The Son of Monte-Cristo

by Jules Lermina

  CHAPTER V.

  WHAT PIERRE KNEW.

  The Place Notre Dame at Fribourg was crowded with citizens and soldiers.The citizens wore troubled, and talked together in low voices, while thesoldiers were noisy and abusive against France.

  The colossal spire of the Cathedral threw its shadow over this scene.

  Sovereigns and diplomats, ready for an invasion of France, had leftFrankfort for Fribourg, there to complete their plans of vengeance andhate.

  Blucher, with Sachen and Laugeron, had concentrated their troops betweenMayence and Coblentz. The Prince de Schwartzemberg was marching towardBale. The Swiss were irritated, believing that their neutrality would beviolated.

  In the Chamber of Commerce the Emperor Alexander, with Metternich andLord Castlereagh, were studying maps, eager for the fray and thedismemberment of France. Count Pozzo de Borga was on his way to England.

  On the Place de Ministre a tall mansion faces the Cathedral. Steps, withwrought iron railings, lead to the oaken door, well barred with steel.On the second floor, in a large, gloomy room, several persons areassembled. The last rays of the setting sun are coming from the highwindows through the heavy panes of glass set in lead.

  Standing near a window is a lady in black, looking out on the Square;her hand caresses a child who clings to her skirts. The two corners ofthe chimney in which are burning resinous logs of wood are occupied. Onone side sits an old man, on the other a lady wrapped in a cloak thatcovers her entirely.

  The Marquis de Fongereues is only sixty, but his white hair, hiswrinkles, and the sad senility of his countenance gave him theappearance of an octogenarian. He sits motionless, his hands crossed onhis knees. The lady opposite, whose head rests on the high oak back ofher chair, is not yet forty. Her face is hard, and her eyes, fixed uponthe Marquis, seem eager to read his thoughts. She is Pauline deMaillezais--Marquise de Fongereues--and the lady at the window isMagdalena, Vicomtesse de Talizac. Her husband, Jean de Talizac, is theson of the Marquis de Fongereues. Suddenly the old man said:

  "Where is Jean?"

  Magdalena started, as if this voice, breaking the silence of the room,had startled her.

  "He has been away since morning," she replied, in a voice that sheendeavored to render careless.

  "Ah!" said the Marquis, relapsing into silence. Presently he inquiredwhat time it was.

  "Let me see--I wish to tell him," cried the child, leaving his mother'sside and running across the room to a console table, on which stood anelaborate clock.

  Frederic, the son of the Vicomte de Talizac, is deformed. One shoulderis higher than the other, and he limps, but he seems alert.

  "It is seven o'clock," he said, in a sharp voice.

  The door was thrown open at this moment, and a German officer appeared.Madame Fongereues rose hastily.

  "And what is the decision, Monsieur de Karlstein?" she asked.

  The officer bowed low to each of the three persons in the room, and thensaid, quietly:

  "To-morrow the allied armies will cross the French frontier."

  "At last!" exclaimed Madame de Fongereues, and Madame de Talizac uttereda cry of joy. The Marquis was unmoved.

  "The details--give us the details!" said the young Marquise.

  "We shall reach France through Switzerland," said the German, "andpenetrate the heart of the empire. Lord Castlereagh approves of thisplan and the Emperor Alexander gives it favorable consideration."

  "And in a month the king will be at the Tuileries!" said Madame deTalizac.

  The German did not notice this remark.

  "And now, ladies, will you kindly permit me to retire? In two hours Ileave with my company."

  Madame de Fongereues extended her hand to him.

  "Go, sir," she said. "Go aid in this sacred work! Insolent France mustlearn that the most sacred rights cannot be trodden under foot withimpunity. Let the chastisement be as terrible as has been the crime!"

  Monsieur de Karlstein bowed low and went out.

  "At last!" repeated the Marquise. "These French have insulted anddespised us too long! Twenty-five years of exile! It is twenty-fiveyears since my father the Comte de Maillezais took me in his arms and,pointing toward Paris, said, 'Child! remember that the day will comewhen these men will kill their king, as they have forced your father tofly for his life.' Monsieur Fongereues, do you hear? Are you not glad toreturn as master among these men who drove you away, and with you allthat there was great and noble in France?"

