Part 15
All this Landri told himself. His conclusion was that at any cost, and at the earliest possible moment, the marquis must be informed of his betrothal. And then he doubted his courage to make that declaration, reminding himself how he had weakened, how he had suddenly lost heart on the platform of the church at Hugueville, to which he had gone up with such firm determination! Thereupon he wondered if it would not be the safer way to take advantage of his arrest to write. Colonel Charbonnier certainly would not depart from his customary severity so far as to authorize him to receive a single visit, even from his father. Consequently, if M. de Claviers were informed by letter of the marriage engagement between Landri and Valentine, he would be unable to express his dissatisfaction otherwise than by letter.
The lieutenant was too manly, despite the reflex action of a sensitiveness that was very near being morbid, and he had too much respect for his affection for Valentine, not to shrink from so cowardly a proceeding. The explanation must be, should be, by word of mouth, from man to man. It should take place the first time that he was alone with the marquis; and to cut short a state of vacillation that humiliated him, he said to himself aloud:--
"Yes, the very first time. I pledge my word of honor."
It was on Friday evening that he made this pledge, which was so definite that it procured him another interval of comparative tranquillity. Saturday passed with his mind still in a state of feverish confusion, but with his resolution unshaken.
Sunday brought three new facts in the shape of three letters, one from the marquis, one from Valentine, one from Métivier the notary. The old nobleman was not a letter-writer. He congratulated Landri, "in the name of all the Claviers-Grandchamps, past, present and future;" and then concluded: "You will exalt your old father's joy and pride to their highest point by talking to the judges as he suggested."
How like blows from a dagger were such words from him! And again, how like such blows were the words in which the gentle recluse of Rue Monsieur poured forth all her sympathy! She spoke to him whom she regarded as her fiancé of the happiness that the Hugueville incident must have afforded his father! Had she not then guessed the whole truth? The young man foresaw a new source of torture in the efforts that the dear woman would make, when they were united, to reconcile him to the marquis, and his own efforts to resist that pressure without betraying himself. Ah! he had not come to the end of his suffering!
The notary's letter was, also, very short, but it contained one line so enigmatical that Landri, under existing circumstances, could not help being disturbed by it. Maître Métivier apologized for answering somewhat tardily on the ground that he had desired first to institute a little investigation. He added that Landri's presence in Paris was not at all necessary, and that, thanks to "the unexpected incident of which he was aware," the deplorable affair was on the road to speedy and final adjustment. What incident? Was Chaffin really dishonest, as his former pupil had intuitively suspected, and as Jaubourg had declared on his death-bed? Had they detected him and discovered a way to put an end to his manœuvres? Had he confessed? Or--Already, it will be remembered, Landri had trembled at the thought that Jaubourg might have made his will in his favor.--But no; he would have been officially advised ere this. In such perplexity, the best way was to request from Métivier, at once, an explanation of that obscure passage in his letter. That was the simplest and wisest solution. But so great is the emotional strain, the anxious anticipation of misfortune, caused by a too violent shock, that Landri had not the courage to adopt it. If it did not refer to a legacy from Jaubourg, the "unexpected incident" was really a matter of indifference to him. If the contrary were true, he should know it soon enough.
In fact the Monday was not to pass before he was fully informed and found himself face to face with another problem of conscience, more painful perhaps than those of the preceding days. Tragedy engenders tragedy, by virtue of a law in which consists the hidden moral of this too truthful narrative of private life. It rarely happens that this is not the consequence of one of those deep-rooted sins whose expiation survives the person who committed it. It is one of the forms of that transmission of sin, whereof it has been said with much truth that nothing is more distasteful to us, and that "notwithstanding, but for this, the most incomprehensible of all mysteries, we should be incomprehensible to ourselves."
During the afternoon of Monday, then, Landri was alone in his salon, apparently occupied in reading, but in reality absorbed in one of those fits of melancholy meditation of which he had undergone so many during the past week, and would, he felt, undergo so many more in the months and years to come! The sound of the bell announcing a visitor roused him from his abstraction.
"They're coming to notify me of the inquiry," he thought; "so much the better!"
He heard his servant go to open the door, and in a moment a loud voice reached his ears and made him jump to his feet. That imperious accent, that tone of command--it was M. de Claviers fighting against the order of seclusion.
"But I am his father!" he said. "I tell you, I'm his father! A father has a right to see his son, it seems to me, and I will see him.--However, here he is."
Landri had, in fact, come out of the salon, completely upset by his father's arrival. He was too familiar with the marquis's indomitable will not to know that he would throw the orderly aside, with his still powerful hands, rather than go away.
