Le dossier no. 113. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  XII

  THE DRAMA

  About two leagues from Tarascon, on the left bank of the Rhone, notfar from the wonderful gardens of M. Audibert, stood the chateau ofClameran, a weather-stained, neglected, but massive structure.

  Here lived, in 1841, the old Marquis de Clameran and his two sons,Gaston and Louis.

  The marquis was an eccentric old man. He belonged to the race of nobles,now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who kept timewith the past century.

  More attached to his illusions than to his life, the old marquisinsisted upon considering all the stirring events which had happenedsince the first revolution as a series of deplorable practical jokes.

  Emigrating with the Count d'Artois, he did not return to France until1815, with the allies.

  He should have been thankful to Heaven for the recovery of a portion ofhis immense family estates; a comparatively small portion, to be sure,but full enough to support him comfortably: he said, however, that hedid not think the few paltry acres were worth thanking God for.

  At first, he tried every means to obtain an appointment at court; butseeing all his efforts fail, he resolved to retire to his chateau, whichhe did, after cursing and pitying his king, whom he had worshipped.

  He soon became accustomed to the free and indolent life of a countrygentleman.

  Possessing fifteen thousand francs a year, he spent twenty-five orthirty thousand, borrowing from every source, saying that a genuinerestoration would soon take place, and that then he would regainpossession of all his properties.

  Following his example, his younger son lived extravagantly. Louis wasalways in pursuit of adventure, and idled away his time in drinking andgambling. The elder son, Gaston, anxious to participate in the stirringevents of the time, prepared himself for action by quietly working,studying, and reading certain papers and pamphlets surreptitiouslyreceived, the very mention of which was considered a hanging matter byhis father.

  Altogether the old marquis was the happiest of mortals, living well,drinking high, hunting much, tolerated by the peasants, and execratedby the gentlemen of the neighborhood, who regarded him with contempt andraillery.

  Time never hung heavy on his hands, except in mid-summer, when thevalley of the Rhone was intensely hot; and even then he had infalliblemeans of amusement, always new, though ever the same.

  He detested, above all, his neighbor the Countess de la Verberie.

  The Countess de la Verberie, the "bete noire" of the marquis, as heungallantly termed her, was a tall, dry woman, angular in appearance andcharacter, cold and arrogant toward her equals, and domineering over herinferiors.

  Like her noble neighbor, she too had emigrated; and her husband wasafterward killed at Lutzen, but unfortunately not in the French ranks.

  In 1815, the countess came back to France. But while the Marquis deClameran returned to comparative ease, she could obtain nothing fromroyal munificence, but the small estate and chateau of La Verberie.

  It is true that the chateau of La Verberie would have contented mostpeople; but the countess never ceased to complain of her unmeritedpoverty, as she called it.

  The pretty chateau was more modest in appearance than the manor of theClamerans; but it was equally comfortable, and much better regulated byits proud mistress.

  It was built in the middle of a beautiful park, one of the wonders ofthat part of the country. It reached from the Beaucaire road to theriver-bank, a marvel of beauty, with its superb old oaks, yoke-elms, andlovely groves, its meadow, and clear stream of water winding in amongthe trees.

  The countess had but one child--a lovely girl of eighteen, namedValentine; fair, slender, and graceful, with large, soft eyes, beautifulenough to make the stone saints of the village church thrill in theirniches, when she knelt piously at their feet.

  The renown of her great beauty, carried on the rapid waters of theRhone, was spread far and wide.

  Often the bargemen and the robust wagoners, driving their powerfulhorses along the road, would stop to gaze with admiration upon Valentineseated under some grand old tree on the banks of the river, absorbed inher book.

  At a distance her white dress and flowing tresses made her seem amysterious spirit from another world, these honest people said; theythought it a good omen when they caught a glimpse of her as they passedup the river. All along between Arles and Valence she was spoken of asthe "lovely fairy" of La Verberie.

  If M. de Clameran detested the countess, Mme. de la Verberie execratedthe marquis. If he nicknamed her "the witch," she never called himanything but "the old gander."

  And yet they should have agreed, for at heart they cherished the sameopinions, with different ways of viewing them.

  He considered himself a philosopher, scoffed at everything, and had anexcellent digestion. She nursed her rancor, and grew yellow and thinfrom rage and envy.

