by Eugène Sue
Rodolph’s voice faltered, and for a moment he was silent, as if emotion and horror had hindered him from proceeding. The Schoolmaster’s hair bristled on his brow. What could be — would be — that fate, which even his executioner pitied?
“The fate that awaits you is so horrible,” resumed Rodolph, “that, if the Almighty, in his inexorable and all-powerful vengeance, would make you in your person expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not devise a more fearful punishment! Ah, woe for you! woe for you!”
At this moment the Schoolmaster uttered a piercing shriek, and awoke with a bound at this horrid, frightful dream.
CHAPTER IX.
THE LETTER.
THE HOUR OF nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter’s sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it the look of health it so greatly needed.
“Well, my child,” said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing her forehead, “how are you this morning?”
“Much better, madame, I thank you.”
“I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?”
“No, indeed, madame.”
“I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was light, and I was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might have woke you.”
“Poor things! why did they go so very early?”
“I know not. After you became more calm and comfortable last night, I went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. Father Châtelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head; and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. But now, my dear Marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last night, and, therefore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and not leaving the parlour at all.”
“Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Curé to be at the rectory at five o’clock; pray allow me to go, as I am expected.”
“Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent; I can perceive you have passed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy.”
“I have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which pursued me whenever I tried to sleep. I fancied myself in the power of a wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child; and I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am ashamed of such silly weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so much during the night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my tears.”
“I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear child,” said Madame Georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie again filling fast, “because I perceive the pain it occasions you.”
The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom.
“Marie, Marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?”
“Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you! Indeed, I know not myself what has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full almost to bursting. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off.”
“Come! come! I shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to imaginary terrors.”
At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been unheard, entered the room.
“What is it, Claudine?”
“Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in Madame Dubreuil’s chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great importance.”
Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine’s hand, opened it and read as follows:
“My Dear Madame Georges:
“You could do me a considerable favour, and assist me under very perplexing circumstances, by hastening to the farm here without delay. Pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and will drive you back after dinner. I really am in such confusion that I hardly know what I am about. M. Dubreuil has gone to the wool-fair at Pontoise; I have, therefore, no one to turn to for advice and assistance but you and Marie. Clara sends her best love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her arrival. Try to be with us by eleven o’clock, to luncheon.
“Ever yours most sincerely,
F. Dubreuil.”
“What can possibly be the matter?” asked Madame Georges of Fleur-de-Marie; “fortunately the tone of Madame Dubreuil’s letter is not calculated to cause alarm.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you, madame?” asked the Goualeuse.
“Why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is. But, upon second thoughts,” continued Madame Georges, “I think you may venture if you wrap yourself up very warm; it will serve to raise your spirits, and possibly the short ride may do you good.”
The Goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a few minutes’ consideration, she ventured to say:
“But, madame, M. le Curé expects me this evening, at five o’clock, at the rectory.”
“But I promise you to be back in good time for you to keep your engagement; now will you go?”
“Oh, thank you, madame! Indeed, I shall be so delighted to see Mlle. Clara.”
“What! again?” uttered Madame Georges, in a tone of gentle reproach. “Mlle. Clara? She does not speak so distantly to you when she addresses you.”
“Oh, no, madame!” replied the poor girl, casting down her eyes, while a bright flush rose even to her temples; “but there is so great a difference between us that—”
“Dear Marie! you are cruel and unkind thus needlessly to torment yourself. Have you so soon forgotten how I chided you but just now for the very same fault? There, drive away all such foolish thoughts! dress yourself as quickly as you can, and pray wrap up very carefully. If we are quick, we may reach Arnouville before eleven o’clock.”
Then, leaving Fleur-de-Marie to perform the duties of her simple toilet, Madame Georges retired to her own chamber, first dismissing Claudine with an intimation to Pierre that herself and niece would be ready to start almost immediately.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame Georges and Marie were on their way to Arnouville, in one of those large, roomy cabriolets, in use among the rich farmers in the environs of Paris; and briskly did their comfortable vehicle, drawn by a stout Norman horse, roll over the grassy road which led from Bouqueval to Arnouville. The extensive buildings and numerous appendages to the farm, tenanted by M. Dubreuil in the latter village, bore testimony to the wealth and importance of the property bestowed as a marriage-portion on Mlle. Césarine de Noirmont upon her union with the Duke de Lucenay.
