Chapter Two.
How Poissy was Saved.
It was true, as Jean had murmured to himself, that Mme. Léon was by birth bourgeoise. As for the De Beaudrillarts, all France knew that they belonged, not only to the noblesse, but to the oldest of the noblesse. Their name was ancient. The church at Nonceaux, which at one time stood on the estate, was full of monuments of armed and curled Barons de Beaudrillart, lying stiffly under fretted canopies; old documents in the library of Tours carried their names centuries back, and their beautiful château was an object of interest to all the strangers who come into the neighbourhood.
It is true that, six years ago, before Baron Léon was married, and when he was about three-and-twenty, these same strangers remarked upon the bad state of repair into which the château had fallen, pointing out that in many of the rooms, now disused and shut up, the plaster was peeling from the ceilings and exquisite cornices, and that other parts had reached a state of absolute ruin; but, whatever pain this decay may have caused to the owners, it only added to the tranquil picturesque charm which seemed to cling to the old place. There was a lovely pitch of roof, and the slate, worn out as it was, had gained a rich depth as beautiful as that of a rain-cloud, making a perfect setting for the delicate and fantastic chimneys which sprang lightly into the air. The château was of no great size, nor could it in any way compare with those grand historic houses of which Touraine is justly proud; but whatever architect imagined it had been imbued with the same spirit, and had indulged in the same grace of detail. There was no stiffness, apparently scarcely an attempt at symmetry; yet it would have been difficult to detect a flaw in the harmony of form and colour. A light lantern turret clung to one angle, a wilful little outer staircase ran up, quite unexpectedly, to a balcony, small ferns pierced the crevices of the grey stone, where lizards darted in and out, here and there in spring a rosy cyclamen appeared. The place was never without delight, whether seen under the warm radiance of the sun, which brought out the lizards and intensified into sharpness the rich shadow of each bit of carving, and every golden patch of lichen on the mellow stone, or clothed with a more restful and sympathetic charm under the soft cloudy half-lights of a grey day. Behind the château rose a low wooded hill, in front ran a long terrace, which separated it from the flower-beds and a broad stretch of turf. The kitchen-garden and the pond, where frogs kept up a turbulent croaking, were on one side.
But the decay which may add a charm to architecture becomes dreary and unlovely in a garden. Six years ago the turf was uncared for, the flowers grew untrimmed; it was evident that the fortunes of the family were at a low ebb. So with the interior. The greater number of rooms were closed, and only two or three servants remained of the many who had been there during the lifetime of the Baron Bernard. The Baron Bernard had been a man of sense and integrity, highly respected in the neighbourhood—unfortunately, he was drowned in the river at a comparatively early age, leaving a widow; one son, Léon; two daughters, Félicie and Claire; and a well-ordered estate.
For a few years this continued, but with Léon grown up came change. He was a young man with the easiest of tempers, a genuine charm of face and manner, and the most extravagant tastes. His mother and sisters adored, and did their best to spoil him. They succeeded admirably. He began to spend money at the earliest possible age at which a man masters that easiest of accomplishments, and he denied himself nothing. There had been savings daring his boyhood; he fancied the sum inexhaustible, and looked upon it as loose cash intended to be flung away. It was not, it need hardly he remarked, at Poissy that the money was spent; Paris—Paris became the one place in the world where he cared to pass his days, with an occasional flying visit to Poissy, where his intendant was installed with the impossible task before him of meeting increased expenditure upon diminishing receipts. M. Georges seldom saw his employer, and then was put off by good-humoured banter. If he carried his tale to Mme. de Beaudrillart, she invariably treated him as the one to blame, and would only repeat that it was natural for a young man to enjoy himself during the early years of his life. Money must be raised somehow.
“In that case, madame,” said little M. Georges, as firmly as he could, “portions of the property will have to be sold. Monsieur le baron will consent?”
She paused, struck with dismay.
“You mean that it is absolutely necessary?”
“I mean that no other course whatever remains—except to borrow.”
“Oh, no borrowing!” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, hastily, and M. Georges smiled covertly, aware of M. Léon’s debts in Paris. She walked to the window, and came back. “If it must be,” she said, reluctantly, “you had better dispose of some of the outlying property. But permit me to remark, Monsieur Georges, that it appears to me that perhaps greater experience might have prevented such a sacrifice.”
Experience had, at any rate, taught poor M. Georges the undesirability of entering upon an argument with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He bowed low, and retired to write to M. Léon, who sent him an airy letter to the effect that in years to come it would be easy enough to buy back whatever their misfortunes required them to part with at the present moment. Mme. de Beaudrillart, whenever she encountered M. Georges, looked at him with displeasure; the only person from whom he received any sympathy was Mlle. Claire, and hers scarcely reached the point of blaming Léon.
