Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  “No, no!” he cried, falling on his knees, “I will live! Mother, give me your clothes; I can escape! Mercy, mercy! Go see the king; tell him — ”

  He stopped, gave a horrible roar, and clung convulsively to the rector’s cassock.

  “Go,” said Monsieur Bonnet, in a low voice, to the agitated women.

  Jean heard the words; he raised his head, gazed at his mother and sister, then he stopped and kissed their feet.

  “Let us say farewell now; do not come back; leave me alone with Monsieur Bonnet. You need not be uneasy about me any longer,” he said, pressing his mother and his sister to him with a strength in which he seemed to put all his life.

  “How is it we do not die of this?” said Denise to her mother as they passed through the wicket.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when this parting took place. At the gate of the prison the two women met the Abbe de Rastignac, who asked them news of the prisoner.

  “He will no doubt be reconciled with God,” said Denise. “If repentance has not yet begun, he is very near it.”

  The bishop was soon after informed that the clergy would triumph on this occasion, and that the criminal would go to the scaffold with the most edifying religious sentiments. The prelate, with whom was the attorney-general, expressed a wish to see the rector. Monsieur Bonnet did not reach the palace before midnight. The Abbe Gabriel, who made many trips between the palace and the jail, judged it necessary to fetch the rector in the episcopal coach; for the poor priest was in a state of exhaustion which almost deprived him of the use of his legs. The effect of his day, the prospect of the morrow, the sight of the secret struggle he had witnessed, and the full repentance which had at last overtaken his stubborn lamb when the great reckoning of eternity was brought home to him, — all these things had combined to break down Monsieur Bonnet, whose nervous, electrical nature entered into the sufferings of others as though they were his own. Souls that resemble that noble soul espouse so ardently the impressions, miseries, passions, sufferings of those in whom they are interested, that they actually feel them, and in a horrible manner, too; for they are able to measure their extent, — a knowledge which escapes others who are blinded by selfishness of heart or the paroxysm of grief. It is here that a priest like Monsieur Bonnet becomes an artist who feels, rather than an artist who judges.

  When the rector entered the bishop’s salon and found there the two grand-vicars, the Abbe de Rastignac, Monsieur de Grandville, and the procureur-general, he felt convinced that something more was expected of him.

  “Monsieur,” said the bishop, “have you obtained any facts which you can, without violating your duty, confide to the officers of the law for their guidance?”

  “Monseigneur, in order to give absolution to that poor, wandering child, I waited not only till his repentance was as sincere and as complete as the Church could wish, but I have also exacted from him the restitution of the money.”

  “This restitution,” said the procureur-general, “brings me here to-night; it will, of course, be made in such a way as to throw light on the mysterious parts of this affair. The criminal certainly had accomplices.”

  “The interests of human justice,” said the rector, “are not those for which I act. I am ignorant of how the restitution will be made, but I know it will take place. In sending for me to minister to my parishioner, Monseigneur placed me under the conditions which give to rectors in their parishes the same powers which Monseigneur exercises in his diocese, — barring, of course, all questions of discipline and ecclesiastical obedience.”

  “That is true,” said the bishop. “But the question here is how to obtain from the condemned man voluntary information which may enlighten justice.”

  “My mission is to win souls to God,” said Monsieur Bonnet.

  Monsieur de Grancour shrugged his shoulders slightly, but his colleague, the Abbe Dutheil nodded his head in sign of approval.

  “Tascheron is no doubt endeavoring to shield some one, whom the restitution will no doubt bring to light,” said the procureur-general.

  “Monsieur,” replied the rector, “I know absolutely nothing which would either confute or justify your suspicion. Besides, the secrets of confession are inviolable.”

  “Will the restitution really take place?” asked the man of law.

  “Yes, monsieur,” replied the man of God.

  “That is enough for me,” said the procureur-general, who relied on the police to obtain the required information; as if passions and personal interests were not tenfold more astute than the police.