  Nevertheless, they might have spent many pleasant evenings together,for, after all, they were neighbors. From Clameran could be seenValentine's greyhound running about the park of La Verberie; from LaVerberie glimpses were had of the lights in the dining-room windows ofClameran.

  And, as regularly as these lights appeared, every evening, the countesswould say, in a spiteful tone:

  "Ah, now their orgies are about to commence!"

  The two chateaux were only separated by the fast-flowing Rhone, which atthis spot was rather narrow.

  But between the two families existed a hatred deeper and more difficultto avert than the course of the Rhone.

  What was the cause of this hatred?

  The countess, no less than the marquis, would have found it difficult totell.

  It was said that under the reign of Henri IV. or Louis XIII. a LaVerberie betrayed the affections of a fair daughter of the Clamerans.

  This misdeed led to a duel and bloodshed.

  This groundwork of facts had been highly embellished by fiction; handeddown from generation to generation, it had now become a long tragichistory of robbery, murder, and rapine, which precluded any intercoursebetween the two families.

  The usual result followed, as it always does in real life, and often inromances, which, however exaggerated they may be, generally preserve areflection of the truth which inspires them.

  Gaston met Valentine at an entertainment; he fell in love with her atfirst sight.

  Valentine saw Gaston, and from that moment his image filled her heart.

  But so many obstacles separated them!

  For over a year they both religiously guarded their secret, buried likea treasure in the inmost recesses of their hearts.

  And this year of charming, dangerous reveries decided their fate. Tothe sweetness of the first impression succeeded a more tender sentiment;then came love, each having endowed the other with superhuman qualitiesand ideal perfections.

  Deep, sincere passion can only expand in solitude; in the impure air ofa city it fades and dies, like the hardy plants which lose their colorand perfume when transplanted to hot-houses.

  Gaston and Valentine had only seen each other once, but seeing was tolove; and, as the time passed, their love grew stronger, until at lastthe fatality which had presided over their first meeting brought themonce more together.

  They both happened to be spending the day with the old Duchessd'Arlange, who had returned to the neighborhood to sell her property.

  They spoke to each other, and like old friends, surprised to find thatthey both entertained the same thoughts and echoed the same memories.

  Again they were separated for months. But soon, as if by accident, theyhappened to be at a certain hour on the banks of the Rhone, and wouldsit and gaze across at each other.

  Finally, one mild May evening, when Mme. de la Verberie had gone toBeaucaire, Gaston ventured into the park, and appeared before Valentine.

  She was not surprised or indignant. Genuine innocence displays noneof the startled modesty assumed by conventional innocence. It neveroccurred to Valentine that she ought to bid Gaston to leave h
er.

  She leaned upon his arm, and strolled up and down the grand old avenueof oaks. They did not say they loved each other, they felt it; but theydid say that their love was hopeless. They well knew that the inveteratefamily feud could never be overcome, and that it would be folly toattempt it. They swore never, never to forget each other, and tearfullyresolved never to meet again; never, not even once more!

  Alas! Valentine was not without excuse. With a timid, loving heart, herexpansive affection was repressed and chilled by a harsh mother. Neverhad there been one of those long private talks between the Countessde la Verberie and Valentine which enabled a good mother to read herdaughter's heart like an open book.

  Mme. de la Verberie saw nothing but her daughter's beauty. She was wontto rub her hands, and say:

  "Next winter I will borrow enough money to take the child to Paris, andI am much mistaken if her beauty does not win her a rich husband whowill release me from poverty."

  She called this loving her daughter!

  The second meeting was not the last. Gaston dared not trust to aboatman, so he was obliged to walk a league in order to cross thebridge. Then he thought it would be shorter to swim the river; but hecould not swim well, and to cross the Rhone where it ran so rapidly wasrash for the most skilful swimmers.

  One evening, however, Valentine was startled by seeing him rise out ofthe water at her feet.

  She made him promise never to attempt this exploit again. He repeatedthe feat and the promise the next evening and every successive evening.

  As Valentine always imagined he was being drowned in the furiouscurrent, they agreed upon a signal. At the moment of starting, Gastonwould put a light in his window at Clameran, and in fifteen minutes hewould be at his idol's feet.

  What were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas! they projectednothing, they hoped for nothing.

  Blindly, thoughtlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves tothe dangerous happiness of a daily rendezvous; regardless of the stormthat must erelong burst over their devoted heads, they revelled in theirpresent bliss.

