MADAME LA BARONNE DE LA LOGERIE, THINKING TO SERVE HER SON'S INTERESTS, SERVES THOSE OF PETIT-PIERRE.
The baroness sat down, or rather, fell into a chair, drawing Michel to his knees before her, and taking his head, which she pressed to her lips. At last the words which she seemed unable to bring out came to her.
"Is it possible that you are here in this place, not a hundred steps away from the château, which is full of soldiers?"
"The nearer I am to them, mother," replied Michel, "the less they'll look for me here."
"But don't you know what has taken place in Nantes?"
"What has taken place there?"
"The military courts have passed sentence after sentence."
"That only signifies to those they catch," said Michel, laughing.
"It signifies to every one," said his mother; "for those who are not taken may be taken at any moment."
"Not when they are hiding in the house of a mayor well-known for his Philippist opinions."
"You are none the less--"
The baroness stopped, as if her mouth refused to utter the words.
"Go on, mother!"
"You are none the less condemned--"
"Condemned to death; I know that."
"What! you know it, unhappy boy, and you stay here quietly?"
"I tell you, mother, that as long as I am with Courtin I'm quite safe."
"Then he has been kind to you, has he, that man?"
"He has been simply a second providence. He found me wounded and dying of hunger; he brought me home, and since then he has fed and hidden me."
"I must own I have distrusted him."
"Then you are wrong, mother."
"Maybe so. But talk of our own affairs, my dear child. No matter how well hidden you may be, you cannot stay here."
"Why not?"
"Because a mere chance, the slightest imprudence would betray you." Michel shook his head. "You don't want me to die of terror, do you?" said his mother.
"No no; I will listen to you."
"Well, I shall die of terror if you stay in France."
"But, mother, have you reflected on the difficulties of flight?"
"Yes; and I have surmounted them."
"How so?"
"I have chartered a small Dutch vessel which is now lying in the river opposite to Couéron. Get on board of her and go. God grant that you are strong enough for the journey." Michel did not answer. "You will go to England," continued his mother. "You will leave this cursed land which drank your father's blood; say you will, my son! So long as you stay here I cannot have an easy moment; I fancy at all hours I see the hand of the executioner stretched out to tear you from my arms." Still Michel kept silence. "Here," continued the baroness, "is a letter to the captain; and here too is an order for fifty thousand francs to your credit in England or America. Wherever you are, write to me, so that I may follow and join you. But what is the matter? Why don't you answer me?"
The fact is, Michel received this proposal with an insensibility which almost amounted to stupor. Go away? why, that was to part from Mary! At the mere idea of that separation his heart was so wrung that he fancied he would rather face the death to which he was condemned. Since Courtin had assisted in reviving his passion, he had in his heart conceived new hopes, and without saying a word of them to his farmer, he thought day and night on the means of getting to her. He could not endure the idea of once more renouncing her; and instead of replying to his mother as she developed her plan, he was simply strengthening his determination to be Mary's husband. Hence the silence which, naturally, made the baroness uneasy.
"Mother," said Michel at last, "I do not answer you because I cannot answer as I wish."
"How do you mean, as you wish?"
"Listen to me, mother," said the young man, with a firmness of which at any other time she would have thought him, and perhaps he might have thought himself, incapable.
"You don't refuse to go, I hope?"
"I don't refuse to go," said Michel, "but I put conditions to my going."
"Conditions where it concerns your life, your safety? Conditions before you consent to relieve your mother's agony?"
"Mother," said Michel, "since we last saw each other I have suffered much, and consequently I have learned much. I have learned, above all, that there are moments which decide the whole future happiness or misery of our lives. I am now in one of those moments, mother."
"And you mean to decide for my misery?"
"No; I shall speak to you as a man, that is all. Do not be surprised at that; I was thrown, a child, into the midst of these events, and I have come out of them a man. I know the duties I owe my mother; those duties are respect, tenderness, gratitude,--and those duties I will never evade. But in passing from youth to manhood, mother, horizons open and broaden the farther we go; there we find duties, succeeding those of youth, not exclusively to our family, but also to society. When a man reaches that stage in his life, though he still loves his mother, he must inevitably love another woman, who will be to him the mother of his children."
"Ah!" exclaimed the baroness, starting back from her son with an impulse that was stronger than her will.
"Yes, mother," said the young man, rising, "I have given that love; another love has replied to mine; our lives are indissolubly united; if I go, I will not go alone."
