Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Unfortunately, M. de Montbrison was not a sufficiently gallant gentleman to do that. And speaking of handsome lackeys, madame must be thinking of Président de Lunel’s wife, for—”

  “Lunel!” exclaimed the dowager, pausing and glancing around her. “Say, we are not far from Grand Sire’s Rock, are we?”

  “No, madame.”

  “I thought not. Do you remember that story of the osprey and poor Président de Lunel?”

  “I only remember that monsieur le président was as jealous as all possessed of the Chevalier de Bretteville, and he had good cause to be. So it used to afford madame no end of amusement to invite them both to the castle at the same time.”

  “Yes, and that was what reminded me of that affair of the osprey.”

  “I really have no idea what you mean.”

  “Ah, Zerbinette, you are growing old.”

  “Alas, yes, madame!”

  “Well, we might as well walk in one direction as another, so suppose we pay a visit to Grand Sire’s Rock. The sight of the dear old rock will rejuvenate me. Let me see, Zerbinette,” added the marquise, taking another pinch of snuff, “when was it that poor Lunel and the chevalier were—”

  “In October, 1779,” responded Zerbinette, promptly.

  “Sixty-odd years ago. Come and let us go and take a look at the famous rock. It will make me feel young again.”

  “Very well, madame, but won’t you find the walk too fatiguing?”

  “I have the legs of fifteen this morning, girl, but if they should fail me, you have my chair, you know.”

  CHAPTER XII.

  AS THE TWO octogenarians started slowly down the path leading to Grand Sire’s Rock, Zerbinette remarked to her mistress:

  “You were going to tell the story of the osprey, madame.”

  “Oh, yes. You recollect how jealous Président de Lunel was of the chevalier. Well, one day I said to him, ‘Sigismond, wouldn’t you like to help me play a fine joke upon the chevalier?’ ‘I should be delighted, marquise.’ ‘But to do it, Sigismond, you must know how to imitate the cry of the osprey perfectly.’ You can imagine the look on the president’s face when I told him that; but when I said to him, ‘Learn it, Sigismond, and as soon as you know it we will have a good laugh at the poor chevalier’s expense,’ he promised he would begin that very evening, as there were plenty of them in the neighbourhood. When the president had learned to imitate the cry, I made an appointment to meet the chevalier here at dusk. I came a little in advance of the time, in company with the president, whom I ensconced in the sort of cave at Grand Sire’s Rock. ‘Now, Sigismond, listen carefully to what I am going to say to you,’ I began. ‘The chevalier will soon be here. You are to count one thousand, so as to give him time to press his suit. I, too, will count a thousand, but not until we get to nine hundred and ninety-eight will I show any signs of softening toward the chevalier. Then you must begin to utter your osprey cries.’ ‘Capital, marquise, capital!’ ‘Hush, you bad boy, and listen to me. I shall say to the chevalier, “Oh, that horrid bird! I am frightfully superstitious about the osprey. Run to the château and get a gun to kill the hateful thing, and afterward we will see.” The chevalier will run to get the gun, and then, my dear Sigismond, I will join you in the cave.’ ‘Really, marquise, you are the most charming little devil imaginable!’ ‘Hide, hide quick! here comes the chevalier.’ And poor Lunel withdrew into his hole and began to count one, two, three, four, etc., while I went to join the chevalier.”

  “I can see the dear president’s face now, as he carefully counted one, two, three, four, while the chevalier was with you,” exclaimed Zerbinette, laughing like mad.

  “All I can tell you, girl, is that though I had promised poor Lunel not to soften toward the chevalier until we had got to nine hundred and ninety-eight, I really didn’t count more than ten. After awhile, the president, who had finished his thousand, began to play the osprey with all his might, and his strange, shrill, wild cries seemed to disturb the chevalier so much that I said:

  “‘It is the osprey. Run to the château and get a gun to kill the horrid thing. I hate the abominable creature so I long to tear it in pieces with my own hands. Run and get the gun. I will wait for you here.’ ‘What a strange whim, marquise. It is getting very dark, and you will be afraid here in the forest alone.’ ‘Nonsense, chevalier, I am no coward. Run to the château and come back as soon as you can.’ It was quite time, my girl, for when I went to the poor president, his voice had begun to fail him, but fortunately he was all right again in a minute.”

