Читать книгу Unawares - Frances Mary Peard - Страница 4

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“A square-set man and honest.”

The Holy Grail.

Knots of people stood about the streets, all talking of the strange event. Charville is rich in beauty, in picturesqueness, in its magnificent Cathedral, but its events are few and orderly. People do get killed every now and then, it is true: only a few months before, young Jean Gouÿe had fallen from a scaffolding, and never spoken again. But then everybody knew Jean Gouÿe, and all about him: there was no mystery or room for speculation in his fate, poor fellow! This last was a very different matter. Who were the strangers? Where did they come from? Where were they going? What brought them to Charville? What made him fall? Was he dead? Was mademoiselle in much grief? Each person asked the other without much hope of finding out: it was something to get hold of Nannon, and hear the little she had to tell. There was no hurry of business to interfere with their curiosity. Charville took life leisurely: if a house had to be built the masons talked, laughed, joked with each other between laying on their stones; the shoemakers gossiped with their neighbours; women brought their work to the door, played with the children, scolded or chattered. It was an easy, quiet, lounging sort of existence, without much distraction from the outer world,—a magnified village life. Such an event as had occurred that morning came upon them like a new sensation. Nannon had never been made so much of. Veuve Angelin followed sulkily.

She would not accompany the triumphal progress to the door of the Cygne, but turned down a narrow, ill-paved street, which branched off by the Evêché, and ended in a small, modern square. M. Deshoulières’ house stood in the midst of it, and she entered hastily, with some fears lest he should be there, and angry at the delay of his breakfast. He was an easy-going master, just the one that Veuve Angelin liked, too much absorbed with his own thoughts and interests to interfere much with her sovereignty; but every now and then he awoke sufficiently to make her aware that she could not presume absolutely upon his absent ways. Even when she ruled most despotically she was just a little afraid of him. There was always a possibility that he might assert the prerogative of having his own way. Now she was conscious that he would have a reason for indignation, if he returned, hungry and weary, from his morning’s work, to find the house empty, no food prepared. “It is all the fault of that gossiping old Nannon!” she said crossly, as she stopped, hot and out of breath, to listen at the foot of the stairs for her master’s steps overhead. She heard nothing; but it was with the air of a martyr that she mounted, prepared, if there was need, to expatiate upon her own sufferings, and the inconveniences caused by the absence of Lisette, the fille who generally fetched the water. She need not have been afraid. It was quite two hours afterwards—the things were set out in the little salon, with its polished floor, its red curtains, its mirror, its timepiece; in the kitchen, where Veuve Angelin also slept, little pots and pans were simmering and bubbling over tiny hollows filled with charcoal, scooped out of the brick arched stove—before the doctor and little Roulleau, the notary, came round the corner with excited faces, eagerly talking as they walked.

“Man’s folly is never so apparent as in his last moments,” the doctor was saying cynically, as they turned in from the square, and began to mount the bare, uncarpeted staircase.

Veuve Angelin, standing at the top, caught the words with a certain grim satisfaction.

“So he is dead, after all, in spite of that old woman’s obstinacy,” she said volubly. “I knew it from the first: what one sees one sees, and what one hears one hears, and nobody can make it different. But as for those creatures, bah! They are imbécilles, know-nothings: one might as well waste one’s breath upon a stone wall. Monsieur has no doubt just come from the Cygne?”

“Hold your tongue, Marie,” answered the doctor, shortly; “get us something to eat, and do not kill my patients beforehand.”

“Something has vexed him,” reflected Marie, vanishing promptly. “Do what one will for their comfort, those men are always ungrateful.”