  Is not every sincere passion thus? Passion subsists upon itself and initself; and the very things which ought to extinguish it, absenceand obstacles, only make it burn more fiercely. It is exclusive andundisturbed; reflects neither of the past nor of the future; exceptingthe present, it sees and cares for nothing.

  Moreover, Valentine and Gaston believed everyone ignorant of theirsecret.

  They had always been so cautious! they had kept such strict watch! Theyhad flattered themselves that their conduct had been a masterpiece ofdissimulation and prudence.

  Valentine had fixed upon the hour when she was certain her mother wouldnot miss her. Gaston had never confided to anyone, not even to hisbrother Louis. They never breathed each other's name. They deniedthemselves a last sweet word, a last kiss, when they felt it would bemore safe.

  Poor blind lovers! As if anything could be concealed from the idlecuriosity of country gossips; from the slanderous and ever-watchfulenemies who are incessantly on the lookout for some new bit oftittle-tattle, good or bad, which they improve upon, and eagerly spreadfar and near.

  They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long sincebeen made public; the story of their love, the particulars of theirrendezvous, were topics of conversation throughout the neighborhood.

  Sometimes, at dusk, they would see a bark gliding along the water, nearthe shore, and would say to each other:

  "It is a belated fisherman, returning home."

  They were mistaken. The boat contained malicious spies, who delightedin having discovered them, and hastened to report, with a thousand falseadditions, the result of their expedition.

  One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the true state ofaffairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains that an inundation wasdaily expected. To attempt to swim across this impetuous torrent, wouldbe tempting God. Therefore Gaston went to Tarascon, intending to crossthe bridge there, and walk along the bank to the usual place of meetingat La Verberie. Valentine expected him at eleven o'clock.

  Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined with a relative living there;but on this occasion a strange fatality led him to accompany a friend tothe hotel of the "Three Emperors."

  After dinner, they went not the Cafe Simon, their usual resort, but tothe little cafe in the market-place, where the fairs were held.

  The small dining-hall was filled with young men. Gaston and his friendcalled for a bottle of beer, and began to play billiards.

  After they had been playing a short time, Gaston's attention wasattracted by peals of laughter from a party at the other end of theroom.

  From this moment, preoccupied by this continued laughter, of which hewas evidently the subject, he knocked the balls carelessly in everydirection. His conduct surprised his friend, who said to him:

  "What is the matter? You are missing the simplest shots."

  "It is nothing."

  The game went on a while longer, when Gaston suddenly turned as white asa sheet, and, throwing down his cue, strode toward the table which wasoccupied by five young men, playing dominoes and drinking wine.

  He addressed the eldest of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, withfierce-looking eyes, and a heavy black mustache, named Jules Lazet.

  "Repeat, if you dare," he said, in a voice trembling with passion, "theremark you just now made!"

  "I certainly will repeat it," said Lazet, calmly. "I said, and I sayit again, that a nobleman's daughter is no better than a mechanic'sdaughter; that virtue does not always accompany a titled name."

  "You mentioned a particular name!"

  Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would exasperateGaston, and that from words they would come to blows.

  "I did," he said, with an insolent smile: "I mentioned the name of thepretty little fairy of La Verberie."

  All the coffee-drinkers, and even two travelling agents who were diningin the cafe, rose and surrounded the two young men.

  The provoking looks, the murmurs, or rather shouts, which welcomed himas he walked up to Lazet, proved to Gaston that he was surrounded byenemies.

  The wickedness and evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing theirfruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely among the people ofProvence.

  Gaston de Clameran was not a man to yield, even if his foes were ahundred, instead of fifteen or twenty.

  "No one but a coward," he said, in a clear, ringing voice, which thepervading silence rendered almost startling, "no one but a contemptiblecoward would be infamous enough to calumniate a young girl who hasneither father nor brother to defend her honor."

  "If she has no father or brother," sneered Lazet, "she has her lovers,and that suffices."

  The insulting words, "her lovers," enraged Gaston beyond control; heslapped Lazet violently in the face.

  Everyone in the cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of terror. Lazet'sviolence of character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage,were well known. He sprang across the table between them, and seizedGaston by the throat. Then arose a scene of excitement and confusion.Clameran's friend, attempting to assist him, was knocked down withbilliard-cues, and kicked under a table.

  Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet struggled for some minuteswithout either gaining an advantage.

  Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept assistance fromhis friends. He continually called out:

  "Keep away; let me fight it out alone!"

  But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators of thescene.

  "A quilt!" cried one of them, "a quilt to make the marquis jump!"

  Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and separated him fromLazet. Some tried to throw him down, others to trip him up.

  He defended himself with the energy of despair, exhibiting in hisfurious struggles a strength of which he himself had not been conscious.He struck right and left as he showered fierce epithets upon hisadversaries for being twe
lve against one.

  He was endeavoring to get around the billiard-table so as to be near thedoor, and had almost succeeded, when an exultant cry arose:

  "Here is the quilt! the quilt!" they cried.

  "Put him in the quilt, the pretty fairy's lover!"

  Gaston heard these cries. He saw himself overcome, and suffering anignoble outrage at the hands of these enraged men.

  By a dexterous movement he extricated himself from the grasp of thethree who were holding him, and felled a fourth to the ground.

  His arms were free; but all his enemies returned to the charge.

  Then he seemed to lose his head, and, seizing a knife which lay on thetable where the travelling agents had been dining, he plunged it intothe breast of the first man who rushed upon him.

  This unfortunate man was Jules Lazet. He dropped to the ground.

  There was a second of silent stupor.

  Then four or five of the young men rushed forward to raise Lazet. Thelandlady ran about wringing her hands, and screaming with fright. Someof the assailants rushed into the street shouting, "Murder! Murder!"

  The others once more turned upon Gaston with cries of "Vengeance! killhim!"

  He saw that he was lost. His enemies had seized the first objects theycould lay their hands upon, and he received several wounds. He jumpedupon the billiard-table, and, making a rapid spring, dashed through thelarge glass window of the cafe. He was fearfully cut by the broken glassand splinters, but he was free.

  Gaston had escaped, but he was not yet saved. Astonished anddisconcerted at his desperate feat, the crowd for a moment werestupefied; but, recovering their presence of mind, they started inpursuit of him.

  The weather was bad, the ground wet and muddy, and heavy black cloudswere rolling westward; but the night was not dark.

  Gaston ran on from tree to tree, making frequent turnings, every momenton the point of being seized and surrounded, and asking himself whatcourse he should take.

  Finally he determined, if possible, to regain Clameran.

  With incredible rapidity he darted diagonally across the fair-ground, inthe direction of the levee which protected the valley of Tarascon frominundations.

  Unfortunately, upon reaching this levee, planted with magnificent treeswhich made it one of the most charming walks of Provence, Gaston forgotthat the entrance was closed by a gate with three steps, such as arealways placed before walks intended for foot-passengers, and rushedagainst it with such violence that he was thrown back and badly bruised.

  He quickly sprang up; but his pursuers were upon him.

  This time he could expect no mercy. The infuriated men at his heelsyelled that fearful cry which in the evil days of lawless bloodshed hadoften echoed in that valley: "In the Rhone with him! In the Rhone withthe marquis!"

  His reason had abandoned him; he no longer knew what he did. Hisforehead was cut, and the blood trickled from the wound into his eyes,and blinded him.

  He must escape, or die in the attempt.

  He had tightly clasped the bloody knife with which he had stabbed Lazet.He struck his nearest foe; the man fell to the ground with a heavygroan.

  A second blow gained him a moment's respite, which gave him time to openthe gate and rush along the levee.

  Two men were kneeling over their wounded companion, and five othersresumed the pursuit.

  But Gaston flew fast, for the horror of his situation tripled hisenergy; excitement deadened the pain of his wounds; with elbows heldtight to his sides, and holding his breath, he went along at such aspeed that he soon distanced his pursuers; the noise of their feetbecame gradually more indistinct, and finally ceased.

  Gaston ran on for a mile, across fields and over hedges; fences andditches were leaped without effort and when he knew he was safe fromcapture he sank down at the foot of a tree to rest.

  This terrible scene had taken place with inconceivable rapidity. Onlyforty minutes had elapsed since Gaston and his friend entered the cafe.

  But during this short time how much had happened! These forty minuteshad given more cause for sorrow and remorse than the whole of hisprevious life put together.

  Entering this tavern with head erect and a happy heart, enjoying presentexistence, and looking forward to a yet better future, he left itruined; for he was a murderer! Henceforth he would be under a ban--anoutcast!