  The old man turned his head.

  "God protect France!" he said, solemnly.

  A shout of laughter rang through the room. It was the son of VicomteJean, who was laughing at his grandfather.

  Madame de Talizac shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Madame deFongereues made her a sign.

  "Come," she said, "the Marquis is sinking into his second childhood, andhis follies irritate me."

  The child took his mother's hand.

  "We shall be the masters now, mamma, shall we not?"

  The Vicomtesse murmured, as she left the room,

  "Why has not Jean come? Can it be that he has not succeeded!"

  Hardly had they disappeared than a door, concealed behind a hanging,slowly opened.

  Pierre Labarre appeared and noiselessly approaching his master, knelt athis feet.

  "Master," he said, respectfully, "I have returned."

  The Marquis started. "You have come!" he exclaimed, then dropping hisvoice, he added, "Quick! Simon?"

  "Hush! not so loud!" said Pierre; then whispering in the old man's ear,"He is living!" he said.

  The Marquis half closed his eyes, and his lips moved in prayer, whilelarge tears slowly ran down his withered cheeks.

  The Marquis belonged to one of the oldest families of Languedoc. Hisancestors had served France faithfully and had held positions of trustnear the persons of the kings. The present Marquis had committed a faultnot easily forgiven by the _ancien regime_. He had married the daughterof a farmer, when he was twenty, in spite of the threats of his family.This union was of short duration, for his wife died in giving birth to ason. This blow was so sudden that the young man abandoned himself todespair. He shut himself up from the world on an estate he had among theVosges mountains, and lived only for his child.

  The beloved dead, though of peasant blood, had been an extraordinarywoman. She, young as she was, had thought much, and felt deeply thesufferings of her class. She pointed out to the Marquis how the peoplewere weighed down by taxes, and how little their hard toil availedthem.

  "Friend," said Simonne, "thou art wealthy, thou belongest to theprivileged class, give and speak. Open thy hand, and raise thy voice!"

  She endeavored to awaken in his heart a noble ambition. He was twentyand he loved. Had she lived, Armand would, undoubtedly, have been one ofthe greatest actors in the crisis then preparing, but now that she wasgone, he forgot the glorious legacy she had bequeathed to him. Hedetested the court, however, and determined that his son should grow upfar away from its influences. Simon, therefore, passed his childhoodamong the mountains drinking in the delicious air, and growing as freelyas a young tree.

  But Armand was weak. His friends and family, who had fallen away fromhim at the time of his marriage, now sought to bring him back. Heresisted for a time, but at last went to Versailles. The king receivedhim proudly and said, "Monsieur de Fongereues, it is not well in you toabandon us thus. The throne needs its faithful supporters."

  A few days later he was presented to Mademoiselle de Maillezais--herbeauty was of that quality that dazzles rather than pleases. She madeherself very attractive on this occasion, anxious to take back to theking this nobleman who had so nearly been lost.

  In 1779, Armand married this lady. Simon, the peasant's son, was thenfive years of age. When his father spoke of him to his wife some littletime after their marriage, she replied:

  "You will, of course, do as you choose, but I should say that anychange would be likely to injure his health."

  The Marquis w
as glad to seize any excuse for keeping Simonne's son awayfrom that society which his mother had so strongly condemned. It waswith the feeling, therefore, that he was obeying the wishes of hisbeloved dead, that he left Simon among the mountains.

  It was at this time that the war begun by the enemies of Nechar againsthis innovations reached its height. The nobles and the clergy, feelingtheir privileges attacked, organized against the Genoese banker acampaign in which he was to fall. The Maillezais family were Nechar'spitiless adversaries, and in spite of himself the Marquis was carriedalong with them. His wife had acquired a supremacy over him that dailyincreased. His weak nature was ever ready to be influenced by others,and his natural enthusiasm originally aroused by Simonne for anothercause, was perverted to the profit of the _ancien regime_, and finallyhe was one of the first to applaud the words of Louis XVI., when hesigned his name to an edict which inflicted on the country a new debt offour hundred and twenty million.

