Chapter Eighteen.
“Aimer sans Amour est amer.”
Thérèse was waiting for M. Deshoulières the next morning when he went to Rue St. Servan. He could not tell how she looked; she was eager, troubled, doubtful, all at once. He did not yet know what had happened, but he guessed directly. “Ah, that poor madame!” she said shuddering. “It is too terrible—” and then she stopped.
He saw that she had been overwrought. All that night Madame Roulleau had lain on the floor by the child’s bed, in a fierce agony of despair, not weeping, but writhing. Once she had looked up with dry, burning eyes, and said to Thérèse hoarsely, “Your lover is come. Do you remember? he told you so once, and I beat him for it. Do you hear that, all of you? I told a lie, and I beat my little Adolphe.” There was something so terrible in her voice and in her face, that Thérèse and Nannon shrank. And this was all that she knew of Fabien. The poor child, in spite of her bravery, could hardly endure these different emotions that were tearing at her heart. Nothing at the hospital had been so dreadful to witness as the sight of that hard, insupportable agony. And in the midst of it she had been told that Fabien was come.
“What is it all?” she said, putting out her hand to Max, with an appealing glance that went to his heart. He answered it at once with a kind smile.
“There is good news for you. M. Saint-Martin has come at last.”
“So it is true!” Her face changed suddenly, her eyes danced. “I could not believe it; but if you say so, I know it is true.”
Yes, those grave blue eyes were true as truth itself. There was a burden to be borne by one, perhaps by both of them, and his work should be to lighten hers.
“You may believe it, indeed. I have seen him—”
“Seen him!” Such gladness in her face!—such gladness in her voice!
“And you shall meet him to-day at the Cygne.”
Something made her put out her hand to him again. “What do I not owe you!” she said, gratefully.
“For what?” he said with a smile. “I was neither the letter nor the ship that brought him back. Allons, it appears to me it is monsieur the curé of Ardron whom you will have to thank the most.”
She shook her head without answering. She was not deceived. If ever friend was faithful to his friendship, it was this friend. Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Thérèse said slowly,—“I shall understand every thing better by and by, I think. I fancy there are things which neither of us understand as yet. That poor woman—!” she added, sighing.
“So the poor little one is dead!”
“It is not that only—I mean that is not the worst,” she said in answer to his look. “Her sorrow is so dreadful to see. I have asked her to hear Père Gaspard, but she will not let him come into the room. I wonder whether Sister Gabrielle could do any thing! I wonder what it is! She says such terrible things.”
M. Deshoulières was too generous-hearted to suspect readily, but that night he had been perplexed by thoughts of little Roulleau, suggested in the interview at Maury.
“I must see her husband,” he said. “Is he with her, or shall I find him in the bureau?”
“Did you not know?” asked Thérèse in surprise. “He is not here. He went away again at once when he heard of the fever. The little coward!”
“Went away!”
“But yes, indeed. To Tours, she supposes. I think that is one of the things that has half killed her.”
M. Deshoulières’ face became more grave. This flight of the little notary added considerably to the difficulties of his position. He remembered also that Ignace had heard his tidings of M. Saint-Martin’s arrival. Thérèse, who saw this cloud, asked at once, “What is it?”
“I do not like his absence at this time, and I want the papers connected with M. Moreau’s will. Will you wait here for a moment while I speak to the clerk?”
He came back again presently, shaking his head. “We can go no further than the outside of the chest; Madame Roulleau has the keys, and I am afraid you must make an effort to get them. It is really a matter of extreme importance, or I would not ask you to undertake such a task,” he added abruptly.
Thérèse turned a little pale. “Does it not seem cruel?”
“I cannot help it. It is necessary. Would you rather that I saw her?”
“No, no. I will try, but I dread it.”
She was absent so long that he had risen to follow her, when she came into the room again, white and trembling. “No, I have done nothing,” she said, in answer to his look. “She only rocks herself backwards and forwards on the ground. She never looked up—I do not know whether she heard me; but yet she must have, for when I came away at last, I heard her spring up and bolt the door. Nannon is out, and there she is quite alone. It cannot matter so greatly. Fabien can wait for his papers another day—” A shade that unconsciously crossed his face made her cry out quickly, “They will trust you unreservedly!”
“Scarcely that, perhaps,” he said, with a smile and a sigh. “Well, we must wait; this fit may possibly pass off. I will go and ask Sister Gabrielle to come here. Whether that poor woman will see her or not, she will be some one in the house, for you must take Nannon with you to the Cygne soon after twelve. You understand that it is on account of the fever that I do not bring M. Saint-Martin here?”
“Yes, yes. But ought I to see him? You are sure there is no danger?” she asked piteously.
“Not with the usual precautions. Can I help you in any way?”
“No, thank you. Père Gaspard has been very kind.”