  He had killed a man, and still convulsively held the murderousinstrument; he cast it from him with horror.

  He tried to account for the dreadful circumstances which had just takenplace; as if it were of any importance to a man lying at the bottom ofan abyss to know which stone had slipped, and precipitated him from thesummit.

  Still, if he alone had been ruined! But Valentine was dragged down withhim: she was disgraced yet more than himself; her reputation was gone.And it was his want of self-command which had cast to the winds thishonor, confided to his keeping, and which he held far dearer than hisown.

  But he could not remain here bewailing his misfortune. The police mustsoon be on his track. They would certainly go to the chateau of Clameranto seek him; and before leaving home, perhaps forever, he wished to saygood-by to his father, and once more press Valentine to his heart.

  He started to walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, andhis nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to relax;the intense heat caused by his struggling and fast running was replacedby a cold perspiration, aching limbs, and chattering teeth. His hip andshoulder pained him almost beyond endurance. The cut on his forehead hadstopped bleeding, but the coagulated blood around his eyes blinded him.

  After a painful walk he reached his door at ten o'clock.

  The old valet who admitted him started back terrified.

  "Good heavens, monsieur! what is the matter?"

  "Silence!" said Gaston in the brief, compressed tone always inspired byimminent danger, "silence! where is my father?"

  "M. the marquis is in his room with M. Louis. He has had a suddenattack of the gout, and cannot put his foot to the ground; but you,monsieur----"

  Gaston did not stop to listen further. He hurried to his father's room.

  The old marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped hisdice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his eldest sonstanding before him covered with blood.

  "What is the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?"

  "I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to ask forassistance to escape abroad."

  "Do you wish to fly the country?"

  "I must fly, father, and instantly; I am pursued, the police may be hereat any moment. I have killed two men."

  The marquis was so shocked that he forgot the gout, and attempted torise; a violent twinge made him drop back in his chair.

  "Where? When?" he gasped.

  "At Tarascon, in a cafe, an hour ago; fifteen men attacked me, and Iseized a knife to defend myself."

  "The old tricks of '93," said the marquis. "Did they insult you, Gaston?What was the cause of the attack?"

  "They insulted in my presence the name of a noble young girl."

  "And you punished the rascals? Jarnibleu! You did well. Who ever heardof a gentleman allowing insolent puppies to speak disrespectfully of alady of quality in his presence? But who was the lady you defended?"

  "Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie."

  "What!" cried the marquis, "what! the daughter of that old witch! Thoseaccursed de la Verberies have always brought misfortune upon us."

  He certainly abominated the countess; but his respect for her nobleblood was greater than his resentment toward her individually, and headded:

  "Nevertheless, Gaston, you did your duty."

  Meanwhile, the curiosity of St. Jean, the marquis's old valet, made himventure to open the door, and ask:

  "Did M. the marquis ring?"

  "No, you rascal," answered M. de Clameran: "you know very well I didnot. But, now you are here, be useful. Quickly bring some clothes forM. Gaston,
some fresh linen, and some warm water: hasten and dress hiswounds."

  These orders were promptly executed, and Gaston found he was not sobadly hurt as he had thought. With the exception of a deep stab in hisleft shoulder, his wounds were not serious.

  After receiving all the attentions which his condition required, Gastonfelt like a new man, ready to brave any peril. His eyes sparkled withrenewed energy and excitement.

  The marquis made a sign to the servants to leave the room.

  "Do you still think you ought to leave France?" he asked Gaston.

  "Yes, father."

  "My brother ought not to hesitate," interposed Louis: "he will bearrested here, thrown into prison, vilified in court, and--who knows?"

  "We all know well enough that he will be convicted," grumbled the oldmarquis. "These are the benefits of the immortal revolution, as it iscalled. Ah, in my day we three would have taken our swords, jumped onour horses, and, dashing into Tarascon, would soon have--. But thosegood old days are passed. To-day we have to run away."

  "There is no time to lose," observed Louis.

  "True," said the marquis, "but to fly, to go abroad, one must havemoney; and I have none by me to give him."

  "Father!"

  "No, I have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been! If I onlyhad a hundred louis!"

  Then he told Louis to open the secretary, and hand him the money-box.

  The box contained only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold.