  The next day, this being market-day, Jean-Francois Tascheron was led to execution in a manner to satisfy both the pious and the political spirits of the town. Exemplary in behavior, pious and humble, he kissed the crucifix, which Monsieur Bonnet held to his lips with a trembling hand. The unhappy man was watched and examined; his glance was particularly spied upon; would his eyes rove in search of some one in the crowd or in a house? His discretion did, as a matter of fact, hold firm to the last. He died as a Christian should, repentant and absolved.

  The poor rector was carried away unconscious from the foot of the scaffold, though he did not even see the fatal knife.

  During the following night, on the high-road fifteen miles from Limoges, Denise, though nearly exhausted by fatigue and grief, begged her father to let her go again to Limoges and take with her Louis-Marie Tascheron, one of her brothers.

  “What more have you to do in that town?” asked her father, frowning.

  “Father,” she said, “not only must we pay the lawyer who defended him, but we must also restore the money which he has hidden.”

  “You are right,” said the honest man, pulling out a leathern pouch he carried with him.

  “No, no,” said Denise, “he is no longer your son. It is not for those who cursed him, but for those who loved him, to reward the lawyer.”

  “We will wait for you at Havre,” said the father.

  Denise and her brother returned to Limoges before daylight. When the police heard, later, of this return they were never able to discover where the brother and sister had hidden themselves.

  Denise and Louis went to the upper town cautiously, about four o’clock that afternoon, gliding along in the shadow of the houses. The poor girl dared not raise her eyes, fearing to meet the glances of those who had seen her brother’s execution. After calling on Monsieur Bonnet, who in spite of his weakness, consented to serve as father and guardian to Denise in the matter, they all went to the lawyer’s house in the rue de la Comedie.

  “Good-morning, my poor children,” said the lawyer, bowing to Monsieur Bonnet; “how can I be of service to you? Perhaps you would like me to claim your brother’s body and send it to you?”

  “No, monsieur,” replied Denise, weeping at an idea which had never yet occurred to her. “I come to pay his debt to you — so far, at least, as money can pay an eternal debt.”

  “Pray sit down,” said the lawyer; noticing that Denise and the rector were still standing.

  Denise turned away to take from her corset two notes of five hundred francs each, which were fastened by a pin to her chemise; then she sat down and offered them to her brother’s defender. The rector gave the lawyer a flashing look which was instantly moistened by a tear.

  “Keep the money for yourself, my poor girl,” said the lawyer. “The rich do not pay so generously for a lost cause.”

  “Monsieur,” said Denise, “I cannot obey you.”

  “Then the money is not yours?” said the lawyer.

  “You are mistaken,” she replied, looking at Monsieur Bonnet as if to know whether God would be angry at the lie.

  The rector kept his eyes lowered.

  “Well, then,” said the lawyer, taking one note of five hundred francs and offering the other to the rector, “I will share it with the poor. Now, Denise, change this one, which is really mine,” he went on, giving her the note, “for your velvet ribbon and your gold cross. I will hang the cross abo
ve my mantel to remind me of the best and purest young girl’s heart I have ever known in my whole experience as a lawyer.”

  “I will give it to you without selling it,” cried Denise, taking off her jeannette and offering it to him.

  “Monsieur,” said the rector, “I accept the five hundred francs to pay for the exhumation of the poor lad’s body and its transportation to Montegnac. God has no doubt pardoned him, and Jean will rise with my flock on that last day when the righteous and the repentant will be called together to the right hand of the Father.”

  “So be it,” replied the lawyer.

  He took Denise by the hand and drew her toward him to kiss her forehead; but the action had another motive.

  “My child,” he whispered, “no one in Montegnac has five-hundred-franc notes; they are rare even at Limoges, where they are only taken at a discount. This money has been given to you; you will not tell me by whom, and I don’t ask you; but listen to me: if you have anything more to do in this town relating to your poor brother, take care! You and Monsieur Bonnet and your brother Louis will be followed by police-spies. Your family is known to have left Montegnac, and as soon as you are seen here you will be watched and surrounded before you are aware of it.”

  “Alas!” she said. “I have nothing more to do here.”

  “She is cautious,” thought the lawyer, as he parted from her. “However, she is warned; and I hope she will get safely off.”

