Unawares: A Story of an Old French Town

by Frances Mary Peard

Thérèse shook her head despairingly.

“If he told you nothing himself, you will not hear of my cousin at Ardron.”

M. Deshoulières thought her perverse. He would not permit such a possibility to take root in his mind. He went home through the quaint crooked streets, all bathed in the delicious freshness of a spring morning,—streets with old arched doorways, bits of bold carving, clambering vines, and overhead a sky broken into tender pearly tints, beneath which the blue was deepening every hour. People were already about, standing on the top of doorsteps, plodding off to their work: they stared curiously at the doctor, guessing that he was on his way home from the Cygne, and wondering whether the tragedy was over. No one ventured to address him, he looked too grave and preoccupied. He was inwardly wroth with himself for having yielded, and yet he knew very well that if the whole thing were to be repeated he should yield again. What was to become of Thérèse? where was she to live? He caught sight of a dull grey wall, and remembered with some satisfaction that there was a convent in the town to which it was possible she might choose to retire. He could not help thinking that such a course would be the best she could take. “However,” reflected M. Deshoulières, dismissing the subject with a sigh of perplexity, “we shall know better after I have been to Ardron.”

Ardron still seemed the goal where things were to be made clear, when he and little Roulleau started for it on the day after the funeral. Thérèse was at the notary’s house,—a temporary arrangement which relieved the doctor of some anxiety. To reach their end required a journey of some hours, at first through the great sunny corn plains, then by a cross line into a more diversified country, where was pasture-land and great trees, under which the cattle stood lazily content, and where, at last, they stopped at a little station bright with flowers, and embowered in acacias.

A bloused porter answered their inquiries. “Château Ardron, messieurs? That road—provided you keep continually to the right—will lead you there in less than a quarter of an hour.” M. Deshoulières walked quickly; he was anxious to put an end to his uncertainties; the notary had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Monsieur Roulleau, who was always haunted by a fear of accidents, wore a yellow straw hat, and carried a huge umbrella to ward off sunstroke.

The sun was certainly hot, but a soft breeze rustled through the copse: by and by they came to a little hill, and then to a turn in the road. “We shall find the house there,” said the doctor, quickening his pace. He was right. On the top of a mound, stiffly planted on either side with trees, stood an unmistakable château of the ugliest modern type. It was built of red brick which time had not yet touched or mellowed, and faced with broad belts of white stone; the windows were numerous, and set thickly together, like those of a manufactory; at either end of the front was a small edifice, to represent a tower, and in the centre a little pretentious lantern.

“As I expected,” said M. Deshoulières, with a grimace which the notary did not see. “Now for the inside, all gilt and satin.”

All gilt and satin it was: the notary was rapturous in his admiration. “It might have been in the upholsterer’s shop yesterday,” he said, in a fervour of enthusiasm. The finery struck the doctor as looking more desolate and melancholy in this uninhabited house than the most threadbare furniture could have done. The rooms stared unmeaningly at the daylight, as the old woman who lived there with her husband threw back the shutters, and caught off the covers. Every thing seemed new, gay, and heartless. One room upstairs was different from the others. It was richly but more simply furnished: little things about it appeared to resist the general cold formality of the house. It had a delicate paper, pictures, a pretty little alcove hung with muslin.

“The room of mademoiselle,” said the old woman, pushing back the persiennes, and letting in a flood of warm sunlight. M. Deshoulières held back his companion at the door, and would not go in.

Thérèse was right, he began to fear. There were desks, papers, letters, at the château, but no information about M. Saint-Martin. Every thing was carefully and methodically arranged: only this one item was wanting, which in M. Deshoulières’ eyes outweighed all the rest. Old Mathieu and his wife, who knew nothing of their master’s death, were full of wonder, compassion, and, above all, anxiety about their own future. To them there were no dismals at Château Ardron, only a warm kitchen, plenty of firewood, a roof over their heads, a little monthly instalment of francs. Monsieur Moreau had dismissed all the servants soon after his wife’s death, had shut up his grand château, and gone away with Thérèse. It seemed as if a fit of restlessness had seized him. The poor old people, who had no restlessness, wanted to be assured that they would not lose their home, and when they understood this, they cheered up again at once. M. Deshoulières wondered whether M. Moreau had one mourner in the world. It seemed as if he had built his own prison-house, a wall of hard unloving words and deeds, in the midst of which he had died.