"Unawares" (continued 4)

He paused. There was an uncomfortable silence. Then the curé said coldly,—

“Certainly; I am aware that you mentioned an extraordinary provision to that effect.”

“But,” broke in Fabien with a sneer, “I presume the provisions were scarcely extended to the point of obliging M. Deshoulières to ignore any indirect information that might be supplied to him on the subject, or of declining to be enlightened by letters from myself? Possibly I am mistaken. A will that could do so much may have had the power of enforcing blindness and deafness upon its executor.”

Max, stern, quiet, and self-possessed, answered at once,—

“M. Saint-Martin, I demand an explanation, of words which are to me wholly unintelligible.”

“M. Deshoulières, I demand, on my part, firstly, an explanation of your non-appearance at the Lion d’Or at Pont-huine?”

“So? that is easily given, monsieur. The sudden illness of one of my patients prevented it. In my stead I sent the notary who drew up Monsieur Moreau’s will, and was equally with myself acquainted with its particulars. M. Roulleau spent the afternoon at Pont-huine. As no person appeared, he returned to Charville with the belief that we had been made the victims of a jest.”

M. Fabien laughed. “This, I think, you can disprove,” he said, turning to the curé.

“It was no jest, monsieur,” said the curé, sternly. “You will permit me to remark that all I heard, even from your own lips, of Monsieur Moreau’s last illness, and the extraordinary terms of his will, coupled with the amazing fact of his having chosen as dépositaire a man wholly unknown to him until the morning of his death, appeared to me so unaccountable, not to say suspicious, that I felt it my duty to act in some degree on my own responsibility. I made private inquiries among those whom I considered likely to aid me, and immediately that I succeeded in obtaining a slight clew which it appeared to me might lead to the desired point, I thought it desirable—yes, monsieur, I avow it—to test the sincerity of your professions, by appointing a meeting at the Lion d’Or. Permit me to state that from having myself waited there the whole day in vain, I am in a condition to affirm that no notice was taken of my communication.”

“Allow me, then, in return, to say that you behaved in an indefensible manner, M. le Curé,” replied M. Deshoulières, promptly. “You had no right to indulge in anonymous communications. Nevertheless, I have already informed you of what was done. You can apply to M. Roulleau. Have you any thing more to remark?”

The curé, who was suspicious but not irritable, glancing at him again, could not repress another feeling of admiration. Either the man was a magnificent deceiver or—He was so steadfast, so noble-looking, so immeasurably above the other. M. le Curé fidgeted, and did not know what to think. Fabien answered the question hotly.

“A great deal more. During the last year I have twice written to my uncle, at Château Ardron. What has become of these letters?”

“I cannot answer you,” said Max, in some surprise. “I cannot answer you that question. Since the first month only a few unimportant letters have come to me, and they were brought by M. Roulleau, to whom they have been forwarded by some mistake.”

“We have questioned old Mathieu at Ardron,” the curé said dryly; “he remembers the foreign letters, and will swear to having forwarded them. As to the mistake, he told us that he had your directions to send all letters to M. Roulleau, numéro 8, Rue St. Servan, Charville.”

M. Deshoulières’ face, for the first time, looked troubled. “There is something strange in this which I do not understand,” he said slowly. Fabien interrupted him with his insulting laugh.

“There is a great deal, let me assure you, monsieur, which we do not understand—”

Max, in his turn, stopped him. “That will do, Monsieur Saint-Martin. I can pardon much to a person in your position, but my forbearance has its limits. I shall question M. Roulleau on the points you have named. It is unnecessary to say more to-night. May I ask what hour you will appoint for meeting me in Charville to-morrow, when the will can be read, and the papers delivered into your keeping?”

“Charville, monsieur? On my word, were I to meet you in Charville the complications might be increased by a second deathbed scene. A thousand thanks, but I must decline your invitation to that charming fever-hole.”

“In that case, monsieur, I regret to state that my unwished-for trust cannot be brought to an end so quickly as I should desire. The wording of the will requires your presence in Charville.”

“More extraordinary provisions!” said the young man, with a shrug of annoyance. The curé interrupted him contemptuously.

“It is not the part of a brave man to fear shadows,” he said. “M. Deshoulières, will twelve o’clock be agreeable to you?”

Max bowed.

“At your own house?”

“I think not. I would suggest the Cygne.”

“Good. Before you go, may I trouble you with one question?” said the curé, whose suspicions and whose impressions were pulling him different ways.

“Certainly.”

“At the beginning of this interview you remarked upon that condition of M. Moreau’s will which forbade the advertisement of the bequest to his nephew, that it appeared unaccountable to you at the time. I gather from that, monsieur, that a solution has since presented itself to you. If I am not mistaken, may I inquire the nature of this solution?”

Ah, Thérèse, waiting and watching, not knowing yet who was so near! Ah, faithful heart, that never faltered in its purpose, nor suffered its own pain to stand before her happiness! Ah, true, patient, noble love, that gave his face the glory that it wore!

“Monsieur Saint-Martin,” he said, turning from the curé, and speaking to the young man, “I believe that your uncle, in spite of his words, loved you above all others. I believe he regretted the harshness which had separated you and Mademoiselle Veuillot, and desired in a certain manner to atone for it. He may have thought that a voluntary appeal on your part would be a test of the sincerity of your attachment. At all events, it appears to me that the provisions of his will, which were intended to keep Mademoiselle Veuillot in Charville, and to oblige you to receive your inheritance in the same town, could tend to no other purpose.”

“Ah, by the way, Thérèse!” said Fabien, lightly. “Is Thérèse in Charville?”

