Chapter Eight.
In the Rue du Bac.
The years that came and went at Poissy after the birth of this baby son were slowly drawing away the life of M. de Cadanet in that little Paris hotel, which yet to his shrunk interests seemed large and hollow. Even when Léon saw him he was small and bent, with his skin colourless; by this time he had grown absolutely dwarfish, wizened, elfish-looking, the extraordinary brightness of his eyes, shining out of their hollow caves, giving him a strange and weird appearance. His body had become extremely frail, but his will showed no symptoms of weakening, and one or two valets who had presumed on his apparent feebleness found themselves speedily undeceived and dismissed. Old friends had dropped off, smitten by death or illness; newspapers and politics absorbed his chief attention, but the absorption was gloomy, for to the old—recalling what seem better days—hope is difficult, and pessimism natural.
M. Charles had succeeded in his determination to make himself necessary to the old count, and it must be admitted that the task was difficult. It required to be carried out with the greatest care and circumspection, since M. de Cadanet was suspicious of the smallest premonitory shadow of coercion. More than once, more than half a dozen times, Charles’s fate had trembled in the balance, and given him some bad half-hours of disquiet. If he could have made a confidante of his wife, things might have been easier for him; as it was, he cursed his stars that even with her it was necessary to play a part, for she was an honest dull woman, who would have blurted out to M. de Cadanet what her husband most wished to conceal.
It has been said that the furniture and surroundings were austere. They did not become less so when their owner grew older and weaker. He had always despised luxuries rather than begrudged them; he despised them still. Had he ever derived personal pleasure from them, he might have been more merciful towards Léon, and the fabulous sums M. Charles reported him to have paid for his cigars; but such expenditure, especially personal expenditure, appeared to him a miserable weakness.
Of Léon he never spoke, though M. Charles would have given a good deal to have known what had happened. Without being aware of the exact state of affairs, he was aware of this much: The Poissy estates were—if not hopelessly—deeply embarrassed. Probably in order to make a desperate appeal to his cousin, M. de Beaudrillart had presented himself one day at the hotel, and had an interview. This much he had gathered from the servant. Since that day Léon had, to his knowledge, never reappeared in Paris; but from inquiries he had made, it seemed, was living quietly at Poissy, engaged in the ordinary life of a country gentleman. This, moreover, was five or six years ago.
There might, of course, be one simple explanation. M. de Cadanet might have relented under the pressure of a personal interview, and advanced the large necessary sum of money, extorting at the same time a promise from the young man to give up his Paris extravagances and betake himself to the provinces and economy. But Charles was tolerably certain that this had not happened. To begin with, he thought that his uncle, as he chose to call him, would have told him what he had done, for he was in the habit of speaking pretty frankly to him about Léon. And in the next place there was another point which might almost be taken as proof against the possibility of such an advance. Charles himself had received a gift of one hundred thousand francs, and some six months later another gift of the same sum, with the intimation that they represented an abandoned idea. What this idea might have been he never ventured to ask, but he made many shrewd, guesses, and the guess which seemed the most probable pointed to Léon de Beaudrillart. Why there was that space of months between the gifts he could not think; putting that aside, he felt convinced that M. de Cadanet’s generosity would not have carried him to the length of providing for two relatives in so lavish a fashion.
In spite of his conviction that he had benefited by Léon’s disgrace, Charles did not hate him the less. Possibly it was because he knew that Léon was aware of his true character; and although he had not accused him to M. de Cadanet, there was an unpleasant feeling of insecurity in the knowledge. But that was not all, because as M. de Cadanet grew weaker, and the chances of M. de Beaudrillart ever seeing him again became infinitesimal, he lost nothing of his distrust and dislike. Perhaps from something the old count had once let drop, he had not been without hope of becoming master of Poissy—a hope which had ended in disappointment. Perhaps there still lurked in his mind a fear that when the will was read, Léon might be remembered. Whatever it was, one thing was certain—that his hate had not diminished.