  "It is _legal_ because _I wish it_."

  Nevertheless, the Marquis often thought of Simonne when he was alone. Herecalled her beautiful, energetic face, her pathetic, eloquent words.Then he longed to see her son, whom his present wife hated. She herselfhad become a mother; the Vicomte Jean Talizac had been held at thebaptismal font by the Queen Marie Antoinette.

  The Marquise determined to oust Simon from his place in his father'sheart. She but half succeeded in this, and was too wise to attack thememory of the dead.

  The Marquis wrote in secret to his son, and occasionally went to see himamong the Vosges, and embraced the lad, who inherited all his mother'sintelligence and goodness.

  Then the Vicomte returned like a truant schoolboy to Versailles, and theMarquise brought in her boy with an expression that seemed to say, "Thisis your boy! He is the one in whose veins runs only noble blood!"

  In 1787 the Marquis was dangerously ill. His wife was devoted to him,and one day when he was in a critical condition she said, gently:

  "Shall I send for the peasant's child?"

  He closed his eyes and did not reply. When, after long weeks of illness,he was restored to health, he belonged to the Marquise. He never spokeof his eldest child, and adored Jean.

  Then came the emigration. Monsieur de Fongereues, friend of Conde and ofPolignac, yielded to his wife's entreaties and joined the Prince deConde at Worms, where he was making an appeal to foreign powers againstFrance. Although yielding to the wishes of the Marquise, De Fongereueswas fully aware that it was a base act to desert his country, and exciteagainst her the hatred of her most violent enemies. Young Simon, theson of the peasant, could not join in this parricidal act, although theMarquis sent Pierre Labarre, who was even then in his service, to hisson, then fifteen years of age, to sound his views. If the youth wouldenter the army of Conde, the Marquis assured him a brilliant future. Ifhe remained in France, however, he could no longer rely on his father,who, however, sent him a large sum of money. The youth refused themoney, and replied:

  "Say to my father that I love him, and that if ever he requires adevoted heart and a courageous arm that he may summon me to his side;but now, if I am to choose between poverty in my own country and wealthin a foreign land, I remain here!"

  "It was Simonne's soul that spoke through his lips!" murmured theMarquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man.

  The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return toFribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquisthat Simon was living.

  Twenty-five years had elapsed--twenty-five years of anguish and sorrowfor the Marquis. He had seen France fighting with heroic energy againstall Europe. He had heard the enthusiastic shouts of 1792, and then thedull groans of the people crushed under the heel of the conqueror. Andwhile his country bled and fought, the Marquis blushed with shame inLondon, Berlin and Vienna when his French ears heard the maledictions ofthe conquered.

  As soon as his son, the Vicomte Jean, reached the age of twenty, he hadbecome one of the most active agents of the coalition, and, as if toindicate his hatred of France, married a German.

  From that time the Marquis heard nothing but abuse of France, nothingbut exultation when her sons fell in Spain or in Russia. The old man'sheart was sore within him, but it was then too late for him to make astand, and he was obliged to live on amid this hatred.

  Once only did Jean go to France to lend his aid to Cadondal'sconspiracy, but he was obliged to flee precipitately, and withdifficulty succeeded in gaining the frontier. On his return he was in astate of sullen rage. Was it despair at his lack of success, or did theVicomte feel any remorse? His father watched him with troubled eyes andmany fears, but did not dare ask a question.

  What had become of Simon? The Marquis had read in a newspaper that aSimon Fougere carried the orders of the day at the battle ofHohenlinden. He leaped at once at the truth. Simonne's son was fightingfor his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, wasfighting against it.

  Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The alliedarmies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand!

  Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servantcould learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered thatSimon was living. Pierre had been in the service of the Marquis forforty years. He had known Simonne, and felt for his master the deepestaffection. He was of the people, and only this affection had induced himto leave France. By degrees he had become the confidant of his master,and read his half-broken heart like an open book, and realized that itwas full of regrets, almost of remorse. Then he swore to himself that hewould aid the Marquis to repair the injustice done to Simon. It isneedless to say that Pierre's honest nature felt no sympathy for theMarquise. She, on the contrary, was the object of his deepest aversion,for he well knew that she had done her best to have him dismissed fromthe service of the Marquis.