“You will see her to-morrow,” M. Deshoulières said gravely. Was this the first thought of her who had been left so desolate? He bowed and went away quickly, not daring to trust himself longer. Fabien half followed him, and then came back and flung himself on a sofa.

“I don’t know that we should have let him go, after all,” he said, irresolutely.

“I hardly think you would have had much power to prevent him,” remarked the curé, with a grim smile, coming from the window, and ringing the bell for lights. He could not help despising the young man with his weak passionate nature, and yet he tried to keep up a conviction that he had been wronged.

“And so Thérèse is here,” said Fabien. He laughed a little to himself, and curled his moustache. “She had a spirit, had Thérèse, and her eyes were something to remember. Parbleu, though, a visit to that fever-hole is not too agreeable to contemplate.”

“Is Mademoiselle Veuillot your fiancée?” asked the curé, severely.

Fabien laughed again. “Fiancée? No, mon père, not altogether. We shall see.”

“It is possible that her interests also may have suffered.”

“Ah—yes—it is possible. But my uncle had not too great a love for Thérèse. I am curious to know how he has provided for her.”

“Yet I have understood that your disagreement with your uncle originated in your attachment for Mademoiselle Veuillot,” said the curé, facing round upon him sharply.

“Precisely,” answered Fabien, airily. “But then—what will you?—I was young, foolish—the truth was that I could not endure my old uncle’s régime in the office. I heard of an opening in Rio Janeiro, and I worked my way out. On the voyage I wished myself back a hundred times, I promise you, but once there, somehow or other, I found myself on my feet—fortune favoured me. I was getting weary of it, though, and this news came to me just in time through M. l’Abbé, but it is not a bad place after all. One sees the world.”

And so M. Fabien rattled on, while the curé looked at him and listened with a growing discontent. Before he went to bed, he found it necessary to repeat to himself all the evidence he had gathered against M. Deshoulières. There was no denying it; things bore a very dark appearance. A suspicious trust; an appointment said to have been kept in the face of his own knowledge to the contrary; letters suppressed; rumours that all was not right; a letter from M. l’Abbé at the Evêché: “M. Deshoulières is a man well spoken of, but my own opinion of him does not coincide with that of the world.” A letter from the Préfet: “I consider this doctor a pestilent, discontented individual, always trying to advance his own schemes. In effect, I doubt him.”

“M. le Préfet would not have spoken without reason,” said M. le Curé to himself assuringly, as he folded up the letter. “After all, there are cases in the world when a man’s face does not agree with his actions.”

M. Deshoulières went sadly home that night. It was not of his own grey future that he was thinking, nor of the accusations that had been heaped upon him so unexpectedly—he almost smiled as he recalled them. He was thinking of Thérèse and of Fabien. Was this man to whom her heart had gone out, one who would keep it, and treasure it, and cherish it? There was a deep intolerable pain in the question that would come surging up in spite of his efforts to still it. The stars shone out, and a fresh rustling breeze was swaying the stiff sycamores, lights were gleaming from the old houses, the vines on the balconies had changed into dusky masses. The shadowy old sounds and sights were very familiar and sweet to poor Max, but this night they seemed to have lost their power.

Chapter Eighteen.

“Aimer sans Amour est amer.”

Thérèse was waiting for M. Deshoulières the next morning when he went to Rue St. Servan. He could not tell how she looked; she was eager, troubled, doubtful, all at once. He did not yet know what had happened, but he guessed directly. “Ah, that poor madame!” she said shuddering. “It is too terrible—” and then she stopped.

He saw that she had been overwrought. All that night Madame Roulleau had lain on the floor by the child’s bed, in a fierce agony of despair, not weeping, but writhing. Once she had looked up with dry, burning eyes, and said to Thérèse hoarsely, “Your lover is come. Do you remember? he told you so once, and I beat him for it. Do you hear that, all of you? I told a lie, and I beat my little Adolphe.” There was something so terrible in her voice and in her face, that Thérèse and Nannon shrank. And this was all that she knew of Fabien. The poor child, in spite of her bravery, could hardly endure these different emotions that were tearing at her heart. Nothing at the hospital had been so dreadful to witness as the sight of that hard, insupportable agony. And in the midst of it she had been told that Fabien was come.

“What is it all?” she said, putting out her hand to Max, with an appealing glance that went to his heart. He answered it at once with a kind smile.

“There is good news for you. M. Saint-Martin has come at last.”

“So it is true!” Her face changed suddenly, her eyes danced. “I could not believe it; but if you say so, I know it is true.”

Yes, those grave blue eyes were true as truth itself. There was a burden to be borne by one, perhaps by both of them, and his work should be to lighten hers.

“You may believe it, indeed. I have seen him—”

“Seen him!” Such gladness in her face!—such gladness in her voice!

“And you shall meet him to-day at the Cygne.”

Something made her put out her hand to him again. “What do I not owe you!” she said, gratefully.

“For what?” he said with a smile. “I was neither the letter nor the ship that brought him back. Allons, it appears to me it is monsieur the curé of Ardron whom you will have to thank the most.”

She shook her head without answering. She was not deceived. If ever friend was faithful to his friendship, it was this friend. Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Thérèse said slowly,—“I shall understand every thing better by and by, I think. I fancy there are things which neither of us understand as yet. That poor woman—!” she added, sighing.

“So the poor little one is dead!”

“It is not that only—I mean that is not the worst,” she said in answer to his look. “Her sorrow is so dreadful to see. I have asked her to hear Père Gaspard, but she will not let him come into the room. I wonder whether Sister Gabrielle could do any thing! I wonder what it is! She says such terrible things.”