The first piece of property sold soon carried another with it. Rich vineyards and mills found immediate purchasers, and changed hands easily. The worst of it was that Poissy was left with land which was not so profitable, and that the rentals became quickly reduced, while M. Léon’s expend it are did not diminish in the same proportion, for if by fits and starts he practised a little economy, it was followed by a reaction, as if he imagined that what he had saved gave him something more to spend. Debts and mortgages, like venomous spiders, crept over poor Poissy, and, once having got it in their clutches, held it tight. They reached this point at last, that nothing remained with which to satisfy his creditors except the château itself; and when the fact forced itself upon his mind, the shock was sufficiently great to stun even M. Léon.
He hurried back, and sent for M. Georges. In the crash of disaster he felt as if he had been purposely kept in ignorance, forgetting the letters which had seemed to him only the tiresome forebodings of a timid man. His mother, who refused to blame her son, offered up the intendant as a scapegoat. If he were not in fault, how could matters have arrived at their present disastrous condition? For what was he placed there, if not to preserve the estates! M. Léon winced.
“What I complain of is that the state of affairs should not have been forced upon me,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Good heavens! if I had once understood, should I have been such a fool?”
Mlle. Claire, who was very pale, looked up.
“Did not Monsieur Georges entreat you to return, or to appoint to see him in Paris!”
“Entreat! He should have insisted,” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart. “If Léon had but understood the gravity of the case, or if I had but known! But Monsieur Georges is a man who lays infinite stress on minute points, and fails altogether to impress you with what is important.”
M. Georges was dismissed; and this was perhaps the only deliberate harshness Léon ever committed in his life. Then the young baron set himself to look into his debts, and get together the total sum; it amounted to more than two hundred thousand francs.
“There is but one thing,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart; “you must marry.”
But to this Léon, who had not shown himself very scrupulous, objected. He had no inclination, he said, to marry, and he disliked the idea of being indebted for Poissy itself to a wife. He would go to Paris, where it would be hard if he could not, among quick-witted advisers, find some means of redeeming his fortunes. He went, and, for the first time in his life, really worked, and with feverish energy. He ran here and there among his old companions, who were prodigal of sympathy, but offered little more substantial. It seemed impossible that he should be unable to raise money when, throughout his prosperous days, it had been pressed upon him. But his eyes were sufficiently opened to perceive that the only terms by which he could free himself from present disaster were ruinous, and would merely serve to postpone the evil day. As the value of his securities decreased, a more extortionate rate of interest was demanded. He cursed his own folly, but could see no way out of the quagmire into which it had plunged him. His friends reiterated Mme. de Beaudrillart’s advice. For the sake of rank, many a girl with a large fortune would be ready to raise his fallen fortunes; one or two were even pointed out to him, and their dowries dangled before his eyes. But he remained obstinate.
When he came to Paris there had been an idea of his seeking some appointment, by means of which, and the strictest economy at Poissy, the interest on his debts might be scraped together. Unfortunately, Léon’s ideas of money were large—so large that a little seemed to him as useless as none. If by one great coup he might gain a considerable sum—good! But to add franc to franc, and painfully lessen his obligations by scarcely perceptible payments, was economy from which his soul revolted, and which, therefore, he contrived to persuade himself was worthless. It might suit the sordid little nature of a bourgeois bonhomme, but not that of the owner of Poissy. Something larger must be attempted, and quickly.
Before Léon’s eyes there had floated for some time the possibility of applying to an old cousin of the family, a certain M. de Cadanet. For various reasons, it appeared as if he were the very person to assist him. Rumour credited him with an immense fortune; and, at any rate, there could be no doubt that he had made more than one successful speculation, among them that of marrying a rich wife, who died childless. Rich and solitary, what better person could be found to come to the rescue of the De Beaudrillarts? And there was an even stronger reason for counting upon his good-will. In the days when he had not found prosperity, and was struggling to stand up against more than one hard buffet dealt by Fortune, Léon’s father had given him a helping hand. Perhaps without him he would have been unable to keep his footing; certainly the support was of material service, and Léon had some excuse for thinking that now was the moment for him to return it.