It need not be said that he had grown extremely tired of dancing attendance at the house in the Rue du Bac. The hours spent in the severely-furnished room, reading to or writing for M. de Cadanet, who exacted all his attention, and never fell asleep, were irksome to the last degree. He received few thanks, but often a gift accompanied by a dozen cynical words. The cynicism did not affect him, the gift it was which enabled him to endure the attendance. As often as possible he sent his wife. She was a kindly unimaginative woman; luckily for her own happiness, of very slow perception; and attaching herself readily by little surface roots to those who came in her way. She had liked her aunt and she liked M. de Cadanet, although he treated her with scant civility; as he grew weaker, she was at the house a great deal, and applied herself diligently to feeding him with beef tea, which he detested, and with such small pieces of news as she considered sufficiently unexciting.
M. de Cadanet sat in a straight-backed chair, wrapped in a wadded dressing-gown, for, although the weather was hot, he was now always cold, and young Mme. Lemaire had for the last twenty minutes been engaged in presenting him with such scraps of news from Le Temps as she thought suitable. In the midst he said, with a sudden yawn which would have disconcerted a more sensitive person:
“Amélie, is one permitted to ask how old you are!”
Mme. Lemaire laid the newspaper calmly in her lap, and considered, before answering honestly:
“I was seven-and-twenty last April.”
“Heavens! Only that I sometimes when I listen to you I think I hear my grandmother.”
“Yes? I never saw her, of course, but I dare say she was an excellent woman,” said Amélie, taking up her work, since her uncle now seemed disposed for a little conversation.
“Oh, excellent!” he muttered, with a little laugh. “She killed the count, my grandfather.”
“Killed him! oh, impossible! You don’t really mean it!”
“She bored him to death,” returned M. de Cadanet, letting his chin sink feebly on his chest.
“Poor man! Now, do you know, I am afraid you are tired. If you were to let me ring for an egg beaten up with a little sherry? No? Then shall I go on reading?”
“No. Unless—”
“What, mon oncle?”
“Is there anything about—about Poissy in the paper?”
“Oh, let me see.” She immediately busied herself. “Poissy—Poissy—”
“Do you know the name?”
“No, I think not. I cannot remember it.”
“Your husband has not mentioned it?”
“Never. Has anything happened there? Perhaps you would like us to make inquiries?”
“No. Be quiet. Nothing has happened since—since—a child was born.”
“Ah, there is a child.” Her voice had changed; she looked down, and a sigh escaped her.
“Certainly. And a boy.”
Silence followed. She said presently, wistfully, “I suppose, then, they are very happy?”
“Perhaps. I do not know, and I do not care, but—in old days I knew Poissy.”
He spoke slowly and with difficulty, his voice dropping until it was scarcely audible, and after these last words he relapsed into silence. Amélie again laid down the paper, and took up her work—a little blouse for an orphan in whom she was interested; she was extremely charitable, and as Charles did not give her much money, and always talked of his poverty, she consoled herself by working for her poor. Her nature was singularly placid, and she was fairly happy; indeed, she would have declared she wanted nothing, except perhaps a little more money for her orphans. A really kind heart gave her an interest in the sick man, and she did not suffer from his sharp speeches because she did not discover their edge. Now she sat and thought tranquilly of fat little Marie, how fast she outgrew her frocks, and what was to be done for another when this was worn out. A thin white streak of sunshine, penetrating through the outer blinds, just struck her pale brown hair, wreathed in a large coil at the back of her head, and stole across the table to M. de Cadanet’s hand, which lay upon a book. The hand was very thin and parchment-like; every now and then it twitched slightly, and his head sank lower. Amélie, who had more than once glanced in his direction, became at last uneasy at the profound stillness; she laid down her work, and half rose, resting her fingers on the table. It was possible that he might be asleep, but sleep was unusual with him, and the least movement generally enough to disturb him. As he did not stir she moved towards him noiselessly, until she was close, but his face was so sunk that she was obliged to drop on her knees to gain a sight of it. Then she uttered a cry, for it was drawn and distorted.
It did not require the verdict of the doctor, hurriedly sent for, to tell them that M. de Cadanet had had a stroke. He was carried to the adjoining bedroom, helpless and speechless. Mme. Lemaire despatched a messenger to her husband, and made her own arrangements to remain in the house and to obtain a nurse. Charles did not arrive until late, and fully approved her purpose. He had no affection for his wife, but was never wanting in civility.
“Certainly, my dear Amélie; and permit me to say you have shown your usual excellent sense. It would never do to leave the poor old man alone. What does the doctor say?”