  “And when the chevalier returned, madame?”

  “He found the president and me not far from the place where we are now. ‘You have come at last, chevalier,’ I called out to him at a distance; ‘but for the president, whom I met by chance, I should have died of fear.’ ‘I told you so, marquise,’ he replied. ‘And the osprey, I think I must have frightened him off, for I haven’t heard him since I met the marquise,’ replied the president. ‘But, by the way, my dear chevalier,’ added poor Lunel, innocently, ‘do you know that the cry of the osprey always indicates some calamity?’ and as he spoke the president slyly squeezed my left arm. ‘Yes, my dear president, I have always heard that the cry is prophetic of evil,’ responded the chevalier, squeezing my right arm. Afterward, when I went crazy over that actor, Clairville, he and I had many a good laugh over this little affair with the president and the chevalier, so for a long time ‘It is the osprey’ was a sort of proverb among the people of our set.”

  “Alas! those were fine times, madame.”

  “Oh, hush up, Zerbinette, with your alases! Those good times will come again.”

  “But when, madame?”

  “Why, in the next world, of course. That was what I used to nearly wear myself out telling Abbé Robertin, who used to go nearly crazy over those delicious white truffles my cousin Doria used to send me. ‘Well, madame la marquise, it is surely better to believe in that sort of an immortality than in nothing at all,’ he used to reply, while he went on cramming himself. In other words, my girl, I expect to get my girlhood again, and all that goes with it, when I reach paradise.”

  “God grant it, madame,” responded Zerbinette, devoutly. “Sixteen is certainly a delightful age.”

  “That is exactly what I said to myself yesterday while I was watching my grandson. What ardour and enthusiasm he displayed during the hunt! He’s a handsome — But look, here is Grand Sire’s Rock. It was in that little cave that the poor president played the part of an osprey.”

  “Don’t go any closer to it, for Heaven’s sake, madame. There may be some wild beast in it.”

  “I thought of going in to rest awhile.”

  “Don’t think of such a thing, madame. It must be as damp as a cellar in there.”

  “That’s a fact, so set my chair under this oak-tree, there on the sunny side. That is right. Where will you find a seat, Zerbinette?”

  “Over there on that rock. It is a little closer to the cave than I like, but never mind.”

  “We were speaking of my grandson just now. He is a handsome fellow, there is no doubt about it.”

  “There is a certain viscountess who seems to be of the same opinion. It is always M. Raoul this, or M. Raoul that, and I have seen—”

  “You have seen, you have seen — Why, you see nothing at all, girl. The viscountess takes a little notice of the boy merely to blind her idiot of a husband, so he won’t get mad and make a fuss when M. de Monbreuil, the viscountess’s lover arrives, for I have invited him to come in a few days. There is nothing that makes a house as lively and interesting as to have a lot of lovers about, so I invite all I know; but it is strange you haven’t seen through the lady’s manœuvre. I warned my grandson, for I feared the innocent, unsophisticated fellow might come to grief, the viscountess is so charming.”

  “Innocent, unsophisticated!” exclaimed Zerbinette, shaking her head. “You’re mistaken about that, madame, for his infatuation for the mistress doesn’t
keep him from playing the deuce with her maid.”

  “Dear boy! Is that really true, Zerbinette? Is there anything worth looking at among the women the viscountess brought with her?”

  “There is one tall blonde with dark eyes, plump as a partridge, with a complexion like milk, and the loveliest figure—”

  “And you think that Raoul—”

  “You know, madame, that at his age—”

  “Pardi!” exclaimed the marquise, taking another pinch of snuff. “That reminds me,” she continued, after a moment’s reflection, “you know all about everybody in the neighbourhood, who is it that leads the life of a hermitess in that lonely farmhouse on the Pont Brillant road? You know the place; the house is covered with vines, and there is a porch of rustic work very much like that house my grandson has just been building for his fawns.”