But, unfortunately, the relations between the young man and the old were already strained. It was not only that Léon’s frivolities, Léon’s extravagances, were hateful to the cautions and clear-headed speculator, who had made his way to wealth by dint of industry and prudence, and set those virtues beyond all others—there was a third person whose influence was extremely damaging to the young baron, a certain Charles Lemaire, who had married a niece of M. de Cadanet’s wife. His uncle credited him with the qualities he loved, and there could be no doubt that he was cautious, and, when it suited his interests, frugal. He had, however, as Léon knew very well to his own cost, a passion for gambling, and at the same time extraordinary luck. When first the two found themselves at the same table, they were unknown to each other, and Charles had never got over the disagreeable shock with which he realised that the handsome young man who lost his money so easily was cousin to the uncle to whose solitary habits he trusted for non-detection. From that moment he detested him, and worked to damage his character in the eyes of M. de Cadanet. His follies—and Heaven knows they were many—were repeated and exaggerated. Each idle rumour, whether well or ill founded, reached the old man’s ears. Rash and youthful political utterances were spoken of with sorrowful gravity. One or two laughing comments upon M. de Cadanet’s habits became cruel ridicule. And with all this M. Charles lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself. He understood the subtile flattery of asking advice, and of outwardly following it. He deferred to his uncle in every point. And he contrived, at last, to make himself so necessary to M. de Cadanet that if he stayed away he was missed and blamed.
Léon made no attempt to act as a rival. Kind-heartedness and general good-will inclined him to look in upon the solitary old man, and he went once or twice to his house. But he was received with coldness and marked displeasure, and had pleased himself too long to endure what he disliked. His visits ceased. M. de Cadanet, who claimed attention, became more incensed. Once or twice he asked Charles where the young fool kept himself.
“My dear uncle, how should I know? You do not expect me to frequent his haunts. And it would pain me too much to repeat to you all that I hear. It is more charitable to shut one’s ears, and to hope that the world is mistaken.”
And he pressed his hand on his pocket, where reposed the notes he had won the night before.
On his part, Léon suspected him of enmity, but would have scorned to retaliate; and Charles based his own assurance upon knowledge of his character, and upon the insidious manner in which he had poisoned his uncle’s mind.
Now, however, when the waters were closing over the De Beaudrillarts, Léon felt that the moment had come for an appeal. Surely gratitude to the dead man who had helped him would induce M. de Cadanet to step forward and save his son from ruin. Léon, whose nature was buoyantly sanguine, made up his mind to a scolding, but saw himself coming away with the estates saved. As he walked along the streets, sparkling with crisp sunshine and gaiety, his spirits rose, and the fears and torments he had been going through fell away. He almost laughed when he thought of a despairing letter to his mother which he had written the night before and had with him, and he assured himself that the postscript which must undoubtedly be added would bring joy to Poissy.
In this hopeful frame of mind he reached M. de Cadanet’s house in the Rue du Bac, a house quiet and somewhat gloomy in appearance. Léon entered the porte-cochère, and passed the small office of the concierge. He went quickly up to the first-floor, and, passing through an austerely furnished suite of rooms, was finally ushered into one smaller than the others, where, surrounded by books and a few indifferent pictures, M. de Cadanet sat writing, an old man, short, bent, and with a skin like yellow ivory.
Léon came in smiling, almost radiant. He had succeeded in persuading his sanguine self that he had reached the end of his difficulties, and he had profound faith in the imperturbable good-humour which seldom failed to charm. He advanced with outstretched hand, coldly received by his cousin.
“I am ashamed, count, to recall how long it is since I have been to call on you. Do you forgive me?”
The old man drew himself up.
“I am not aware of having expected the honour of a visit from Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“I accept the rebuke,” said Léon, smiling frankly. “To tell the truth, you might have seen me oftener if I had been sure of a welcome. But I am afraid I have deserved my disgrace.”
“Of that no one, monsieur, can judge better than yourself.”
“Why monsieur?” said the young man, still smiling. “In old days you spoke to me as Léon; and you do not forget that we are cousins.”
“One does not so easily forget one’s misfortunes.”
“Misfortunes!” repeated Léon, colouring. The next moment he recovered himself sufficiently to say good-humouredly, “Pardon me, but was it always a misfortune, count!”
The old man glanced at him with the first touch of wavering in his face.
“You need not remind me,” he said. “I should not now be listening to you were it not for the remembrance of your father. But you did not come here merely to pay a visit of ceremony to a cantankerous old mummy?”
He emphasised the words bitterly, for, according to M. Charles, this title had been attached to him by Léon. Léon stared and shrugged his shoulders, unconscious of offence, and only anxious to propitiate his terrible relative.
“You are right,” he said, looking down and speaking more hurriedly. “I am here because I am in great difficulties, and because I hoped that—that the remembrance of my father would dispose you to come to the help of his son.”
“And may I ask what has plunged you into difficulties?”
