The Honor of the Name Read online

  CHAPTER III

  Few of the inhabitants of Sairmeuse knew, except by name, the terribleduke whose arrival had thrown the whole village into commotion.

  Some of the oldest residents had a faint recollection of having seenhim long ago, before '89 indeed, when he came to visit his aunt, Mlle.Armande.

  His duties, then, had seldom permitted him to leave the court.

  If he had given no sign of life during the empire, it was because he hadnot been compelled to submit to the humiliations and suffering which somany of the emigrants were obliged to endure in their exile.

  On the contrary, he had received, in exchange for the wealth of which hehad been deprived by the revolution, a princely fortune.

  Taking refuge in London after the defeat of the army of Conde, he hadbeen so fortunate as to please the only daughter of Lord Holland, one ofthe richest peers in England, and he had married her.

  She possessed a fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand poundssterling, more than six million francs.

  Still the marriage was not a happy one. The chosen companion of thedissipated and licentious Count d'Artois was not likely to prove a verygood husband.

  The young duchess was contemplating a separation when she died,in giving birth to a boy, who was baptized under the names ofAnne-Marie-Martial.

  The loss of his wife did not render the Duc de Sairmeuse inconsolable.

  He was free and richer than he had ever been.

  As soon as _les convenances_ permitted, he confided his son to the careof a relative of his wife, and began his roving life again.

  Rumor had told the truth. He had fought, and that furiously, againstFrance in the Austrian, and then in the Russian ranks.

  And he took no pains to conceal the fact; convinced that he had onlyperformed his duty. He considered that he had honestly and loyallygained the rank of general which the Emperor of all the Russias hadbestowed upon him.

  He had not returned to France during the first Restoration; but hisabsence had been involuntary. His father-in-law, Lord Holland, had justdied, and the duke was detained in London by business connected with hisson's immense inheritance.

  Then followed the "Hundred Days." They exasperated him.

  But "the good cause," as he styled it, having triumphed anew, hehastened to France.

  Alas! Lacheneur judged the character of his former master correctly,when he resisted the entreaties of his daughter.

  This man, who had been compelled to conceal himself during the firstRestoration, knew only too well, that the returned _emigres_ had learnednothing 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 actof authority would suffice to suppress forever all the events of theRevolution and of the empire.

  When he said: "I do not admit that!" he firmly believed that there wasnothing 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 dukethat France had changed in many respects since 1789, he responded with ashrug of the shoulders:

  "Nonsense! As soon as we assert ourselves, all these rascals, whoserebellion alarms you, will quietly sink out of sight."

  Such was really his opinion.

  On the way from Montaignac to Sairmeuse, the duke, comfortably ensconcedin 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. Ifhe would listen to my advice, he would make use of the twelve hundredthousand soldiers which our friends have placed at his disposal, tobring his subjects to a sense of their duty. Twelve hundred thousandbayonets have far more eloquence than the articles of a charter."

  He continued his remarks on this subject until the carriage approachedSairmeuse.

  Though but little given to sentiment, he was really affected by thesight of the country in which he was born--where he had played as achild, and of which he had heard nothing since the death of his aunt.

  Everything was changed: still the outlines of the landscape remained thesame; the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and laughing as in daysgone by.

  "I recognize it!" he exclaimed, with a delight that made him forgetpolitics. "I recognize it!"

  Soon the changes became more striking.

  The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the onlystreet in the village.

  This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and had always beenrendered impassable by wet weather.

  "Ah, ha!" murmured the duke, "this is an improvement!"

  It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapidated, thatchedhovels had given place to pretty and comfortable white cottages withgreen blinds, and a vine hanging gracefully over the door.

  As the carriage passed the public square in front of the church, Martialobserved 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 triumphalreception for their old masters?"

  M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. He was not the man to renouncean illusion for such a trifle.

  "They do not know that I am in this post-chaise," he replied. "When theyknow----"

  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 fromthe carriage-window, waving his hand to the honest Chupin family, whowere running after the vehicle with noisy shouts.

  The old rascal, his wife, and his children, all possessed powerfulvoices; and it was not strange that the duke believed the whole villagewas welcoming him. He was convinced of it; and when the berlin stoppedbefore 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, wasstanding. She knew who these guests must be, for the cure's servantsalways know what is going on.

  "Monsieur has not yet returned from church," she said, in response tothe duke's inquiry; "but if the gentlemen wish to wait, it will not belong 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 entirefurniture; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were only tindishes.

  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 haswhetted 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 anold 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 hisLatin and tonsure to the privations of his family.

  Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as cold and impassive as the stones ofhis church.

  By what immense efforts of will, at the cost of what torture, had hemade himself what he was? One could form some idea of the terriblerestraint 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 tosay on seeing this pallid and emaciated face, cut in tw
o by an immensenose--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 numberlessplaces, but which was a marvel of cleanliness, and which hung about histall, 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, hemanifested some slight surprise.

  The carriage standing before the door had announced the presence of avisitor; but he had expected to find one of his parishioners.

  No one had warned him or the sacristan, and he was wondering with whomhe had to deal, and what they desired of him.

  Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, but the old servant had takenflight.

  The duke understood his host's astonishment.

  "Upon my word, Abbe!" he said, with the impertinent ease of a _grandseigneur_ who makes himself at home everywhere, "we have taken yourhouse by storm, and hold the position, as you see. I am the Duc deSairmeuse, and this is my son, the Marquis."