"You will go with your mistress?"
"I will go with my wife, mother."
"Do you suppose that I shall give my consent to that marriage?"
"You are free not to give your consent, mother, but I am free not to leave this place."
"Oh, wretched boy!" cried the baroness; "is this my reward for twenty years of care, and tenderness, and love?"
"That reward, mother," said Michel, his firmness increased by the knowledge that another ear was listening to his words, "you have in the respect I bear you, and the devotion of which I will give you proofs on every occasion. But true maternal love is not a usurer; it does not say, 'I will be twenty years thy mother in order to be thy tyrant;' it does not say, 'I will give thee life, youth, strength, intelligence, in order that all those powers shall be obedient to my will.' No, mother, true maternal love says: 'While thou wert feeble I supported thee; while thou wert ignorant I taught thee; while thou wert blind I led thee. To-day thou art strong and capable; make thy future life, not according to my will, but thine own; choose one among the many paths before thee, and wherever it may lead, love, bless, reverence the mother who made and trained thee to be strong;' that is the power of a mother over her son, as I see it; that is the respect and the duty which he owes to her."
The baroness was speechless; she would sooner have expected the skies to fall than to hear such firm and argumentative language from her son. She looked at him in stupefaction.
Proudly satisfied with himself, Michel looked at her calmly, with a smile upon his lips.
"So," she said, "nothing will induce you to give up this folly?"
"Say rather that nothing will induce me to break my word."
"Oh!" cried the baroness, pressing her hands upon her eyes, "unhappy mother that I am!"
Michel knelt beside her.
"I say to you: blessed mother you will be on the day you make the happiness of your son!"
"What is there so seductive about those wolves?" cried the baroness.
"By whatever name you call the woman I love," said Michel, "I shall reply to you: she has every quality that a man should seek in a wife; and it is not for you and me, mother, who have suffered so much from calumny, to seize, as readily as you have done, on the calumnies told of others."
"No, no, no!" cried the baroness, "never will I consent to such a marriage!"
"In that case, mother," said Michel, "take back those cheques and the letter to the captain of the vessel; they are useless to me, for I will not leave this place."
"What else can you do, you miserable boy?"
"Oh, that's simple enough. I'd rather die than live separated from her I love. I am cured. I am able to shoulder a musket. The remains of the insurrectionary army are collected in the forest of Touvois under command of the Marquis de Souday. I will join them, and fight with them, and get myself killed at the first chance. This is the second time death has missed me," he added with a pallid smile. "The third time his aim may be true and his hand steady."
The young man laid the letters and cheques on his mother's knees. In his tones and gestures there was such resolution and firmness that his mother saw that she cherished in vain the hope of changing him. In presence of that conviction her strength gave way.
"Well," she said, "be it according to your will, and may God forget that you have forced your mother to yield to you."
"God will forget it, mother; and when you see the happiness of your son you will forget it yourself."
The baroness shook her head.
"Go," she said, "marry, far away from me, a stranger I do not know and have never seen."
"I shall marry, I hope, a woman whom you will know and appreciate, mother; and that great day of my happiness will be blessed by your sanction. You have offered to join me wherever I go; wherever that may be I shall expect you, mother."
The baroness rose and made a few steps toward the door.
"Going without a word of farewell, without a kiss, mother? Are you not afraid it may bring me evil?"
"My unhappy boy, come to my arms, to my heart!"
And she said the words with that maternal cry which, sooner or later, must come from a mother's heart. Michel pressed her tenderly to his breast.
"When will you go, my child?" she said.
"That must depend on her, mother."
"As soon as possible, will you not?"
"To-night, I hope."
"You will find a peasant's dress below in the carriage. Disguise yourself as best you can. It is twenty-four miles from here to Couéron. You could get there by five in the morning. Don't forget the vessel's name,--the 'Jeune Charles.'"
"Don't be anxious, mother. The moment I know my end is happiness I shall take every precaution to reach it."
"As for me, I shall go back to Paris and use all my influence to get that fatal sentence revoked. But you--I entreat you, and I repeat it--take care of your life, and remember that my life is wrapped up in yours."
Mother and son again kissed each other, and Michel took his mother to the door. Courtin, as a faithful servitor, was keeping watch below. Madame de la Logerie begged him to accompany her to the château.
