Chapter 23

The first two, a boy born in 1826 and a daughter in 1827, were a disappointment to the old soldier. They were too reasonable, too "grown-up" before they were children, but in Renée, who was born after an interval of eight years, M. Mauperin found ample consolation. His heart revelled in her pranks and merry laughter, and she grew up the pet of her father, whose affection she returned with all her heart. She was now twenty; her brother Henri, serious, studious, plodding and determined to make a career, was a lawyer, and had made some reputation by his articles on statistical subjects; and Henriette, her elder sister, had found a husband in M. Davarande, whose wealth and position allowed her to devote herself to the life of empty amusement, divided mainly between long rounds of calls, the opera, and the Bois, which filled the days of the moneyed Paris _bourgeoisie_ of that time.

Madame Mauperin, delighted with Henriette's match, was anxious to find an equally suitable partner for Renée; but the high-spirited girl had a will of her own, and seemed to take almost a pleasure in crossing her mother's transparent matrimonial schemes. Quite a number of eligible young men had been introduced to the house at La Briche--and had left it without having furthered their suit. Reverchon had now been invited with similar intentions, and Renée was no more amenable than before. While her mother filled the young man's ears with praise of her accomplishments, the wayward girl, with her charming ingenuous talk, did her best to demonstrate her lack of those negative conventional virtues that were expected from a well-educated French girl in those days. She made Madame Mauperin turn first crimson, then pale, when she finally proceeded to cut Denoisel's hair in the drawing-room after dinner.

Denoisel was the son of Mauperin's bosom friend, who had fought by his side in many battles, and who on his death-bed had made him his son's guardian. Mauperin became more than a guardian to the boy--he became his father. When Henri and Henriette were born, it seemed to Denoisel that he had been given a brother and sister; but he adored the baby Renée, and he alone succeeded in making her listen and obey.

"Sometimes," said Henri to Denoisel as they travelled back to Paris, "my sister's follies are harmless enough; but to-night ... before that fellow ... I am sure the marriage will fall through. And such an excellent match!"

"You think so? I began to fear for her. And that's why I lent myself to her prank. He is too hopelessly commonplace--a tailor's dummy! He would never have understood her. Your sister ought to marry a man of intelligence and character."

And Madame Mauperin, as she prepared for bed, lectured her husband upon acceding to all his favourite's whims.

"Another marriage missed! Henri spoke to me this evening. He is sure Reverchon will not have her."

"Well, what of it?"

"Why, he is the tenth! Renée will get an awful reputation. She will see when she is thirty ... and you too." Then, after a pause, "And now about your son. He is twenty-nine now. He, at any rate, has no objection to marriage. Have you ever thought of finding him a suitable wife?"

She continued to talk and to grumble until Mauperin fell asleep.

"Henri is reasonable enough, but he is a young man, and you know the danger. It's driving me mad! What do you think of trying Madame Rosiéres?"

There was no reply. Madame Mauperin resigned herself to silence, and turned to find the sleep which only came with morning.

_II.--Plots and Plays_

Next morning Madame Mauperin proceeded to Paris, and drove to her son's apartments in the Rue Taitbout. She found him at work. After some beating about the bush she approached the object of her visit.

"I fear," she began, "that you must have some reason for ..."

"For not marrying, isn't it? My dear mother, you need not worry. I know that wealth is needed for a successful career, and that the best and most honourable way to obtain it is a good marriage. And I am determined to make a career. I shall get married soon enough... and better, perhaps, than you think."

At La Briche, meanwhile, M. Mauperin vainly tried to be stern with his pet.

"I have done it purposely," she said.

"And why?"

"Because I love you better than that young gentleman who was in no way sympathetic to me. You are ungrateful."

"But listen, my dear child! Fathers are egotists, and would prefer to keep their children. But I am old, and I should not like to part without seeing you married, a mother, with affections that will replace mine."

"Oh, this is wicked! Never, never!" she exclaimed; "let me cry alone for a minute." And she left the room hurriedly.

When she returned after a while, she found Denoisel in the room.

"You have been out? And where have you been?"