"Ah! I see you at last, my dear, my son!" He took the young man in his arms and pressed him to his heart, repeating passionately: "My son! my son! At last I can say to you what I wrote so badly and briefly! The pen and I are not on the best of terms since my eyes began to fail. I feel my age. But not in my heart; and that old heart leaped with joy and pride when I read your letter. Yes, I am happy. Yes, I am proud. I should have come Saturday, but I had to see Métivier about some tiresome business matters,--I'll tell you about it,--and again yesterday, although it was Sunday. This morning I read in a newspaper that there is talk of putting you under arrest in a fortress. 'Not before I have embraced him,' I said to myself, and I did as I did the other day, when I went to see poor Charles,--I jumped into the train. I shall return to-night, and I shall be in Paris in good time for my appointment with Métivier. For that business isn't finished yet. Just fancy--But later, later. Let's talk about you. Are you well? Let me look at you. A little thin and pale."
"That's because I don't go out," the young man replied. "I am in strict confinement."
"I shall not be the cause of your being punished more severely, shall I? If necessary I will go and ask the colonel for a permit. Although, according to what you have told me--"
"It's not at all necessary," replied Landri hastily; and he added: "There's nothing more they can do to me."
In his mouth these words were only too true. The shock that the marquis's sudden appearance had given him had changed instantly into inexpressible grief--the same grief that he had felt with such intensity on their meeting in Jaubourg's death-chamber. M. de Claviers' gestures, his glance, his voice, his breath, moved him to the lowest depths of his being; and the other, seeing his perturbation, but attributing it to disappointment because of his shattered career, said to him:--
"You are sad when I hoped to find you happy to take your leave of the army with that fine gesture, which I partly suggested to you! Do you remember? And you must remember, too, how often I have told you, and again only the other day, in the forest, that you could not stay with these people. One by one they'll drive all men of heart out of the service. What they want, these wretched successors of the Dantons and Carnots, who at least had some patriotism, is a national guard surrounded by spies!--Stand straight, Landri. Have the pride of the blow you have dealt them. We will prepare your defence together. It shall be a manifesto. We'll show these Blues, who think they have exterminated us, that there are still Whites in the land. We will argue once more a cause that has been pending more than a hundred years, from the decision of which we must appeal untiringly,--the cause of Condé's army. We will proclaim that the country is not one more than half of living Frenchmen, as their idiotic theory of majorities would have it; that the law is not one more than half of the representatives of that one more than half. In the word country [_patrie_] there is the word father [_père_]--_patria, pater_--The country is France as our fathers made it, or it is nothing. The law is tradition, as they handed it down to us to maintain, or it is nothing. We will say that, even in 1906, we nobles do not recognize 1789, that we have never recognized the night of the 4th of August, that we are gentlemen, and that a gentleman does not perform tasks of a certain sort. You must let me select your advocate and instruct him. A manifesto, Landri,--I propose to have a manifesto, which will stir up others!--Come, tell me the whole story. The newspapers are full of lies. They claim that you hesitated, that you went up the church steps with the sappers.--How did it happen?"
"Why, just as they say," replied the young man.
"You hesitated?" rejoined the marquis; and, gazing at Landri, with infinite affection in his clear blue eyes, he continued: "I understand your pallor now. The sacrifice was very painful. For it is a sacrifice that you have made to us, that you have made to me," he added, not realizing how true his words were.
The "Émigré" had been speaking with all the passion of a partisan, who, being unable to fight the government except in thought, indulges in that pastime with all his heart. Now he made way for the father.
"Thanks," he said, and pressed his son's hand. "But, do not deceive yourself," he continued; "it is for France as well that you have made this sacrifice. You remember that I told you also the other day that I understood you only too well, that I too had heard, in my youth, the voice of the tempter: 'One does not serve the government, one serves France.' One of our princes said it at the trial of the traitor Bazaine: 'France was involved!'--That is why I allowed you to enter Saint-Cyr. Besides, to wear the sword is no degradation. Only follow the logic of your own idea, and you will meet mine, for the truth is one.--Once more, what was your object in putting on the uniform? To serve your country.--What service could you render her that would be more complete, more serviceable than this--to maintain intact, before the eyes of all men, the type of the soldier-chevalier? The chevalier, you see, is the ideal code of regulations, always permanent under new forms, and summed up in the words: the flag, military honor, the good of the service. It is the Chevalier whom the Revolution pursues with its hatred to-day, under the cape or the cloak, as of yore under the coat of the bodyguard or the light-horse. It was against him that it invented the abominable phrase, 'a national army,' which means, 'no army at all, but the common people armed with muskets, pikes and cannon!'--Well! by refusing to march against a church you have asserted once more the permanence of the Chevalier type. In the old days, on their reception they were presented with a sword in the shape of a cross. Admirable symbol of our ancestors--force ruled by faith, that is to say, by justice and mercy! That is what the Cross is, justice tempered by mercy. You have proclaimed aloud that the Soldier and the Chevalier are but one. You have made yourself the example. Therein is the whole of military duty. You and those men who have previously done as you have done have postponed the hour when France will cease to have an army, by steadfast adherence to principle. You know the value that I attach to such adherence. You understand now that one must sometimes lay down life in order to keep intact the germ of the future--principle, always principle! That is what the ancients did when they left their cities but took their gods with them. I have always loved that symbolism. It is Christian even in its paganism! I have an idea that in the future you will agree better with your old father. And then, too, you will help him grow old. You are my witness that I have never complained. I have never attempted to impose upon you the exactions of my selfishness. But why should I not confess it? Grandchamp has sometimes seemed very empty to me, and the house on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré--very empty. My friends are going, one after another, witness my poor Charles. At my age one is weary of burying, weary of surviving. You will help me to drive away these black devils. We will not part any more.--But what's the matter?"