  The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly impressed by theexalted 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 impossibleto doubt his sentiments and his opinions.

  "Unfortunately," he continued, "you will not find here the comforts towhich you are accustomed, and I fear----"

  "Nonsense!" interrupted the duke. "An old soldier is not fastidious,and what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, will suffice for us. And restassured that we shall amply repay you in one way or another for anyinconvenience we may cause you."

  The priest's eye flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeablefamiliarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of the manconcealed beneath the priest.

  "Besides," added Martial, gayly, "we have been vastly amused byBibiaine's anxieties, we already know that there is a chicken in thecoop----"

  "That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis."

  The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her master'sresponse. She seemed overwhelmed with despair.

  "Blessed Virgin! Monsieur, what shall I do?" she clamored. "The chickenhas disappeared. Someone has certainly stolen it, for the coop issecurely closed!"

  "Do not accuse your neighbor hastily," interrupted the cure; "no one hasstolen it from us. Bertrande was here this morning to ask alms in thename of her sick daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl thatshe might make a good bouillon for the sick girl."

  This explanation changed Bibiaine's consternation to fury.

  Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand upon her hip, andgesticulating wildly with the other, she exclaimed, pointing to hermaster:

  "That is just the sort of man he is; he has less sense than a baby! Anymiserable peasant who meets him can make him believe anything he wishes.Any great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do whatthey like with him. In that way they take the very shoes off his feetand the bread from his mouth. Bertrande's daughter, messieurs, is nomore ill than you or I!"

  "Enough," said the priest, sternly, "enough." Then, knowing byexperience that his voice had not the power to check her flood ofreproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the passage.

  M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of consternation.

  Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their benefit? Evidentlynot, since their arrival had not been expected.

  But the priest, whose character had been so plainly revealed by thisquarrel with his domestic, was not a man to their taste.

  At least, he was evidently not the man they had hoped to find--not theauxiliary whose assistance was indispensable to the success of theirplans.

  Yet they did not exchange a word; they listened.

  They heard the sound as of a discussion in the passage. The master spokein low tones, but with an unmistakable accent of command; the servantuttered an astonished exclamation.

  But the listeners could not distinguish a word.

  Soon the priest re-entered the apartment.

  "I hope, gentlemen," he said, with a dignity that could not fail tocheck any attempt at raillery, "that you will excuse this ridiculousscene. The cure of Sairmeuse, thank God! is not so poor as she says."

  Neither the duke nor Martial made any response.

  Even their remarkable assurance was very sensibly diminished; and M. deSairmeuse deemed it advisable to change the subject.

  This he did, by relating the events which he had just witnessed inParis, and by insisting that His Majesty, Louis XVIII., had beenwelcomed with enthusiasm and transports of affection.

  Fortunately, the old housekeeper interrupted this recital.

  She entered, loaded with china, silver, and bottles, and behind her camea large man in a white apron, bearing three or four covered dishes inhis hands.

  It was the order to go and obtain this repast from the village inn whichhad drawn from Bibiaine so many exclamations of wonder and dismay in thepassage.

  A moment later the cure and his guests took their places at the table.

  Had the much-lamented chicken constituted the dinner the rations wouldhave been "short." This the worthy woman was obliged to confess, onseeing the terrible appetite evinced by M. de Sairmeuse and his son.

  "One would have sworn that they had eaten nothing for a fortnight," shetold her friends, the next day.

  Abbe Midon was not hungry, though it was two o'clock, and he had eatennothing since the previous evening.

  The sudden arrival of the former masters of Sairmeuse filled hisheart with gloomy forebodings. Their coming, he believed, presaged thegreatest misfortunes.

  So while he played with his knife and fork, pretending to eat, he wasreally occupied in watching his guests, and in studying them withall the penetration of a priest, which, by the way, is generally farsuperior to that of a physician or of a magistrate.

  The Duc de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked considerably younger.

  The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his riper years, the greatexcesses of every kind in which he had indulged, had not impaired hisiron constitution in the least.

  Of herculean build, he was extremely proud of his strength, and of hishands, which were well-formed, but large, firmly knit and powerful, suchhands as rightly belonged to a gentleman whose ancestors had given manya crushing blow with ponderous battle-axe in the crusades.

  His face revealed his character. He possessed all the graces and all thevices of a courtier.

  He was, at the same time _spirituel_ and ignorant, sceptical andviolently imbued with the prejudices of his class.

  Though less robust than his father, Martial was a no lessdistinguished-looking cavalier. It was not strange that women raved overhis blue eyes, and the beautiful blond hair which he inherited from hismother.

  To his father he owed energy, courage, and, it must also be added,perversity. But he was his superior in education and in intellect. If heshared his father's prejudices, he had not adopted them without weighingthem carefully. What the father might do in a moment of excitement, theson was capable of doing in cold blood.

  It was thus that the abbe, with rare sagacity, read the character of hisguests.

  So it was with great sorrow, but without surprise, that he heard theduke advance, on the questions of the day, the impossible ideas sharedby nearly all the _emigres_.

  Knowing the condition of the country, and the state of public opinion,the cure endeavored to convince the obstinate man of his mistake; butupon this subject the duke would not permit contradiction, or evenraillery; and he was fast losing his temper, when Bibiaine appeared atthe parlor door.

  "Monsieur le Duc," said she, "Monsieur Lacheneur and his daughter arewithout and desire to speak to you."