  "Nine hundred and twenty francs," cried the marquis: "it will neverdo for the eldest son of our house to fly the country with this paltrysum."

  He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he told Louisto open a secret drawer in the secretary, and bring him a small casket.

  Then the marquis took from his neck a black ribbon, to which wassuspended the key of the casket.

  His sons observed with what deep emotion he unlocked it, and slowlytook out a necklace, a large cross, several rings, and other pieces ofjewelry.

  His countenance assumed a solemn expression.

  "Gaston, my dear son," he said, "at a time like this your life maydepend upon bought assistance; money is power."

  "I am young, father, and have courage."

  "Listen to me. The jewels belonged to the marquise, your sainted mother,a noble, holy woman, who is now in heaven watching over us. Thesejewels have never left me. During my days of misery and want, when I wascompelled to earn a livelihood by teaching music in London, I piouslytreasured them. I never thought of selling them; and to mortgage them,in the hour of direst need, would have seemed to be a sacrilege. But nowyou must take them, my son, and sell them for twenty thousand livres."

  "No, father no; I cannot take them!"

  "You must, Gaston. If your mother were on earth, she would tell youto take them, as I do now. I command you to take and use them. Thesalvation, the honor, of the heir of the house of Clameran, must not beimperilled for want of a little gold."

  With tearful eyes, Gaston sank on his knees, and, carrying his father'shand to his lips, said:

  "Thanks, father, thanks! In my heedless, ungrateful presumption I havehitherto misjudged you. I did not know your noble character. Forgive me.I accept; yes, I accept these jewels worn by my dear mother; but I takethem as a sacred deposit, confided to my honor, and for which I willsome day account to you."

  In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threatened danger.But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.

  "Time presses," he said: "you had better hasten."

  "He is right," cried the marquis: "go, Gaston, go, my son; and Godprotect the heir of the Clamerans!"

  Gaston slowly got up and said, with an embarrassed air:

  "Before leaving you, my father, I must fulfil a sacred duty. I havenot told you everything. I love Valentine, the young girl whose honor Idefended this evening."

  "Oh!" cried the marquis, thunderstruck, "oh, oh!"

  "And I entreat you, father, to ask Mme. de la Verberie for the hand ofher daughter. Valentine will gladly join me abroad, and share my exile."

  Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The old marquishad become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck by apoplexy.

  "Preposterous!" he gasped. "Impossible! Perfect folly!"

  "I love her, father, and have promised her never to marry another."

  "Then always remain a bachelor."

  "I shall marry her!" cried Gaston, excitedly. "I shall marry her becauseI have sworn I would, and I will not be so base as to desert her."

  "Nonsense!"

  "I tell you, Mlle. de la Verberie must and shall be my wife. It is toolate for me to draw back. Even if I no longer loved her, I would stillmarry her, because she has given herself to me; because, can't youunderstand--what was said at the cafe to-night was true: I have but oneway of repairing the wrong I have done Valentine--by marrying her."

  Gaston's confession, forced from him by circumstances, produced avery different impression from that which he had expected. The enragedmarquis instantly became cool, and his mind seemed relieved of animmense weight. A wicked joy sparkled in his eyes, as he replied:

  "Ah, ha! she yielded to your entreaties, did she? Jarnibleu! I amdelighted. I congratulate you, Gaston: they say she is a pretty littlefool."

  "Monsieur," interrupted Gaston, indignantly; "I have told you that Ilove her, and have promised to marry her. You seem to forget."

  "Ta, ta ta!" cried the marquis, "your scruples are absurd. You know fullwell that her great-grandfather led our great-grandmother astray. Now weare quits! I am delighted at the retaliation, for the old witch's sake."

  "I swear by the memory of my mother, that Valentine shall be my wife!"

  "Do you dare assume that tone toward me?" cried the exasperated marquis."Never, understand me clearly; never will I give my consent. You knowhow dear to me is the honor of our house. Well, I would rather see youtried for murder, and even chained to the galleys, than married to thisworthless jade!"

  This last word was too much for Gaston.

  "Then your wish shall be gratified, monsieur. I will remain here, and bearrested. I care not what becomes of me! What is life to me without thehope of Valentine? Take back these jewels: they are useless now."

  A terrible scene would have taken place between the father and son, hadthey not been interrupted by a domestic who rushed into the room, andexcitedly cried:

  "The gendarmes! here are the gendarmes!"

