The Honor of the Name. Emile Gaboriau
Читать онлайн книгу.
there, and which he passed in the public square, seemed more than a century long.
They emerged at last, however, and he was about to join them when he was prevented by the appearance of Martial, whose promises he overheard.
Maurice knew nothing of life; he was as innocent as a child, but he could not mistake the intentions that dictated this step on the part of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
At the thought that a libertine’s caprice should dare rest for an instant upon the pure and beautiful girl whom he loved with all the strength of his being—whom he had sworn should be his wife—all his blood mounted madly to his brain.
He felt a wild longing to chastise the insolent wretch.
Fortunately—unfortunately, perhaps—his hand was arrested by the recollection of a phrase which he had heard his father repeat a thousand times:
“Calmness and irony are the only weapons worthy of the strong.”
And he possessed sufficient strength of will to appear calm, while, in reality, he was beside himself with passion. It was Martial who lost his self-control, and who threatened him.
“Ah! yes, I will find you again, upstart!” repeated Maurice, through his set teeth as he watched his enemy move away.
For Martial had turned and discovered that Marie-Anne and her father had left him. He saw them standing about a hundred paces from him. Although he was surprised at their indifference, he made haste to join them, and addressed M. Lacheneur.
“We are just going to your father’s house,” was the response he received, in an almost ferocious tone.
A glance from Marie-Anne commanded silence. He obeyed, and walked a few steps behind them, with his head bowed upon his breast, terribly anxious, and seeking vainly to explain what had passed.
His attitude betrayed such intense sorrow that his mother divined it as soon as she caught sight of him.
All the anguish which this courageous woman had hidden for a month, found utterance in a single cry.
“Ah! here is misfortune!” said she, “we shall not escape it.”
It was, indeed, misfortune. One could not doubt it when one saw M. Lacheneur enter the drawing-room.
He advanced with the heavy, uncertain step of a drunken man, his eye void of expression, his features distorted, his lips pale and trembling.
“What has happened?” asked the baron, eagerly.
But the other did not seem to hear him.
“Ah! I warned her,” he murmured, continuing a monologue which had begun before he entered the room. “I told my daughter so.”
Mme. d’Escorval, after kissing Marie-Anne, drew the girl toward her.
“What has happened? For God’s sake, tell me what has happened!” she exclaimed.
With a gesture expressive of the most sorrowful resignation, the girl motioned her to look and to listen to M. Lacheneur.
He had recovered from that stupor—that gift of God—which follows cries that are too terrible for human endurance. Like a sleeper who, on waking, finds his miseries forgotten during his slumber, lying in wait for him, he regained with consciousness the capacity to suffer.
“It is only this, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the unfortunate man in a harsh, unnatural voice: “I rose this morning the richest proprietor in the country, and I shall lay down to-night poorer than the poorest beggar in this commune. I had everything; I no longer have anything—nothing but my two hands. They earned me my bread for twenty-five years; they will earn it for me now until the day of my death. I had a beautiful dream; it is ended.”
Before this outburst of despair, M. d’Escorval turned pale.
“You must exaggerate your misfortune,” he faltered; “explain what has happened.”
Unconscious of what he was doing, M. Lacheneur threw his hat upon a chair, and flinging back his long, gray hair, he said:
“To you I will tell all. I came here for that purpose. I know you; I know your heart. And have you not done me the honor to call me your friend?”
Then, with the cruel exactness of the living, breathing truth, he related the scene which had just taken place at the presbytery.
The baron listened petrified with astonishment, almost doubting the evidence of his own senses. Mme. d’Escorval’s indignant and sorrowful exclamations showed that every noble sentiment in her soul revolted against such injustice.
But there was one auditor, whom Marie-Anne alone observed, who was moved to his very entrails by this recital. This auditor was Maurice.
Leaning against the door, pale as death, he tried most energetically, but in vain, to repress the tears of rage and of sorrow which swelled up in his eyes.
To insult Lacheneur was to insult Marie-Anne—that is to say, to injure, to strike, to outrage him in all that he held most dear in the world.
Ah! it is certain that Martial, had he been within his reach, would have paid dearly for these insults to the father of the girl Maurice loved.
But he swore that this chastisement was only deferred—that it should surely come.
And it was not mere angry boasting. This young man, though so modest and so gentle in manner, had a heart that was inaccessible to fear. His beautiful, dark eyes, which had the trembling timidity of the eyes of a young girl, met the gaze of an enemy without flinching.
When M. Lacheneur had repeated the last words which he had addressed to the Duc de Sairmeuse, M. d’Escorval offered him his hand.
“I have told you already that I was your friend,” he said, in a voice faltering with emotion; “but I must tell you to-day that I am proud of having such a friend as you.”
The unfortunate man trembled at the touch of that loyal hand which clasped his so warmly, and his face betrayed an ineffable satisfaction.
“If my father had not returned it,” murmured the obstinate Marie-Anne, “my father would have been an unfaithful guardian—a thief. He has done only his duty.”
M. d’Escorval turned to the young girl, a little surprised.
“You speak the truth, Mademoiselle,” he said, reproachfully; “but when you are as old as I am, and have had my experience, you will know that the accomplishment of a duty is, under certain circumstances, a heroism of which few persons are capable.”
M. Lacheneur turned to his friend.
“Ah! your words do me good, Monsieur,” said he. “Now, I am content with what I have done.”
The baroness rose, too much the woman to know how to resist the generous dictates of her heart.
“And I, also, Monsieur Lacheneur,” she said, “desire to press your hand. I wish to tell you that I esteem you as much as I despise the ingrates who have sought to humiliate you, when they should have fallen at your feet. They are heartless monsters, the like of whom certainly cannot be found upon the earth.”
“Alas!” sighed the baron, “the allies have brought back others who, like these men, think the world created exclusively for their benefit.”
“And these people wish to be our masters,” growled Lacheneur.
By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear the remark made by M. Lacheneur. Had they overheard and questioned him, he would probably have disclosed some of the projects which were as yet in embryo in his own mind; and in that case what disastrous consequences might have been averted.
M. d’Escorval had regained his usual coolness.
“Now, my dear friend,” he inquired, “what course do you propose to pursue with