M. Deshoulières was too generous-hearted to suspect readily, but that night he had been perplexed by thoughts of little Roulleau, suggested in the interview at Maury.

“I must see her husband,” he said. “Is he with her, or shall I find him in the bureau?”

“Did you not know?” asked Thérèse in surprise. “He is not here. He went away again at once when he heard of the fever. The little coward!”

“Went away!”

“But yes, indeed. To Tours, she supposes. I think that is one of the things that has half killed her.”

M. Deshoulières’ face became more grave. This flight of the little notary added considerably to the difficulties of his position. He remembered also that Ignace had heard his tidings of M. Saint-Martin’s arrival. Thérèse, who saw this cloud, asked at once, “What is it?”

“I do not like his absence at this time, and I want the papers connected with M. Moreau’s will. Will you wait here for a moment while I speak to the clerk?”

He came back again presently, shaking his head. “We can go no further than the outside of the chest; Madame Roulleau has the keys, and I am afraid you must make an effort to get them. It is really a matter of extreme importance, or I would not ask you to undertake such a task,” he added abruptly.

Thérèse turned a little pale. “Does it not seem cruel?”

“I cannot help it. It is necessary. Would you rather that I saw her?”

“No, no. I will try, but I dread it.”

She was absent so long that he had risen to follow her, when she came into the room again, white and trembling. “No, I have done nothing,” she said, in answer to his look. “She only rocks herself backwards and forwards on the ground. She never looked up—I do not know whether she heard me; but yet she must have, for when I came away at last, I heard her spring up and bolt the door. Nannon is out, and there she is quite alone. It cannot matter so greatly. Fabien can wait for his papers another day—” A shade that unconsciously crossed his face made her cry out quickly, “They will trust you unreservedly!”

“Scarcely that, perhaps,” he said, with a smile and a sigh. “Well, we must wait; this fit may possibly pass off. I will go and ask Sister Gabrielle to come here. Whether that poor woman will see her or not, she will be some one in the house, for you must take Nannon with you to the Cygne soon after twelve. You understand that it is on account of the fever that I do not bring M. Saint-Martin here?”

“Yes, yes. But ought I to see him? You are sure there is no danger?” she asked piteously.

“Not with the usual precautions. Can I help you in any way?”

“No, thank you. Père Gaspard has been very kind.”

Thérèse never knew how those hours passed. She tried to go into the room where madame lay in her awful depth of despair, but the door was locked, and Thérèse, who could not keep down the well of joy that seemed to come dancing up from her heart, felt indeed as if this happiness separated them more than any bolts. She called herself cruel, inhuman; she thought of little Adolphe, the weariness, the fever, the pain; but even while her tears fell, those glad visions would intrude themselves. When we are quite young we are so rigorous over our sorrows that we are impatient of comfort; it is in after life that we learn to refuse no consolations. She scolded herself, and then when Sister Gabrielle came, fell into her arms, and laughed and cried together. Sister Gabrielle, who had a way of soothing people, listened quietly, and seemed to lift that little burden of self-reproach from her heart. She dressed her, and called Nannon, and stood on the top of the steps watching the two go away together down the street, and under the dark archway. Charville had broken out into its cheerfulness again; the fever was dying away, only here and there was still the sharp anguish of recent loss like Madame Roulleau’s. Thérèse went off with a buoyant step into the sunshine, and the merry jangle of voices. Sister Gabrielle turned back into the house, took her knitting, and sat patiently on the stairs outside the room, where the mother had shut herself in with her despair.

When Thérèse reached the Cygne, something of her brightness had fled. She hung back with a little dread; it was Nannon who pushed forward, and made Toinette show them the room which M. Deshoulières had set apart for them.

“There is no one there; see, mademoiselle!” she said, reconnoitring.

It had a balcony, which looked over the sycamore-trees at the lovely spires of the Cathedral. Nannon, with quick tact, went out there, and sat humming a little chanson, very cracked and discordant, but to her full of memories of her girlhood. Those songs of old age are the most pathetic songs of all. Thérèse in the room waited with a hundred hopes and fears in her heart. It was three years since she had seen Fabien, and now that he was near she began to tremble.

Meanwhile, in another room of the hotel, a stormy discussion was taking place. It was necessary for M. Deshoulières to greet the two gentlemen with the information that the notary had left Charville unexpectedly, and that it was not in his power to produce the will. M. Saint-Martin broke out in passionate terms at once.

“So, monsieur, and this is the end! Do not suppose that I have come here to be trifled with.”

“M. Deshoulières must be aware,” interrupted the curé in his frigid tones, “that he stands in a strange position.”

“M. le Curé, I am perfectly aware. M. Saint-Martin has—not a right, but a certain amount of excuse for what would otherwise be unpardonable expressions. But when I have said this, I have said all. Events have conspired to bring about this false position, and a very short time will, I suppose, set it right. Meanwhile, I claim the courtesy and the trust which is due from one gentleman to another.”

“From one gentleman!—yes,” sneered Fabien. “Pardon, monsieur; I was not aware that you considered yourself beyond that pale.”

Fabien, who was white with rage, would have answered fiercely, but the curé again interfered.

“Messieurs, the interests of both require something more than a battle of words.”

“You are right,” said Max, turning frankly towards him. “I regret what I said. The delay is just as vexatious to me as to you—more so, in fact, since it seems to create suspicions which are certainly not agreeable for me to hear—but we had better meet it like reasonable beings. It is possible that I can obtain the keys from Madame Roulleau to-morrow—at all events learn where her husband is, and telegraph for him at once. If you return to Maury, I will give you the earliest information; if, on the contrary, you prefer to remain in Charville, you will have the satisfaction of being on the spot, and able to adopt whatever measures you think advisable—for the security of your inheritance,” added the doctor, with a little mockery in his smile, which was not lost upon the curé.

