A cry escaped her lips. Terror-stricken, she flung herself upon her mother, caught her desperately in her arms and fell fainting beside the bed.
Mme. Armand was dead.
* * *
A room in which she sobs for hours on end, heedless of all things, huddled in a little chair, or on her knees before a white-curtained bed; people who come and go; a doctor who certifies the cause of death; aneurism of the heart, beyond a doubt; the lady of the house, who tries to comfort her; a commissary of police who puts questions which she is unable to answer and who makes her look in her mother’s trunks for papers that are not there: these are Gilberte’s lasting memories of those two dreadful days.
Then came the singing in the church, a long road between bare, wind-stripped trees, the graveyard and the final and irrevocable parting from her who, until now, was all her life, her soul, her light. ...
Oh, the first night spent in solitude and those first meals taken with no one opposite her and those long interminable days during which she never stopped weeping the big tears that come welling up from the heart as from a spring which nothing can dry up! Alone, knowing nobody, what was she to do? Where could she go? To whom could she turn?
“The important thing,” insisted the lady of the house, who sometimes came to see her in her room, “the most important thing is that you should have a solicitor. Mine is prepared to come whenever you please. I spoke to him about you; and it seems that there are formalities. Remember what the commissary said about the papers. ...”
Gilberte remembered nothing, for she had listened to nothing. Nevertheless, the persistency of this advice, repeated daily and with such conviction, ended by persuading her; and, one morning, she sent to ask Maître Dufornéril to be good enough to call on her.
Maître Dufornéril had one of those placid and good-natured faces the sight of which seems to soothe you at once. He gave the impression of attaching so much importance to the business in hand that it would have been impossible not to take at least some interest in it one’s self. Gilberte, therefore, was obliged to reflect, to tax her memory, in short, to reply.
“From what I have learnt, mademoiselle, it is evident that no papers have been found enabling us to establish your mother’s identity and your own. The commissary, however, told me of an envelope containing securities which he advised you to lock up carefully. Is it still in your possession?”
“I don’t know. ... Mother never told me. ... Is this what you mean?” she asked.
The solicitor took two fat, leather portfolios from the mantelpiece and opened them. He was astounded at what he saw:
“And do you leave this lying about? ... Bonds payable to bearer?”
Gilberte blushed, feeling as if she had committed some enormous crime. He counted the sheets, made a rapid addition and said:
“You are very well off, mademoiselle.”
“Really?” she said, absent-mindedly. “Yes ... mother said something ...”
After a peace during which he watched her with increasing surprise, he asked:
“And have you your mother’s papers, your father’s papers?”
“What papers?”
“Why, their birth-certificates, your own, their marriage-certificate, in fact, everything that established their position and now establishes yours.”
“I haven’t them.”
“But they must be somewhere. ... Can you give me no clue as to where they are?”
“No. ... But I seem to remember once hearing them talk of papers that had been lost ... or rather burnt in a fire ... or else ... in fact, I can’t say for certain.” ...
“Come, come!” cried Maître Dufornéril. “We are on the wrong track altogether! Let us start from the beginning. Where were you born?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Mother would never tell me exactly.”
“But where was she born? And your father?”
“I don’t know that either.”
The solicitor looked up. Was she laughing at him? But, at the sight of her sad face and candid eyes, he was silent for a moment and then went on:
“You have come from London?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have friends over there, acquaintances?”
“No, we lived quite alone.”
“Never mind: if you give me the address of the house you lived in, we shall easily find traces of Mme. Armand.”
“Mother was not called Mme. Armand in London; she was called Aubert.”
“But Armand is your real name?”
“I don’t think so. At Liverpool, where we lived for three years and where father died, last year, after making such a lot of money, we were known by the name of Killner. Before that, at Berlin, it was Dumas. ... And, at Moscow” ...
“You don’t know the reason why your parents used to change their name like that?”
“No, I do not.”
“You saw nothing in your parents’ character to explain it?”
“No, nothing.”
“Were they on good terms?”
“Oh, yes! They were so fond of each other! And mother was so happy!”
So happy! How positively Gilberte was able to say that! Happy indeed beside her husband, under his eyes, with her hand in his. But why was she so often caught crying? Why those hours of gloomy melancholy, of inexplicable depression? Why had she one day drawn her daughter to her, stammering:
“Ah, my child; my child! Never do anything that you have to hide: it is too painful!”
Gilberte was on the point of speaking. A vague sense of shame prevented her. Besides, Maître Dufornéril, who had taken down a few notes in his pocket-book, was beginning again:
“Give me all the particulars that can help us, mademoiselle. The smallest details are of importance.”
She mentioned the towns in which they had lived: Vienna, Trieste, Milan, with their memories of a secluded life, easy of late, but so hard and difficult at first; and then, further back, Barcelona, where they had been very unhappy; and then came memories, more and more indistinct, of poverty, hunger, cold. ...
