Читать книгу Unawares - Frances Mary Peard - Страница 5

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“Les vertus se perdent dans l’intérêt comme les fleuves se perdent dans la mer.”

Mademoiselle Veuillot and M. Deshoulières stood by the bedside silent. Noticing her a little curiously, he fancied there was more awe than grief in her countenance: it was white and troubled; but there had been enough in the night’s vigil to account for that. She stood looking sadly down, her hands knitted together, the morning light full on her face. Grey eyes with long lashes, a mouth delicately lined, a round forehead, neither straight nor classical, but full of a certain sweet nobility, with waved brown hair lying softly and lightly upon it. He looked at her with a half-pitying, half-uneasy sense of guardianship. She was so girlish, so fragile, so dependent. “What am I to do with her!” thought M. Deshoulières, despairingly.

Aloud he said, so abruptly that she started,—

“You have been much tried, mademoiselle. Let me urge you to go and lie down.”

Old Nannon came round from the foot of the bed. Thérèse hesitated, half turned to the door, then back again towards the motionless figure. At such a time the first departure seems almost a cruelty to the dead. M. Deshoulières laid his hand on her arm. “Come,” he said, decidedly.

He led her into the adjoining talon, and closed the door of communication, but instead of leaving him, as he anticipated, she walked to the window and looked out at the fresh sweet morning, at the lights that were flooding the yellow stone of the Cathedral. It was all very solemn and tranquil as yet, although the town was just wakening to life. There was nothing harsh, nothing that seemed to jar upon the quiet repose of the figure that indeed should never more be vexed by earth’s discordant din. Thérèse stayed there, and looked out for some minutes. It may be that she was gaining courage to speak, for when she turned round her voice was a little tremulous.

“Before I go, will you, who have been so good a friend to us, tell me whether my poor uncle spoke of—of Fabien, his nephew?”

“M. Fabien Saint-Martin? But certainly. He spoke much of him.”

“Ah!”

“Permit me in my turn, mademoiselle, to ask from you whether you will be able to give us any information as to where Monsieur Saint-Martin is to be found?”

“You do not know? Surely he said!”

“On the contrary, he refused to answer, when we questioned him. I had fears, I confess, but yet I hoped you would have been able to enlighten us.”

“But I cannot, I cannot! That was the secret he kept from me. Oh, monsieur, he has not carried it to the grave!”

She was more moved than she had been yet. She turned impatiently from the light, not crying, but with eyes full of trouble. M. Deshoulières, who did not understand her suppressed emotion, thought it was the result of the scene she had gone through. She looked at him as if he must know why these words of his were so terrible to her, but he did not know. He put her down as tired and sad, and therefore fanciful.

“Go and rest yourself,” he said decidedly. “You may be sure we shall soon learn all we want.”

“You do not know him,” she said. “He was so—inflexible,” the word was spoken after a pause, as though a remembrance of the still face on the pillow prevented her from using a harsher one. “Poor Fabien! He went away partly in a rage, partly in disgrace. I think it was to America, but even that I scarcely know. My uncle would tell no one—me least of all,” she added under her breath, so that the doctor did not hear.

“How long ago?”

“Two years.”

Seeing that she did not move, M. Deshoulières, in the flush of annoyance at his own position, could not avoid alluding to it. “By a strange and a most undesirable arrangement, I am to act as trustee for the property, until it can be made over to M. Saint-Martin. It will be necessary that Monsieur Roulleau and I go without delay to Château Ardron. There you may be sure we shall hear some tidings.”

Thérèse shook her head despairingly.

“If he told you nothing himself, you will not hear of my cousin at Ardron.”

M. Deshoulières thought her perverse. He would not permit such a possibility to take root in his mind. He went home through the quaint crooked streets, all bathed in the delicious freshness of a spring morning,—streets with old arched doorways, bits of bold carving, clambering vines, and overhead a sky broken into tender pearly tints, beneath which the blue was deepening every hour. People were already about, standing on the top of doorsteps, plodding off to their work: they stared curiously at the doctor, guessing that he was on his way home from the Cygne, and wondering whether the tragedy was over. No one ventured to address him, he looked too grave and preoccupied. He was inwardly wroth with himself for having yielded, and yet he knew very well that if the whole thing were to be repeated he should yield again. What was to become of Thérèse? where was she to live? He caught sight of a dull grey wall, and remembered with some satisfaction that there was a convent in the town to which it was possible she might choose to retire. He could not help thinking that such a course would be the best she could take. “However,” reflected M. Deshoulières, dismissing the subject with a sigh of perplexity, “we shall know better after I have been to Ardron.”