Monsieur Saint-Martin, not having recovered himself, answered sharply: “Certainly I do not choose to remain in this city of the plague. My lawyer will be here to-day; and as to further proceedings, I shall be guided by him. He may suggest immediate action.”

“I should recommend your carrying it out at once,” replied M. Deshoulières gravely. Fabien, who hated ridicule, looked quickly at him to see whether he was serious or not, and could not satisfy himself.

“It is unendurable,” he muttered. “After having all one’s life been pestered by the vagaries of an old man, he might at least have spared his ridiculous restraints when he was dead, and could find no pleasure in them.”

“Is Mademoiselle Veuillot here?” asked the curé, looking up.

“She is. She is in the next room.”

“What do you propose to do?” said Fabien, disregarding.

“I have already told you, monsieur. Meanwhile you may employ any spurs with which your lawyer may furnish you,” replied M. Deshoulières impatiently. Thérèse was in the next room, and this man was indifferent.

“You ought to see Mademoiselle Veuillot at once,” said the curé, rising.

“Thérèse? Oh, yes. She is here, you say? By all means.”

She heard their voices in the passage; half rose, and sat down again, while the colour faded completely out of her face. In the balcony, Nannon was singing her little refrain,—

“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour Triste ou gai tour à tour;”

an old melancholy Breton song that had somehow been wafted across from, the quaint wild province of hills and chestnut trees to these broad unromantic corn plains. Thérèse, who had not heard it before, never forgot the little sad air. She heard the song, and the voices, and the door opening; but for the first moment it was all confused. It was her own name which recalled her; her own name in Fabien’s voice.

“Ah, Thérèse, at last we meet! Believe me that I am enchanted to renew our acquaintance. You have not quite forgotten me, I flatter myself.”

She raised her eyes, not to his but to Monsieur Deshoulières’. One piteous, appealing glance—what was this?—acquaintance—forgotten? Three years of hungering and hoping, and could this be her greeting at the end? He with an overwhelming pity in his heart might not help her by look, or sign, or word. Face to face, heart to heart, these two must show each other the story of their lives.

“You have come at last, Fabien,” she said, faintly.

“After all, yes. I have had enough of South America, as you may imagine. It was a little more amusing than the old bureau at Rouen, but it was becoming ennuyant. Variety before all. Life requires to be tasted like wine, a sip here and a sip there before one decides. Now I shall try the charms of Paris. And you? have you remained here since my uncle’s death? A triste place, is it not?”

And she had loved him! By some subtile force of sympathy, Max knew that she was suffering a sharper pang than any which had come to him. He was standing with the curé where they could not see them, but he could hear the light frivolous voice, the heartless words. He had loved in vain, but she had loved unworthily. There is no sting so sharp as that sting. And outside, in the sunny balcony, old Nannon was crooning over her refrain—

“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour, Triste ou gai tour à tour: Ce chant qui de mon coeur s’élève, D’ou vient qu’en pleurant je l’achève!”

Thérèse was very pale, but she had got back her self-possession.

“I am sure that poor M. Moreau felt your departure.”

“Did he? Ah, that is not improbable! He should have conducted himself differently, and prevailed on me to stay. However, I pardon him; he did his best to atone for it by dying at the right moment. Not but what I owe him something for his conduct even then.”

“Oh, Fabien!”

“It is true, then,” he said excitedly. “And M. Deshoulières is aware of my sentiments.”

Max turned round grave and quiet.

“It is unnecessary to repeat them in the presence of Mademoiselle Veuillot.”

“Parbleu, and why? They will be repeated before the world very shortly, let me assure you, if the will and certain explanations do not reach me.”

She looked inquiringly—again not at him, but at M. Deshoulières. This time he answered her: “Monsieur Roulleau’s absence has placed us in a difficulty. Until his return M. Saint-Martin has only my Word to rely upon.”

“A word which, unfortunately, is contradicted by facts.”

Whether he was provoked by M. Deshoulières’ calmness, or irritated by his disappointment, his tone was more insulting than it had been the preceding night. The girl’s eyes flashed.

“Are you doubting his word?”

“There is scarcely room for doubt,” said Fabien, meaningly.

With a swift impetuous impulse she crossed to where Max stood,—

“How can you let them say such things?” she said, passionately, her breathing short and quick. Poor Thérèse! she felt all a woman’s indignation and a woman’s powerlessness at once. “M. le Curé,” she cried, “how can you listen and not speak?” I think she dumbfounded them all for a minute. Nannon, who heard her voice, stopped her chanson to listen. Max, with a strange sweet pain in his heart, looked down at her and cared very little for Fabien’s rude speeches. After all, she was not powerless. Max looked at her and said, softly,—

“Such things do not hurt me.”

And at that moment there was a heavy step, a little fumbling at the door, and Madame Roulleau came in. Her face was so white and rigid that Fabien, who did not know her, exclaimed as if she were an apparition, and, indeed, the others were scarcely less startled. She came across the room, like a person walking in a dream, straight to where M. Deshoulières stood, and flung a key on the table, before him.

“There is what you want,” she said. “If I touch the papers they will scorch me.”

They all looked at one another. Thérèse, who was still trembling with excitement, put her hand on her arm. Madame Roulleau threw it off, keeping her eyes fixed on M. Deshoulières.