“He says that it is impossible as yet to form an opinion, but he hopes that he will recover in a measure. Oh, I do trust so! It was so startlingly sudden.”
“He does not suffer,” said her husband, carelessly, “and if he revives, what sort of a life will it be? I am sure that if I were he I should prefer to die.”
“I am not so sure,” Amélie said, walking about the room and placing the chairs in order. “But certainly he is terribly lonely with no one but us. Is there really no one?”
“No one.”
“Who lives at Poissy?”
Charles turned quickly upon her.
“Poissy! What do you know of Poissy?”
“Oh, nothing. Only, our uncle spoke of it just before his attack. I really think it was the last thing he said.”
“Now, remember, Amélie, this may be of great importance, and I should be glad to know exactly what were his words.” It enraged him that she still went on with her arranging, but he was afraid of displaying the anxiety he felt.
“Let me see. I think he began with asking whether there was anything about Poissy in the paper.”
“In the paper!” The young man caught up Le Temps and devoured the columns. “But there is not, of course. Go on, Amélie. What next?”
“I believe he wanted to know if I knew the name—if you had ever mentioned it to me. You never have, my friend, and so I told him.”
“Yes?”
“Then he remarked—I don’t know why—that a boy had been born there. And that must have been all he said, except that he had known Poissy in old days.”
“Confound it! what did he mean?” muttered her husband, standing chin in hand.
“Oh, I suppose it is some place where he was when he was young, and that it just came across his mind at that moment. Unless you think there is some one there whom he wishes to see? What a pity he did not say more!”
“If he does come to his senses, let me advise you not to make any suggestions of that sort,” said Charles, controlling himself with difficulty. “The owner of Poissy is an extravagant good-for-nothing, who has mortally offended your uncle, and the probable result of mentioning his name would be to bring on a most dangerous excitement.”
“Then I will not, of course, because nothing could be so bad for him. But I am very sorry. It would be so much happier for him, poor dear! if there were some one besides ourselves in whom he could take an interest, especially if there was a child.”
To this her husband made no answer. His wife’s personal opinions were profoundly indifferent to him, and so long as she was impressed with the danger of exciting M. de Cadanet, she might utter as many futile aspirations as she pleased. But what she had told him gave him uneasiness—more from a vague dread of Léon de Beaudrillart than from a well-grounded fear. He had a fancy that M. de Cadanet’s thoughts turned sometimes with yearning in that direction, and he had with great care avoided ever mentioning the birth of a son at Poissy. How the old man had discovered this event he could not conceive. Most alarming of all was the fact that he had not only known but had kept silence, since it pointed to possible other reticences; and Charles had all the schemer’s distrust for the unknown. He believed, however, that if M. de Cadanet died in his present condition, he was certain to come into so much of his property as he could will away; if he recovered, and his brain still worked with painful ideas of this child at Poissy—grandson of the man who had befriended him—it was impossible to be sure that some foolish sentiment, some insane impulse of gratitude, might not prove strong enough to upset his former dispositions. The lust of gambling had increased upon the young man, debts had swollen, creditors pressed. Between him and things he loved best in the world a brazen gate was slowly shutting, and he knew that it wanted but the clink of M. de Cadanet’s money for the barrier to roll swiftly back, and fling open a garden of delight. Now, that, added to his other anxieties, there came this new doubt as to the disposition of the wealth which he had been, counting on as his own, he cursed fate freely, and went about the house with an injured air.
To watch life and death fighting is not a pretty sight. With M. de Cadanet, life slowly got the better; but its wounds and its weaknesses were many, and the old count, rent with the strife, and agonised with the pricks of returning circulation, was a sorry spectacle. He was well nursed, for Amélie was in her element, and gave him her whole attention, always more delightful to a patient than the intelligence which he may wish for in health. She made no demands upon his brain, and his medicine and food were ready at exactly the right hour. Moreover, she was really quick in understanding his imperfect speech. Every day she brought her husband a pleased report that there was a growing improvement. Charles had not the face to frown except behind her back. He said once, sharply:
“All this is very fine; say what you like, but he will never be himself again.”
“Oh, why not?” exclaimed his wife, appealingly. He controlled himself to answer.
“They never are after such an attack, which, of course, weakens the brain.”
“Well, he knows everything, I am sure,” she persisted. Charles was going out of the room, and returned, anxiety in his face.