"The matter is," the young man replied, "that I cannot bear to hear you talk like this."
He had made a gesture to stop the marquis, and he let a cry of pain escape him, of which he had at least an explanation to give, although it was not the true one. Whatever the cost, he felt that he must interrupt an effusion which caused him too much suffering, and a declaration of principles which were so unwittingly but so fiendishly ironical when addressed to him, the child of sin, the nobleman by imposture. It was necessary to have done with it.
"No," he insisted, "I cannot. This life together that you speak of, you will not care to live with me when I have told you what I am bound to tell you. The other day, during our conversation in the forest, to which you just referred, I spoke to you about a marriage. It is going to take place. Since last Tuesday I have been engaged--"
"Engaged?" cried the marquis. "Don't tell me, Landri, that it's to that Madame Olier."
"It is to Madame Olier. I have asked her for her hand. She has promised it to me. We have exchanged our troths. She will be my wife."
"You asked her for her hand?" M. de Claviers exclaimed. "Then you knew--"
"That you would refuse your consent? Yes," said the young man.
"And does Madame Olier know that I refused it?"
"I did not tell her that I had spoken to you of her."
"And she agreed to become engaged to you, without troubling herself about what I would do, your father?"
"She had faith in me," replied Landri.
Could he explain under what conditions of supreme grief, almost of agony, he and Valentine had united their destinies? And yet that M. de Claviers should judge her wrongfully, should take her for an adventuress, was terribly painful to him! He knew his way of thinking. He had still in his ears the words: "She must be very pure, very sensitive. She will never consent to marry you against your father's wish. If her ideas were not exalted to that point, you would not love her."--And he implored:--
"I ask you not to speak of her. As she is mine now, I cannot permit anybody to utter in my presence a word derogatory to her--not even you."
"Begin yourself by not telling me of actions on her part which are not those of the woman that I took her for after your confidences. I say nothing of her. I don't know her. I speak of your conduct toward our family. Will she or will she not be of our family if you marry her? Am I or am I not the head of that family? Have I the right to defend the name of Claviers-Grandchamp?"--He had risen and he bore down upon his son, with folded arms and a rush of blood to his aged face, of that blood whose claims he was asserting--and to whom! "And it is just when I have lost my dearest friend that you have done this to me, when you knew that I should be so stricken with grief!--In Heaven's name, who is this woman, who has so perverted your heart?--But what can she be if not a seeker of titles and wealth, having planned what she has planned in order to force herself upon us, upon me first of all, whether I will or no, by virtue of the accomplished fact?--But no! the fact shall not be accomplished. This marriage shall not take place. I, your father, do not wish it to take place--do you hear, Landri,--I do not wish it."
The young man submitted to this formidable attack without replying. He shuddered when he heard that judgment of Valentine. But M. de Claviers was the only being on earth against whom he could not defend the woman he loved. Whence did he derive the right to raise his voice against him, even if he had the strength? And yet in the attempt to arrest that torrent of indignation, as to which he could not foresee how far it would carry the marquis, in view of his natural violence, he said simply, or, rather, groaned:--
"I shall not defend her against you. Not a word shall come from my mouth that lacks the respect that I owe you. Because of that, remember that she is a woman and that I love her."
"She has forgotten that I am your father," retorted the irascible marquis. But he had not lied when, a few moments earlier, he had uttered with a sympathetic accent the word "chevalier." The legendary meaning of that venerable word, profaned by the most unwarranted usage, was still to him a living truth. That the young man should make that appeal to him was sufficient to induce him to interrupt his indictment of one who was absent. He reseated himself, and with his elbows on the table, and his head in his hands, he continued after a pause, in a tone in which wrath had given place to sadness:--
"Then you will send me a respectful summons,[5] I suppose?"