The loud crack of Pierre’s whip apprised Madame Dubreuil of the arrival of her friend, Madame Georges, with Fleur-de-Marie, who were most affectionately greeted by Clara and her mother. Madame Dubreuil was a good-looking woman of middle age, with a countenance expressive of extreme gentleness and kindness; while her daughter Clara was a handsome brunette, with rich hazel eyes, and a happy, innocent expression for ever resting on her full, rosy lips, which seemed never to open but to utter words of sweetness and amiability. As Clara eagerly threw her arms around her friend’s neck as she descended the vehicle, the Goualeuse saw with extreme surprise that the kind-hearted girl had laid aside her more fashionable attire, and was habited as a simple country maiden.
“Why, Clara!” said Madame Georges, affectionately returning her embrace, “what is the meaning of this strange costume?”
“It is done in imitation and admiration of her sister Marie,” answered Madame Dubreuil; “I assure you she let me have no peace till I had procured her a woollen bodice, and a fustian skirt exactly resembling your Marie’s. But, now we are talking of whims and caprices, just come this way with me,” added Madame Dubreuil, drawing a deep sigh, “while I explain to you my present difficulty, as well as the cause of my so abruptly summoning you hither; but you are so kind, I feel assured you will not only forgive it, but also render me all the assistance I require.”
Following Madame Georges and her mother to their sitting-room, Clara lovingly conducted the Goualeuse also thither, placing her in the warmest corner of the fireside, and tenderly chafing her hands to prevent the cold from affecting her; then fondly caressing her, and styling her again and again her very dear sister Marie, she playfully reproached her for allowing so long an interval to pass away without paying her a visit. After the recent conversation which passed between the poor Goualeuse and the curé (no doubt fresh in the reader’s memory), it will easily be believed that these tender marks of affection inspired the unfortunate girl with feelings of deep humility, combined with a timid joy.
“Now, then, dear Madame Dubreuil,” said Madame Georges, when they were comfortably seated, “do pray tell me what has happened, and in what manner I can be serviceable to you.”
“Oh, in several ways! I will tell you exactly how. In the first place, I believe you are not aware that this farm is the private property of the Duchesse de Lucenay, and that we are accountable to her alone, having nothing whatever to do with the duke or his steward.”
“No, indeed, I never heard that before.”
“Neither should I have troubled you with so unimportant a matter now, but that it forms a necessary part of the explanation I am about to give you of my present pressing need of your kind services. You must know, then, that we consider ourselves as the tenants of Madame de Lucenay, and always pay our rent either to herself or to Madame Simon, her head femme de chambre; and, really, spite of some little impetuosity of temper, Madame la Duchesse is so amiable that it is delightful to have business with her. Dubreuil and I would go through fire and water to serve her: but, la! that is only natural, considering we have known her from her very cradle, and were accustomed to see her playing about as a child during the visits she used annually to pay to the estate during the lifetime of her late father, the Prince de Noirmont. Latterly she has asked for her rent in advance. Forty thousand francs is not ‘picked up by the roadside,’ as the old proverb says; but happily we had laid that sum by as Clara’s dowry, and the very next morning after the request reached us we carried madame her money in bright, shining, golden louis. These great ladies spend so much, you see, in luxuries such as you and I have no idea of. Yet it is only within the last twelvemonth Madame de Lucenay has wished to be paid beforehand, she used always to seem as though she had plenty of money; but things are very different now.”
“Still, my dear Madame Dubreuil, I do not yet perceive in what way I can possibly assist you.”
“Don’t be in a hurry! I am just coming to that part of my story; but I was obliged to tell you all this that you might be able to understand the entire confidence Madame la Duchesse places in us. To be sure, she showed her great regard for us by becoming, when only thirteen years of age, Clara’s godmother, her noble father standing as the other sponsor; and, ever since, Madame de Lucenay has loaded her godchild with presents and kind attentions. But I must not keep you — I see you are impatient; so I will at once proceed with the business part of my tale. You must know, then, that last night I received by express the following letter from Madame de Lucenay:
“My Dear Madame Dubreuil:
“‘You must prepare the small pavilion in the orchard for occupation by to-morrow evening. Send there all the requisite furniture, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. Let nothing be wanted to render it, in every respect, as comfortable as possible.’