Ardron still seemed the goal where things were to be made clear, when he and little Roulleau started for it on the day after the funeral. Thérèse was at the notary’s house,—a temporary arrangement which relieved the doctor of some anxiety. To reach their end required a journey of some hours, at first through the great sunny corn plains, then by a cross line into a more diversified country, where was pasture-land and great trees, under which the cattle stood lazily content, and where, at last, they stopped at a little station bright with flowers, and embowered in acacias.

A bloused porter answered their inquiries. “Château Ardron, messieurs? That road—provided you keep continually to the right—will lead you there in less than a quarter of an hour.” M. Deshoulières walked quickly; he was anxious to put an end to his uncertainties; the notary had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Monsieur Roulleau, who was always haunted by a fear of accidents, wore a yellow straw hat, and carried a huge umbrella to ward off sunstroke.

The sun was certainly hot, but a soft breeze rustled through the copse: by and by they came to a little hill, and then to a turn in the road. “We shall find the house there,” said the doctor, quickening his pace. He was right. On the top of a mound, stiffly planted on either side with trees, stood an unmistakable château of the ugliest modern type. It was built of red brick which time had not yet touched or mellowed, and faced with broad belts of white stone; the windows were numerous, and set thickly together, like those of a manufactory; at either end of the front was a small edifice, to represent a tower, and in the centre a little pretentious lantern.

“As I expected,” said M. Deshoulières, with a grimace which the notary did not see. “Now for the inside, all gilt and satin.”

All gilt and satin it was: the notary was rapturous in his admiration. “It might have been in the upholsterer’s shop yesterday,” he said, in a fervour of enthusiasm. The finery struck the doctor as looking more desolate and melancholy in this uninhabited house than the most threadbare furniture could have done. The rooms stared unmeaningly at the daylight, as the old woman who lived there with her husband threw back the shutters, and caught off the covers. Every thing seemed new, gay, and heartless. One room upstairs was different from the others. It was richly but more simply furnished: little things about it appeared to resist the general cold formality of the house. It had a delicate paper, pictures, a pretty little alcove hung with muslin.

“The room of mademoiselle,” said the old woman, pushing back the persiennes, and letting in a flood of warm sunlight. M. Deshoulières held back his companion at the door, and would not go in.

Thérèse was right, he began to fear. There were desks, papers, letters, at the château, but no information about M. Saint-Martin. Every thing was carefully and methodically arranged: only this one item was wanting, which in M. Deshoulières’ eyes outweighed all the rest. Old Mathieu and his wife, who knew nothing of their master’s death, were full of wonder, compassion, and, above all, anxiety about their own future. To them there were no dismals at Château Ardron, only a warm kitchen, plenty of firewood, a roof over their heads, a little monthly instalment of francs. Monsieur Moreau had dismissed all the servants soon after his wife’s death, had shut up his grand château, and gone away with Thérèse. It seemed as if a fit of restlessness had seized him. The poor old people, who had no restlessness, wanted to be assured that they would not lose their home, and when they understood this, they cheered up again at once. M. Deshoulières wondered whether M. Moreau had one mourner in the world. It seemed as if he had built his own prison-house, a wall of hard unloving words and deeds, in the midst of which he had died.

The little notary was hard at work among the papers, tying up bundles, and sealing them, when M. Deshoulières rang the bell for the old couple to answer his questions about Fabien. They knew even less than he expected. They had heard of him, without doubt, but he had never been at Ardron since M. Moreau hired them, and no one found it agreeable to mention his name when it enraged his uncle to such a degree. The notary, who had been glancing over letters, placed a couple in the doctor’s hands.

“They give no information, I fear; but I conceive it my duty to ask you to read every thing in which M. Fabien’s name appears,” he said with an air of profound caution.