She would have made up for his want of communicativeness by listening to the conversation as the two drank vin ordinaire, and munched radishes, but M. Deshoulières was exasperatingly silent. Two or three times the notary glanced at him as if about to speak, but checked himself. He looked troubled, gloomy, abstracted. The companions were very different in appearance; M. Deshoulières, unlike the conventional type of his countrymen, largely built, with a massive head, a quantity of short light hair, and thick moustaches, warmer in tint than his hair. He had blue eyes, very blue, well-opened and quick; a finely shaped mouth; over all a grave expression which somewhat alarmed people. I ought perhaps to say, alarmed people who were well, the sick could never understand their previous fears. He made enemies for himself by his want of sympathy for imaginary complaints, he was too straightforward and truth-telling ever to be entirely popular; but he had a little kingdom of his own where he reigned triumphantly,—a sad little kingdom, perhaps, one in which he was always fighting, helping, cheering,—out of which had grown the grave expression, the abruptness of which others complained, but one which had also its tributes and its victories and its satisfactions, and which was dear to the man’s good heart. In his ears there sounded, it is true, a never-ending din of murmurs, suffering, feeble moans: to balance these, there were glad, grateful looks, patient thanks, a lighting up of faces at his step. Such a life needs compensations, and he found them. He might come away, as I have said, grave and absorbed; but he rarely looked as he looked when he sat in his little salon on this particular morning,—gloomy, worried, and out of sorts.

Monsieur Roulleau noticed the change. Monsieur Roulleau noticed many things for which no one credited his little half-hidden eyes. Somebody once said of him that his face had not the resolution to show its owner’s character, you might look at it for so long a time without finding any thing to read. It was answered that he was indeed a blank, his wife ruled and treated him as a cipher. On the whole, he was supposed to be a little, timid, good-natured creature, no one’s enemy but his own, and urged on to exertion by his wife. Charville half pitied, half laughed at him. M. Deshoulières had known the little man for many years, and did him good turns when they lay in his power. He looked upon him as something of a victim with this wife in the background, and her terribly strong will. The doctor pushed away his tumbler of wine, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, thinking and frowning with all his might. He was quite unconscious that M. Roulleau, with his back to the window and the red curtains, was not letting a look or a sign escape him; but he grew a little worried with Veuve Angelin’s ostentatious service.

“That will do, Marie,” he said sharply. “You can leave us and close the door.”

Veuve Angelin went away in a fume. After enduring the dulness of these men over their food, it was intolerable that she should be excluded from the more sociable condition which cigars were likely to produce. She slammed the door in token of wrath, and stayed close by it, picking up stray words and disconnected sentences which had the effect of adding rather to her bewilderment than her knowledge.

“Bear witness,” said the doctor at length, abruptly, “bear witness always, Roulleau, that I did my utmost to point out to Monsieur Moreau the absurdities, the inconveniences, of such an arrangement.”

The notary bowed and spread open his hands.

“There can be no occasion for M. Deshoulières to speak of witnesses when the world will have his own word.”

“True,” replied M. Deshoulières, simply. “Nevertheless, we both know enough of the world to be aware that it holds no prerogative so dear as that of doubt. You and I understand the matter clearly: there may be a dozen others in Charville who will trust me loyally, some will comprehend the broad fact that, by the law, my quality as the doctor attending M. Moreau in his last illness precludes my receiving any benefit whatever under his will. But for the rest—”

“No one would be capable of cherishing thoughts so base, so detestable,” exclaimed the notary, with a burst of enthusiasm.

“Bah! Nothing more is required for their fabrication than a little ignorance and a little love of gossip. Are these so rare, my good M. Roulleau?” The doctor made two or three vigorous puffs. Presently he held his cigar in his hand, and broke out again: “What possessed the man to dream of such a thing? He knows nothing of me, absolutely nothing. I may forge, burn, steal, poison the young man, let the girl starve. Do you mean to tell me that every thing is placed in my hands?”

“The will I have had the pleasure to frame under Monsieur Moreau’s instructions authorises Monsieur Max Deshoulières as dépositaire to receive all rents and moneys due to Monsieur Moreau or his heirs, and to hold them in trust until the arrival of Monsieur Fabien Saint-Martin, sister’s son to Monsieur Moreau; always deducting a certain sum, named, sufficient to maintain his wife’s niece, Mademoiselle Thérèse Veuillot, upon the condition only that she continues to reside in this town of Charville—”

“Pardon,” said the doctor, interrupting: “the sum assigned for this purpose can hardly be called a maintenance.”