  The Vicomte de Talizac, the Vicomtesse, and their son, detested Pierreand watched him closely, with what aim they alone knew.

  "I went to the Vosges, master," said Pierre. "I learned that the soldierknown by the name of Simon Fougere had gone to Lorraine. I could learnnothing more. I went about everywhere--to Epinal, Nancy, Saint Die--andI had begun to despair, when one evening I reached the foot of amountain and saw a little cluster of houses. I asked a peasant who waspassing if I could procure accommodations there for the night.

  "Of course," he answered. "Go straight ahead and you will come to friendSimon's inn."

  The Marquis listened breathlessly. Pierre continued:

  "The name was a common one in that part of the country, as I had goodreason to know, but this time my heart began to beat. I thanked thepeasant and I hurried on. And when I think that a Comte deFongereues----"

  "It was he, then!" cried the Marquis, snatching his servant's hands."And you saw him? Tell me everything!"

  "He is happy," answered Pierre. "But, master, let me tell my story in myown way, for then I shall forget nothing. I went into a little inn,which was as clean as possible and bore the sign, 'France!' A fire ofvine branches was sparkling in the big chimney. A boy of about ten cameto meet me. 'My friend,' I said, 'is this the inn of Monsieur Simon?'"

  "'Yes, sir,' he replied, looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I felt asif I had seen him before."

  "What! do you mean----" cried the Marquis.

  "Wait, master, wait. I told him that I wanted supper and a bed. The boyran toward a little door and called: 'Mamma! Mamma!' A woman appeared inpeasant dress, with dark hair and eyes. She carried a little girl on onearm. The mother looked about thirty, and the girl was some six years ofage.

  "'Take a chair, sir,' said the mistress of the house. 'We will do thebest we can for you.' Then she told the boy to take the horse to thestable and call his father. I took my seat by the fire and reflectedthat Simon would not be likely to know me, if it were he, as he had notseen me for thirty years. You had bidden me take care not to betraymyself, but I knew that Time had done his work.

  "'The country abou
t here looks very dreary,' I said to Madame Simon. Sheturned in surprise from her work. She was laying the table for mysupper.

  "'Ah! you are a stranger here!' she answered with a smile. 'No, it isnot dreary; it is much pleasanter here than in the cities.'

  "'But in winter?' I persisted.

  "'Oh! the mountains are magnificent then.'

  "'Have you been living here long, Madame?'

  "'Ten years,' she replied.

  "'And these beautiful children are yours?'

  "She hesitated a moment, or I thought so, but she said in a moment:

  "'Yes, they are mine, and you will see their father presently, the bestman in this place!' She brought in a bowl of steaming soup. 'Excuse thesimplicity of the service, sir.' The door opened, and, master, if it hadbeen in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have knownSimonne's son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master----"

  Pierre stopped short.

  "Go on; you frighten me!" cried the Marquis.

  "Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and thetears came to my eyes. He lost it at Elchingen, in 1805--it was shot offby a cannon ball."

  The Marquis started.

  "And his brother was there, too!" he murmured. "Go on, Pierre."

  "I knew him at once, as I was saying. He is tall, he is strong; his hairis turning gray, and he wears a heavy moustache, and was dressed inpeasant costume. He came to me, and said in a voice that was so like hismother's: 'You are welcome!' I extended my hand, he did not seem to beastonished, and received it cordially. I went to the table, and while Iate my soup I watched him closely. He took the little girl up in hisarms, and began to talk to her in a low voice, and the child listenedintently. I could not hear what was said, but presently the child camerunning to me.

  "'Monsieur,' she cried, 'will you do me a favor?'

  "'Certainly,' I replied.

  "'Will you drink with papa to the French army?'

  "'Most gladly!' I answered, wondering at the same time if Simon took mefor a spy. The mere idea made me feel ill, and I wanted to tell him whoI was, when he came to the table with a couple of glasses.

  "'To the success of our arms shall be our toast, sir!' he said. Ianswered, as I raised my glass to my lips: 'To France!' His eyes flashedwith joy. These words had evidently conquered his distrust.