"Well, if you want to know, I have been to church to pray that I may die before father. I knelt before a statue of the Virgin. And, you may laugh, but it seemed to me that she nodded at my request. And it made me quite happy."

The conversation drifted to gayer topics, and the two soon fell into their wonted tone of banter. "Tell me, Renée," said Denoisel, "have you never felt, I won't say love, but some sentiment for anybody?"

"Never. That sort of thing only occurs when the heart is empty. But when it is defended by the affection one feels for a father--as a child I felt perhaps the beginning of that emotion of which one reads in novels. And do you know for whom?"

"No."

"For you. Oh, only for a moment. I soon loved you differently for having corrected the spoilt child of its faults, for having directed my attention to noble and beautiful things. And I resolved to repay you by true friendship."

M. Mauperin entered the room, and interrupted the confidences.

A few days later, Renée having set her mind upon playing in private theatricals, a discussion arose about the filling of the second lady's part in the play that had been chosen. One by one the names suggested were dismissed, until Henri said, "Why not ask Mlle. Bourjot? They are just staying at Sannois."

"Noémi?" replied Renée. "I'd love it. But she, was so cold towards me last winter. I don't know why."

"She will have £12,000 a year," interrupted Denoisel, "and her mother knows that you have a brother. And they are not a little proud of their money."

Twelve thousand a year! Madame Mauperin thought of her son's future, and supported his suggestion. It was decided that they would call on the Bourjots on Saturday.

To Sannois they went as arranged on the Saturday. They were received with effusion, and had to put up for an hour or so with the unbearable arrogance of their hosts' display of wealth. Renée's warm advances to the playmate of her childhood were received by Noémi with coolness, not to say reluctance, but the request that Noémi should take part in the theatricals met with her mother's approval, the shy girl's objections-- nervousness, lack of talent, and so forth--being overruled by Madame Bourjot. Before the two families parted it was arranged that Noémi should be taken by her governess to attend the rehearsals at the Mauperins' house.

Renée's whole-hearted friendliness and sparkling humour soon overcame Noémi's reserve, and under Denoisel's direction the amateur actors made rapid progress. Madame Bourjot herself came to one of the rehearsals, and, after the first compliments, expressed her surprise that Henri, the principal actor, was absent. "Oh, he has a wonderful memory," said his proud mother; "two rehearsals will set him right."

At last the great day arrived. A stage had been arranged in the large drawing-room, which was filled to its utmost capacity, the ladies being seated in the long rows of chairs, the men standing behind and overflowing through open doors into the adjoining rooms. The play chosen was "The Caprice." Henri, who revealed rare talent, took the part of the husband; Noémi of the neglected wife. The curtain fell upon enthusiastic applause, and Madame Bourjot, who had feared that her daughter would be a fiasco, was delighted with her success. Amid the hum of voices she heard the lady sitting next to her say to her neighbour, "His sister, I know ... but for the part he is not sufficiently in love with her ... and too much with his wife. Did you notice?" she continued, in a whisper.

In the second piece Henri appeared as Pierrot, Renée as the forsaken wife, and Noémi as the beloved. Henri played with real passion. From time to time his eyes seemed to search for Madame Bourjot's. Her neighbour felt her leaning against her shoulder. The curtain fell. Madame Bourjot swayed, and fell back in a faint.

She was carried to the garden.

"Leave me now," she said, "I am all right now; it was the heat. I only want a little air ... Let M. Henri stay with me."

They were left alone.

"You love her?" said Madame Bourjot, clutching Henri's arm. "I know all.... Have you nothing to say?"

"Nothing. I have struggled for a year. I will not excuse myself. I owe you the truth. I love your daughter, it is true."

Finally, Madame Bourjot rose and walked towards the house. Henri followed.

"I count upon never seeing you again, sir," she said, without looking round. With a mighty effort she regained her composure, and walked back to the house on Henri's arm.

_III.--Stint to Death by his Sister_

It was Madame Bourjot herself who insisted upon seeing Henri again, and, since he did not answer her letter, she went to his apartments. The interview was painful, but she gave her consent to Henri's marriage with Noémi, and undertook to overcome M. Bourjot's possible objections, on condition that Henri should humour her husband's vanity by adopting a title--an easy matter enough. The Mauperins had a farm called Villacourt. Mauperin de Villacourt would do very well. Henri promised to see what he could do.