  During this last week in September, when the weather was as warm as in summer, the bishop gave a dinner to the authorities of the place. Among the guests were the procureur-du-roi and the attorney-general. Some lively discussions prolonged the party till a late hour. The company played whist and backgammon, a favorite game with the clergy. Toward eleven o’clock the procureur-du-roi walked out upon the upper terrace. From the spot where he stood he saw a light on that island to which, on a certain evening, the attention of the bishop and the Abbe Gabriel had been drawn, — Veronique’s “Ile de France,” — and the gleam recalled to the procureur’s mind the unexplained mysteries of the Tascheron crime. Then, reflecting that there could be no legitimate reason for a fire on that lonely island in the river at that time of night, an idea, which had already struck the bishop and the secretary, darted into his mind with the suddenness and brilliancy of the flame itself which was shining in the distance.

  “We have all been fools!” he cried; “but this will give us the accomplices.”

  He returned to the salon, sought out Monsieur de Grandville, said a few words in his ear, after which they both took leave. But the Abbe de Rastignac accompanied them politely to the door; he watched them as they departed, saw them go to the terrace, noticed the fire on the island, and thought to himself, “She is lost!”

  The emissaries of the law got there too late. Denise and Louis, whom Jean had taught to dive, were actually on the bank of the river at a spot named to them by Jean, but Louis Tascheron had already dived four times, bringing up each time a bundle containing twenty thousand francs’ worth of gold. The first sum was wrapped in a foulard handkerchief knotted by the four corners. This handkerchief, from which the water was instantly wrung, was thrown into a great fire of drift wood already lighted. Denise did not leave the fire until she saw every particle of the handkerchief consumed. The second sum was wrapped in a shawl, the third in a cambric handkerchief; these wrappings were instantly burned like the foulard.

  Just as Denise was throwing the wrapping of the fourth and last package into the fire the gendarmes, accompanied by the commissary of police, seized that incriminating article, which Denise let them take without manifesting the least emotion. It was a handkerchief, on which, in spite of its soaking in the river, traces of blood could still be seen. When questioned as to what she was doing there, Denise said she was taking the stolen gold from the river according to her brother’s instructions. The commissary asked her why she was burning certain articles; she said she was obeying her brother’s last directions. When asked what those articles were she boldly answered, without attempting to deceive: “A foulard, a shawl, a cambric handkerchief, and the handkerchief now captured.” The latter had belonged to her brother.

  This discovery and its attendant circumstances made a great stir in Limoges. The shawl, more especially, confirmed the belief that Tascheron had committed this crime in the interests of some love affair.

  “He protects that woman after his death,” said one lady, hearing of these last discoveries, rendered harmless by the criminal’s precautions.

  “There may be some husband in Limoges who will miss his foulard,” said the procureur-du-roi, with a laugh, “but he will not dare speak of it.”

  “These matters of dress are really so compromising,” said old Madame Perret, “that I shall make a search through my wardrobe this very evening.”

  “Whose pretty little footmarks could he have taken such pains to efface while he left his own?” said Monsieur de Grandville.

  “Pooh! I dare say she was an ugly woman,” said the procureur-du-roi.

  “She has paid dearly for her sin,” observed the Abbe de Grancour.

  “Do you know what this affair shows?” cried Monsieur de Grandville. “It shows what women have lost by the Revolution, which has levelled all social ranks. Passions of this kind are no longer met with except in men who still feel an enormous distance between themselves and their mistresses.”

  “You saddle love with many vanities,” remarked the Abbe Dutheil.

  “What does Madame Graslin think?” asked the prefect.

  “What do you expect her to think?” said Monsieur de Grandville. “Her child was born, as she predicted to me, on the morning of the execution; she has not seen any one since then, for she is dangerously ill.”

  A scene took place in another salon in Limoges which was almost comical. The friends of the des Vanneaulx came to congratulate them on the recovery of their property.

  “Yes, but they ought to have pardoned that poor man,” said Madame des Vanneaulx. “Love, and not greed, made him steal the money; he was neither vicious nor wicked.”

  “He was full of consideration for us,” said Monsieur des Vanneaulx; “and if I knew where his family had gone I would do something for them. They are very worthy people, those Tascherons.”