“We shall find out, mademoiselle,” declared the solicitor. “It won’t be an easy business, for we have to do with a combination of abnormal circumstances which baffle me a little, I admit. But, after all, it is inconceivable that we should not find out. You have to know, you must know who you are and what name you are entitled to bear. Will you trust your interests to me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, first of all, you must leave this bundle of securities in my hands: I will give you a receipt for it. I will cash the coupons as they fall due and send you the proceeds when you need money. Where were you going with your mother?”
“She was expecting a letter.”
“A letter? That is one clue.”
“But the letter was addressed to the pôste restante; and I don’t know in what name or initials.”
“True ... Then what do you intend to do?”
“I intend to go somewhere at random. I have heard mother speak of Chartres, Saumer, Domfront. I shall choose one of those towns, the quietest ... no matter where ... as long as I can weep undisturbed.”
“Poor child!” murmured Maître Dufornéril.
II. THE SOLITARY
“OF THE FORTRESS built, in 1011, by Guillaume de Bellême, on the summit of the rock at Domfront, at 300 feet above the little River Varenne, all that is now left standing is two great strips of wall, flanked by picturesque buttresses and pierced with wide arches, the remains of the ancient keep. Round about are a few traces of ramparts and remnants of underground passages, all arranged in the form of a square and in a perfect state of preservation.”
The guide-books, however, for some reason, fail to mention the manor-house built, in the seventeenth century, by Pierre de Donnadieu, Governor of Anjou, on the site and with the materials of the outbuildings of the old fortress. The logis, as this sort of dwelling is called in Lower
Normandy, is intact and wholly charming. Four slender, tapering turrets grace the corners. An enormous roof, decked with two monumental chimneys, seems to top it with a fool’s cap, too large for its little granite forehead lined with two rows of bricks. The entrance is through the square, but the main front overlooks the precipice and a garden staggers down the steep slope to the river that winds through the pretty Valdes Rochers.
Fourteen years earlier, M. and Mme. de la Vaudraye, one of the leading families of the neighborhood, had ruined themselves in unfortunate speculations. M. de la Vaudraye died of grief and shame. His widow, in order to pay for the education of her ten-year-old son, let the manor-house, which formed part of her dowry and which had been in the possession of her family for nearly two hundred years. It was taken, for a time, by one of the garrison officers, but was now once more untenanted.
Here Gilberte sought refuge like a poor wounded animal. The very sleepiness of Domfront had attracted her, its look as of some vanquished city, wearied of a valorous past and taking its just and honourable repose. Strolling through the ruins, she saw, on the door of the Logis, a notice, “To Let.” She went in search of the owner.
Mme. de la Vaudraye, a tall, thin, hard-eyed woman, expressed herself in affected sentences of which her lips formed the syllables carefully, one by one, as though they were things of price that must be carried to the highest pitch of perfection.
“I can see from your attitude, madame,” she said, “that you have been struck by the unimpeachable condition of my house. Woodwork, mirrors, curtains, furniture: everything is in perfect repair. And yet the Logis is one of the most historic abodes in the district” ...
Gilberte was no longer listening. She had been called, “Madame.” It had seemed natural then to address her like that? If so, could she pass as married, in spite of her age? The thought surprised her. And yet, she reflected, how could any one suppose that a young girl would come by herself to treat for the manor-house and live in it by herself?
She remembered a piece of advice which the solicitor had given her:
“If you wish to lead a quiet life, not a word about the past before we have shed a full light upon it.”
Yes, but how much easier it would be to veil the past under that name of “madame”! And how much better that title would protect her! As a girl, living alone, she must needs be the object of curiosity, the victim of any amount of gossip. As a married woman, she would be in a normal position; her solitary existence would cause no surprise; she could keep off intruders, go about as she pleased, or stay indoors and weep, with none to spy upon the secret of her tears.
“In what name shall I make out the agreement?” asked Mme. de la Vaudraye, when everything was settled: settled to the great advantage of the owner, who had increased her rent by one-half.
“Why, in my own name: Mme. Armand!” said Gilberte, without foreseeing the consequences which this decision involved.
Mme. de la Vaudraye hesitated:
“But ... perhaps we shall want ... M. Armand’s signature” ...
“I am a widow.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have known. I see you are in mourning” ...
Mme. Armand moved into the Logis that same evening. At Mme. de la Vaudraye’s express recommendation, she engaged as a servant the wife of the keeper of the ruins, Adèle, a big, fat, talkative woman, with hair on her upper lip, a stealthy eye and quick, blunt manners. Bouquetot, her husband, was to sleep at the manor-house; and their son, Antoine, who had just left his regiment, would do the heavy work and attend to the garden.
***
And life began, the hard, cruel, despairing life of those who have no one to love them and no one whom they can love.
There was no consolation for Gilberte, after her mother’s death. What saved her was the necessity to act, to act continually, to make decisions, to give orders, in short, to exercise her will. She had to shake off her natural inclination for dreaming and listlessness, to break herself of the passive habits due to the existence which she had led till then. Things went so badly at the manor-house until she realized the task that lay before her, the domestic duties were so irregularly performed, there was so much fuss and disorder, that she was compelled to look after her own housekeeping.