Thérèse never knew how those hours passed. She tried to go into the room where madame lay in her awful depth of despair, but the door was locked, and Thérèse, who could not keep down the well of joy that seemed to come dancing up from her heart, felt indeed as if this happiness separated them more than any bolts. She called herself cruel, inhuman; she thought of little Adolphe, the weariness, the fever, the pain; but even while her tears fell, those glad visions would intrude themselves. When we are quite young we are so rigorous over our sorrows that we are impatient of comfort; it is in after life that we learn to refuse no consolations. She scolded herself, and then when Sister Gabrielle came, fell into her arms, and laughed and cried together. Sister Gabrielle, who had a way of soothing people, listened quietly, and seemed to lift that little burden of self-reproach from her heart. She dressed her, and called Nannon, and stood on the top of the steps watching the two go away together down the street, and under the dark archway. Charville had broken out into its cheerfulness again; the fever was dying away, only here and there was still the sharp anguish of recent loss like Madame Roulleau’s. Thérèse went off with a buoyant step into the sunshine, and the merry jangle of voices. Sister Gabrielle turned back into the house, took her knitting, and sat patiently on the stairs outside the room, where the mother had shut herself in with her despair.
When Thérèse reached the Cygne, something of her brightness had fled. She hung back with a little dread; it was Nannon who pushed forward, and made Toinette show them the room which M. Deshoulières had set apart for them.
“There is no one there; see, mademoiselle!” she said, reconnoitring.
It had a balcony, which looked over the sycamore-trees at the lovely spires of the Cathedral. Nannon, with quick tact, went out there, and sat humming a little chanson, very cracked and discordant, but to her full of memories of her girlhood. Those songs of old age are the most pathetic songs of all. Thérèse in the room waited with a hundred hopes and fears in her heart. It was three years since she had seen Fabien, and now that he was near she began to tremble.
Meanwhile, in another room of the hotel, a stormy discussion was taking place. It was necessary for M. Deshoulières to greet the two gentlemen with the information that the notary had left Charville unexpectedly, and that it was not in his power to produce the will. M. Saint-Martin broke out in passionate terms at once.
“So, monsieur, and this is the end! Do not suppose that I have come here to be trifled with.”
“M. Deshoulières must be aware,” interrupted the curé in his frigid tones, “that he stands in a strange position.”
“M. le Curé, I am perfectly aware. M. Saint-Martin has—not a right, but a certain amount of excuse for what would otherwise be unpardonable expressions. But when I have said this, I have said all. Events have conspired to bring about this false position, and a very short time will, I suppose, set it right. Meanwhile, I claim the courtesy and the trust which is due from one gentleman to another.”
“From one gentleman!—yes,” sneered Fabien. “Pardon, monsieur; I was not aware that you considered yourself beyond that pale.”
Fabien, who was white with rage, would have answered fiercely, but the curé again interfered.
“Messieurs, the interests of both require something more than a battle of words.”
“You are right,” said Max, turning frankly towards him. “I regret what I said. The delay is just as vexatious to me as to you—more so, in fact, since it seems to create suspicions which are certainly not agreeable for me to hear—but we had better meet it like reasonable beings. It is possible that I can obtain the keys from Madame Roulleau to-morrow—at all events learn where her husband is, and telegraph for him at once. If you return to Maury, I will give you the earliest information; if, on the contrary, you prefer to remain in Charville, you will have the satisfaction of being on the spot, and able to adopt whatever measures you think advisable—for the security of your inheritance,” added the doctor, with a little mockery in his smile, which was not lost upon the curé.
Monsieur Saint-Martin, not having recovered himself, answered sharply: “Certainly I do not choose to remain in this city of the plague. My lawyer will be here to-day; and as to further proceedings, I shall be guided by him. He may suggest immediate action.”
“I should recommend your carrying it out at once,” replied M. Deshoulières gravely. Fabien, who hated ridicule, looked quickly at him to see whether he was serious or not, and could not satisfy himself.
“It is unendurable,” he muttered. “After having all one’s life been pestered by the vagaries of an old man, he might at least have spared his ridiculous restraints when he was dead, and could find no pleasure in them.”
“Is Mademoiselle Veuillot here?” asked the curé, looking up.
“She is. She is in the next room.”
“What do you propose to do?” said Fabien, disregarding.
“I have already told you, monsieur. Meanwhile you may employ any spurs with which your lawyer may furnish you,” replied M. Deshoulières impatiently. Thérèse was in the next room, and this man was indifferent.
“You ought to see Mademoiselle Veuillot at once,” said the curé, rising.
“Thérèse? Oh, yes. She is here, you say? By all means.”