“Oh, my own folly; I don’t attempt to deny it—my own folly, helped on by a dolt of an intendant. If I had had any idea—However, I do not excuse myself. I have been confoundedly extravagant, and I mean to pull up short, I assure you. But, after all, other young men have been in the same position, and, with a helping hand, have managed to scramble out of it again. I have been up here for a week seeing what I could do—”
“At the gaming-tables!”
“No, no, I give you my word that is over. I have been trying to raise—”
“How much!”
“Two hundred thousand francs,” said the young man, in a low voice.
“There are money-lenders enough in Paris,” remarked M. de Cadanet, dryly.
“But with the securities I can offer, their terms are ruinous. If I were to accept them, Poissy would have to go. Judge for yourself whether this would not break my mother’s heart.”
“I have not the honour of the acquaintance of Madame de Beaudrillart.”
Léon did not answer at once. He was framing a more direct appeal.
“The estate must right itself in time,” he said, hopefully, “and if I could induce you to take the matter into consideration, and to advance me the money—”
He paused. M. de Cadanet turned towards his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, and drew out a cheque-book.
“You said, I think, two hundred thousand!” he asked, beginning to fill it in.
“Two hundred thousand,” repeated the young man, joyfully, without an attempt to conceal the exultation with which he watched the proceeding. All had gone more easily than his most sanguine expectations had ventured to suggest, and he was amazed at his own folly in having hesitated to apply to his rich cousin, whose bark, after all, was worse than his bite. M. de Cadanet’s movements were deliberate in the extreme. He wrote a cheque, folded it, and sought for an envelope of the right size. This found, he proceeded to direct it. Léon smiled to himself. “An unnecessary formality,” he thought; “but I had better hold my tongue, and let him please himself as to his way of doing.” It seemed to him, however, that the moment had come when he might express his gratitude, and he was beginning to stammer a few words, when M. de Cadanet put up his hand.
“One moment, monsieur. Allow me to explain. Neither the honour of this visit nor the particulars with which you have favoured me have taken me by surprise. I have already given the affairs of Poissy my best consideration.”
Léon nodded cheerfully. This explained.
“And I have arrived at the conclusion that since the Beaudrillart family has reached the point indicated by you, it must be decreed that it should pass the remainder of its existence without a château. Heaven forbid that I should attempt to fight against fate!”
The scorn of his words stung like a lash. Léon, bewildered and astonished, turned white. He murmured something which the old count interrupted with a sudden outburst of passion.
“What, monsieur! You squander your birthright on miserable follies, you drag the name you profess to honour into the lowest depths, and then come to beg—yes, monsieur, I repeat it, to beg—from those whose advice you have scorned, and whose character you have calumniated! No. I give you my word—a word which, however strange it may appear to you, has never yet been broken—that, in whatever straits you find yourself, I will not so much as lift my little finger to help you, nor fling a penny to keep you from starving. Understand that, if you had become poor by honest misfortunes, I would have set you again on your legs. You have had your chance. I would not trust mere report, though to those who were acquainted with your habits it appeared only too probable. Close and searching inquiries have been made, and it is possible that I know more of your affairs than you know yourself—certainly more than you have permitted me to hear from you to-day.”
Léon sprang to his feet.
“Enough, monsieur!” he cried. “You have a right to refuse assistance, but none to insult me. If you have employed spies to search into my private affairs, you have taken an unwarrantable liberty, upon which you would not have ventured had you been of an age for me to retaliate. Much of what you say is incomprehensible to me; a little more might cause me to forget the respect due to your years.”
“Spare me theatrical language, monsieur; and, as you have forced yourself upon me, be good enough to listen to what I have to tell you. This letter contains an order for two hundred thousand francs.”
Against his will, the young man’s eyes turned greedily towards it.
“Are you not inclined to add to your accomplishments by robbery and murder?” sneered M. de Cadanet.
“If I had the chance, I should be glad to get hold of the money,” said the young man, lightly. His anger burned out as quickly as dry straw, and the other, who had not expected this frank answer, stared and went on:
“When I gave myself the annoyance of looking into your affairs, I resolved that, if you came out of the ordeal acquitted, I would apply the earn to their settlement; if you failed, it should go to—another person.”
Léon laughed. The count, who had not the young man’s command of temper, became furious.
“You laugh, monsieur! Let those laugh who win.”
“Exactly,” said M. de Beaudrillart, coolly. “And who wins? The admirable Charles?”
“Yes, monsieur!” thundered the count. “He whom you are pleased to sneer at as the admirable Charles, and who, if not a Beaudrillart, has shown himself to be what is better—an honourable man. You follow me?”
“Perfectly. You express yourself with unmistakable clearness. So Monsieur Charles is to have the money!”