“What does he talk about?”
“He likes to hear what the doctor has said.”
“He has never alluded to—to Poissy?”
She exclaimed at the idea.
“Oh, he has not come to thinking about things of that sort.”
“All the better,” said her husband, drawing a long breath. “Mind you turn him off from it if he begins; but let me hear what he says. You’re the only person that can understand the gibberish.”
(“That is one bit of luck,” he added, under his breath.)
“Oh, he is getting on,” she called after him, consolingly. Charles inquired daily, but M. de Cadanet never made allusion to Poissy. To lie and watch the flies on the ceiling, the sunshine travelling round from shadow to shadow; to frown with pain or impatience; to listen to the ticking of the gilt clock on the mantel-piece, or the muffled rattle of a carriage; stung by these new prickings to try to move the leg and arm to which force was slowly, slowly creeping back—this was M. de Cadanet’s daily life. No one could understand him except Mme. Lemaire; they pretended to sometimes, in order not to annoy him; but the pretence only irritated him the more. By little and little, however, words shaped themselves more rightly.
By—and—by he was lifted into a great chair, and wheeled from one part of the room to the other; and this move accomplished, Mme. Lemaire thought that she might return home. Charles had agreed to her remaining in the Rue du Bac with an amiability which she considered remarkable. He did not care for her enough to miss her, and preferred having some one on the spot to report upon anything out of the usual course. He would therefore willingly have consented to her absence, but the Orphanage had an outbreak of measles, and her placid good sense told her that she was no longer absolutely necessary to M. de Cadanet. The nurse, therefore, had full charge by night, and Mme. Lemaire and the concierge André, a quiet man, whom the count said he preferred to women about him, shared the day between them.
Unperceptive as she was, Amélie could not but allow that her husband was in a very bad temper. He showed it chiefly by silence, which she had the discretion not to break, and by absence from the house, which, he said, was owing to business. He had not the audacity to tell her, and she was the last woman to whom it would have occurred—simply, perhaps, because ideas did not seem ever to spring spontaneously in her unimaginative mind, but required to be planted there—that it was M. de Cadanet’s recovery, to which undoubtedly her excellent nursing had contributed, which had brought about the gloom. He took care to inform the world that the recovery was very partial, and that the seizure had seriously affected the old count’s mind; but, in point of fact, M. de Cadanet’s intellect was as keen as ever—painfully so, indeed, because it kept him perfectly conscious of his sad condition, and caused miserable fits of depression.
These fits of depression were treated indifferently by the nurse, but they always distressed Mme. Lemaire, who would not have realised a silent trouble, but felt great compassion for one of which she saw the outward signs. She did her best to produce a cheerful atmosphere, and when he complained of the desolation of old age, cast about for something comforting.
“Is there not any one, now, dear uncle, that you would like to come and see you?”
“My friends are where I ought to be—in the grave.”
“Oh, don’t say that. Your time isn’t come. Why, you’re getting better every day. Next week we shall move into the other room—think of that for an event!”
The old man groaned, and Amélie, at her wits’ end, ventured on the subject against which her husband had warned her.
“You want some one young and lively to cheer you up, that is what I think. The Poissy you were talking about—is there no one there?”
M. de Cadanet uttered a short “No!” but she persisted.
“If they were to bring the child? A little boy, is it not? A house always seems to grow happier when there is a child in it. You have never seen him!”
“Never. And never shall.”
“What a pity!”
“His father,” said M. de Cadanet, presently, “behaved abominably.”
“Dear, dear, what a pity!” repeated Amélie, holding up her work that she might judge of the effect. “Perhaps he has grown better now that there is a child.”
“One must see to believe that.”
“That is what I thought.”
“Monsieur de Beaudrillart will never come here!” exclaimed the old count, with all his usual sharpness. Something called her out of the room, and when she came back he had evidently been pondering on the subject, for he said, “You are right as to one thing; for the child is Baron Bernard’s grandson.”
“Oh!” said Amélie, opening her eyes. “And who is the Baron Bernard?”
M. de Cadanet uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Oh, you—you know nothing! Can you give your husband a message?”
“To be sure I can.”
“Then tell him that next week—when I shall be stronger—I wish to speak to him about Léon de Beaudrillart. Do not forget.”