Madame Bourjot and her daughter called on the Mauperins next day. The two girls were asked to leave their mothers to their talk, and to take a walk in the garden.

"A secret!" said Renée, as soon as they were alone. "Can you guess it? I can--my brother. ... But you are crying. What is it, my darling Noémi?"

"Oh, you don't know!" her friend sobbed. "I cannot--if you only knew----Save me! If I could only die!"

"Die! But why?"

"Because your brother is----" She stopped in horror at what she was about to say, then whispered the rest of her sentence into her ear, and hid her face on her friend's bosom.

"You lie!" Renée pushed her back.

"I?" Renée did not reply, but looked sadly and gently into Noémi's eyes.

Renée doubted no longer. She was silent for a moment; she felt almost the duties of a mother towards this child.

In the evening Henri was surprised to find his sister waiting in his room. She approached the subject of his impending marriage, and implored him, by his love for her, not to give up his name, and to break off the match.

"Are you mad? Enough of this!"

Renée fixed her eyes upon her brother.

"Noémi has told me--everything!"

Her cheeks flushed, Henri turned deathly pale.

"My dear," he said, with a shaky voice, "you interfere in things which do not concern you. A young girl--" Then seizing her hand, he pointed towards the door, and said, "Go!"

Renée was ill for a week, and Henri, knowing the cause, did his best to alleviate her suffering. Still, a coldness remained between them. He understood that she had forgiven the brother, but not the man. One day she accompanied Henri to town and went with him to the Record Office, where he had to make some inquiries about the legality of adopting his own name. While he was questioning the keeper, she overheard two clerks discuss her brother and his claim. "He thinks the Villacourt family is extinct. But he is misinformed, although they have gone down in the world. In fact, I know the heir to the title--a M. Boisjorand with whom I once had a fight when we were boys. They lived in the forest of the Croix-du-Soldat, near St. Mihiel, at La Motte-Noire." Renée fixed these names in her mind.

"I have got all I want," said Henri, gaily coming towards her. And they went out together.

The Bourjots were giving a great ball to celebrate the public announcement of the engagement of their daughter to M. Mauperin de Villacourt.

"You are enjoying yourself," said Renée to Noémi.

"I have never danced so much, it is true." And Noémi took her arm and drew her into a small salon. "No, never." She kissed her. "Oh, what it is to be happy! She loves him no longer. I am sure of it--I can see it; I feel it."

"And you love him now?"

Noémi closed her mouth by pressing her lips upon Renée's. A young man came to claim Noémi for the dance, and Denoisel requested the same favour from Renée.

Denoisel was with Henri Mauperin. They were smoking and talking peacefully, when the door was thrust open, and a man forced his way in, pushing aside the valet who wanted to prevent him from entering.

"M. Mauperin de Villacourt?" he asked.

"That is my name," said Henri, rising.

"Good. My name is Boisjorand de Villacourt," retorted the stranger, striking him so violently on the cheek that his face was immediately covered with blood. Henri conquered his first impulse to throw himself upon the intruder, and said calmly, "You find that there is one Villacourt too many--so do I. Leave your card with my servant. I shall send to you to-morrow."

It was from a marked number of the "Moniteur," which the impoverished heir of the glorious name of De Villacourt found on his return from a two years' sojourn in Africa, that M. Boisjorand had learned that Henri had taken from him this name, which was all that had come down to him from his famous ancestors. He immediately proceeded to Paris and sought legal advice, but found that his poverty rendered legal action impossible. After his interview with the solicitor, he went straight to Henri's apartment to obtain the only satisfaction that was in his power.

Denoisel and another friend of Henri's arranged with Boisjorand's seconds next morning the details of the meeting. Henri, who was an excellent shot, had insisted on pistols at thirty-five paces, each combatant to have the right to advance ten steps. The duel was to take place at four o'clock the same afternoon near the ponds of Ville d'Avray.