Two boyish letters, written from school, and containing but few words. They were tied up carefully, and had evidently been much read. Was this the one human love that could have reached the hard cold man in his prison-house? There were more letters in another packet of slight importance, but all preserved; the last was dated two years and a half ago, during an apparently temporary absence from Rouen, and alluding to the purchase of Ardron.

“And there are no more?” inquired the doctor.

“No more,” answered M. Roulleau, after a momentary pause. “That is to say, I should prefer your assuring yourself on the matter. Here are the papers in order.”

M. Deshoulières applied himself to the task. The two men sat there reading, arranging, making notes, now and then saying a few words, until the afternoon was far advanced. “There is nothing,” exclaimed the doctor, pushing back his chair impatiently. “Was there ever such a predicament!”

“There is nothing, as you say,” assented the notary, slowly. “After all, the property is in good hands.”

“Do not talk about it,” M. Deshoulières said testily. “One would suppose you thought it a fine thing. There is the village still, and the curé. We may hope for something from him.”

In the village—which lay about a league behind the château, and to which the doctor and the little notary walked, under a sweet, grave, evening sky, through trees in which the nightingales were singing with all their might—in the village there were enough surmises offered to them to account for the disappearance of half a hundred nephews; but no facts. Monsieur Fabien desired to see life—Monsieur Fabien could not have his own will—he was, doubtless, an emigrant in America—in the Mauritius—he was with the army in Algeria—he was amassing a fortune among the English—he was a missionary in China. M. Deshoulières was too impatient to sift the trifles which were poured into his ear; M. Roulleau professed himself at his wit’s end. It made quite a little sensation at Ardron to know that these strangers had brought news of Monsieur Moreau’s death, and were seeking tidings of Monsieur Saint-Martin. The rumour travelled up to the presbytère, and Monsieur le Curé was prepared when old Jeanneton came hobbling in, to say that two gentlemen were asking to speak with him. He had an instinctive aversion to strangers, and the welcome he accorded was not particularly gracious. As they sat in the little humbly furnished room, with the curé listening to his story with a grim, unsympathising face, M. Deshoulières thought he had never before entirely realised the disagreeables of his position. Whenever a question was put to him, the curé slightly raised his shoulders or shook his head. There was an air of doubt about the manner in which he received every detail, which irritated the doctor almost beyond bearing. He had never seen M. Fabien. It was possible that he had been at Ardron. The extraordinary terms of the will struck him as incomprehensible in a person of M. Moreau’s solidity. Did he understand them to say that they had already searched the papers at the château without success? Had the two gentlemen before him undertaken the task unaided?

“Monsieur le Curé is not perhaps aware that I have the honour of belonging to the legal profession,” put in the little notary, smoothly.

A dry cough was the curé’s only answer. When the doctor said hotly, that they were departing from the subject on hand, he got up, clasped his hands behind his back, looked M. Deshoulières full in the face, and said—

“Unquestionably this difficulty must have greatly disarranged monsieur. I regret exceedingly to have no information to offer on the matter.”

“Not even a suggestion?” inquired the doctor, after a blank pause.

“Pardon. You may call the police to your aid, or you may insert an appeal in the journals.”

“Both means were expressly forbidden by the will, on such serious conditions for M. Saint-Martin that I do not feel justified in adopting them. To do so would be to reduce his fortune to 40,000 francs.”

“In that case—” the curé concluded with a shrug.

The doctor strode away from the presbytère in great wrath. “Dolts! idiots!” he muttered, swinging along with the great steps little Roulleau found it difficult to follow. “No one can so much as use their eyes and ears in this abominable place. To return to Charville as we came is an absurdity not to be thought of.”

Nevertheless, it was all that remained to be done. They did not reach the Château until the moon had risen, throwing cold lights upon the formal vases on the terrace, the empty basins of the jets-d’eau. The nightingales had ceased, it was all quiet and a little oppressive. The house stood up before them, ugly still when no more than its form could be seen; outside the door old Mathieu and his wife had placed two chairs, where they were sitting waiting for the return of the gentlemen. Monsieur Saint-Martin’s discovery was no desirable matter in their eyes. It was an affair which they thought should be left to arrange itself, and meanwhile Château Ardron was a very comfortable home for their old age. M. Roulleau, meditating upon it, fancied that the information M. Deshoulières requested them to seek for, would not be sought with overmuch eagerness.