  At this news the old marquis started up, and seemed to forget his gout,which had yielded to more violent emotions.

  "Gendarmes!" he cried, "in my house at Clameran! They shall pay dear fortheir insolence! You will help me, will you not, my men?"

  "Yes, yes," answered the servants. "Down with the gendarmes! down withthem!"

  Fortunately Louis, during all this excitement, preserved his presence ofmind.

  "To resist would be folly," he said. "Even if we repulsed the gendarmesto-night, they would return to-morrow with reinforcements."

  "Louis is right," said the marquis, bitterly. "Might is right, as theysaid in '93. The gendarmes are all powerful. Do they not even have theimpertinence to come up to me while I am hunting, and ask to see myshooting-license?--I, a Clameran, show a license!"

  "Where are they?" asked Louis of the servants.

  "At the outer gate," answered La Verdure, one of the grooms. "Does notmonsieur hear the noise they are making with their sabres?"

  "Then Gaston must escape over the garden wall."

  "It is guarded, monsieur," said La Verdure, "and the little gate inthe park besides. There seems to be a regiment of them. They are evenstationed along the park walls."

  This was only too true. The rumor of Lazet's death had spread likewildfire throughout the town of Tarascon, and everybody was in a stateof excitement. Not only mounted gendarmes, but a platoon of hussars fromthe garrison, had been sent in pursuit of the murderer.

  At least twenty young men of Tarascon
were volunteer guides to the armedforce.

  "Then," said the marquis, "we are surrounded?"

  "Not a single chance for escape," groaned St. Jean.

  "We shall see about that, Jarnibleu!" cried the marquis. "Ah, we are notthe strongest, but we can be the most adroit. Attention! Louis, my son,you and La Verdure go down to the stable, and mount the fastest horses;then as quietly as possible station yourselves, you, Louis, at the parkgate, and you, La Verdure, at the outer gate. Upon the signal I shallgive you by firing a pistol, let every door be instantly opened, whileLouis and Verdure dash through the gates, and make the gendarmes pursuethem."

  "I will make them fly," said La Verdure.

  "Listen. During this time, Gaston, aided by St. Jean, will scale thepark wall, and hasten along the river to the cabin of Pilorel, thefisherman. He is an old sailor of the republic, and devoted to ourhouse. He will take Gaston in his boat; and, when they are once on theRhone, there is nothing to be feared save the wrath of God. Now go, allof you: fly!"

  Left alone with his son, the old man slipped the jewelry into a silkpurse, and, handing them once more to Gaston, said, as he stretched outhis arms toward him:

  "Come here, my son, and let me embrace you, and bestow my blessing."

  Gaston hesitated.

  "Come," insisted the old man in broken tones, "I must embrace you forthe last time: I may never see you again. Save yourself, save your name,Gaston, and then--you know how I love you, my son: take back the jewels.Come."

  For an instant the father and son clung to each other, overpowered byemotion.

  But the continued noise at the gates now reaches their ears.

  "We must part!" said M. de Clameran, "go!" And, taking from his deska little pair of pistols, he handed them to his son, and added, withaverted eyes, "You must not be captured alive, Gaston!"

  Gaston did not immediately descend to the park.

  He yearned to see Valentine, and give her one last kiss before leavingFrance, and determined to persuade Pilorel to stop the boat as they wentby the park of La Verberie.

  He hastened to his room, placed the signal in the window so thatValentine might know he was coming, and waited for an answering light.

  "Come, M. Gaston," entreated old St. Jean, who could not understand thestrange conduct. "For God's sake make haste! your life is at stake!"

  At last he came running down the stairs, and had just reached thevestibule when a pistol-shot, the signal given by the marquis, washeard.

  The loud swinging open of the large gate, the rattling of the sabresof the gendarmes, the furious galloping of many horses, and a chorus ofloud shouts and angry oaths, were next heard.

  Leaning against the window, his brow beaded with cold perspiration, theMarquis de Clameran breathlessly awaited the issue of this expedient,upon which depended the life of his eldest son.

  His measures were excellent, and deserved success. As he had ordered,Louis and La Verdure dashed out through the gate, one to the right, theother to the left, each one pursued by a dozen mounted men. Their horsesflew like arrows, and kept far ahead of the pursuers.

  Gaston would have been saved, but for the interference of fate; but wasit fate, or was it malice?