“And will make a worthy use of it. He may find more follow.”
“I comprehend,” said Léon, still smiling. “Under the circumstances, you are doubtless anxious to despatch your letter to Monsieur Charles. Can I post it for you?”
It was M. de Cadanet’s turn to laugh—gratingly.
“Permit me to prefer a safer messenger. My cheque is payable to bearer.”
“Then I have the honour to wish you good-day.”
“Go. And understand, once for all, that should you apply to me again, you will not be admitted.”
“Do not fear, monsieur. The impression I take with me is not so agreeable that I should wish to renew it.”
And with this last word M. de Beaudrillart found himself outside the room.
He went slowly down-stairs, the smile still lingering mechanically on his lips, but something like despair in his heart. So far as he could see, but one way presented itself out of his troubles, and this would only affect himself, and leave his mother, whom he loved, with added misery in her heart. No misfortune would touch her, he knew, so nearly as his death, and if he had the cowardice to be ready to slip out of his troubles by self-murder, he had not the cruelty to inflict such anguish upon her. Besides, another reflection, not so amiable, restrained him. M. de Cadanet had hinted at coming gifts for M. Charles, and the thought had flashed upon him with the force of intuition that it was not improbable, should the mortgages be foreclosed, for the count to get hold of Poissy and present it to M. Charles. Now, without knowing all the mischief that he had worked, Léon hated M. Charles. His hate was not virulent, but it was impulsive; and although he had no proof, he strongly suspected who had brought an exaggerated report of his follies to M. de Cadanet’s ears. He might have retaliated, but that he would never stoop to such a course, and he reflected with a laugh that, if Charles was convicted of gambling, he would be ready with the excuse that he had gone there to watch himself. But Charles at Poissy! Charles a successor of the De Beaudrillarts! Léon ground his teeth, and felt that he must remain alive while a hope of baffling such a disaster was left.
Again he passed the little room of the concierge. André, who was something of a gourmand, was within at work upon cooking a fish, and looked up to salute M. Léon. In another moment the high green gates had closed behind the young baron, and he was walking along the street.
The sun was shining. Paris—the Paris he loved, the Paris which had proved herself so fatal a rival to Poissy—had never looked more smiling; there was neither fog nor chill in the air; but everywhere bright keen colours, people chatting, shops brightly dressed, women in their white caps, carriages rolling along. Gay, yet with a touch of hardness. For the first time in his life Léon became conscious of the hardness.
He knew himself now to be absolutely without resource; turn which way he would, rack ready wits as he might, no road suggested itself except, perhaps, marriage. And, strangely enough, as has been said, this man, who, young as he was, had few ideals left, had this, that he shrank from mending his broken fortunes by a marriage for money. True, it was common, almost universal. True, in matters relating to his own ease and comfort, selfishness generally became paramount. True, this fancy contradicted other characteristics. The fact remained that he hated the idea, and refused to entertain it, even in this moment of despair, when he had entertained others which seemed worse, when he acknowledged that M. de Cadanet had been rash in letting him see the cheque, and that if it had been M. Charles who had stood there between it and him—
He took an open letter from his pocket, and groaned as he closed it, so that a woman who was passing looked round; but seeing only a handsome young man with a cheek as round as a child’s, she smiled and went on. The letter was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy, and had been brought with him with the hope that an added postscript might have told of some happy turn of Fortune’s wheel. Now it must go as it stood, messenger of ill-tidings.
“Monsieur le baron has not got far.”
Léon looked hastily round; André the concierge was by his side. His first wild thought was that M. de Cadanet had relented and sent after him, the next moment his eye fell upon a packet of letters which the man carried, and he was seized with longing to know whether the letter addressed to M. Charles was among them. His genial manner made him a favourite with servants.
“Ah, André,” he said; “you have there monsieur le comte’s letters?”
“As monsieur le baron sees.”
“Permit me to glance at them. I wish to see whether one of which he spoke is there.”
They were in his hand even before he had finished speaking—four. Yes; the address to M. Charles Lemaire stared him in the face. The next moment the concierge had four letters again, but one of the four was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy.
“Thanks, André.” M. Léon burst into a laugh, and tossed the man a piece of twenty sous. “Tell monsieur le comte—No; tell him nothing; I will write.”
That evening M. de Cadanet received a letter:
“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments, and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you were certainly indebted for your prosperity.”
It must be owned that this was a strange letter to write and to receive. The answer that came back was brief:
“Monsieur,—You have confirmed me in my judgment. I preserve your letter. For the present I hold my hand; when the time arrives I shall know how to act.
“Martin de Cadanet.”