"I shall have to," replied Landri, "if you do not give your consent."
He realized that he was lost if he yielded to the emotion with which that plaint, so affectionate in its manly simplicity, had filled his heart anew. This constant laying bare to the quick of his sensitive nature by that man's mere presence proved to him once more how necessary it was that he should muster energy to complete the rupture. He loved him, he revered him too deeply to be able to live in falsehood with him.
"My consent?" echoed the marquis, and his anger flared up once more. "Never! No, never! This is no mere caprice, as you must know. It concerns the thing that has been the mainspring of my whole existence. As for the authority in the name of which I forbid--you understand, I forbid--this marriage, you can defy it and violate it. The shocking laws of the present day allow you to do so; but if you dare, you will do a worse thing than if you had broken in the door of Hugueville church the other day. You will insult your father.--I prefer to believe," he continued, after another silence, during which he had visibly striven to control himself, "I prefer to believe that you will reflect. You hesitated at Hugueville, and then the Claviers blood won the day over the poison of modern ideas with which I cannot see how you have become infected. This marriage out of your class is another case of revolt against prejudices. If our ancestors had not had them, these prejudices, for well-nigh eight hundred years, you and I would not be Claviers-Grandchamps. If you choose, from weakness, from aberration of mind, to cease to behave like one of them, an infamous code forbids me to prevent you, but know this, that I shall die of despair!--Nothing! he cares nothing for that!" he continued, rising and pacing the floor. "He does not answer!--When I see you thus, speechless, obstinate, insensible to my suffering, I do not believe my eyes. But answer me, pray! Speak to me! Ask me for further time, at least, so that I may not go away upon those horrible words, that threat against your father. For you did threaten me. You said: 'I shall have to! I shall have to!'--Come, Landri, say that you will regret those words, say that I have moved you."
"You tear my heart," the young man replied. "But I have given my word. I shall keep it. I shall marry Madame Olier."
"And I," exclaimed M. de Claviers, exasperated to the highest pitch by this renewed resistance, "I give you my word that if you do, I will never see you again.--Enough of this!" he continued in an imperious tone. "For an hour past I have shown you all the affection, all the love that I have in my heart for you, and all my grief as well, and you defy me. God knows that I did not come here with the idea of speaking to you as I am going to do. But you shall not defy the paternal majesty with impunity!" And it was true that at that moment majesty did emanate from him,--the majesty of the fathers of an earlier time who, as private dispensers of justice, condemned their sons to imprisonment, and sometimes to the galleys.[6] "You will ask my pardon, you understand, for what you have presumed to say to me, or I will never see you again. And to prove that this sentence of separation between us, if you do not obey, is final on my part, I shall begin as soon as I reach Paris, to-morrow morning, to segregate our property. We have been engaged of late, Métivier and I, in adjusting my affairs which Chaffin's improvidence had allowed to fall into an unfortunate condition. I shall take advantage of the opportunity to surrender to you your power of attorney and all your property. I will spare you the necessity of demanding them."
"I?" cried Landri. "You cannot believe--"
The names of Chaffin and Métivier had suddenly reminded him of the financial catastrophe the imminence of which had so alarmed him. He had asked the notary to say nothing, and he was quite sure that his correspondence with him was unknown to the marquis. So that he could not have interpreted it as a step suggested by Valentine to obtain possession of his fortune. But what if Métivier had been lacking in professional discretion? What if that last little sentence signified such a suspicion?
"I believe nothing," rejoined M. de Claviers, "except that on certain roads one does not stop."--Then, to prove that he proposed to be just, even in the execution of his sentence upon his rebellious son: "But as you haven't yet reached that point, and as you may still have some scruples, considering that I spoke to you about my burdens,--let me tell you that my difficulties are all at an end, thanks to the devotion of a friend. Charles Jaubourg had none but distant relations, of whom he had reason to complain. He has left me his whole fortune by his will. I came to tell you this news also," he added with a sigh, "and to read you the provisions of the will. Nothing could be more lofty in sentiment, more delicately expressed. I have accepted the legacy, in the first place, because it's absolutely honest money: Charles's father was probity itself; secondly, because I do not injure any one--his cousins are all rich and he never saw them; and finally because I loved him as much as he loved me. One can count the attachments in life that do not deceive one.--However I need not tell you that, without this legacy, your fortune was intact. I will order Métivier to communicate with you about the settlement. As for me, when the day comes that you desire to recover a father, you know the conditions.--Adieu."