About an hour before Paul left the fisherman’s hut, where he had found Lusignan, a person had preceded him on the road toward the cottage at which he was to ask the revelation of the secret of his birth; that person was the Marchioness d’Auray, the haughty heiress of the name of Sable. She was attired in her usual mourning garments with the addition of a long black veil, which enveloped her from head to foot. Moreover, the habitation which our young adventurer, with the hesitation of ignorance, was seeking for, was to her familiar. It was a sort of keeper’s house, situated at a few paces from the entrance to the park, and inhabited by an old man, in whose behalf the Marchioness d’Auray had for twenty years fulfilled one of those acts of sedulous benevolence which had gained for her in that part of Lower Brittany, the reputation of rigid holiness which she enjoyed. These attentions to age were given, it is true, with the same gloomy and solemn face which we have observed in her, and which the tender emotions of pity never softened; but they were nevertheless afforded, and all knew it, with careful punctuality.
The face of the Marchioness d’Auray was even more grave than it was wont to be, while she crossed the park to repair to the dwelling of a man who was said to be an old servant of the family. The door was standing open as if to allow the last rays of the setting sun to penetrate into the house, so sweet and balmy to old people in the month of May. The house was however empty. The Marchioness d’Auray entered it, looked around her, and then as if certain that the person she was in search of would not be long absent, she resolved to await his return. She sat down. She had remained there about half an hour, motionless and absorbed in her reflections, when she saw, between her and the declining daylight, a shadow cast before the door. She slowly raised her eyes and recognised the person she had been expecting. They both started as though they had met by chance, and were not in the habit of seeing each other every day.
“It is you, Achard,” said the marchioness, who was the first to speak. “I have been waiting for you half an hour. Where can you have been?”
“Had your ladyship walked fifty paces farther, you would have found me under the large oak, on the edge of the forest.”
“You know I never walk that way,” said the marchioness, with a visible shudder.
“And you are wrong, madam; there is one in heaven who has a right to our joint prayers, and who, perhaps, is astonished to hear only those of old Achard.”
“And how know you that I do not also pray?” said the marchioness, with a certain degree of feverish agitation. “Do you believe that the dead require we should be constantly kneeling on their tombs?”
“No,” replied the old man, with a feeling of profound sorrow; “no, I do not believe that the dead are so exacting, madam; but I believe if any part of us lives under ground, it would thrill at the noise caused by the steps of those whom we have loved during our life.”
“But,” said the marchioness, in a low and hollow tone, “if that love were a guilty passion?”
“However guilty it may have been, madam,” replied the old man, also lowering his voice, “do you not believe that blood and tears have expatiated it? God was then, believe me, too severe a judge, not to have now become an indulgent father.”