  X. THIRD PHASE OF VERONIQUE’S LIFE

  When Madame Graslin recovered from the long illness that followed the birth of her child, which was not till the close of 1829, an illness which forced her to keep her bed and remain in absolute retirement, she heard her husband talking of an important piece of business he was anxious to concede. The ducal house of Navarreins had offered for sale the forest of Montegnac and the uncultivated lands around it.

  Graslin had never yet executed the clause in his marriage contract with his wife which obliged him to invest his wife’s fortune in lands; up to this time he had preferred to employ the money in his bank, where he had fully doubled it. He now began to speak of this investment. Hearing him discuss it Veronique appeared to remember the name of Montegnac, and asked her husband to fulfil his engagement about her property by purchasing these lands. Monsieur Graslin then proposed to see the rector, Monsieur Bonnet, and inquire of him about the estate, which the Duc de Navarreins was desirous of selling because he foresaw the struggle which the Prince de Polignac was forcing on between liberalism and the house of Bourbon, and he augured ill of it; in fact, the duke was one of the boldest opposers of the coup-d’Etat.

  The duke had sent his agent to Limoges to negotiate the matter; telling him to accept any good sum of money, for he remembered the Revolution of 1789 too well not to profit by the lessons it had taught the aristocracy. This agent had now been a month laying siege to Graslin, the shrewdest and wariest business head in the Limousin, — the only man, he was told by practical persons, who was able to purchase so large a property and pay for it on the spot. The Abbe Dutheil wrote a line to Monsieur Bonnet, who came to Limoges at once, and was taken to the hotel Graslin.

>   Veronique determined to ask the rector to dinner; but the banker would not let him go up to his wife’s apartment until he had talked to him in his office for over an hour and obtained such information as fully satisfied him, and made him resolve to buy the forest and domains of Montegnac at once for the sum of five hundred thousand francs. He acquiesced readily in his wife’s wish that this purchase and all others connected with it should be in fulfilment of the clause of the marriage contract relative to the investment of her dowry. Graslin was all the more ready to do so because this act of justice cost him nothing, he having doubled the original sum.

  At this time, when Graslin was negotiating the purchase, the Navarreins domains comprised the forest of Montegnac which contained about thirty thousand acres of unused land, the ruins of the castle, the gardens, park, and about five thousand acres of uncultivated land on the plain beyond Montegnac. Graslin immediately bought other lands in order to make himself master of the first peak in the chain of the Correzan mountains on which the vast forest of Montegnac ended. Since the imposition of taxes the Duc de Navarreins had never received more than fifteen thousand francs per annum from this manor, once among the richest tenures of the kingdom, the lands of which had escaped the sale of “public domain” ordered by the Convention, on account probably of their barrenness and the known difficulty of reclaiming them.

  When the rector went at last to Madame Graslin’s apartment, and saw the woman noted for her piety and for her intellect of whom he had heard speak, he could not restrain a gesture of amazement. Veronique had now reached the third phase of her life, that in which she was to rise into grandeur by the exercise of the highest virtues, — a phase in which she became another woman. To the Little Virgin of Titian, hidden at eleven years of age beneath a spotted mantle of small-pox, had succeeded a beautiful woman, noble and passionate; and from that woman, now wrung by inward sorrows, came forth a saint.

  Her skin bore the yellow tinge which colors the austere faces of abbesses who have been famous for their macerations. The attenuated temples were almost golden. The lips had paled, the red of an opened pomegranate was no longer on them, their color had changed to the pale pink of a Bengal rose. At the corners of the eyes, close to the nose, sorrows had made two shining tracks like mother-of-pearl, where tears had flowed; tears which effaced the marks of small-pox and glazed the skin. Curiosity was invincibly attracted to that pearly spot, where the blue threads of the little veins throbbed precipitately, as though they were swelled by an influx of blood brought there, as it were, to feed the tears. The circle round the eyes was now a dark-brown that was almost black above the eyelids, which were horribly wrinkled. The cheeks were hollow; in their folds lay the sign of solemn thoughts. The chin, which in youth was full and round, the flesh covering the muscles, was now shrunken, to the injury of its expression, which told of an implacable religious severity exercised by this woman upon herself.