CHAPTER VI.
fter the memorable interview with his father, Isidore had at first buoyed himself up with the hope that with the help Clotilde and Marguerite he might still find some way out of the difficulty; a night of anxious thought, however, convinced him that they would be powerless to effect anything, and that he must act for himself, and promptly too. He could not remain at Beaujardin, nor could he any longer accept the hospitality of the baroness. Besides, out of consideration for Clotilde he did not care to disclose to her her mother's part in the matter, whilst his pride recoiled from telling Marguerite all the humiliating incidents of the scene with his father. There could be no hope of their speedy union, or indeed of any favourable turn of affairs for some time to come, and he therefore resolved to go off straight to Paris and obtain his re-appointment to his former post in Canada; there he could communicate with his uncle, and secure his aid. He accordingly confided to a trusty messenger a note, in which he briefly informed Marguerite of the unfavourable result of his visit to Beaujardin, and of his object in proceeding to Paris, whence he promised to return without delay. He set off for that city on the following morning, and on arriving there made his application to the Minister of War; but two days elapsed before he received an answer. What was his astonishment on opening it to find that the application was refused! He was on the point of hurrying off to seek an interview with the Minister himself, when he perceived a small note, which had been enclosed with the official letter; it was in the hand of a confidential secretary whom he knew well, and ran as follows:—
"Quit Paris without an hour's delay, or you are lost. The danger also threatens a person about whom you are most concerned."
The warning came from one who would not have penned it without good grounds, and Isidore felt that it was not to be neglected for a moment. What if some mischief had already befallen Marguerite during his absence! In half an hour he was again in the saddle and on his way to Valricour.
Full of anxiety, and wholly unable to form any plan for want of information as to the nature of the impending danger, he rode on, with but scanty rest, stopping only for a few hours during each night. The road to Valricour passed close to Beaujardin, and the sun was just rising as he came to one of the side gates leading into the great gardens of the chateau. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he would see his father once more, and make a final appeal to him. Prompt to act on his resolves, he sprang from his horse, and telling his attendant to await his return, entered the garden and made his way towards the mansion. Ah, if only his path were as clear and straight as those he was now treading—and yet the stiff formality of the vast pleasure grounds seemed hideous and hateful to him. To think that hundreds of thousands of livres should be spent on making nature as unlike to herself as possible. Here were miles of straight gravel walks and terraces, and hedges of almost incredible height, cut trimly to pattern like gigantic green walls, with prim and formal arches cut to the inch, and, for a change, long terraces with cold stone balustrades and statues, which, instead of giving life, made everything seem yet more lifeless. O for a thicket or a coppice, or a clump of tangled brambles, to show that there was some sympathy in nature with the tangled trouble of his heart! Yet the inflexible regularity of all around him produced one effect on Isidore, and led him to make up his mind on one point at least. He resolved that no consideration whatever should induce him to give up Marguerite, or to desert at such a crisis the poor girl who could have no hope but in his constancy. There were moments in which he could not help thinking that the kindest thing he could do would be to relinquish her, and thus free her at once from the persecution she had incurred. Still he clung to the notion that his father could not really intend to cast him off altogether. Yes, the marquis had been indeed harsh and angry, but it could not be denied that appearances gave him some excuse. These thoughts were passing through his mind when he noticed that some one was dogging his steps. In no mood to brook anything that looked like espionage he turned sharply on the intruder, and, to his surprise, found that it was old Achille Perigord.
"What! is it you?" said the young marquis. "What brings you here at such an hour?"
"Alas, alas! my dear young master," replied the old man, "then it is you indeed; I had hardly dared to hope for such good fortune. But there is not a moment to be lost."