  “Oh, yes, I know, madame. It is Madame Bastien who lives there.”

  “And who is Madame Bastien?”

  “Did you hear that, madame?” asked Zerbinette, breathlessly.

  “What?”

  “Why, there in the cave. I heard something moving in there.”

  “Nonsense, Zerbinette, how silly you are! It is the wind rustling the ivy leaves.”

  “Do you really think so, madame?”

  “There isn’t the slightest doubt of it. But, tell me, who is this Madame Bastien?”

  “She is the wife of a real estate agent. I suppose you would call him that, for he travels about the country buying tracts of land which he afterward subdivides and sells. He is scarcely ever at home.”

  “Ah, he is scarcely ever at home, that would be a great advantage, eh, Zerbinette. But tell me, is it true that this little Bastien is as pretty as people say?”

  “She’s a beauty, there’s no doubt about it, madame. You remember Madame la Maréchale de Rubempré, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and this young woman?”

  “Is as beautiful as she was, perhaps even more so.”

  “And her figure?”

  “Is perfect.”

  “That is what Raoul told me after he met her in the fields the other day. But who is that big sallow boy who was with her? Some scallawag of a brother probably. It might be a good idea to get him out of the way by giving him a position as clerk in the steward’s office with a salary of twelve or fifteen hundred francs a year.”

  “Good heavens, madame!” exclaimed Zerbinette, springing up in alarm, “there’s somebody in the cave. Didn’t you hear that noise?”

  “Yes, I heard it,” replied the intrepid dowager, “what of it?”

  “Oh, madame, let us get away as quick as we can.”

  “I sha’n’t do anything of the kind.”

  “But that noise, madame.”

  “He, he!” laughed the countess. “Perhaps it is the soul of the poor president come back to count one, two, three, four, etc. Sit down, and don’t interrupt me again.”

  “You have always had the courage of a dragon, madame.”

  “There’s no cause for alarm, you goose. Some osprey or some wild animal may have sought shelter there. I want to know who that big hulking boy was that Raoul saw with that Bastien woman, — her brother, eh?”

  “No, madame, her son.”

  “Her son; why, in that case—”

  “She was married when she was very young, and she is so admirably preserved that she doesn’t look a day over twenty.”

  “That must be so, for Raoul took a desperate fancy to her. ‘She has big, dark blue eyes, grandmother,’ he said to me, ‘a waist one can span with his two hands, and features as regular as those on an antique cameo. Only these plebeians are so little versed in the customs of good society that this one opened her big eyes in astonishment, merely because I was polite enough to take her a mantle she had dropped.’ ‘If she is as pretty as you say, you young simpleton, you ought to have kept the mantle, and taken it to her house. That would have gained you an entrance there.’ ‘But, grandmother,’ replied the dear boy, very sensibly, ‘it was by returning the mantle I found out that she was so pretty.’”

  “Oh, well, M. Raoul could easily have gone to her house a few days afterward. She would have been delighted to see him, even if it were only to make all the bourgeoisie in the country, wild with envy.”

  “That is exactly what I told the dear child, but he did not dare to venture.”

  “Give him a little time, and he’ll get his courage up, never fear.”

  “I tell you, my girl,” resumed the dowager, after quite a long silence, as she slowly and thoughtfully took another pinch of snuff, “I tell you that the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that for many reasons this little Bastien would just suit the dear boy, that she would be a perfect godsend to him, in fact.”

  “I think so, too, madame.”

  “So we had better strike while the iron is hot,” continued the dowager. “What time is it, Zerbinette?”

  “Half-past four, madame,” said the attendant, glancing at her watch.

  “That gives us plenty of time. This morning when my grandson left to spend the day with the Merinvilles at Boncour, I promised him I would meet him at the lake at five o’clock, so we must make haste.”

