A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER VI.
A PHILOSOPHER AT HOME.—THE HORSE IS STOLEN.
The visit of Mr. de Malassise and Eusèbe only lasted two days. Eusèbe went away very well satisfied with himself, for in those two days he had contrived to alarm his father several times by putting himself in a passion, and had teazed his cousin so ingeniously that he more than once brought tears into his eyes.
The morning after the departure of these unwelcome visitors, Mr. de Roisel and Maurice started off on their expedition to see Mr. Duberger, and to bring back the horse. They were going two days later than was intended, but a letter had been already sent to Mr. Duberger, explaining why they were obliged to postpone their visit from the twelfth of August to the fourteenth. That gentleman did not live habitually at Paris, but at a place called Palaiseau, which was not more than two or three hours’ drive from Maurice’s home. Mr. de Roisel drove Maurice in a light chaise with one horse; and they started very early, in order to avoid the heat of the day.
Palaiseau is a large straggling village situated in a pleasant valley; and on the hills around are many pretty country houses, one of which was inhabited by Mr. Duberger. Neither Maurice nor his father had been there before, so, on arriving in the village, they had to inquire which was the house. Just in front of the little inn of the village stood three or four men, conversing earnestly, and Mr. de Roisel inquired of them for the house he wanted. One of them replied:—
“It is a good half mile beyond the village, sir; and stands quite alone on the right hand side of the road. We were just talking about a report there is in the village this morning, that Mr. Duberger’s house was broken into by thieves last night; but the accounts are so different I hardly know if any of them are true.”
Mr. de Roisel touched his horse with the whip and hastened on, feeling very anxious and alarmed. After driving about half a mile along the road, he pulled up again to ask his way of a woman who was standing at the door of a cottage.
“Do you want to see Mr. Duberger?” exclaimed the good woman. “Ah, poor dear man! Only to think there are wretches in the world who would do him an injury! But they do not belong to these parts, I’m certain. He does so much good, that no one here would hurt a hair of his head.”
“Good heavens! Has he been murdered?”
“Murdered! No, no: but he was robbed last night of a great many valuable things. That’s bad enough, I hope. If you want to see him, sir, that’s his house, yonder among the trees. The turning there on the right leads directly up to it.” Saying this she pointed to a house, which, seen from a distance, had a good appearance.
They turned up what might once have been a handsome avenue of trees, but many had died or been cut down, and never been replaced. A number of sheep were grazing beneath the trees of the avenue, and there reigned over the place that air of quiet and peace which brings repose both to the eyes and heart.
SHE SAID, “I WAS SURE YOU WOULD NOT BE READY.”
Reaching the iron gate of the courtyard, Mr. de Roisel got down to ring the bell, but finding that the gate was not fastened he opened it, and the chaise drew up at the stone steps of the entrance door. The house appeared large, but very much out of repair. The walls were crumbling in parts, and broken shutters hung at the windows; but this appearance of decay or disorder seemed rather the effect of negligence than of poverty.
They soon heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching from the inside, and an old woman, having the look of a housekeeper, appeared at the door. Glancing at our travellers, she turned back into the house, and they could hear her call out to some one within:—“It’s the gentleman who wrote to you the day before yesterday. I was sure you would not be ready to receive him.”
“Well, well, Marianne,” replied a man’s voice, “I’m making all the haste I can.”
“Sir,” said the old woman, coming forward again, and addressing Mr. de Roisel, making at the same time a curtsey after the manner of a peasant, “you are welcome. If you will trouble yourself to walk into the drawing-room, my master will join you there in an instant. Michel will take the horse to the stable, sir. See, he’s coming as quickly as he can. He doesn’t run very fast; his legs are like mine—a little stiff. In truth, he’s no longer young. He has been our gardener, sir, for more than fifty years.”
Michel was a little withered old man, bent from age, and from the habit of stooping at his work.
“Sir,” said he, in a shaking voice, “excuse my slowness; I have no longer the activity of a youth. Besides, I had a good walk this morning to go after the police.”
“It is true then, this robbery I have heard of? What has been stolen? Any money?”
“No, unfortunately,” replied the old woman; “if it were only money my master would not care so much. He thinks little about money—not enough, indeed. But the thieves have carried away some precious and curious things that never can be replaced. Still we ought to thank Providence that we all remained fast asleep while the robbers were in the house. If we had wakened up, perhaps they would have cut our throats. But come in, I beg, sir.”
As they entered the room, Marianne went on:—“It must be confessed that my master himself is partly to blame for what has happened. He never would have the doors fastened or the windows barred up. He trusts everybody. But won’t you sit down, sir?” (Here she put forward some chairs) “You see we might all have been murdered, sir. That would have mattered very little for Michel and me; we are so old; but for him!—I tremble to think of it.”
While the old woman chattered away, Mr. de Roisel looked round the room, but he saw nothing there to justify the character which Mr. Duberger bore of being an enlightened collector of curiosities and works of art, as well as a man of science. The furniture was extremely old, and of the fashion of fifty years ago. Some badly executed drawings hung on the walls; and an old-fashioned clock stood on the mantelpiece.
“What!” said Mr. de Roisel, observing it, “can it be past eleven?”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Marianne; “pardon me, it is not yet ten. That clock is an excellent one, only if you do not understand its ways, it is apt to mislead. The thieves did not take anything from this room last night: they seemed to know where the valuable things were to be found. The furniture of this room, sir, my master sometimes says would not sell for fifty francs altogether: still it is of value to him—and to me also,—for it belonged to his grandmother, my first mistress. This old furniture is associated with the recollection of one we loved. These drawings were made by her, and her husband had them framed as you see. My master adored his grandmother, and these old things are precious to him for her sake.”
Mr. de Roisel felt a strong sympathy for the man who united such tenderness of heart with the rare intellect which had made him celebrated. Maurice also was touched, and took the withered hand of Marianne in his own.
“You are very good, my little gentleman; you remind me of my master in his childhood.” Then she went on: “After the death of my first mistress, I served the mother of Mr. Duberger. She died too young to see the success and honours of her son: I have never quitted my master since.”
At this moment Mr. Duberger entered.
“Leave us now, my good Marianne,” said he. Then embracing Maurice, he exclaimed: “Why, how you have grown! I think the good God watches over children that have kind hearts. You have been growing up in happiness and health, as a flower blossoms in the spring-time.” Then turning to Mr. de Roisel, he added: “I received your letter, sir, and regret very much indeed that the day of your coming was postponed.”
“I fear we have come at a very inconvenient time.”
“Oh, it is not that; but you are one day too late.” Then taking Maurice on his knee, he went on: “You are a brave boy, and no doubt have deprived yourself of a good deal in collecting these hundred francs; but they are useless after all. When we met in the Luxembourg gardens, I thought it better for you that your charity to the poor woman should cost you some real sacrifice; but I was wrong to take your horse in pledge for the money. Now I am your debtor, and a debtor who cannot pay.”
“I understand,” said Maurice, as he burst into tears; “the thieves carried off Cressida last night. But it is not your fault.”
“Yes, yes, it is my fault. I was wanting in prudence; I kept neither doors nor windows fastened. I am much to blame.”
“Not so, indeed, sir,” said Mr. de Roisel; “it has been a chance which nobody could foresee. But do you not think the thieves may yet be discovered?”
“Probably. I think they will betray themselves in trying to sell the things they have stolen.”
“Let us hope so,” rejoined Mr. de Roisel.
With this hope, and the chance it afforded of the recovery of the horse, Maurice tried to console himself.