She heard their voices in the passage; half rose, and sat down again, while the colour faded completely out of her face. In the balcony, Nannon was singing her little refrain,—
“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour
Triste ou gai tour à tour;”
an old melancholy Breton song that had somehow been wafted across from, the quaint wild province of hills and chestnut trees to these broad unromantic corn plains. Thérèse, who had not heard it before, never forgot the little sad air. She heard the song, and the voices, and the door opening; but for the first moment it was all confused. It was her own name which recalled her; her own name in Fabien’s voice.
“Ah, Thérèse, at last we meet! Believe me that I am enchanted to renew our acquaintance. You have not quite forgotten me, I flatter myself.”
She raised her eyes, not to his but to Monsieur Deshoulières’. One piteous, appealing glance—what was this?—acquaintance—forgotten? Three years of hungering and hoping, and could this be her greeting at the end? He with an overwhelming pity in his heart might not help her by look, or sign, or word. Face to face, heart to heart, these two must show each other the story of their lives.
“You have come at last, Fabien,” she said, faintly.
“After all, yes. I have had enough of South America, as you may imagine. It was a little more amusing than the old bureau at Rouen, but it was becoming ennuyant. Variety before all. Life requires to be tasted like wine, a sip here and a sip there before one decides. Now I shall try the charms of Paris. And you? have you remained here since my uncle’s death? A triste place, is it not?”
And she had loved him! By some subtile force of sympathy, Max knew that she was suffering a sharper pang than any which had come to him. He was standing with the curé where they could not see them, but he could hear the light frivolous voice, the heartless words. He had loved in vain, but she had loved unworthily. There is no sting so sharp as that sting. And outside, in the sunny balcony, old Nannon was crooning over her refrain—
“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour,
Triste ou gai tour à tour:
Ce chant qui de mon coeur s’élève,
D’ou vient qu’en pleurant je l’achève!”
Thérèse was very pale, but she had got back her self-possession.
“I am sure that poor M. Moreau felt your departure.”
“Did he? Ah, that is not improbable! He should have conducted himself differently, and prevailed on me to stay. However, I pardon him; he did his best to atone for it by dying at the right moment. Not but what I owe him something for his conduct even then.”
“Oh, Fabien!”
“It is true, then,” he said excitedly. “And M. Deshoulières is aware of my sentiments.”
Max turned round grave and quiet.
“It is unnecessary to repeat them in the presence of Mademoiselle Veuillot.”
“Parbleu, and why? They will be repeated before the world very shortly, let me assure you, if the will and certain explanations do not reach me.”
She looked inquiringly—again not at him, but at M. Deshoulières. This time he answered her: “Monsieur Roulleau’s absence has placed us in a difficulty. Until his return M. Saint-Martin has only my Word to rely upon.”
“A word which, unfortunately, is contradicted by facts.”
Whether he was provoked by M. Deshoulières’ calmness, or irritated by his disappointment, his tone was more insulting than it had been the preceding night. The girl’s eyes flashed.
“Are you doubting his word?”
“There is scarcely room for doubt,” said Fabien, meaningly.
With a swift impetuous impulse she crossed to where Max stood,—
“How can you let them say such things?” she said, passionately, her breathing short and quick. Poor Thérèse! she felt all a woman’s indignation and a woman’s powerlessness at once. “M. le Curé,” she cried, “how can you listen and not speak?” I think she dumbfounded them all for a minute. Nannon, who heard her voice, stopped her chanson to listen. Max, with a strange sweet pain in his heart, looked down at her and cared very little for Fabien’s rude speeches. After all, she was not powerless. Max looked at her and said, softly,—
“Such things do not hurt me.”
And at that moment there was a heavy step, a little fumbling at the door, and Madame Roulleau came in. Her face was so white and rigid that Fabien, who did not know her, exclaimed as if she were an apparition, and, indeed, the others were scarcely less startled. She came across the room, like a person walking in a dream, straight to where M. Deshoulières stood, and flung a key on the table, before him.
“There is what you want,” she said. “If I touch the papers they will scorch me.”
They all looked at one another. Thérèse, who was still trembling with excitement, put her hand on her arm. Madame Roulleau threw it off, keeping her eyes fixed on M. Deshoulières.
“Do you wish to know why I have come?” she went on. “Tenez, you can hear, then, all of you. My little Adolphe is dead—dead, do you understand?—dead of the fever; and my husband, who was frightened, has left him and me by ourselves. That is what husbands should do, is it not?” She spoke like a person in an agony; Thérèse shuddered. “Some one said M. Saint-Martin was here—it was either that sister or Adolphe, I do not know which. I can tell you all about it. We will begin from the beginning—that was at Ardron. M. Deshoulières, as you know, and my husband brought me home the letters which he found,—two letters from Rio Janeiro asking for money. I burned them. Burning is always safe. Two others came afterwards, and those I burned also. We wrote those answers that we had from Paris. Is that all? No, I remember. There was that appointment at Pont-huine, when you sent Ignace, but it was easy enough for him to stay away.”