  Suddenly Louis's horse stumbled, and fell to the ground with his rider.The gendarmes rode up, and at once recognized the second son of M. deClameran.

  "This is not the assassin!" they cried. "Let us hurry back, else he willescape!"

  They returned just in time to see, by the uncertain light of the moonpeeping from behind a cloud, Gaston climbing the garden wall.

  "There is our man!" exclaimed the corporal. "Keep your eyes open, andgallop after him!"

  They spurred their horses, and hastened to the spot where Gaston hadjumped from the wall.

  On a wooded piece of ground, even if it be hilly, an agile man, if hepreserves his presence of mind, can escape a number of horsemen. Theground on this side of the park was favorable to Gaston. He foundhimself in an immense madder-field; and, as is well known, as thisvaluable root must remain in the ground three years, the furrows arenecessarily ploughed very deep. Horses cannot even walk over its unevensurface; indeed, they can scarcely stand steadily upon it.

  This circumstance brought the gendarmes to a dead halt.

  Four rash hussars ventured in the field, but they and their beasts weresoon rolling between hillocks.

  Jumping from ridge to ridge, Gaston soon reached a large field, freshlyploughed, and planted with young chestnuts.

  As his chances of escape increased, the excitement grew more intense.The pursuers urged each other on, and called out to head him off, everytime they saw Gaston run from one clump of trees to another.

  Being familiar with the country, young De Clameran was confident ofeluding his pursuers. He knew that the next field was a thistle-field,and was separated from the chestnut by a long, deep ditch.

  He resolved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb outat the farther end, while they were looking for him among the trees.

  But he had forgotten the swelling of the river. Upon reaching the ditch,he found it full of water.

  Discouraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across, whenthree horsemen appeared on the opposite side.

  They were gendarmes who had ridden around the madder-field andchestnut-trees, knowing they could easily catch him on the level groundof the thistle-field.

  At the sight of these three men, Gaston stood perplexed.

  He should certainly be captured if he attempted to run through thefield, at the end of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel theferryman.

  To retrace his steps would be surrendering to the hussars.

  At a little distance on his right was a forest, but he was separatedfrom it by a road upon which he heard the sound of approaching horses.He would certainly be caught there.

  Foes in front of him, foes behind him, foes on the right of him! Whatwas on his left?

  On his left was the surging, foaming river.

  What hope was left? The circle of which he was the centre was fastnarrowing.

  Must he, then, fall back upon suicide? Here in an open field, tracked bypolice like a wild beast, must he blow his brains out? What a death fora De Clameran!

  No! He would seize the one chance of salvation left him: a forlorn,desperate, perilous chance, but still a chance--the river.

  Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of alittle promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.

  This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.

  The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gaston's weight, as he stoodon the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there werefifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering criesof joy.

  "Do you surrender?" called out the corporal.

  Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He was above thepark of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that hewas not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angrytorrent before him?

  He pictured Valentine, at this very moment, watching, waiting, andpraying for him on the other shore.

  "For the last time I command you to surrender!" cried the corporal.

  The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the waters whichwere roaring and rushing around him.

  In a supreme moment like this, with his foot upon the threshold ofanother world, a man sees his past life rise before him, and seldom doeshe find cause for self-approval.

  Although death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered whichwould be the best spot to plunge into, and commended his soul to God.

  "He will stand there until we go after him," said a gendarme: "so wemight as well advance."

  Gaston had finished his prayer.

  He flung his pistols in the direction of the gendarmes: he was ready.

  He made the sign of the cross, then, with outstretched arms, dashed headforemost into the Rhone.
<
br />   The violence of his spring detached the few remaining roots of the oldtree; it oscillated a moment, whirled over, and then drifted away.

  The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity; anger seemed to havedeserted them in their turn.

  "That is an end of him," muttered one of the gendarmes. "It is uselessfor one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arlesto-morrow."

  The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave,handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so muchbitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, andespecially his resignation, his resolution to die.

  True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of thevanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power toassist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.

  "An ugly piece of work!" grumbled the old quartermaster who had commandof the hussars.

  "Bast!" exclaimed the philosophic corporal, "the Rhone is no worse thanthe court of assizes: the result would be the same. Right about, men;march! The thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old manwaiting to hear his son's fate. I would not be the one to tell him whathas happened. March!"