“Do you wish to know why I have come?” she went on. “Tenez, you can hear, then, all of you. My little Adolphe is dead—dead, do you understand?—dead of the fever; and my husband, who was frightened, has left him and me by ourselves. That is what husbands should do, is it not?” She spoke like a person in an agony; Thérèse shuddered. “Some one said M. Saint-Martin was here—it was either that sister or Adolphe, I do not know which. I can tell you all about it. We will begin from the beginning—that was at Ardron. M. Deshoulières, as you know, and my husband brought me home the letters which he found,—two letters from Rio Janeiro asking for money. I burned them. Burning is always safe. Two others came afterwards, and those I burned also. We wrote those answers that we had from Paris. Is that all? No, I remember. There was that appointment at Pont-huine, when you sent Ignace, but it was easy enough for him to stay away.”

“Unhappy woman,” said the curé, sternly, “what led you into all this wickedness?”

She did not answer him. She had her eyes still fixed upon M. Deshoulières, and she never looked aside.

“Ask her,” said the curé.

“Why was this, Madame Roulleau?” said the doctor, sadly.

“We wanted the money,” she answered at once; “the money you gave us for the girl. And what Ignace had to do about it brought in money. We knew it must all go again when M. Saint-Martin came home. Last night I said to myself that I would tell you; I do not know why I came here; the sister said something, I believe. She is staying with him.” And then, with a bitter cry which they never forgot, “He is dead—dead! I dared not send for you, and you might have saved him.” She went swiftly out of the room, down the stairs, into the street. If they had wished to stop her they could scarcely have done so; but they all stood dumb, that last cry ringing in their ears.

“Libera nos a malo,” said the curé, at last, under his breath. “Amen.”

He was a just man. Perhaps his prayer had not only to do with that poor stricken woman who had gone out from them. Perhaps he was thinking also of the evil of suspicions and accusations without cause. He was a just man, but ungracious. He wanted to speak at once to M. Deshoulières, and the words would not come readily. Thérèse was looking shyly and beseechingly at Fabien. Why did he not acknowledge the unconscious wrong that he had done? Nobody spoke. It was Nannon who broke the silence, coming in from the balcony.

“The saints preserve us! She has gone down the street as if there were a mob at her heels.”

“I may as well go and search for the will, I believe,” said M. Deshoulières, turning round with a sigh. Thérèse still looked at Fabien. Why did he not speak?

“M. Saint-Martin,” said the curé, gravely, “I think there is a duty for us to perform before we can allow M. Deshoulières to leave us—a duty and a reparation. My own share in the matter has been the heaviest. I beg to offer him my most sincere apologies.”

“It may or may not be, as this woman says,” Fabien answered grudgingly; “it does not explain it altogether to my mind. At all events it is impossible to congratulate M. Deshoulières upon his choice of a notary. I shall make a point of having the rascal punished, and meanwhile may I request you, monsieur, to do us the favour to fetch the will without delay? The sooner one gets out of this hole the better.”

“Allow me to repudiate M. St. Martin’s sentiments altogether,” said the curé, with a flush on his sallow cheek. “I beg to decline having any thing to do with the reading of the papers connected with this—what I may call—unfortunate will. It had better be delayed until the arrival of the lawyer.”

“You desert me, in fact, Monsieur le Curé,” said Fabien, crossly.

“I leave you in good hands, as you must be aware,” said the curé, who, having been mistaken himself, felt a degree of satisfaction in snubbing the young man. “Nothing that I can say can atone for the pain we have unintentionally inflicted upon M. Deshoulières, and all that remains is a matter of form.”

“Will you not consent to meet us here to-morrow at the same time?”

“On the contrary, immediately that I have been to the Evêché, I shall return to Ardron. Are you coming my way, M. Deshoulières?”

They all went down the stairs together—the curé, the doctor, Fabien looking discontented, Thérèse, and Nannon. Thérèse lingered a moment to say in an undertone,—

“Fabien, why do you not acknowledge that you have wronged him!”

“Wronged him, bah! The only person wronged is myself. Thérèse, you used to take my part.”

It was the first allusion, on his part, to other days. A little earlier in the interview it would have touched her more. Now it gave her something of the old sense of compassion for his weakness; but that was not the feeling that could bring her back. Her heart had always revolted against injustice; it revolted now doubly, trebly. She was frightened at herself; frightened at the way in which the love she had been clinging to all this time was melting away. In the midst of her pain and indignation and pity, it gave her a strange unreal feeling. There is often a strange medley in our hearts on those days which we call crises in our lives. The lesser things subside, and we forget all but the most prominent; but at the time the oddest emotions hustle one another. Thérèse was puzzled at herself; at the change that seemed to have come over her since that morning. And then she found herself curiously watching the little procession that went down the stairs,—the curé in his flowing black cassock and his wide beaver hat; M. Deshoulières and Fabien, so unlike each other; Nannon, with her broad shoulders and her heavily plaited green gown—it seemed as if all the characters in her little drama were trooping down together. Monsieur Deshoulières was the victor, who was going away in triumph, but there was not much triumph in his heart just then. At the door they separated.

“Adieu, Thérèse,” said Fabien, with his hand on the door of the salle-à-manger.

“Adieu, Fabien.”

“If you come to Paris at any time let me know. Do not allow the provinces to engross you altogether. Or if you have need of any thing—”

“I have need of nothing.”

“In that case, au revoir.”

He wanted to punish her. His nature was too small to bear the humiliation of allowing himself to be in the wrong. He was in a rage with them all, and he wanted to punish her. He only stung her. And the others had passed out, so that they heard nothing.

Chapter Nineteen.