Neither of the two adversaries showed a trace of nervousness. The signal was given, M. De Villacourt advanced five steps, Henri remaining stationary. At the sixth step Henri fired, and his opponent fell. Henri hurried towards him.

"Back to your place," shouted the wounded man. On his hands and knees he crawled forward to the limit of his advance leaving a trail of blood in the snow. Then he took careful aim--and Henri fell with arms extended and his face towards the ground.

_IV.--Broken Wanderers_

To Denoisel fell the painful duty of informing Mauperin of his son's death. The old man's grief was heartbreaking. When Denoisel was admitted to Renée, he found her sitting on a footstool, sobbing, with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

"Renée," he said, taking her hands, "he has been killed--that man should never have known. He did not read, he saw nobody, he lived like a wolf--he was not a subscriber to the 'Moniteur.' Some enemy must have sent him that paper."

Renée had risen; she moved her lips; she wanted to scream "It was I!" Then, suddenly pressing her hand against her heart, she fell senseless on the floor.

* * * * *

Renée did not seem to recover from her illness. Denoisel saw her daily, but a certain coldness had set in between them--he thought that Renée held him responsible for not having prevented the duel, while Renée vaguely feared that Denoisel had guessed her secret. He started upon a long journey.

In those days of illness and anxiety the hearts of father and daughter seemed to come together more closely even than before. The heartbroken old man saw his beloved child wasting away. He called in the best specialist from Paris, who did not exactly give up all hope, but did not conceal that Renée's life was in danger. The poor girl, who could not bear to witness her father's misery, put on a gay air, assuring him again and again that she was recovering. Indeed, when, at her urging, the family removed to the country house where she had spent her childhood, there was a real and marked improvement, and for a while the roses seemed to return to her pale cheeks.

But she soon fell back into her listless state. Thus she lingered on for several months, always cheering her father and speaking of her happy future, always fading away until she became a mere shadow of her former bright and healthy self. Only to Denoisel, when after a long absence he returned from the Pyrenees, she opened her heart. To him she confessed that she knew her days were counted.

Those who travel far afield have perhaps met in foreign towns or among the ruins of dead places--now in Russia, now in Egypt--two aged people, a man and a woman, who seem to march along without looking and without seeing. They are the Mauperins--father and mother.

They have sold everything and have gone. Thus they wander from land to land, from hotel to hotel. They wander, trying to lose their grief in the fatigue of the road, dragging their weary life to all the corners of the globe.

* * * * *

JAMES GRANT

Bothwell

The author of "Bothwell," and many other romantic tales, was a Scotsman by birth, parentage, and perfervid sentiment. He was born at Edinburgh on August 1, 1822. His father was a distinguished Highland officer; by his mother he was related to his illustrious literary exemplar, Sir Walter Scott. He was only twenty-three years of age when "The Romance of War" made him one of the most famous authors of his day. Other tales quickly followed, including, in 1853, "Bothwell, or The Days of Mary Queen of Scots," and it seemed as if readers could not have too much of the lively adventure and vigorous historical portraiture to which Grant unfailingly treated them. Altogether he wrote more than fifty novels, many of them involving considerable research. Grant outlived his popularity; the public sought new writers, and when he died, on May 5, 1887, he was penniless. For fertility of incident, rapid change of scene, and skilful intermingling of historical with imaginary people and events, "Bothwell" is not surpassed by any of the romances that came from its author's fertile pen.

_I.--Anna of Bergen_

Erick Rosenkrantz, Governor of Aggerhuis, in Norway, and castellan of Bergen, stood in the hall of his castle to welcome noble guests. It was a bleak and stormy day in September of 1565. Ill, indeed, would it have fared with the newcomers had not Konrad of the Salzberg, the young captain of the crossbowmen of Bergen, ventured forth on the raging sea at the peril of his life, and piloted their vessel into safety.

The first of these was a tall and handsome man, about thirty years old, with a peculiar, dare-devil expression in his deep, dark eye, richly attired, and wearing a long sword and Scottish dagger. His companion, who deferentially remained a few paces behind, was a man of gigantic stature, swarthy and dark in complexion, with fierce and restless eyes.