“Unhappy woman,” said the curé, sternly, “what led you into all this wickedness?”
She did not answer him. She had her eyes still fixed upon M. Deshoulières, and she never looked aside.
“Ask her,” said the curé.
“Why was this, Madame Roulleau?” said the doctor, sadly.
“We wanted the money,” she answered at once; “the money you gave us for the girl. And what Ignace had to do about it brought in money. We knew it must all go again when M. Saint-Martin came home. Last night I said to myself that I would tell you; I do not know why I came here; the sister said something, I believe. She is staying with him.” And then, with a bitter cry which they never forgot, “He is dead—dead! I dared not send for you, and you might have saved him.” She went swiftly out of the room, down the stairs, into the street. If they had wished to stop her they could scarcely have done so; but they all stood dumb, that last cry ringing in their ears.
“Libera nos a malo,” said the curé, at last, under his breath. “Amen.”
He was a just man. Perhaps his prayer had not only to do with that poor stricken woman who had gone out from them. Perhaps he was thinking also of the evil of suspicions and accusations without cause. He was a just man, but ungracious. He wanted to speak at once to M. Deshoulières, and the words would not come readily. Thérèse was looking shyly and beseechingly at Fabien. Why did he not acknowledge the unconscious wrong that he had done? Nobody spoke. It was Nannon who broke the silence, coming in from the balcony.
“The saints preserve us! She has gone down the street as if there were a mob at her heels.”
“I may as well go and search for the will, I believe,” said M. Deshoulières, turning round with a sigh. Thérèse still looked at Fabien. Why did he not speak?
“M. Saint-Martin,” said the curé, gravely, “I think there is a duty for us to perform before we can allow M. Deshoulières to leave us—a duty and a reparation. My own share in the matter has been the heaviest. I beg to offer him my most sincere apologies.”
“It may or may not be, as this woman says,” Fabien answered grudgingly; “it does not explain it altogether to my mind. At all events it is impossible to congratulate M. Deshoulières upon his choice of a notary. I shall make a point of having the rascal punished, and meanwhile may I request you, monsieur, to do us the favour to fetch the will without delay? The sooner one gets out of this hole the better.”
“Allow me to repudiate M. St. Martin’s sentiments altogether,” said the curé, with a flush on his sallow cheek. “I beg to decline having any thing to do with the reading of the papers connected with this—what I may call—unfortunate will. It had better be delayed until the arrival of the lawyer.”
“You desert me, in fact, Monsieur le Curé,” said Fabien, crossly.
“I leave you in good hands, as you must be aware,” said the curé, who, having been mistaken himself, felt a degree of satisfaction in snubbing the young man. “Nothing that I can say can atone for the pain we have unintentionally inflicted upon M. Deshoulières, and all that remains is a matter of form.”
“Will you not consent to meet us here to-morrow at the same time?”
“On the contrary, immediately that I have been to the Evêché, I shall return to Ardron. Are you coming my way, M. Deshoulières?”
They all went down the stairs together—the curé, the doctor, Fabien looking discontented, Thérèse, and Nannon. Thérèse lingered a moment to say in an undertone,—
“Fabien, why do you not acknowledge that you have wronged him!”
“Wronged him, bah! The only person wronged is myself. Thérèse, you used to take my part.”
It was the first allusion, on his part, to other days. A little earlier in the interview it would have touched her more. Now it gave her something of the old sense of compassion for his weakness; but that was not the feeling that could bring her back. Her heart had always revolted against injustice; it revolted now doubly, trebly. She was frightened at herself; frightened at the way in which the love she had been clinging to all this time was melting away. In the midst of her pain and indignation and pity, it gave her a strange unreal feeling. There is often a strange medley in our hearts on those days which we call crises in our lives. The lesser things subside, and we forget all but the most prominent; but at the time the oddest emotions hustle one another. Thérèse was puzzled at herself; at the change that seemed to have come over her since that morning. And then she found herself curiously watching the little procession that went down the stairs,—the curé in his flowing black cassock and his wide beaver hat; M. Deshoulières and Fabien, so unlike each other; Nannon, with her broad shoulders and her heavily plaited green gown—it seemed as if all the characters in her little drama were trooping down together. Monsieur Deshoulières was the victor, who was going away in triumph, but there was not much triumph in his heart just then. At the door they separated.
“Adieu, Thérèse,” said Fabien, with his hand on the door of the salle-à-manger.
“Adieu, Fabien.”
“If you come to Paris at any time let me know. Do not allow the provinces to engross you altogether. Or if you have need of any thing—”
“I have need of nothing.”
“In that case, au revoir.”
He wanted to punish her. His nature was too small to bear the humiliation of allowing himself to be in the wrong. He was in a rage with them all, and he wanted to punish her. He only stung her. And the others had passed out, so that they heard nothing.