“And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind.” In Memoriam.

Monsieur le Curé had his own little mortifications to endure before he got back to his study in the presbytère at Ardron. On his way to the Evêché he encountered the Préfet, who loved a little gossip, and stopped him at once.

“Is it true? Has Monsieur Moreau’s heir actually arrived?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet,” said the curé, grimly. “I came to Charville with him for the purpose of ascertaining the meaning of certain suspicious circumstances connected with the will and the trusteeship.”

“What, those ridiculous reports about M. Deshoulières?”

“Ridiculous! I have your own letter confirming them.”

“Mine! My dear Monsieur le Curé, I must have been a great fool, if I wrote any thing so absurd. Ah, bah! I remember. I was irritated with him at one time, I believe—he had a mania, and worried me. But—M. Deshoulières! He is a hero, nothing less. There is to be a meeting to-morrow, to discuss some means of making known to him the gratitude of the town.”

At the Evêché it was the same. The Abbé laughed in his face. “He nettled me once, I acknowledge, but that was a trifle. I cannot tell you my feelings towards him now. Ask any of the clergy who worked with him in this last terrible three months. A mistake?—of course it was a mistake. All France has cause to be proud of M. Deshoulières. My dear friend, imagine your coming on such an errand!”

“Monsieur l’Abbé,” said the curé, sharply, “I only wish you people of Charville would appreciate your heroes a little beforehand.”

Poor Thérèse! That day was, probably, the most desolate in her life. Whichever way she looked every thing seemed blank and homeless. Something had gone away out of her heart; at first a great swelling indignation took its place; but this could not last. There are sudden deaths as well as lingering: her love had met with such an end; but all deaths must have their suffering. Almost his first words had done it. What was it in them? how was he different from the Fabien of old days? She sat by her window looking out over the gabled roofs at the plain and the far horizon, where sad-coloured clouds were creeping quietly up—with eager eyes that seemed to be searching an answer for the questions that were perplexing her. She was very miserable and sick at heart, but it was not so much with the loss of Fabien, as with the loss of love. It seemed to her as if, in spite of the slighting and the coldness, she ought to love him still—and she did not. It was the identical Fabien after all, though she tried to think otherwise. In the old contests with his uncle, the old impatience of control, weak resistance, attempts at self-assertion, there had been the same character, but she had set round it a little glow of her own, and covered up its imperfections until she had forgotten them. She had counted for love what was no more than a mixture of vanity and self-will. Old Moreau might have left Fabien alone in this matter, and he would have ended by marrying a dot. Or, again, a little hardship and real work would have quickly brought him back from South America. But the old man yearned after his prodigal. He smoothed his way for him, all the time writing fierce unforgiving letters demanding submission and return. Fabien, who soon found out where his good things came from, used to enjoy them comfortably, and mock at the threats which they contradicted. When at last they stopped he was a little uneasy, and wrote two letters; but he was receiving a good salary in an office, and there was no great difficulty in being supplied with money. M. Moreau’s feelings were pretty well-known in Rio. It seems sometimes in this world as if those unloving natures that shut their hearts against the sunshine around them are suffered to pour out all that they can give where they meet with no return. Perhaps that loving without response is at once their punishment and their blessing. Where all to us looks hard and barren rock, there is at least one little stream of water trickling down into the desert with unselfish bounty.

Fabien was the same—except that his faults and his weakness had in those three years become more prominent—but Thérèse missed the key to her puzzle, herself. It was she who had changed, while all the time she believed it to be Fabien. She had grown up with disadvantages of education like his own, but the nobler nature recognised a higher standard when it was given, and strained towards it. There was the difference. With all her faults and her visions of self-pleasing, she had not the vain satisfied contentment which sees nothing better nor more desirable than itself. She was always, almost unconsciously, wanting something beyond, and that desire is never ungratified. At a time when things seemed saddest, and all about her most mean and petty and discouraging, she was shown a glimpse of the most perfect thing this earth ever has to show—the heart of a good man. There was this in Thérèse—she recognised at once its goodness and its beauty, it showed her what somehow she had failed to see before. All work is not achieved by the same instruments, though we sometimes speak as if it were. Only it is God’s work always. And I think that after Thérèse knew Max Deshoulières—knew him as she did in a hundred more ways than there has been space to tell you about here—she unconsciously transferred his qualities to Fabien, his generosity, and patience, and manliness, and truth, and tenderness, so that she used to dream of Fabien with all these making him beautiful. As she rose herself, she could not but also raise that one who held so dear a portion of her heart. Absence softened down the little remembrances which might have interfered with her dreams. And then came the awakening—the awakening, and, alas! the contrast. It is not when we first see what is lovely that. We appreciate it most. It is when we come back to our former ideal. All the glory of mountains, and the vastness of their snow-fields, and the tender radiance of their sunsets, do not fill us with their beauty perfectly until we return and know for the first time how far they excel the things to which our eye had become accustomed—our common hills. It hurts our loyalty sometimes to acknowledge it, but we cannot help it—nay, we need not try to help it. The best is to be the best always.

