.”

“And his name?”

“Chupin.”

It seemed as if a bomb-shell had burst into the room. Aunt Medea dropped her book with a shriek, and sank back, half fainting in her chair. Blanche sprang up with a face as colourless as her white cashmere morning dress, her eyes dazed, and her lips trembling. “Chupin,” she repeated, as if she almost hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him correctly; “Chupin!” Then angrily, she added: “Tell this man I won’t see him, I won’t see him, do you hear?” But before the servant had time to bow and retire, the young marchioness changed her mind. “One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him. Bring him up.”

The servant then withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in silent consternation. “It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche at last.

“No doubt; but what does he desire.”

“Money, probably.”

Aunt Medea raised her eyes to heaven. “God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings with his father!” said she.

“You are not going to despair in advance, are you, aunt? We shall know everything in a few minutes. Pray remain calm. Turn your back to us; look out of the window into the street and don’t let him see your face.”

Blanche was not deceived. This unexpected visitor was indeed Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret. Since his arrival in Paris, the young fellow had been running in every direction, inquiring everywhere and of everybody for the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s address. At last he obtained it; and he lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice. He was now awaiting the result of his application at the entrance down-stairs where he stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, and bade him follow. Chupin obeyed; but the servant, who was on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in hope of obtaining from this country youth some explanation of the surprise, not to say fright with which Madame de Sairmeuse had greeted the mention of his name. “I don’t say it to flatter you, my boy,” he remarked, “but your name produced a great effect on madame.” The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he felt on receiving this information. “How does she happen to know you?” continued the servant. “Are you both from the same place?”

“I am her foster-brother.”

The servant did not believe this reply for a moment, and as they had now reached the marchioness’s apartment, he opened the door and ushered Chupin into the room. The latter had prepared a little story beforehand, but he was so dazzled by the magnificence around him that for a moment he stood motionless with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His wonder was increased by a large mirror opposite the door, in which he could survey himself from head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the carpet, which he feared to crush with his heavy shoes.

After a moment, Blanche decided to break the silence. “What do you want of me,” she asked.

In a rambling fashion young Chupin then explained that he had been obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of the numerous enemies he had there, that he had been unable to find his father’s hidden treasure, and that he was consequently without resources.

“That’ll do,” interrupted Blanche, and then in far from a friendly manner, she remarked: “I don’t at all understand why you should apply to me. You and all the rest of your family have anything but an enviable reputation at Sairmeuse; still, as you are from that part of the country, I am willing to aid you a little on condition you don’t apply to me again.”

Chupin listened to this homily with a half cringing, half impudent air; but when Blanche had finished he raised his head, and proudly said: “I don’t ask for alms.”

“What do you ask for, then?”

“My dues.”

Blanche’s heart sank, and yet she had courage enough to glance disdainfully at Chupin, and reply: “What! do I owe you anything?”

“You don’t owe me anything personally, madame; but you owe a heavy debt to my deceased father. Whose service did he perish in? Poor old man! he loved you devotedly. His last words were about you. ‘A terrible thing has just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The young marchioness hated Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. If it hadn’t been for me she would have been lost. I am about to die, so let the whole blame rest on me; for it won’t hurt me when I’m under the sod, and it will save the young lady. And by-and-by she will reward you; so that as long as you keep the secret you will want for nothing.’” Great as was young Chupin’s impudence he paused abruptly, amazed by the air of perfect composure with which Blanche listened to him. In face of such wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his father’s story.

The marchioness’s self possession was indeed surprising. She felt that if she once yielded she would always be at this wretch’s mercy, as she already was at Aunt Medea’s. “In other words,” said she, calmly, “you accuse me of having murdered Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to denounce me if I don’t yield to your demands.” Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence. “Very well!” added Blanche; “since that’s the case you may go.”

It seemed, indeed, that by audacity she might win this dangerous game on which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing before her undecided what course to pursue, when Aunt Medea, who was listening by the window, turned in affright, exclaiming, “Blanche! your husband--Martial! He is coming!”

The game was lost. Blanche fancied her husband entering and finding Chupin there, conversing with him, and so discovering everything! Her brain whirled; she yielded. Hastily thrusting her purse into Chupin’s hand, she dragged him through an inner door to the servants’ staircase. “Take this,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will see you again. And not a word--not a word to my husband, remember!”

She had been wise to yield in time. When she returned to the drawing-room, she found Martial there. He was gazing on the ground, and held an open letter in his hand. But he raised his head when his wife entered the room, and she could detect signs of great emotion in his features. “What has happened?” she faltered.

Martial did not remark her troubled manner. “My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied.

“The Duke de Sairmeuse! Good heavens! how did it happen?”

“He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.”

“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”

“Yes, the very place.”