  "'Would it be indiscreet to ask, sir, by what strange chance you are inthis wild place?'

  "I told him, for I had to lie, that I had lost my way. He looked at me amoment.

  "'You come from Germany, do you not?'

  "'Are you a sorcerer?' I exclaimed.

  "'No--it is plain to see that by the cut and the material of yourclothing. But is it true,' he continued rapidly, 'that the allied armiesare about to cross the frontier?'

  "'Alas! I fear so. But you do not know our last disaster, then?'

  "'Fortune has betrayed us, but patience--patience!'

  "'Do you think that further resistance is possible?' I asked.

  "'I am a soldier of France!' was his proud reply. 'I believe in mybanner and my country!' He then asked me many questions, and finally onethat made my heart leap to my throat.

  "'Is it true that the French emigres have accepted positions in theseforeign armies?' I protested my ignorance. He passed his hand over hisbrow, as if to chase away unfortunate doubts, and I changed theconversation.

  "'These lovely children are yours?' I asked.

  "'Yes--and this is my wife, Francoise Simon, the best of women, who hasconsoled me in many sorrows, and this is Jacques, my eldest, and youknow Francinette. Perhaps you will give me your name now?'

  "'One moment--you have not introduced yourself.'

  "'I am called Simon,' he answered with a frown.

  "'Simon--and nothing else?'

  "'Nothing else. If I ever bore another name, I have forgotten it. Ifought in 1791. I was wounded and compelled to leave the service.' Hespoke with some nervousness.

  "'Are your parents living?' I asked. He looked at me intently, andpouring out a glass of wine, he carried it to his lips with a steadyhand.

  "'I never knew them,' he replied.

  "We talked for some time, and he told me that after he recovered fromhis wound he entered the service of a rich farmer, and soon saved enoughto lease a small farm for himself, where he carried on his smallbusiness as an inn and kept a school, 'for,' he said, 'I had received agood education, and wished to do something for the children about me.'

  "It was midnight before I went to my room, and I arose as soon as Iheard a movement below, but, early as it was, Simon had already goneout. I felt that I must return to you without waiting to see him again.I had formed a plan which I trust you will approve of. I went to theMayor and obtained a copy of Simon's papers. You know since the new codeany one can get such papers, and I said something about a lawsuit."

  "And you have these papers?"

  "Yes--in a portfolio in my breast."

  He touched his breast as he spoke and uttered an exclamation of pain. "Ihad forgotten," he said, and then told his master of the attack made onhim in the Black Forest.

  "That is very strange," said the Marquis, thoughtfully.

  "At all events, I wounded him," Pierre replied.

  At this moment there was a sound just outside the door. The Marquisthrew it open quickly, but there was nothing to be seen.

  "I was sure I heard--"

  "This old, worm-eaten wood makes strange noises when the dampness getsinto it," said Pierre.

  The Marquis read the papers carefully which Pierre now gave him.

  "But there were two children at the time?" he said to Pierre. "Where isthe certificate of the birth of Jacques?"

  Pierre hesitated. "When Simon and Francoise were married," he answered,reluctantly, "Jacques was already born."

  "And now," said the Marquis, "I must make some change in my will. Mypoor boy, in these papers, does not give his real name, nor the place ofhis birth, but we will soon remedy that."

  "But why do you talk of your will! You must see your son, master, andthen you can make all things right."

  "I have grown very old lately, and have little strength left, but I hopeto embrace my son Simon before I die; but I am in the hands of God. Iwish to incorporate these papers in my will and then there will be nodifficulty in proving Simon's relationship."

  "But what do you fear?" asked Pierre.

  The Marquis looked at him.

  "Why this question? You know as well as I."

  "Do you think that the Vicomte would have the audacity--"

  The Marquis laid his hand on his servant's breast.

  "There is no peasant," he said, slowly and emphatically, "no peasant inthese parts who is capable of such a crime."

  Pierre bowed his head; he understood.

  "And this is not all," continued his master, "a will may be lost, may bestolen. I wish to provide for everything, and wish that Simon and hischildren shall be rich."

  The Marquis went on speaking in so low a voice that no one but theservant could possibly hear.