When Michel, after locking the door, turned round he saw Bertha, with a smile of happiness on her lips, and a halo of love about her head. She was waiting the moment to throw herself into his arms. Michel received her in them; and if the little room had not been dark she must have seen the embarrassment on the young baron's face.
"And now," she said, "nothing can part us; we have my father's consent, and now your mother's."
Michel was silent.
"Shall we start to-night?"
Still Michel said nothing.
"Well," she said, "why don't you answer me?"
"Because nothing is less sure than our departure," he replied.
"But you promised your mother to go to-night."
"I told my mother it depended on her."
"That is, on me," said Bertha.
"What!" exclaimed Michel, "would Bertha, true royalist and so devoted to the cause, leave France without thinking of those she leaves behind her?"
"What can you mean?" asked Bertha.
"I mean something grander and more useful to the country than my own escape, my personal safety," said the young man.
Bertha looked at him in astonishment.
"I mean the escape and safety of Madame," added Michel.
Bertha gave a cry; she began to understand.
"Ah!" she ejaculated.
"That vessel my mother has chartered for me can take from France not only you and me, but the princess, your father, and," he added in a lower voice, "your sister."
"Oh, Michel, Michel!" cried the young girl, "forgive me for not thinking of that! Just now I loved you; now I admire you! Yes, yes, you are right; Providence itself inspired your mother; yes, I will forget all the hard and cruel things she said of me, for I see in her an instrument of God sent to our succor to save us all. Oh, my friend, how good you are!--more than that, you are grand for having thought of it."
The young man stammered unintelligible words.
"Ah!" continued Bertha, in her enthusiasm, "I knew you were the bravest and most loyal of men; but to-day you have gone beyond my hopes and expectations. Poor child! wounded, condemned to death, he thinks of others before he thinks of himself! Ah, friend, I was happy, now I am proud in my love!"
If the room had been lighted Bertha must have seen the flush on Michel's cheek; he knew what his disinterestedness really was. It is true that after obtaining his mother's consent to marry the woman he loved, Michel had really dreamed of something else,--namely, the idea of rendering to Petit-Pierre the greatest service the most devoted follower could do for her at that moment, and afterward avow all and ask her, as a reward for that service, to procure for him Mary's hand. We can readily imagine his shame and confusion of face in Bertha's presence, and why, to all these demonstrations of the young girl the baron, cold in spite of himself, replied merely:--
"Now that all is arranged for us, Bertha, we have no time to lose."
"No," she said, "you are right. Give your orders. Now that I recognize the superiority not only of your heart but of your mind, I am ready to obey."
"Well," said Michel, "we must part here."
"Why so?" asked Bertha.
"Because you must go to the forest of Touvois and notify your father of what has happened, and bring him away with you. From there you must get to the bay of Bourgneuf, where the 'Jeune Charles' shall stop and pick you up. I shall go to Nantes and tell the duchess."
"You, in Nantes! Do you forget that you are condemned to death and that the authorities are watching for you? It is I who must go to Nantes and you to Touvois."
"But the 'Jeune Charles' expects me, Bertha, and in all probability the captain would obey no one but me; seeing a woman in place of a man he might suspect some trap and throw us into inextricable difficulties."
"But just reflect on the dangers you run in Nantes."
"On the contrary, it may be, if you think of it, Bertha, the very place where I should run the least. They will never suppose that, being condemned to death in Nantes, I should enter the town which condemned me. You know very well that there are times when the greatest boldness is the greatest safety. This is one of those times; and you must let me do as I choose."
"I told you I would obey you, Michel; I obey."
And the proud and beautiful young girl, submissive as a child, awaited the orders of the man who, thanks to an appearance of devotion, had just acquired almost gigantic proportions in her eyes.
Nothing was simpler than the decision they had made and its mode of execution. Bertha gave Michel the address of the duchess in Nantes and the different passwords by which he could gain admittance to her. She herself, dressed in Rosine's clothes, was to reach the forest of Touvois. Michel, of course, was to wear the peasant's costume brought to him by his mother. If nothing occurred to interfere with these arrangements the "Jeune Charles" would be able to sail at five o'clock on the following morning, carrying Petit-Pierre away from France, and with her the last vestiges of civil war.
Ten minutes later Michel was astride of Courtin's pony, saddled and bridled by himself, and taking leave, by a wave of his hand, of Bertha, who returned to the Tinguy cottage, from which she intended to start immediately by a cross-road toward the Touvois forest.