But if you have ever felt this, you will know something of the feeling which was causing bitter pain to poor Thérèse, as she sat on the ground in her room, with her head on the window-sill, and her eyes filling with hot tears of shame. She had believed love to be eternal, and lo! it had died away out of her heart. She scarcely thought of his own coldness, of the studied way in which he had avoided any expression which should lead her to fancy they met on terms in any way resembling those in which they had parted. If his words had been like fire, she knew her feelings would not have been different—there, as I have said, was the sting. So ungenerous, so passionate, so weak! And yet she blamed herself for letting her love go. She was very young. She wanted some wise, tender heart on which to rest her head and so pour out her perplexities. But she had no one. Nannon, who had heard enough to make her furious, did not know what to say or what to think about it; she had sense enough to hold her tongue; at the same time it made a sort of restraint of which they were both conscious. Sister Gabrielle could not come to Thérèse; she was ministering to a more terrible grief in a sadder room. If she had come, I doubt whether the girl would not have been too shy to tell her pathetic little story. And so she sat there and let her eyes rest on the soft clouds and the Cathedral that carried upwards towards them its burden of earth voices, anguish, and joy; and wondered vaguely what was to come of it all, and whether she was to be left like a little waif and stray in this hard forgetful world. Pity her a little—my poor Thérèse! It was hard for her. She was solitary and young, with no one on whom to lavish innocent girlish caresses, no one to pet or to scold—or to cherish her. Even the sweet joy of helpfulness, which had taken the bitterness out of her solitude, could not quite heal the pang.

M. Deshoulières did not come near her all that day. He, too, was suffering. A hundred hopes and fears and doubts gave him no peace. He cared not a sou for this retractation, which to the curé seemed such a mighty matter; but his wrath blazed out against Fabien when he thought of Thérèse. He dared not go to her. If he had known of what her heart was full, he would have acted otherwise, but he felt as if, poor child, it would be an intrusion upon her humiliation. Her love had died; he thought of it as still struggling, hoping, clinging. They were not his own wrongs, but hers, which made him so stern and abrupt in his interview with Fabien and his lawyer on the following day.

No news came of the little notary. After Madame Roulleau’s confession, however, there could be no difficulty about the will. But there was a clause which the lawyer read slowly, and to which M. Deshoulières, who knew what was coming, listened with knitted brows. A clause which bequeathed a small sum for the maintenance of Mademoiselle Thérèse Veuillot while she remained in Charville, “or until she be otherwise provided for by Monsieur Fabien Saint-Martin.”

M. Laurent paused. Fabien said, with a little laugh,—

“Ah! I remember. I used to have a tendresse for the belle Thérèse. I suppose my uncle thought it might come to something. The sum is not much; it may as well be continued. Allons, M. Laurent, pass on.”

To tell the truth, he had begun to be afraid of M. Deshoulières; but he had never so much cause to be afraid as at that moment. Nevertheless Max, still thinking of her, put a strong restraint upon himself, since that secret of hers must be sacred from all the world. He went slowly away from the Cygne when all his disagreeable work there was at an end. A train was nearly due, and the country people were flocking down to the station with empty baskets, and a merry confusion of shrill voices. It was pretty generally known what the meeting was arranging that day: he was not thinking about it when he found himself in the midst of a little hubbub of congratulations and smiling faces. It was so spontaneous that he was greatly touched; he broke away as soon as he could, but the warm homely blessings pursued him. Just as he reached the Cathedral, he saw Thérèse and Nannon going in. He followed her; she did not see him, but they were kneeling near one another, the vast length of the Cathedral stretched before them, with rich deep shadows. All the light came through gorgeous panes of sapphire, ruby, orange: it was indescribably beautiful and solemn. As she carried back her chair she saw him, and they went out together. The old women sitting in the porch and selling brioche cakes, all knew of what was going on at the Préfecture, and stopped their knitting to nod and smile. Max, who only thought of Thérèse, looked at her sad face with an infinite pity in his heart.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she said, wearily. “The funeral has been to-day, and poor madame cannot bear to see me. I came out because I thought she wished me away.”

“If mademoiselle stays in that miserable house she will die,” said Nannon, bluntly.

“Come this way,” he said.

He led her down through the little narrow street to the Place where his own house was. Except a few bonnet with their charges, the little space under the trees was deserted. They sat down together on one of the green seats, and Nannon chatted with a little fat girl and her nurse, who were solemnly throwing a ball backward and forward with profound interest in their faces. Max was not quite clear how to begin, when Thérèse forestalled him.

“I cannot bear to think of what you have endured for us,” she said gently. “You have been so kind a friend, and this must seem like such terrible ingratitude! I could not understand it all—so much has come at the same time,”—she said, with a little trembling hesitation in her voice which made him long to break out into passionate pleading. But he answered her very quietly.

“You need not think about it any more. Such a mistake could only be troublesome for a day or two. And when M. Moreau made his will, his choice of me as a trustee was sufficiently unaccountable to set tongues wagging. The very fact of my being his medical attendant then prevented any possibility of my benefiting under his will, as we all knew; but I suppose there are always people who think that money sticks in the fingering.”

She shook her head. “Fabien should not have believed it.”

“But remember,” he said, more eagerly than he might have done if it had not been his rival whom he was defending—“there were quite enough odd circumstances to make him suspicious. I ought not to have left matters as I did in Roulleau’s hands. You should recollect this. M. Saint-Martin had actual ground for his suspicions.” Thérèse paused for a moment before she answered.

“It was afterwards—when he knew they were false.”

“It is hard to shake off impressions.”

What could he say? His heart was torn in a hundred ways. He longed to help her—he feared to hurt her. When he looked at her sad face, all the anger in his nature leaped up against Fabien, and yet the very strength of his feelings made him fear to be ungenerous. Was it, indeed, all over between them? “About yourself?” he went on at last.

“Ah, yes, about myself. Your troubles are not at an end, you see,” she said, with a little quivering attempt at playfulness. “Am I to go on living with Madame Roulleau?”

“I am afraid it will not do for you at all. I do not like your being there even now.”

