Then throwing out several of the allusions which he found had most deeply stung his companion the night before, he placed himself by the side of Gaudin, and proceeded to explain to him the rough composition of the different articles the box contained. And as he saw the intense attention, the almost gasping eagerness with which Sainte-Croix followed his instructions, he exclaimed almost unconsciously,
‘Mine—mine for ever!’
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CHATEAU IN THE COUNTRY—THE MEETING—LE PREMIER PAS
It was a dreary autumnal evening, sixteen months after the events of the last chapter, and the twilight was fast coming upon a vast forest in the province of l’Ile de France, now known as the department of the Oise. The afternoon had been chill and depressing. The wind moaned through the high branches of the trees in a dismal and monotonous wailing, and the constant rustling of the leaves as they fell to the ground showed that the season was far advanced. There were few of the wild flowers left. Two or three, here and there, in sheltered nooks, were all that remained to remind one of the past summer. The delicate heath-bell trembled in the cold breeze, as it rose amidst the dead foliage; but there were few beside. The birds were silent; the tinkling of the cattle-bells on the patches of pasture-land was hushed, as the animals huddled together, shrinking from the first approach of cold; and no sound was heard to disturb the general torpidity into which nature seemed about to fall, except the echoing noise from the blows of the axe with which the peasants were cutting down the limbs of the trees for the winter store of firewood.
Yet was the Forêt de l’Aigue a pleasant place in summer, when the sunlight danced upon the turf of its long avenues, darting through the quivering foliage, and the ground was powdered with the bright petals of its flowers, from the primroses spangling its sunny banks, to the gentle violets clustering about the mossy bolls of the fantastic trees, adding their odour to the scent-laden air that swept so warmly through the branches. And during this season alone, it might have been conceived that the chateaux, which were built widely apart upon the forest, were inhabited; for the situation was indeed desolate at other times. But although the autumn was, as we have observed, far advanced, one of the largest of these country houses that a man could come to in a long day’s walk, had not yet been forsaken for the winter by its occupants. This was a large rambling building, with many windows and turrets, surrounded by a neglected garden, with a few mutilated stone statues, corroded by the rain of many winters, and enclosed by a rude flint wall, with a broken coping. The walks were overgrown with weeds; the ponds were either dry or covered with slime and dead leaves; and water had long ceased to come from the mouths of the misshapen dolphins that formed the fountains. It was of a class of rural buildings which, in France, always appear desolate and uncared for; but this one was especially so.
In one of the large apartments of this house, a bare, uncarpeted room, which the blazing pile of firewood upon the iron ‘dogs’ of the large hearth could not render cheerful, were two persons—an elderly man and a young female. The former was seated at an escritoire, arranging a vast mass of papers bearing official seals and signatures that lay before him. His companion was plunged in a large fauteuil at the side of the fireplace, with her hands pressed against her face, as if to shut out all impressions but her own thoughts. She might have been supposed asleep, but for an occasional rapid shudder which passed through her frame, induced by the vivid recollection of some bygone scene of suffering. These two persons were M. d’Aubray, the lieutenant-civil, and his daughter, the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.
‘The wind is blowing sharply to-night, Marie,’ said the old man, as a gust of unusual violence howled round the chateau, and shook the rattling casements. ‘We must think about returning to Paris.’
‘I have no wish to go, mon père,’ replied his daughter,—‘to be pointed at as an object of pity, scorn, or curiosity. I would sooner remain here with you—for ever.’
She left the fire, and sinking on a low prie-dieu at her father’s side, took his hand in her own, and looked up in his face with a gaze of deep attachment.
‘You have nothing to fear in Paris,’ replied M. d’Aubray. ‘The court has had a thousand objects for its slander since you left; and you have been at Offemont long enough for the whole affair to be forgotten. Besides, you will return acknowledged by me, and with my countenance.’