  “But, madame, you forget that M. Raoul sent his groom to tell you that he was going to pay a call at Montel after leaving Boncour, and that he would not return to the château before seven.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right, girl. I must give up seeing him immediately then, for to return from Montel he will have to take the Vieille Coupe road, and that is too steep for me, for I’m a perfect coward in a carriage; besides, as it is only half-past four, I should have to drive too far to meet him, so I will postpone my conversation on the subject of the hermitess until this evening. Give me your arm, Zerbinette, and let us start, but first let me take another look at this famous rock.”

  “Don’t go too near though, madame, for Heaven’s sake.”

  But in spite of Zerbinette’s protest she walked up to the rock, and, casting an almost melancholy glance at the wild spot, exclaimed:

  “Ah, there is no change in the rocks. They look exactly as they did sixty years ago.”

  Then after a moment’s silence, turning gaily to Zerbinette, who was holding herself prudently aloof, the dowager added:

  “That story of the osprey has recalled hundreds of other pleasant reminiscences. I’ve a great mind to amuse myself by writing my memoirs some day. They might serve both to instruct and edify my grandson,” the octogenarian continued, with a hearty laugh, in which Zerbinette joined.

  For several minutes the sound of their laughter could be distinctly heard as the two slowly wended their way down the path.

  When the sound had entirely died away, Frederick, his face livid, his expression frightful to behold, emerged from the cave where he had heard every word of the conversation between the dowager-marquise and Zerbinette, and, gun in hand, hastened toward another part of the forest.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE VIEILLE COUPE road, which Raoul de Pont Brillant would be obliged to take on his return from the Château de Montel homeward, was a sort of deep hollow way, with high banks covered with tall pine-trees, whose heads formed such an impenetrable dome that the light was dim there even at noontime, and at sunset it was so dark that two men who met there would not be able to distinguish each other’s features.

  It was about six o’clock in the evening when Raoul de Pont Brillant turned in this path, which seemed all the darker and more gloomy from the fact that the highway he had just left was still lighted by the rays reflected from the setting sun. He was alone, having sent his groom to the château to inform the marquise of his change of plans.

  He had proceeded only twenty yards when his vision became sufficiently accustomed to the obscurity to enable him to distinguish a human being standing motionless in the middle of the road, a short distance in front of him.

  “Hallo there, get to one side of the road or the other,” he shouted.

&n
bsp; “One word, M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant,” responded a voice.

  “What do you want?” asked Raoul, checking his horse and leaning over upon his saddle, in a vain effort to distinguish the features of his interlocutor. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “M. de Pont Brillant, did you receive a note this morning requesting you to meet some one at Grand Sire’s Rock?”

  “No; for I left Pont Brillant at eight o’clock; but once more, what does all this mean? Who the devil are you?”

  “I am the writer of the letter sent you this morning.”

  “Ah, well, my friend, you can—”

  “I am not your friend,” interrupted the voice, “I am your enemy.”

  “What’s that you say?” exclaimed Raoul, in surprise.

  “I say that I am your enemy.”

  “Indeed!” retorted Raoul, in a half-amused, half-contemptuous tone, for he was naturally very brave. “And what is your name, Mister Enemy?”

  “My name is a matter of no consequence.”

  “Probably not, but why the devil do you stop me in the road at nightfall, then? Ah, I remember you said you wrote to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “To tell me what?”

  “That you were a coward if you—”

  “Wretch!” exclaimed Raoul, starting his horse.

  But Madame Bastien’s son struck the horse in the head with the barrel of his gun, forcing him to stop.

  Raoul, a trifle startled at first, but really curious to know what the stranger was coming at, calmed himself, and remarked, coldly:

  “You did me the honour to write to me, you say?”

  “Yes, to tell you that if you were not a coward, you would come to Grand Sire’s Rock to-day with your gun loaded like mine.”

  “And may I ask what we were to do with our guns?”

  “We were to place ourselves ten paces apart, and then fire at each other.”

  “And for what object may I ask?”