The Honor of the Name. Emile Gaboriau
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resisted the entreaties of his daughter.
This man, who had been compelled to conceal himself during the first Restoration, knew only too well, that the returned emigres had learned nothing and forgotten nothing.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was no exception to the rule.
He thought, and nothing could be more sadly absurd, that a mere act of authority would suffice to suppress forever all the events of the Revolution and of the empire.
When he said: “I do not admit that!” he firmly believed that there was nothing more to be said; that controversy was ended; and that what had been was as if it had never been.
If some, who had seen Louis XVII. at the helm in 1814, assured the duke that France had changed in many respects since 1789, he responded with a shrug of the shoulders:
“Nonsense! As soon as we assert ourselves, all these rascals, whose rebellion alarms you, will quietly sink out of sight.”
Such was really his opinion.
On the way from Montaignac to Sairmeuse, the duke, comfortably ensconced in his berlin, unfolded his theories for the benefit of his son.
“The King has been poorly advised,” he said, in conclusion. “Besides, I am disposed to believe that he inclines too much to Jacobinism. If he would listen to my advice, he would make use of the twelve hundred thousand soldiers which our friends have placed at his disposal, to bring his subjects to a sense of their duty. Twelve hundred thousand bayonets have far more eloquence than the articles of a charter.”
He continued his remarks on this subject until the carriage approached Sairmeuse.
Though but little given to sentiment, he was really affected by the sight of the country in which he was born—where he had played as a child, and of which he had heard nothing since the death of his aunt.
Everything was changed: still the outlines of the landscape remained the same; the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and laughing as in days gone by.
“I recognize it!” he exclaimed, with a delight that made him forget politics. “I recognize it!”
Soon the changes became more striking.
The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the only street in the village.
This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and had always been rendered impassable by wet weather.
“Ah, ha!” murmured the duke, “this is an improvement!”
It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapidated, thatched hovels had given place to pretty and comfortable white cottages with green blinds, and a vine hanging gracefully over the door.
As the carriage passed the public square in front of the church, Martial observed the groups of peasants who were still talking there.
“What do you think of all these peasants?” he inquired of his father. “Do they have the appearance of people who are preparing a triumphal reception for their old masters?”
M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. He was not the man to renounce an illusion for such a trifle.
“They do not know that I am in this post-chaise,” he replied. “When they know——”
Shouts of “Vive Monsieur le Duc de Sairmeuse!” interrupted him.
“Do you hear that, Marquis?” he exclaimed.
And pleased by these cries that proved him in the right, he leaned from the carriage-window, waving his hand to the honest Chupin family, who were running after the vehicle with noisy shouts.
The old rascal, his wife, and his children, all possessed powerful voices; and it was not strange that the duke believed the whole village was welcoming him. He was convinced of it; and when the berlin stopped before the house of the cure, M. de Sairmeuse was persuaded that the prestige of the nobility was greater than ever.
Upon the threshold of the parsonage, Bibiaine, the old housekeeper, was standing. She knew who these guests must be, for the cure’s servants always know what is going on.
“Monsieur has not yet returned from church,” she said, in response to the duke’s inquiry; “but if the gentlemen wish to wait, it will not be long before he comes, for the poor, dear man has not breakfasted yet.”
“Let us go in,” the duke said to his son. And guided by the housekeeper, they entered a sort of drawing-room, where the table was spread.
M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of the apartment in a single glance. The habits of a house reveal those of its master. This was clean, poor, and bare. The walls were whitewashed; a dozen chairs composed the entire furniture; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were only tin dishes.
This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a saint.
“Will these gentlemen take any refreshments?” inquired Bibiaine.
“Upon my word,” replied Martial, “I must confess that the drive has whetted my appetite amazingly.”
“Blessed Jesus!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, in evident despair. “What am I to do? I, who have nothing! That is to say—yes—I have an old hen left in the coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it, and clean it——”
She paused to listen, and they heard a step in the passage.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “here is Monsieur le Cure now!”
The son of a poor farmer in the environs of Montaignac, he owed his Latin and tonsure to the privations of his family.
Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as cold and impassive as the stones of his church.
By what immense efforts of will, at the cost of what torture, had he made himself what he was? One could form some idea of the terrible restraint to which he had subjected himself by looking at his eyes, which occasionally emitted the lightnings of an impassioned soul.
Was he old or young? The most subtle observer would have hesitated to say on seeing this pallid and emaciated face, cut in two by an immense nose—a real eagle’s beak—as thin as the edge of a razor.
He wore a white cassock, which had been patched and darned in numberless places, but which was a marvel of cleanliness, and which hung about his tall, attenuated body like the sails of a disabled vessel.
He was known as the Abbe Midon.
At the sight of the two strangers seated in his drawing-room, he manifested some slight surprise.
The carriage standing before the door had announced the presence of a visitor; but he had expected to find one of his parishioners.
No one had warned him or the sacristan, and he was wondering with whom he had to deal, and what they desired of him.
Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, but the old servant had taken flight.
The duke understood his host’s astonishment.
“Upon my word, Abbe!” he said, with the impertinent ease of a grand seigneur who makes himself at home everywhere, “we have taken your house by storm, and hold the position, as you see. I am the Duc de Sairmeuse, and this is my son, the Marquis.”
The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly impressed by the exalted rank of his guests.
“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, in a more than reserved tone, “to receive a visit from the former master of this place.”
He emphasized this word “former” in such a manner that it was impossible to doubt his sentiments and his opinions.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “you will not find here the comforts to which you are accustomed, and I fear——”
“Nonsense!”