“I wish you would not speak of the other one, John. It is very disrespectful to a very charming young lady. There has never been any other one. You offend me when you talk so, by offending her. I have the greatest reverence for the ladies here—both——”
“You need not be so particular. She would not be offended. She knows very well that this marriage is manqué, and she is not inconsolable. But, look here: you must not go a step further till you know all particulars. I say, what is that? What an infernal row!” said Sir John.
The sound of the sudden cry affronting the silence, and even the fall that followed, ringing out into the great quiet with all the intensity of a sudden calamity, reached them both, though they were scarcely within sight of Père Goudron’s house. They rushed on without another word, Charley quickening his steps to a run, as they perceived where the tumult was. By this time dark figures were coming out into the street from the cottages near, and everything was in commotion. M. Goudron’s door stood wide open; the persiennes had been thrown open also, and what seemed a flood of light poured out into the street. Charley rushed in, and Sir John followed. In the midst of a group of eager spectators a pale figure was lying on the bed. He had struck his forehead against something as he fell, and a drop or two of blood slowly congealing upon it showed the blow. His lips were open, hanging apart, dry and parched, his eyes half closed, and showing a dull, inexpressive light. The two Englishmen went forward, joining themselves to the group. The village doctor, half dressed, stood holding a mirror to the dry lips. Old Goudron, like a living skeleton, with a nervous quiver in his old bones, held a candle, like Time or Death himself assisting at the deathbed. In one corner Ursule was praying on her knees. Helen stood, pallid as the dead face itself, supporting the pillows on which he was propped, at the head of the bed.
Sir John was slow to take in the chief feature of the scene; he mastered everything else before he perceived that: the doctor, with the little mirror in his hand, upon which no stain of living breath was to be seen; the old bony figure by the bed; the young daughter, silent and distraught; then his eyes fixed themselves on the face of the man round whom they had all collected. His sudden shout shook the room. He cried out in astonishment, in consternation and horror. “My God! it is Goulburn himself!” Sir John said.
CHAPTER XV.
Mr Goulburn was dead.
It was hard to tell how it had happened. There was the mark on his forehead of a blow, but to all appearance it was a blow accidentally inflicted as he fell, and not done by any hand, and it was not sufficient to have been the cause of his death. That the state of his heart sufficiently explained. But whether it was the sight of the thief which had brought on the final paroxysm, or whether they had come into actual conflict, or if the disease was so far advanced that any trifling shock would have done it, it was more difficult to decide. All the drawers of the bureau were found pulled out, and the one in which the money had been kept was rifled. Even on this point, however, the juge de paix found it difficult to refrain from blaming the deceased for his own loss. The keys had been left in the drawer—could anything be more foolish? it was a premium upon robbery; the shutters unfastened, so that any one could push them apart; the window open within that, the room left vacant, protected only by the veilleuse, and the keys in the drawers. It was the Englishman himself who had laid a trap for the robber, who had invited him, actually invited him to come and help himself; but he had fallen into the trap which he had laid. It was difficult for the prudent Frenchman not to breathe a fervent “served him right,” with such variety of expression as the exigencies of a more elaborate language required; but no trace could be found of the thief and possible murderer. He had evidently jumped from the window, leaving the shutters open and the room fully displayed, but it was not till after his escape that the village had been roused. Père Goudron had heard the leap, but nothing more. In the investigation that followed, suspicion was directed against Antoine, who had been seen by several persons watching M. Goudron’s house; but it was conclusively proved that Antoine had left that afternoon for the chef-lieu, where he had gone to complete all the necessary arrangements for his acceptance as Baptiste’s substitute. He had been escorted a league on his way by several of his friends, so on that point there could be no mistake.
The affair of l’Anglais made, as may be supposed, an enormous sensation at Latour. Nothing like it, so far as was known, had ever happened in the village. The juge de paix sat, en permanence, for a number of days examining everybody. They even examined the other Englishmen who were living at the château, and who declared themselves acquainted with the victim. They were very sharply questioned indeed, so that it occurred to Sir John that they were themselves suspected of the deed, an idea which was the cause of endless discourses on his part, and disquisitions upon the differences between English and French law, very much, it need not be said, to the disadvantage of the latter. The Comtesse for her part scoffed at the instruction altogether. She would hear nothing of a possible murder. The man, she said, had death in his face; had she not said so, the first moment she saw him? She had seen him but once, but she had been fully aware what was to be expected; so fully that she had not even urged him to return home, which she would have done had the case seemed to her less serious; for it was better that he should die in Latour than that he should die in the railway, or in an inn, where his daughters would have no one near them but absolute strangers. Madame de Vieux-bois justified her own previsions on this point by sending at once for Helen and little Janey, who, after their father had been laid in the little burying-ground among all the little crosses, with their blue and yellow decorations, came to the château grateful, but half stupefied with all that had happened to them. Helen, at least, was in this condition, for poor little Janey’s despair had been brief, as was natural at her age. But the elder sister had gone through a great many terrible experiences during those two or three days. She had been examined at great length by the magistrate, not only on the circumstances of the fatal night, but on all the antecedents of her family, the reason of her father’s residence at Latour, why he had left England, everything about him; and then she had undergone an examination by Sir John, less solemn perhaps, but not less harassing. Sir John was strongly opposed to the engagement, which Charley Ashton instantly proclaimed. He declared it to be entirely out of the question, and risked a quarrel not only with his cousin, but with his betrothed and her family. Madame de Vieux-bois, indeed, did not hesitate to agree with him that if the match was so extremely unsuitable as he said, it would be well that it should be put a stop to; but she had herself no responsibility in the matter, and her interest, she confessed, was much more strong in Helen than in M. Charles, who, she was glad to think, ne la plaisait pas from his first appearance. But Cécile and also Thérèse were very eager for Helen’s happiness, and very indignant that any attempt should be made against it.
“What!” cried Cécile, beautiful in her generous wrath and wonder, “les Anglais! who believe in nothing but lofe, who blame so much all our arrangements between parents, our ideas upon marriage! You who say there is nothing but a great passion which should bring two people together! Look at the book of M. Taine of the Academy, he who is such an admirable writer, who has so much observed England. That is what he says, and I believe it, I! Lofe, that is the true bond, not a similarity of circumstances, the dot and the position, and how it will advance one’s career. But you—you—an Englishman, so English! you,” she cried, with a ring of disappointment in her voice,—“you, mon D’John, mon fiancé à moi! that you should try to separate them because my Helen, my poor friend, is——
“Come, Cécile,” cried Sir John, “is—— that’s just it. It’s not that she is poor. To be poor is bad enough, I don’t say that I approve of it; but it is the bad connection, that is what I dislike. A bankrupt, a—a—swin—— Well, I won’t call the dead man names. That is what I object to. I don’t say a word against the girl; but, after all, Charley is my cousin, and a young fellow with all his life before him, and, hang it all! it is my duty to take care of him.”