"Sir Erick," began the chamberlain, "allow me to introduce Sir James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, a noble peer, ambassador from Mary Queen of Scots to his Danish majesty."

"We thank you for your gracious hospitality, fair sir," said Bothwell, with a profound courtesy; then, turning to Konrad, "And now, brave youth, by whose valour we have been saved, let me thank _you_."

He warmly shook Konrad's hand, while the youth tried to catch the eye of Anna, the governor's fair-haired and lovely niece. But Anna was too intently regarding the strangers.

Suddenly Bothwell perceived her; his colour heightened, his eyes sparkled.

"Anna--Lady Anna," he exclaimed, "art _thou_ here? When we parted at the palace of King Frederick, I feared it was to meet no more."

"Thou seest, my lord," she replied gaily, "that fate never meant to separate us altogether."

It was Bothwell who sat by Anna's side at the banquet, not Konrad, her lover from childhood. Konrad was displaced and slighted; he left the hall with a heart full of jealous and bitter thoughts.

"Dost thou not see the hand of fate in this meeting with Anna?" said Bothwell, when retiring, to his gigantic companion, Black Hob of Ormiston, the most merciless and ferocious of border barons.

"Nay," said Hob; "I perceive only the finger of mischief!"

"I own to thee," replied the earl, "that all my old passion is revived in full force. My whole heart and soul are hers," he went on passionately.

"Remember your solemn plight to the Lady Jane Gordon. If that be broken, our doleful case will be worse than ever." For Bothwell was no ambassador, but an exile; and his real mission to King Frederick was in pursuit of a design to hand over the northern Scottish isles to Denmark, and become viceroy of them.

"Hob, be not insolent," retorted Bothwell. "I love her a thousand times more than Huntly's sickly sister."

It was always thus with this reckless noble--the passion of the moment was ever too strong for past pledges and future policy. While waiting at Bergen for the ship to be repaired, he wooed Anna with all the skill of an accomplished man of pleasure.

Anna's heart was ready to be won, and it was not long ere Bothwell, having gained her love, asked Governor Rosenkrantz for her hand. To his mortification, he was refused. Anna, said the governor, had long been pledged to Konrad.

But Konrad, meanwhile, was in despair. Anna no longer smiled upon him; he was lightly cast aside to make way for a more favoured lover. One evening he was missing. A day and a night passed, and Konrad was nowhere to be seen. Search for him was useless--he had disappeared.

Two letters were brought to Bothwell by a king's messenger. One was from King Frederick, commanding him to desist from his mock embassy, and instantly leave the Danish seas; the other, from the Earl of Huntly, told him that his enemies in Scotland were banished, and his forfeiture reversed.

Bothwell's thoughts instantly turned to Anna. He knew that she would not accompany him unless he married her, and policy now more than ever required that he should keep his troth to the sister of his friend, the Earl of Huntly. Then there occurred to him the sinister thought of a mock marriage.

His actions were quick, and his persuasions, to the love-sick Anna, irresistible. That evening the two were wedded by a crazy hermit who dwelt among the rocks of the fjord, and Anna, without a word of farewell to her kin, left her native land, it might be for ever.

A stormy voyage brought the ship to Westeray, in Shetland. Bothwell escorted Anna to the castle of Noltland; and as she landed at the pier, a young man sprang forward and helped her across the plank. She felt agitated, she knew not why; she looked at the man's face, but it was concealed. It was Konrad. He had fallen over a cliff, had been carried out to sea on a plank, had been picked up by a ship which had carried him to Shetland, and had taken service with the castellan of Noltland. The unexpected sight of Anna brought back his emotions to their starting-point, and recalled the poignancy of the hour in which he had realised that he had lost her.

_II.--Bothwell Castle_

"I have resolved!" exclaimed the earl, on the morning after their arrival at Noltland. "I would be worse than mad to forego the prospect of power by marring my union with the sister of Huntly."

"Cock and pie! now thou speakest like a man of mettle!" growled Hob.

"Anna is not my first love," mused the earl. "Have I not felt how feeble have been my sentiments for Anna, for Jane of Huntly, for all who have succeeded her whom I met in France long ago?"

"Then thou wilt sail----"