She found it difficult indeed to word the first reprimand:
“Adèle, I do wish you would serve lunch punctually!”
And she added, immediately:
“Of course, I mean, when possible.”
As ill-luck would have it, it was not “possible” for three days running; and Gilberte had to resolve to speak seriously. On the fourth day, she went down to the kitchen, very quickly, so as not to let her indignation cool on the stairs:
“Adèle! It’s one o’clock and” ...
“Well, what of it?” the fat woman broke in.
Gilberte stopped short, hesitated, blushed and stammered:
“I should so much like to have luncheon served at half-past twelve exactly!”
From that day forward, the meals were punctually prepared.
Her victory gave her self-assurance. She had the accounts brought to her daily, although her inspection was confined to ascertaining the cost of things and checking the additions.
With Gilberte’s affection and open nature, however, it was difficult for her to live absolutely cut off from her fellow-creatures, as she had first intended. True, she refused to make acquaintances; and her shyness was such that, after three months, she had not yet set foot in the streets of Domfront. But those who have been stricken by fate have a natural company of friends in the poor, the wretched, the destitute, the outcast; and her heart could not avoid the sort of friendship built upon adversity.
Between Gilberte and the first beggar who crossed the threshold of the Logis there was more than an alms and a thank-you: there was the delight of giving on one side and, on the other, gratitude for the smile and the good grace of her who gave. Nor could it be otherwise. Even if Gilberte had not had that pretty, fair hair which frolicked around her face like little flickering flames, nor those gentle lips, nor those pink cheeks which gave her face the freshness of a flower, she would still have been bewitchingly beautiful, thanks to her blue eyes, which were always a little dewy, as though tears were playing in them, and always smiling, even at the times of her deepest sadness. And her look, her figure, all her delicate and attractive personality breathed such touching purity that the most indifferent were lapped in it as in the soft caresses of a balmy breeze.
Her charm was made up of goodness, simplicity and, above all, innocence, that innocence which is unaware of its own existence, which knows nothing of life, which suspects no evil and which does not see the traps laid for it, nor the hypocrisy that surrounds it, nor the envy which it inspires.
La Bonne Demoiselle was the name by which the poor called her, thus correcting, by a sort of common instinct, the style which circumstances had compelled her to adopt. And, in all the garrets of Domfront, in all the cabins and cottages of the neighbourhood, people spoke of la Bonne Demoiselle of the Logis, of la Bonne Demoiselle who mourned her husband’s memory and smiled upon the poor.
Her gentle smile worked many a miracle in that little world, dispelled many a hatred, stifled many a rebellious impulse, healed many a sore. Men and women consulted her, inexperienced girl that she was, and, what was more, followed her advice.
A mother came one day, with her baby in her arms. She told the tragedy of her life, spoke of an elopement, a desertion. Gilberte understood nothing of her story. Yet the mother, in an hour, went away consoled.
Young girls came and asked her opinion about getting married; women came and enlarged upon their domestic quarrels; others came and told her things that bewildered her. All these problems, all these cases of conscience Mme. Armand, la Bonne Demoiselle, solved with her innocence, the innocence of a child that, knowing nothing, knows more than they who know everything.
One evening, Adèle brought her housekeeping-book.
Gilberte gravely added the column and initialed it.
“But madame is not even looking to see what I bought and how much I paid.”
Gilberte blushed:
“You see. ... I don’t know much about it. ... So I leave it to you. ... Besides, I have no reason to suspect you. ...”
There must have been something in the tone of her words, something special in her air and attitude; at any rate, the old woman was seized with extraordinary excitement, and, flinging herself on her knees before her mistress, cried:
“Oh, it’s a shame to cheat a person like you, ma’am! I can have no heart at all, nor my great rascal of a Bouquetot either! ... Why, you must be an angel from Heaven not to see that everybody’s robbing you: the grocer, the baker, the butcher, and I most of all! ... Just look at my book: a bunch of carrots, thirty sous; a wretched chicken, six francs fifteen sous. ...”
She emptied her purse on the table:
“There! Fifty or sixty francs I’ve done you out of, all in one month! ... But I stopped the other day, I couldn’t do it, it broke my heart to see you like that, so trusting. ...”
“My poor Adèle,” whispered Gilberte, greatly moved.
“And then ... and then,” continued the woman, in a low voice, with bent head, “I have something else to confess. ... But I dare not: it’s so shameful. ... Listen. ... Mme. de la Vaudraye ... well, she put me here to tell her all about you: what you did; if you received any letters; if you talked to gentlemen. ... And, in the morning, when I went to do my shopping, I used to go to her ... and tell her what I saw. ... Oh, there was nothing wrong to tell, for you are a real saint! ... But, all the same. ... Forgive me!”
The old servant’s confusion was touching. Gilberte gently raised her from the floor and said:
“There, we’ll say no more about it. But why is Mme. de la Vaudraye interested in me and my doings?”
“Goodness knows! She’s always poking her nose in everywhere and wants to manage everything at Domfront and every one to obey her. And you don’t know how they talk about you here! There’s no lack of gossip, I can tell you!”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 383