Roulleau shrugged his thin shoulders.

“It is bare without doubt,” he replied; “and I ventured to point out this fact to Monsieur Moreau. But he was peremptory. He was peremptory also in his provisions that you should deliver up the papers to no one but Monsieur Saint-Martin in person. He is peremptory, it appears to me, in all his expressions.”

“Peremptory!” broke in M. Deshoulières once more: “he is immovable—made of adamant. Not one man in a thousand could have forced himself to perpetrate all these absurdities in a condition like his. To have opposed him further would have been to kill him. What creatures we are! Here is a man, shrewd, keen-witted, prompt; an old man, whose hold on life was palpably failing, who had but recently buried his wife, who could not close his eyes to the fact that he was himself rapidly approaching death. And yet this man makes no provision for the inevitable. It finds him without so much as his earthly affairs settled, clinging to a stranger for unwilling help.”

The notary did not answer. Perhaps some shadow of the inevitable swept also over him as the doctor spoke. His hand shook as he poured more wine into his tumbler, and drank it thirstily. M. Deshoulières sat thinking. Outside sounded a measured tramp, tramp: a company of soldiers were marching through the little Place. The children ran and marched too, in imitation. The sun gleamed sharply on the bayonets the men carried over their shoulders; the steps died away along a narrow street. Presently M. Deshoulières said in a musing tone,—

“There will surely be no difficulty in discovering this nephew?”

“One cannot tell. There are strange stories of disappearances. At all events, if ten years elapse without his arrival, the property is dispersed among charities. And his injunctions against advertising were very strict.”

“Strict? say fierce, mon ami. There is some motive we do not comprehend underlying it all. From the bottom of my heart I believe he is acquainted with his nephew’s whereabouts, and would force him to return voluntarily. But what have I done that I should be made a cat’s-paw?”

“Without doubt it is Monsieur’s well-known honourable character which influenced his choice.” M. Deshoulières made a gesture of impatience.

“Honourable character? Bah! The man knows nothing of my character or my honour either. I wish I could honestly say he was not in his proper senses. When I think of what has been done, it seems to me that he is a madman and I am a fool; but I suppose the world will pronounce him a fool and me—a knave. Stop, I know what you are going to say; nevertheless, you will discover that I am right. If there was any good to be gained by this ridiculous trust, one might endure it with philosophy. As it is, I foresee nothing but annoyance, trouble, and gossip.”

“Monsieur alarmed with the prospect of gossip? I have always understood that he despised it,” said the notary, with a scarcely perceptible sneer.

“That depends. The thing may sting although it is contemptible.”

“Mademoiselle Veuillot will require a home,” said M. Roulleau, after another pause.

“There is no time to spend over new perplexities,” answered M. Deshoulières, impatiently, jumping up and pushing back his chair. “I must return. Come with me, Roulleau: there is just the possibility of his having arrived at a more Christian state of mind, and agreeing to an alteration.”

“He must die, I presume?” remarked the notary.

“Die? Yes. No one but he could live through the night, but he will no doubt do so—out of contrariety,” added the doctor, under his breath.

The two men rose. Veuve Angelin had only just time to scurry into her kitchen before they appeared, ran down the stairs, and into the little square. There was a statue in the centre, of course, and trees planted round it, with benches here and there for the idle. Nurses and their charges strolled about, under the little patches of shade, a band played lively airs from the last comic opera, two or three men sat outside a café and smoked. M. Deshoulières turned abruptly down the narrow lane along which Veuve Angelin had carried her pitcher. Such contrasts—outside, the sun shining, people laughing and amusing themselves; inside, sorrow, and hush, and death—were too thoroughly matters of course with him to be much noticed. Perhaps he had seen deeply enough into life to know that, after all, the contrast is often superficial. Not unfrequently the laughter would be tears, if it dared: the sharpest grief is sometimes denied the luxury of a sign. Heaven help such poor souls! Moreover, the contrast, such as it is, came before him every day. It shocks us when we are suddenly brought out of the noise and turmoil about us, face to face with that dread Angel whose step each hour brings nearer to ourselves. But this man lived, as it were, in his presence, and was not jarred by any discord between that consciousness and the life of every day. Nevertheless, on this day there was a strangeness about the event which impressed, him and made him impatient of interruption to his thoughts. He was glad to leave the music and the dancing children and the sunlight behind him, and to feel himself under the shade of the great cathedral, though he did not put his fancy into words, or acknowledge more than a pleasant friendliness as he looked up at the beautiful spires, the firm up-springing lines, the lovely rose windows, the noble portals, the thin solemn statues with folded hands and serene attitudes,—the whole aspect of the building ever varying, severe or tender, as the case might be, but always inconceivably peaceful.