“Do you mark the word ‘comfortable,’ Madame Georges?” inquired Madame Dubreuil, pausing in the midst of her reading; “it is even underlined.” Then looking up at her friend with a thoughtful, puzzled expression of countenance, and receiving no answer, she continued the perusal of her letter:
“‘It is so long since the pavilion has been used that it will require large and constant fires both night and day to remove the dampness from the walls. I wish you to behave in every respect to the person who will occupy the apartments as you would do to myself. And you will receive by the hands of the new visitant a letter from me explanatory of all I expect from your well-known zeal and attachment. I depend entirely on you and feel every assurance that I may safely reckon on your fidelity and desire to serve me. Adieu, my dear Madame Dubreuil; remember me most kindly to my pretty goddaughter; and believe me ever,
“‘Yours, sincerely and truly,
“‘Noirmont de Lucenay.
“‘P.S. The person whom I so strongly recommend to your best care and attention will arrive the day after to-morrow, about dusk. Pray do your very utmost to render the pavilion as comfortable as you possibly can.’
“Comfortable again, you see, and underlined as before,” said Madame Dubreuil, returning the letter of Madame de Lucenay to her pocket.
“Well,” replied Madame Georges, “all this is simple enough!”
“How do you mean, simple enough? you cannot have heard me read the letter. Madame la Duchesse wishes particularly ‘that the pavilion should be rendered as comfortable as possible.’ Now that is the very reason of my asking you to come to me to-day; Clara and I have been knocking our heads together in vain to discover what ‘comfortable’ can possibly mean, but without being able to find it out. Yet it seems odd, too, that Clara should not know its meaning, for she was several years at school at Villiers le Bel, and gained a quantity of prizes for history and geography; however, she knows as little as I do about that outlandish word. I dare say it is only known at court, or in the fashionable world. However, be that as it may, Madame la Duchesse has thrown me into a pretty fuss by making use of it; she says, and you see twice repeats the words, and even underlines it, ‘that she requests I will furnish the pavilion as comfortably as possible.’ Now what are we to do when we have not the slightest notion of the meaning of that word?”
“Well, heaven be praised, then, that I can relieve your perplexity by solving this grand mystery!” said Madame Georges, smiling. “Upon the present occasion the word comfortable merely means an assemblage of neat, well-chosen, well-arranged, and convenient furniture, so placed, in apartments well warmed and protected from cold or damp, that the occupant shall find every thing that is necessary combined with articles that to some might seem superfluities.”
“Thank you. I perfectly understand what comfortable means as regards furnishing apartments; but your explanation only increases my difficulties.”
“How so?”
“Madame la Duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture, and many et cœteras; now we have no carpets here, and our furniture is of the most homely description. Neither can I make out by the letter whether the person I am to expect is a male or female; and yet every thing must be prepared by to-morrow evening. What shall I do? What can I do? I can get nothing here. Really, Madame Georges, it is enough to drive one wild to be placed in such an awkward situation.”
“But, mother,” said Clara, “suppose you take the furniture out of my room, and whilst you are refurnishing it I will go and pass a few days with dear Marie at Bouqueval.”
“My dear child, what nonsense you talk! as if the humble fittings-up of your chamber could equal what Madame la Duchesse means by the word ‘comfortable,’” returned Madame Dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of the shoulders. “Lord! Lord! why will fine ladies puzzle poor folks like me by going out of their way to find such expressions as comfortable?”
“Then I presume the pavilion in question is ordinarily uninhabited?” said Madame Georges.
“Oh, yes! There, you see that small whi
te building at the end of the orchard — that is it. The late Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame la Duchesse, caused it to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful days, she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then occupied it. There are three pretty chambers in it, and a beautiful little Swiss dairy at the end of the garden, where, in her childish days, Madame la Duchesse used to divert herself with feigning to manage. Since her marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each time she passed several hours in the pavilion. The first time was about six years ago, and then she came on horseback with—” Then, as though the presence of Clara and Fleur-de-Marie prevented her from saying more, Madame Dubreuil interrupted herself by saying, “But I am talking instead of doing; and that is not the way to get out of my present difficulty. Come, dear, good Madame Georges, and help a poor bewildered creature like myself!”
“In the first place,” answered Madame Georges, “tell me how is this pavilion furnished at the present moment.”