“The country is well rid of such vauriens,” grumbled the old woman to him confidentially, as he pulled off the yellow bandana he had tied round his throat for fear of the night air, and made her stand by while he satisfied himself that his bed was dry. “Leave them alone. They will come back only too soon.”

“You forget, Mère Bourdon, you forget,” said the notary, shaking his head mildly, “if M. Saint-Martin were to return, he would take the château into his own hands. There would be gay doings. The whole neighbourhood would benefit.”

“The saints forbid!” said Mère Bourdon fervently, under her breath. Such a change of affairs would turn herself and old Mathieu out into the cold. She thought of their draughty little hut and shivered. Three out of the four who slept at Château Ardron that night were clearly of opinion that M. Fabien Saint-Martin would do well to remain a mystery.

Early in the morning M. Deshoulières was in the village again, but he added nothing to his meagre stock of information. He came back through the rain—for the weather had changed in the night—vexed and troubled, and inclined to blame the notary for not suggesting a better plan of operations. The country people going off to market, bumping along in carts, or under enormous umbrellas walking sociably with their pigs or their calves, all bade him good day; there was a sort of impression already abroad that here was the real master of the château. Old Mathieu and his wife scraped and bowed and wished “bon voyage” a dozen times when the two went away to the railway station. M. Deshoulières in his annoyance was disposed to consign the château, the village, and its inhabitants, including the curé, to the bottom of the sea. When they were in the train he took from a bag a bundle of the papers they had brought with them, and buried himself in them.

“It is inconceivable,” he said at last.

The notary, who had apparently been sleeping, opened his eyes with a wondering “comment?”

“It is inconceivable that in all those papers there should be nothing relating to this nephew of a later date than the letters we discovered.”

Roulleau shrugged his shoulders. “What will you?” he replied. “The man was, without doubt, an eccentric. They had quarrelled, and he showed his displeasure by obliterating whatever related to the time and cause of their quarrel.”

“His displeasure? Hum,” said the doctor, “it looks more like wounded affection. I wish, with all my heart, his eccentricities had not vented themselves upon me. Well, there is no more to be said. ‘Patience, and shuffle the cards.’ We must wait. But, pray, where is Mademoiselle Veuillot to wait?”

“You have to provide her with a home?”

“Precisely. And where?”

“Would it be possible for Mademoiselle to remain where she is?” suggested the notary, doubtfully.

“At your house? My excellent Monsieur Roulleau, is such an arrangement practicable?”

“There are drawbacks, certainly. But I would do any thing to assist you in such an emergency.”

“Let me hear the drawbacks.”

“There is my wife. She is admirable—she is devoted—a paragon!” exclaimed the little notary, enthusiastically, “nevertheless, monsieur, she is a woman, and women are but human.”

“Is that peculiarity confined to them?” asked M. Deshoulières, dryly. “Go on, M. Ignace, I fully comprehend that you must consult your wife.”

“Monsieur is too considerate. The other drawback I am averse to mentioning. Alas, it is not every one who can follow the dictates of his heart—the sum bequeathed by Monsieur Moreau is so trifling, so inadequate.”

“I will double it,” promptly replied the doctor. “So long as Mdlle. Veuillot remains in your house, and is supplied with all that is necessary and fitting, I will undertake to pay you twice the sum named by Monsieur Moreau. When the heir comes, of course he will take the arrangements in his own hands.”

“Without doubt, without doubt,” said Roulleau, quickly. “You are generous indeed, monsieur. When the young lady is aware of what you have done in her behalf—”

“She will be aware of nothing,” M. Deshoulières interrupted with decision. “The money matters do not go beyond us. You will find out from Madame Roulleau whether the arrangement is agreeable to herself, and if it meets with no opposition from Mademoiselle Veuillot, it may be considered an affair settled. I shall go to sleep with a mind relieved.”

When M. Deshoulières was asleep, the little notary took out a pocket-book, looked at the superscription of two letters, each addressed to M. Moreau, Château Ardron, and replaced them in his pocket with a grimace of satisfaction.

“Zénobie will acknowledge that I have arranged this little matter well,” he said to himself, triumphantly. “If only this damp does not injure my chest!”