The little notary had hard work to keep pace with his companion’s long strides. They went round two sides of the Cathedral, then out of the Place Notre Dame into another street, as narrow as the others, but somewhat unlike them. The houses were not crowded together in so odd a fashion. They had outside shutters, which were closed against the sun; and high up were long rambling wooden balconies, over which green vines clambered and tossed themselves. Further on, a house was being dug out,—the house of some famous man: the workmen were a little excited over a fresh discovery. M. Deshoulières passed without a look, and presently came upon the Cygne, standing in a triangular Place, set round with sycamore-trees. At the door M. Roulleau ventured upon a remark.

“Do you intend to suggest any course of action to the young lady?” he asked.

He received no answer. Just then the doctor was not thinking about the young lady. He strode hastily up the stairs, through an atmosphere yet heavy and sweet with its lingering cloud of incense, and into the room where M. Moreau was doing battle with the last enemy he would have to contend with. A girl stood by the side of the bed, looking down on the dread struggle with pitiful eyes. Except now and then moistening the poor parched lips or smoothing the tumbled pillow, there was nothing for her to do but watch: all apparent consciousness was at an end; no sign of recognition greeted the doctor. He also stood watching for a few minutes before he turned to the girl.

“How long is it since this change came on, mademoiselle?”

“About a quarter of an hour. I think he hardly heard Monsieur le Curé’s last words,” she added, under her breath. Her voice trembled: that quarter of an hour had seemed very terrible to poor Thérèse. The sunlight streamed in at the window, but, in spite of it, the room looked dark and funereal: there was a heavy paper on the walls; stiff, solid furniture; in one corner a huge black stove reared itself grimly towards the ceiling. The women of the house would have stayed with her, but the old man was impatient of their presence: almost his last word had been a peremptory “Go!” still fierce enough to frighten them. It was not likely that the consciousness of any person’s presence would return, as M. Deshoulières quickly perceived. He took the little notary to the door, and told him so.

“There is no possible use in your waiting, M. Ignace,” he said. “I was a fool, and must abide by the consequences. Nothing will ever be changed now. What is the matter?—are you ill?” he went on, noticing his pale face.

“For the moment,—only for the moment, M. Deshoulières,” answered the little man, with a quavering voice. “It is so horrible, you know, to see him like that. Will—will it be soon?”

“I do not know. It is what we must all come to,” said the doctor, sternly. He shut the door, and went back to the bedside. “That man is a veritable coward,” he said, half aloud, so that Thérèse might have heard if she had not been busied with a vain attempt to soothe the increasing restlessness of the dying man. Those two, and old Nannon, who came in after a while of her own accord, watched together. It was at an end before morning, as the doctor had foretold. When the grey dawn broke over the old weird-looking houses, with the young sycamore-trees standing sentinel-wise before them; when it touched the beautiful stern lines of the Cathedral, and delicate carving blossomed into distinctness, and light stole into the shadowy depths, and the little lamp before the altar burned yellow, and the jackdaws woke up screaming and busy, Monsieur Moreau lay with a quiet look upon his features to which they had long been strangers, until it seemed as if the day, which was bringing youth to all the earth, had brought it back to him, and fixed it on his face for ever.