“But I am not so sure. I have been thinking about it a great deal. At first I remembered that she used to say I was an expense; but yesterday, do you recollect, she said that the money they had from me was what they wanted? If I went away, do you think she would be poorer? or is it too little to help them?”

“I am sure it helps them,” said M. Deshoulières, hesitating slightly.

“And yet it seems to be very little. How much did my uncle leave me exactly?”

“A thousand francs a year,” he said, still reluctantly.

“And that is all they have had? Ah, no, I perceive. Oh, what have you been doing!” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

He turned away from them almost abruptly. “Bah!” he said. “Of course a dépositaire has to see to such little things. That is nothing. You should rather blame me for the bad choice I made. I will tell you what strikes me. There is a Madame Aubert here, an excellent woman, whose husband has but lately died, and whose daughter is delicate and wants a companion of her own age. I think you might be very happy there, provided,”—his voice trembled—“provided you desire to remain in Charville?”

“Where could I go?” she said, with heavy tears dropping from her eyes. “I wonder whether in all France there is any one so friendless as I am.” It was spoken under her breath, but he caught the forlorn words.

“Thérèse!” he said passionately. “Thérèse!—”

She half rose from the seat, turning on him a frightened face. He stopped her.

“Hear me at least,” he said. “I ask nothing—nothing: I would not pain you, no, not for all the joy which a word of yours might bring. I have not forgotten what you told me,—if you repeat it now, my Thérèse, I swear your love shall be to me as sacred a thing as it has been since I heard it from your lips. If it is so, I will say only, forgive me, and trust me once more. But, if things are not as they were—if—if—” His great frame shook with emotion, he put out his hands, his voice was choked. Then he recovered himself with a strong effort. “Thérèse, is there any hope?”

She was silent. What was this rush of tenderness which swept across her heart? What was this great contentment which seemed suddenly to calm all the sadness and the wounds and the self reproach of the past days? Could it be new, this feeling which seemed to fill her whole being with a sense of unutterable happiness? Ah, no, more likely all this time it had been growing in her unawares. More likely, as has been said before, she had taken his goodness, and his nobility, and his tenderness, and had set them up in her heart, and called the image Fabien. She had done it in good faith, all unconsciously, only she had been treasuring a shadow; and, lo! there came a waft, and the shadow was gone. It may have been strange that the awakening had not come before; nevertheless it had not. She had been faithful to Fabien, but it was to Fabien dressed in M. Deshoulières’ virtues. Sometimes those deceptions are very terrible. With the real knowledge there comes every now and then a blank, or, what is worse, the terrible word, “too late.” One is thankful that for this poor little Thérèse there were better things, and that circumstances occurred to show her Fabien’s character at once without the veil which might have carried on the deception and made her burden infinitely harder. She was silent. But over her face there came a soft, tender flush, her sweet eyes looked shyly up into his.

“Is there any hope?” he said again, bending over her, and speaking in a low, quick, eager tone.

And then into his outstretched hands she put her own...

Before they went home she told him all that had troubled her. And he, in his turn, told her something. He showed her the little dull balcony between the trees, where once he had pictured her sitting waiting, in the warm glow of light. They went a little nearer, these two, and looked at it. Nannon, who was getting rather tired of her play with the sturdy little woman who went solemnly through her pranks, came across, and asked what they were talking about.

“We are settling a new dress for mademoiselle,” said M. Deshoulières, his honest blue eyes brimming over with fun. “It must be white and something shiny.”

“White and shiny! That will be a bride’s dress,” cried Nannon, all her teeth showing. “So that is it, mademoiselle? I am as happy as a little cat. There is a little good news come at last; for, what with fevers and wickednesses, and that angel of a Jean-Marie wanting to go for a drummer ever since he saw the last review, I can scarcely sleep at night. And monsieur is going to have a deputation and the thanks of the town—has he heard?”

They went back slowly through the narrow tangled streets, and past the Evêché into the Place Notre Dame. There rose the Cathedral, golden with the glow of the autumnal sun; there stood the serene statues encompassing it solemnly. Little dappled ranks of clouds rested quietly on the blue heavens, the jackdaws flew in and out of their carved homes; two great hawks that lived up there with them swooped lazily along, or hung poised in midair. After the stifling oppression of the summer, this cool, sweet autumn came with a sense of delicious relief. These two had their hearts almost too full for speech, but I do not know that silence was not as sweet to both. I do not know that we can leave them better than here, under the shadow of the great Cathedral, in the glow of the golden sunshine.

The little notary had disappeared, and, except the fact that he had not been seen at Tours, nothing could be ascertained about him. Whether he fled from the fever, his wife, or Monsieur Saint-Martin, remained also an open question for Charville to decide. He never came back again, that was the only sure point. Thérèse went to Madame Aubert for a little while, for Madame Roulleau, when no tidings arrived from her husband, left Charville—a broken-down woman. M. Deshoulières best knows where she is gone. And Fabien is reported to have married a widow, rich and noble, and to live in superb apartments in Paris.

Charville has not changed very much, after all. Something has been done, but it remains still almost the same picturesque, shadowy, dirty old town. Down by the stone fountain the women chatter and gossip as shrilly as ever, and drown the undertone of the river; the sun shines softly upon the yellow cornfields, and the tall gabled roofs, and the Cathedral that crowns them all. One fancies it is a little like a life. Above broken imperfections, above din and jar and fret, there rises evermore the something higher towards which our eyes may turn, our weary feet may press. If it were not so, we should be lingering in the cornfields and in the streets for ever. But when we once have felt that other beauty, its desire can never again go out of our souls. And there are many ways by which we are led upwards.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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